by Diana Rubino
“He didna want in on the game at first, but Wynkoop talked him into it. Hamilton's as pathetic at cards as he is brilliant at banking. I coulda beat him blindfolded with both hands on me willie,” James gloated, counting the money over and over again.
“Did he say anything to you about—me?” I had to know.
He shook his head. “Nary a word. Those cards, he played close to his vest. Sneaky bugger.”
“He's not sneaky, just discreet.” I breathed a sigh of relief. But my heart tripped in delight. Alex was mine—for the time being! I'd have to warn him not to play cards with James, but I knew he was too sensible to fall into that trap again. The other trap James had planned to set for him—extorting money in a much more devious way than at cards—I was doubly glad we both hadn't fallen into that one.
Chapter Eight
Eliza
“I meet you in every dream.” Love Letter from Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler, 1780
Thursday, September the First
I am enjoying our summer back here in Albany. The children have rosy cheeks, Angelica's hair is sun streaked, and James grew chubby from all the pies Gran baked for us. I grow larger every day. We plan to return home Friday next.
I received a letter from Alex this morn. I read the romantic bits over and over: I am myself in good health but I cannot be happy without you. Yet I must not advise you to urge your return. The confirmation of your health is essential to our happiness that I am willing to make as long a sacrifice as the season and your patience will permit. Adieu my precious. My best love to all the family. Yrs ever & entirely, A Hamilton.
No, I could not stay away any longer than planned. Although his letters convinced me how much he missed me, they also contained snippets about his work. But when I asked questions, he always explained in simple terms the meaning behind his efforts and how his enemies tried to thwart him. In his last letter, he told me he'd met with President Washington about the Bank and toiled eighteen hours that day. His wobbly penmanship betrayed his fatigue. I shall take the matter up with President Washington, as to why he works his surrogate son so hard.
Now our new capitol stands on the Potomac, as was Alex's wish, built on a swamp called Foggy Bottom. They named it Washington City, but since Alex was instrumental in deciding its location, I believed it deserved to be called Hamilton City. Perchance another town would be named after him someday.
I read his letter again and kissed his name at the bottom. “I shall relieve your burdens, my darling,” I whispered.
Not until after I'd read Alex's letter thrice did I notice another letter addressed to me. It bore a Philadelphia postmark, but I recognized neither the penmanship nor the seal. After reading it, I was inclined to dispose of it, but better judgment told me to keep it and bring it home. Alex must see this. It was signed 'Anon.' and went on for the entire page about a rumor. A rumor about my husband and Mrs. Maria Reynolds, seen together late Thursday eve.
James Reynolds was also seen entering his house after word got round that he'd left his wife. What was going on? I knew that he'd once tried to persuade Alex to invest in some speculation. When Mrs. Reynolds called that August eve, she claimed that as her reason for the visit. But she'd told Alex her husband had left her. I loathed confronting Alex with this. He had so much on his mind. But now it festered on my mind. Who would write this, not having the strength of character to sign his (or her) name? Swindlers always tried to take advantage of Alex's good nature, but this time I would not let it happen.
Maria
A courier delivered a letter to me the next morn, whilst James was still abed. It was from Alex, on his engraved stationery. My heart surged as I tore into it, his first letter to me. I memorized every word, every loop of every 'y', every slanted cross of every 't'. I kissed his name at the bottom of the page, again and again. I vowed to keep it till my dying day. He wished to come back to me after finishing his work. I began counting the hours till his arrival though I knew not what time he'd call.
James woke and broke his fast with the usual whisky and water with a hunk of bread and pungent cheese. He smacked his lips and belched. “I've a full day's work for Josiah Bank, then a business meeting at The Grog. But dinna hold yur breath, the deal may not go throo. Later, there's a card game at Jonathan Trumbull's, and it may be an all-nighter. Ah'll be too bevvied to make my way home, so ah'll kip there.”
I never held my breath over any of his deals. If I did, I'd have suffocated a hundred times.
“Cheers, lass.” He strode out the door.
