Sharing Hamilton

by Diana Rubino

  “Letter? Oh, that.” He swept his hand through the air. “Just another one of those vexing things. None of it is true, as I told you last time. Was my word then not sufficient?”

  “After one letter, yes. After two, I have my doubts. What exactly is going on with Mrs. Reynolds?” I wasn't sure I even wanted to know. “If some gossip monger is out there trying to spread these vicious rumors, our family might face danger. And if you won't tell me, I'll call on Mrs. Reynolds. But I would rather hear it from my husband.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You know how these things float around. Look at the rumors about Jefferson and that Sally Hemings woman.”

  “Rumors nothing!” I stamped my foot. “Tis all true!”

  “Says who?” He cocked a brow. “All I know is that my acquaintance with the Reynoldses is no greater than yours. He's been round to ask me for an appointment, but further to that, nothing. Would you be any more concerned if this rumor were about me and Mrs. Monroe?”

  I had to laugh. “If it were true, I'd commit you to an asylum. But Mrs. Reynolds—now, she's exceeding attractive and young. Whoever is making up these rumors certainly took care to make them believable.”

  “They are not believable,” he insisted, folding his arms across his chest. “If you believe them, you are wrong. And that is your problem, dear wife, not mine. There is no truth to any of those letters. And I shall thank you to steer clear of my study in future.” He turned on a heel and retreated as I had the last word.

  “And I'll thank you to steer clear of my post!”

  He gave a slight nod and walked out the door.

  Ergo, that was it. He at least admitted he'd borrowed from Robert Troup, his close friend. They'd been roommates at King's College and served in the same militia unit. Robert had tutored Alex in law studies. Now he was a Clerk of the Court in the District of New York. Perhaps he knew why Alex needed 600 dollars. As soon as the snow cleared, I'd take baby John to visit his grandparents, and pay Robert a visit in New York City on the way. Then I'd call on Mrs. Reynolds once more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Maria

  This morn, as Maggie cleared the dishes and I read the papers with James, a letter arrived by courier. It was from Alex—and addressed to me! Trembling with anticipation and delight, I tore it open.

  Jacob Clingman was visiting us, and in the privy when the letter arrived.

  “I take it Ham the Ram wants another rendezvous.” James nodded in approval. “Tell him to keep his britches on till the morrow. Jacob and I are meeting here with some other investors. I'd like to scout out a prime parcel of land in the southeast quadrant of Northern Virginia. We'll be hobnobbing with old Georgie Washington himself! How 'bout them golden apples!”

  “Speculating on some swamp a hundred miles from Mount Vernon hardly qualifies as hobnobbing with the president, James.” I dismissed his latest clutch at the aristocracy and held Alex's note to my lips. I inhaled the faint trace of his spicy scent. “It says here Mrs. Hamilton has gone to New York with the younger children. And Philip is away at boarding school. He wants me to sup with him at six this eve.” I couldn't keep the shrill glee out of my voice. “So he needs not keep his britches on till the morrow.”

  “Even better.” James poured himself a refill of coffee. “As long as the missus doesna pay another surprise visit and catch her husband with you in friganté dilecto this time.”

  “It's flagranté delicto, you ignorant oaf!” I savored my last mouthful of Viennese coffee he'd bought with the dwindling funds from Alex. “Tis Latin for 'in the progressing misdeed.' And I must admit, the phrase fits.”

  “Beggin' yur pardon, Madame Aristotle.” He bowed his head. “May I put it simply: bloody brilliant!”

  Just then Jacob walked in, lips curled in amusement. “Who is quite so brilliant?”

  James replied, “Secretary Hamilton, the connoisseur of cash. He and Maria—and I, of course—have bin seeing, er—rather more of each other.”

  I cringed, wanting to crawl under the floorboards. How could James tell another soul about this, even a close compatriot? If he divulged any details, I'd have to vehemently deny them.

  “Are you now?” Jacob's eyes bulged. “Moving in the high circles now, eh, Jimmy?”

  “Gittin' there. Right, my sugar mouse?” James turned to me and winked. I worked my foot under the table to his codlings and gave them a meaningful nudge.

  “Yow.” James rubbed himself, but it didn't faze Jacob. I knew that 'gentlemen' always scratched themselves in socially unacceptable places.

