by Diana Rubino
“I see, Rose.” I forced a warm smile upon her, baring my teeth. “And have you informed your employer of this state of affairs? For surely his son is at fault in the matter.”
With a gasp she shook her head. “Oh, no, sir, for he would surely dismiss me from his employment. He would never believe I did not encourage his son, though I give you my word I did not.”
“I believe you, child.” I placed my hand on her bare arm and squeezed. It was so thin, I could feel the bone beneath her skin. “You must let me help you. Come with me, Rose, and I will take this fear away for you.”
“You will?” A spark of hope raised her pitch.
I bestowed another smile upon her. “Of course, have I not said so?”
I trailed my fingers along her arm. Her muscles relaxed.
“Despite the warmth tonight, you're very cold, Rose.” I unwound my scarf and draped it around her neck. I looped it once, then twice. “There, that helps.” I glanced around, making sure no others prowled the vicinity.
“Where are we going, sir?” Her voice still carried that spark of hope. “Can you bring me to a place where they can take away the pregnancy? I've heard such things could be done.”
“Going? We are going nowhere, Rose.” I enfolded her in my arms, as if to embrace her. “Such a sweet name and such a little harlot.” In an instant I grabbed both ends of the scarf, pulling them tightly around her neck. My breaths increased. I began panting, my tongue protruding like a wild beast. As my excitement mounted, my second self, the cold-blooded predator, emerged and now controlled my actions.
A minute later I picked up her limp body and placed it on the cobbles where I'd first seen her. As I checked again that all was quiet and deserted in the vicinity, I knelt beside my latest victim, placed my fingers on her neck to confirm the end of life, and then, my arousal complete, I slowly raised her skirts.
Chapter Six
Eliza
Next eve whilst we slept, safe against the dark of night, another was not so lucky. With Alex gone to work, I reclined in my parlour chair for a few moments' peace. The newspaper's front page headline stunned me. I read the article, bile rising in my throat.
A terrible and dastardly crime took place last night—a murder barely a mile from our own home. We would not learn of the gruesome details until after the investigation. All we could discern was that the victim had been a young woman. I pictured every young woman in Philadelphia cringing in fear. All we could do was share in the horror. The worst had touched the respectability of our privileged existence—cold-blooded murder.
Maria
I plowed through the boardinghouse door, fetched a pail, filled it at the pump and scrubbed till my skin glowed. I washed away the perspiration of fear and heat. I donned one of the two garments I'd brought, a plain brown linen dress with elbow-length sleeves and a modest neckline. I also changed my petticoat.
Thoughts of my upcoming meeting with Alexander swirled around in my head. He intimidates me, he paralyzes me, he renders me tongue-tied! Next to him, I was no one. But now that he'd agreed to see me and hadn't dismissed me like a street beggar, my hands stilled and my heart calmed. My confidence return'd. I straightened my back, needing carry myself with the utmost poise and sophistication.
At the looking glass, I pinched my cheeks and smoothed stray hairs from my forehead. I wandered into the parlour, picked up a piece of newspaper and tried to read, but the print blurred before my eyes. After endless glances at the hall clock and out the window, the door knocker finally sounded.
I stood, adjusted my bosoms and dashed to the door before anyone else could.
There he stood, glowing in the streetlamp's light, his burnished copper hair pulled back into a queue. I stood back to let him in.
“Mrs. Reynolds.” He took my hand and kissed it. I melted. Alone with him, no spouses in the way or embarrassing questions to be asked, I wanted him with a desire that turned me to liquid fire. I flushed with shame.
“Secretary Hamilton. Please come in.” My body shook more than my voice. “My room is upstairs, we shall have more privacy there.” He followed me up the stairs, commenting on the recent thunderstorms, the heat rising with each step. The third floor seemed a mile away. I reached the top step and opened my door. As he stepped inside, he took a bank note from his pocket and handed it to me.
“Thank you so much. You know not what this means to me.” I struggled to steady my voice. I unfolded it to see that it was worth $30. Relief drained me. “Oh, this is so generous. This will keep starvation at bay and buy several weeks' shelter. I shall pay you back soon, I promise.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “No need. Not right away, I mean. It requires a heart harder than mine to refuse it to beauty in distress.”