By nightfall, in anticipation of Alex's touch, I'd reached a level of arousal I'd never felt before. As the eve's shadows crept up the bedroom walls, I leant out the window, the ledge pressed against my ribs, craning my neck to see down the street. After two hours of waiting, Alex's lean figure emerged from the darkness and he rapped on the door. I shivered in delight and ran down the stairs. I flung open the door and pulled him inside. My heart tripped.
I offered him a drink but hoped he'd refuse. I wanted him in my arms, ravishing me. Thankfully, he declined. “Later, Maria. We have plenty of time for imbibing and discourse. Let us quench our most urgent desires first.”
“You read my mind, Alex.” We drew closer, my lips ready for his. He kissed me deeply, taking my breath away. I ended the kiss, gulped air and guided him upstairs to the bedroom next to James's and mine.
We removed each other's clothing, top to bottom. I was no longer a bit shy with him. We were lovers now, intimate as any man and wife. He walked around me in circles, drinking me in slowly and deliberately, up and down, naked longing in his eyes. Drowning in desire, I lost my senses, unable to think.
“You're a work of art, Maria.” His voice rumbled. “A glorious sculpture in marble. Like Venus DeMilo.”
“She has no head. And no arms!” I laughed.
“Well, nobody's perfect. But you—you are perfect. A work of art beyond human.” He stood back and stared some more.
He finally approached me and began working his magic with those fingers that penned all those brilliant essays, caressing my bare body with light strokes, like I was a statue in the making. “Your skin is ever so soft,” he whispered.
“I use creams in abundance.” I wanted him to know I took extra pains to care for myself.
“Do you bathe in milk like Cleopatra?” His hands slid down my arms.
“No.” I smiled. “Bathing in milk would be far too dear.”
His fingers played over me. I blazed, on fire. “Do you crack walnuts with these thighs?”
“I never tried.” I sighed.
“Such a ravishing body.” Then he stepped back and caressed me with his eyes.
“Alex,” I groaned, “take me now.”
He smiled and brought me to the bed. “Very well, come here.”
The universe exploded around us. I'd never felt so feral, and yet so connected, my spirit and his.
Afterward, I poured us each a goblet of claret from the carafe on the bedside table, glad I'd put clean glasses out today. He sipped as I asked, “Now, Alex, how was your day?”
“You truly care to know?” His voice carried both surprise and pleasure.
“Of course.” From the way he'd asked, it seemed he had no one to share mundane anecdotes or major triumphs. Did his wife never want to hear how his day had gone? “I want you to share your everyday asides as well as major events—if you'd received any orders from President Washington or read another scathing letter in the papers by Jefferson, if you'd made more headway in running the treasury. I want to share it all with you, Alex.”
He didn't hesitate a moment. “I actually did accomplish something today.” His tone brightened with pride.
“Tell me. What was it?” I propped myself up on an elbow and brushed his hair from his eyes, ran my finger over his brow, down his cheek, over the contour of his strong jaw line.
“I formed a private state-chartered corporation called The Society for Establishing Useful Manufacture. Fiv
e directors and I plan to utilize a river to supply waterpower by diverting its water through a raceway system, and use it as a power source for gristmills. Actually it is the brainchild of my Assistant Treasury Secretary Tench Coxe. He told me of his idea for the creation of a manufacturing town and won my full support.”
“What will you—the corporation—be making there? This sounds as visionary as your creation of the First Bank. Tis centuries ahead of Jefferson and his gentleman farmer ways and means.” I beamed at him, adoring him.
“Starting with the most important would be linen, cotton, and wool to make hose worn by all ranks of people. Our increased population and wealth have greatly increased the consumption of those articles. Things folk need—” He counted on his fingers, “table linen, bedticks, fustians and jeenes for men, and white dimity for the ladies. Then we need paper, shoes, pottery and earthen ware—” he took a breath and continued, “carpets, blankets, brass, iron wire, wool, steel—any goods that need to be manufactured. Eventually, the mills can manufacture every kind of apparel—shoes, boots, gloves.” He finished his wine, set down the goblet, sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. “The sky is the limit. Not only the wealth, but the independence and security of a country appear to be connected with the prosperity of manufactures.”
“Where is this town?” I hoped it was close by. My selfish side didn't want him traveling great distances.
“We haven't chosen one yet. These plans are still on paper.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “But I would like to use a river as a source for mechanical power. We can discuss the details another time.” He stretched his legs and his eyes closed. “My days have been longer than my nights. And as of now my mind is feeling it.”
“Is it turning to mush?” I teased, massaged his scalp, and smoothed his hair over the pillow.
“After such a long day, tis as useless as my—” He glanced downward and turned onto his side, facing me. “I hope you weren't planning on an encore performance.”
“Not at all. I'm still enthralled by the first act,” I spoke the truth.
He pulled me into the warmth of his embrace and I drifted off to the beat of his heart.
He nudged me awake. I opened my eyes to see him standing by the bed pulling on his britches. “I need to return home, Maria. I have some more work to do this eve and an early appointment in the morn.”
I did not pressure him. That would surely drive him away.
He shrugged into his shirt and I tied my déshabillé about my waist as we descended the steps. What a sight we must have been. It made me laugh and shiver with delight at the same time. We basked in the afterglow of lovemaking and certainly looked it.
At the bottom of the stairs, he turned to me and I stepped into his open arms. “Til we meet again, my darling.”
Our lips met. My rapture shared an urgent need to fuse with this man. At the same time, I wanted to know—besides his sad, lonely childhood, political beliefs and drive for success—his fears, his philosophy on life and death, his religion. I hadn't yet delved that deeply into his mind, his life.
“When will that be?” I persisted after we ended our kiss. As he began to speak, the lock rattled and the door swung open. We froze, still locked in each other's arms, as James stumbled in. For a long agonizing moment, we all stood, stunned.
James broke the silence. “Ah. I see you two are now beyond Shakespeare comedies and Mozart ditties.” Well into his cups but plainly coherent, he tossed his keys on the table and observed us—his half-dressed wife, and now obviously my lover, shirt open, locked in an embrace, our hair disheveled, our lips inflamed from kissing, our faces blotchy with sexual flush.
“I—I—” I stammered, numb with embarrassment.
James poured himself a shot of whisky and held the glass up to Alex in the gesture of a toast. “Here's lookin' up yur kilt.” He downed the shot. “Care to partake in some aqua vitae, Hammy? You look like you kin use a refill.”
“Jim, listen—” Alex broke our embrace and approached my husband, now sitting in his chair, tilting it back on two legs as he smacked his lips.
“No need to elucidate, Ham. Ah'm no dumb shite, I see what went on here. But I hope you know this'll cost you more than thirty bucks here on in.” He winked at Alex and belched. “Scuse me, ah've bin dippin' in a cookie jar of another sort this eve.” He stood and looked at me. “I shall leave the candle lit for you, when you care to join me in our conjugal bed, if you've hadn't enough already. Good eve, dear wife. Cheers, Hambone.” He gave Alex a mock bow, brushed by us and vanished up the stairs.
I quaked, too mortified to speak.
“So now he knows.” Alex saved the moment and put me at a semblance of ease. “And he hardly seems to care. It actually makes things easier for us. As long as he maintains his affable apathy, we have no problem.”
“I suppose,” was all I could choke out. “But did you hear James's insinuation? It sounds as if he plans to blackmail you.”
“I shall deal with that when the time comes. Nevertheless, I must keep this under wraps. Not just for my wife. For the entire country. I trust you understand why.” His tone harshened. His eyes focused on me and narrowed.
“Of course, Alex. I know your reputation is far too revered for a scandal such as this to leak out.” Inwardly I cringed. I didn't want to be part of a scandal. I wanted the world to know how much I loved Alex.
I followed him to the door, loathe to let him go. I cupped his cheek and drew him close, my breath hovering over his lips. “Please, Alex, one more kiss. One more embrace.”