His calm tone kept me from quivering. But my heart hammered too hard for my brain to work properly. “Please have a seat.” I offered him the room's only chair.
He sat in the ladder-backed chair as I sat upon the cot. “I regret I have no refreshments to offer you. I have literally nothing left.”
He patted his middle. “I imbibed sufficient at dinner.”
I folded my hands to hide their trembling. “I was hoping you'd help out a kindred soul—another New Yorker, that is.”
“Yes, you did mention in your letter that you're related to the Livingstons.”
So he had read it! I resisted blurting out, “Then why didn't you reply?”
“By marriage only,” I said. “My sister Susannah is married to Gilbert Livingston. She married 'up and out' as Mother would say.” I clasped my hands even tighter. “Gilbert interested me in British history and politics. He urged me to read your Federalist articles every time they appeared in the papers. Somehow he knew the pen name Publius was you. He knows people who know James Madison, so the connection must have been there.”
“I didn't write them alone.” He sat back and crossed his legs. “Madison and John Jay helped me out. Jay fell ill and wrote only five, but they were coherent. I must say, Madison's collaboration made the papers achieve greatness.”
I glowed with admiration for his gracious crediting of others, when everyone knew he was the genius behind the entire project. “I learnt a great deal from those articles about the Constitution, preparing for war, and our need for a navy.”
“Did you not find the reading tedious at times?” He flashed a quizzical eye, mayhap because the articles were not popular reading among members of my sex.
“I had to read some more than once, but had no problem comprehending them. You and I can hold a lively debate—if there were aught to disagree about.” I gave him a coy smile. By inviting debate, I was inviting further discussion—and inviting him—on future visits.
“I was the butt of much criticism as you know.” His gaze wandered. “The most scathing came from Louis Otto. He said I missed my mark, the work was of no use to educated men and too long for the ignorant. Otto spoke this before he knew I'd been the primary author. But, seeing the frigate Hamilton being pulled down Broadway in the parade must have convinced him.”
“Who is Louis Otto?” I didn't want to sound ignorant, but he was obviously someone Alex disliked as much as he did Jefferson, or he wouldn't have mentioned him.
“A Jefferson sycophant. French.” He smoothed his britches over his knees. “The worst kind.”
“I would not put any stock in critics. Tis because of your Federalist articles I'm a staunch Federalist. And a proud one.” I held my head high, because I was proud.
He nodded his approval. “I'm happy you know what's best for our nation, Maria.”
I relished the intimate sound of my name on his lips. “It wasn't much of a leap. Our entire family are exceeding patriotic.” My muscles relaxed as we eased into the tête-à-tête. My hands unclenched. “The Lewises left England in 1685. My father served in Colonel Frear's Third New York Regiment. John Lewis, maybe you've heard of him.”
“Can't say I have.” He shook his head. “But I could have met him. During
the war I met so many soldiers, seeing their fighting spirit. Is it any wonder we won?”
We shared a smile. “It was my brother-in-law Gilbert who introduced me to my husband James. James and his father also served—not on the battlefield, but in the Commissary Department.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “James's father is David, is he not?”
I didn't want to talk about James or his father. I'd conveyed my patriotism—and Federalist allegiance. But I felt it my duty to tell him my family supported him—with our beliefs and our money.
“My father bought the two bound Federalist books when they were first published. I bought another two hardcovers for myself. But it was Gilbert who sat me down one day when I was reading Julius Caesar,” I hastened to add, so he'd know that I read Shakespeare.
I went on as he sat forward with interest, “I remember this, because he told me to stop reading about foreigners and urged me to read something American—'and imperative' he'd said. He handed me the first installment of Federalist Papers, from the New York Journal, and said 'I don't wish to sway you either way, but this is brilliant.' I read every one of them and discussed them with Gilbert. Then my sister Susannah and brother Asa joined in. Next thing I knew, Father was no longer a Democratic Republican, and condemned Jefferson for his womanish attachment to France, and drinking too much of the French philosophy, as Gilbert put it.”