He moaned. “Oh, why can I not disentangle myself from you…” His arms enveloped me and he kissed me deeply. As I grew dizzy with pleasure, he pulled away. “I must go. Spend tomorrow on yourself. Shop for dresses, pamper yourself. Here.” He handed me a fistful of bank notes. I couldn't see their values in the dark. “Good eve, my love.”
He vanished into the night. I unfolded the bank notes by the light of the wall candle and saw that they totaled $50. I sobbed with gratitude. Oh, that big-hearted, kind, generous soul!
I nearly floated up the stairs, repeating, in quiet whispery tones, “He called me love!”
James was sawing logs when I got to bed. I hoped our appalling encounter would be forgotten next morn. I did not want him to blackmail Alex, but at the same time, I heaved a sigh of relief that James wasn't the sort to go through with a duel. I knew Alex was far too sensible to ever duel anyone. So they were both safe on that count.
Chapter Nine
Eliza
Philadelphia, September 4, 1791
My Beloved Betsey
I hoped with the strongest assurance to have met you at Eliz Town; but this change of weather has brought upon me an attack of the complaint in my kindneys [sic] to which you know I have been sometimes subject in the fall. So that I could not with safety commit myself to so rude a vehicle as the stage for so long a journey, I have therefore prevailed upon my clerk Mr. Meyer to go to Elizabeth Town to meet you in my place. I am not ill though I might make myself so by the jolting of the carriage were I to undertake the journey. If I can get a proper machine I shall make use of a warm bath to which I am advised and from which I am persuaded I shall receive benefit.
God bless you my beloved A. Hamilton
Fryday, September the Ninth, Midnight.
We arrived home from Albany at mid-day. “Where is Father?” my three younger ones asked in unison.
“Working.” As they knew. But in their minds, he should have been home to greet them, even though he hadn't been expecting us today. He stole in late that eve after they were fed and abed. We embraced and whispered our familiar endearments. I did not ask him where he'd been, and he didn't tell me. We were too tired to make love, but before falling asleep, I had to tell him what had troubled me, the reason I'd come home a week early. I got out of bed to fetch the anonymous letter.
He re-lit a candle and gave the letter no more than a glance. “When did you get this?” In the public eye
so long, he ignored rumors.
“The day before I left Albany. Who would write this?” I gestured at the hateful item.
He tossed it onto the nightstand. It missed and floated to the floor. He didn't bother picking it up. “Who knows? Mayhap Jefferson or one of his ilk, in retaliation for those letters I've been sending the newspaper about him. He had the sense to figure out twas I. I shan't get into a war with him over that.”
“Then why write to me?” My ire rose, quickening my pulse. “Why get me involved?”
“To get to me. Do not believe it, Betsey. Tis a lie.” He yawned and stretched his legs.
“But what were you doing with Mrs. Reynolds late at night?” I persisted, determined to find out something other than simply “Tis a lie.”
“It was Mr. Reynolds,” he corrected me. “He wanted me to invest in some land.”
“And you begged off, I trust.” My voice gained volume.
“I made him a small loan,” he said what I'd dreaded hearing. “Not for land, but because they're destitute. Worry not, my dear, you'll hear no more about Mr. or Mrs. Reynolds.”
The conversation over, he turned away and began snoring. I needn't ask more. I trusted him.
Maria
Early next morn, I headed to my dressmaker. Mrs. Joseph Graisbury lived on Water Street among several tailors clustered between Walnut and High Streets. Mr. Graisbury, a master tailor, outfitted the city's richest men, who'd made him nearly as affluent. He fitted James with the latest fashions, when we had funds to fritter on fashions. Now, once again, we did. I ordered from Mrs. Graisbury two brocade dresses, one in gold and one in silver. The skirts would open in front to display their satin underskirts, with daring décolletages and lace-trimmed sleeves. The panniers would puff out at my hips and shrink my waist so Alex could circle it with his hands.
“Planning on attending some posh events, Mrs. Reynolds?” Mrs. Graisbury measured my bust and hips.