“Actually that was I, as quoted by Gilbert,” he corrected with a half-smirk.
I flushed, emitting a feminine snicker. “Oh. Sorry. He must have found that compelling. Tis his favorite cocktail party line. I shall right him on that.”
“No need.” He waved the notion away. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Quoting is even sincerer than that.”
My nerves now surprisingly calm, I voiced my feelings. “I feel I've known you for years.” I warmed with delight at this chat. “I started reading the broadsheets more carefully after that discussion. Gilbert, Asa and I would sit round the table and discuss the events. They let me speak my mind and respected my opinions without pushing theirs on me. It made me feel so—so independent, so worthy, so American. 'Remember,' Asa told me more than once, 'we're allowed to speak our mind here in America.' From then on, I was never afraid to speak my mind, knowing I wouldn't be dragged to the guillotine for it.”
“A woman who speaks her mind. That would take some getting used to.” He brandished a rakish grin.
Was this something he'd welcome? I wondered. I knew how often Mrs. Adams spoke her mind. But how about Mrs. Hamilton? I daren't ask. I forced myself to take this slowly. If he was to respect me, I wanted him to esteem my mind first. I thanked the Almighty I was a Federalist. As much as I enjoyed arguing politics, the last man I wanted to be on opposing sides with was Alexander Hamilton—because of attraction as well as fear. So I continued, becoming more settled on our common ground, and our common nemesis, Thomas Jefferson.
“Gilbert and Susannah actually met Secretary Jefferson at a dinner party.” I anticipated a lively exchange now. “Susannah began speaking to him in French. Jefferson took her for one of his toadies and began an intricate political discussion in French, so she spilled wine on him and fled in embarrassment.” I laughed at the scene: demure Susannah splashing purple liquid on the imposing Jefferson's Holland cloth britches, watching it run down his legs. “But she was hardly embarrassed, because it was hardly an accident!”
Alexander's hearty laughter brought a smile to my lips. “Oh, I relish those stories about Jefferson's mishaps. He fancies himself such a wag, yet makes a right prat out of himself at the worst times.”
Elation skipping through me, I met his smiling eyes. “I regret I have no more Jefferson anecdotes. But I can tell you that he commissioned James to make a solid gold chamber pot for him. And paid a dear price.”
Alexander let out the sincerest laugh I'd heard from him yet. “Naught but gold is good enough to collect his piddle. And he calls me an arrogant snob.”
“Right,” I added, “and all men are created equal, according to the slave owner.”
“Do not provoke me on that.” He held up a hand. “We can discuss the slavery issue another time.”
Another time? My blood warmed. I began to hope—as I hoped he didn't see my heart beating beneath my blouse. “Well, I am against it,” I had to say.
“Tell your sister for future reference the biggest mistake to make with Jeff is to start speaking French. Why, he often plays the bon vivant, even affects a French accent at times.”
“You speak fluent French, do you not?” I asked. “I'd heard it is another of your many talents.” I fought to keep the ardent admiration—and flirtation—out of my voice.
“Oui, mais seulement quand approprié.” He translated, “Yes, but only when appropriate.”
“Oh, how I wish I understood French. I could listen to your French all night, sweet as music.” I cringed as those words passed my lips. Did I say 'all night'?
To my relief, he continued, “But with Jeff, tis all smoke and mirrors—meant to make him look like French royalty. At the same time, he accuses me of making my fellow bankers an American aristocracy and myself king, emperor or dictator. He had the culls to accuse me of plotting to commandeer the government after President Washington departs. He says we conceal a thirst for power. Well, he does naught to conceal his!” He pointed in the air, an effective lawyerly gesture.
“Ah, yes, I know how oblique Jefferson is.” A soft chuckle spilled from my lips. “That is laughable. You have no kingly aspirations, I can tell.” From everything I'd read about Alexander, and now speaking with him on such intimate terms as he smoothed back his hair—his own, not a wig, and unpowdered—I knew in my heart that this man was everything good our Republic stood for. “Does Mrs. Hamilton want to be queen?” I joked.
His brows drew together. “I sometimes wonder. The Schuylers are good people, but a bit haughty at times, being to the manor born. With many of the same pretentions as Monsieur Jeffer-son.” He affected a French accent at the end. We shared a laugh.
“They'd be over the moon if Jefferson got his way and aligned the United States with France.” He glanced at his fingernails. “Mr. Schuyler disagrees with my fiscal programs. He's not in favor of a central bank. He thinks the Federal government should stay out of the states' business. But I told him in a diplomatic way to butt out of my business, which is the Federal government.”
My eyes widened in surprise—and respect. “And what was his reply to that?”
“He bought fifty shares in the bank. Gave me the money right then and there, out of a safe. But not without adding the comment, 'I wouldn't be doing this if I couldn't afford to lose it.' So I let him have the last word. Why not?” He chuckled with a haughty grin. “I had his money.”
“My my, we do think alike.” I respected this brilliant man. His mind attracted me more than his body—for now. “James bought shares as well, but nowhere near fifty. Still, that depleted our coffers at the time. He sold our horses and our landau—at a loss, but decided we didn't need the luxury, and investing in the bank was more prudent—and patriotic. He calls himself a Federalist, but being Scottish, he has a European mindset. He looks up to the monarchy and enjoyed being a subject of the crown … but not enough to stay there,” I added.
“I look up to the British monarchy, too,” he agreed, “and their government, the only proper one for such an extensive country as ours.” He raised his hands, palms up. “Monarchy in America would be impossible, but my first wish was for the next best thing—an elective monarchy.”
I leant closer, intrigued. “You mean electing a king?”
“Washington cared not to be called king, so we settled on president. But I hoped for an aristocratic centralized union. I modeled our bank after the Bank of England. I think we would do well if our president and senators served for life. But by an electoral process, not by birthright.”
I nodded. “Yes, I've read all about the British bloodlines—some family trees don
't fork. It makes me glad our next president won't be related to Mr. Washington.”
“Let us hope he won't be Jefferson either.” He knitted his brows.
“Him as president? Perish the thought.”
He gave a mock shudder. “Yes, Adams would be bad enough.”
We shared another smile. Then our eyes locked. We connected on a deep and meaningful level.
I'd never been alone with any man other than my husband, and here I sat with one of the most prominent figures in the nation! We seemed to have exhausted politics for the time being. As he studied me, his lips parted and he asked a more personal question. “What happened with James?”
I stiffened my spine and looked him in the eye. “He mistreated me, not physically, but he left me for another woman,” I repeated what I'd written in the letter, but cringed with guilt over that lie. The kind-hearted Alexander kept me from starving; I owed him the truth. My cheeks and chest flushed. “That is—I assume it was another woman. I never know with James.” Before I knew what I'd said, I divulged my most intimate feelings: “I still love him, but my life with him is too unstable. I feel abandoned half the time, even when he is home.” I dropped my gaze, embarrassed to bare my soul like this.
Something struck a chord within him, because he poured his heart out to me, telling me things I doubted he'd ever shared with Mrs. Hamilton.
I'd never known he was born on Nevis and grew up on St. Croix, or that his parents were not married, or that his father left them when Alexander was ten, and his mother died, leaving him orphaned. His saving grace was an article he wrote for a St. Croix newspaper, which impressed the community so much, they formed a subscription fund to educate him here in the Colonies.
He went on, “I confess this to you—my anger at my father's abandonment drove me to complete my education and earn the entire nation's respect by becoming central to its growth. Wherever my father is, and I would not rule out hell, I want to make him sorry he never married my mother and deserted us.” His voice gathered volume. “And as sure as I sit here, I know he will regret his actions for all eternity.” His eyes narrowed and he shook his head as if to chase away the anger. “Conversely, I want my mother to be proud of the son she left behind at age thirteen, a boy who made his way here to make her proud. If only she'd lived to see all this.” He gestured out the open window at the tiny patch of dirt that contained the privy, but I knew exactly what he meant—that dirt belonged to his colonies, now the Union he was helping to thrive.