  “We have some friends in common and occasionally attend the same events.” I swept the letter off the table and under the newspaper. “So, Jacob, when did you last attend the opera?”

  I engaged him in lively chatter, for he was an avid opera and theatergoer. James, with no interest in anything musical beyond bawdy tavern tunes, splashed some whisky into his coffee.

  As we talked, I could only think: in seven hours, I'll be back in my lover's arms. I remained in a constant state of arousal all day.

  As James and Jacob prepared for their meeting, Maggie filled our tin tub with hot water. I took a long soak, washed my hair, splashed on some sinfully expensive French perfume, a splurge from my first violin lesson fee, and donned my most suggestive raiment—crimson satin bodice with plunging décolletage and black silk petticoats. The matching satin skirt wrapped round my waist, to be easily unwrapped.

  At quarter hour to six, I entered our hired carriage. “Please take me to Seventy-Nine South Third,” I instructed the driver. I needn't mention who lived there. My heart hammered as the carriage bumped and rolled through the streets. At Alex's row house I alighted and instructed the coachman to return home. I knew Alex would provide my transport back in the morn. Shaking with anticipation and wild desire, I rapped on his door. It opened and there he stood, draped in a black velvet robe à la française and carpet slippers, ready for the boudoir.

  I fell into his arms and sought his lips. My hands wandered down to stir his arousal. He pushed me away. “Let us wait till after the meal. When I have more—potency.”

  I nodded. “You're right. We do have all night.”

  He led me into the sitting room, the scene of that disastrous last encounter. A compleat sett of blue and white table china I surmised was fine French porcelain graced the table. Silver serving dishes gleamed in the candlelit centerpiece. The serving spoons' faceted edges glinted under the candelabra. A salver held sugar and almond paste, a breadbasket, and a bottle slider.

  The silver-gilt forks, knives, dessert spoons and crystal goblets added elegance. The finery welcomed me as an honored guest, as opposed to the night I showed up uninvited.

  “I commissioned Richard Humphreys to make the silver.” He held out my chair.

  “Hmm, the best-known silversmith in town. I'm impressed.” I admired the craftsmanship. “We own no pieces by him yet. Now I must purchase some.”

  “Pheasant to your taste, my dear?” He joined me across the table. “I dismissed the last of the servants but a moment ago. Your timing was impeccable.”

  “I am not hungry. Not for pheasant, anyway.” I held my desire at bay.

  “Pierre L'Enfant drew up the first plans for diverting the water.” He buttered a roll. “He's also drafting plans for the new Federal city. Now he's officially the first general superintendent for the S.U.M. project. Pierre proposes to harness power from the falls by a channel through the rock and an aqueduct.”

  He bit into his roll. I still hadn't taken a bite or a sip. “But the directors and I feel that he is taking too long and is over budget. However, we shall work it out. Pierre also gave me some news of general interest. From time to time he receives news from various family members and friends in France, Paris in particular. He mentioned that it was strangely coincidental that some time ago, he recalled not exactly when, one of his cousins wrote him of a series of particularly gruesome murders in the capital of the French Republic. The murders, so far as h
e could remember, appeared to be particularly similar to those that recently occurred here. Four young women were brutally killed.”

  I lost my appetite.

  “Though no suspects were named, the French press were convinced that whoever perpetrated these heinous crimes had fled from the city, mayhap the country in order to escape eventual detection.” He finished his roll. “France's greatest detective, according to Pierre, a man named Le Clerc, was hot on the trail of an unnamed suspect if popular rumor was to be believed.”

  I gaped at him as he delivered this piece of news. Finding my voice once more, I spoke my fears. “Do you think it possible that the killer did leave Paris, found passage to our country and committed those murders here?”

  “It is a possibility.” But he didn't sound fully convinced by the theory. “There are a large number of Frenchmen residing here, I'm sure there is as much possibility that the killer is a native born American. No theory should be discarded, however. I pressed Pierre to pass his shreds of news to the commissioner. He, after all, is the man best placed to evaluate such things and act on them if he considers it likely.”

  At that, talk of killers ended between us, for the real matter at hand was not Parisian murders…

  All through dinner, my gaze stayed fixed on his eyes, deep violet in the candleglow, and the hands that would soon caress me. At dessert I managed a few bites of mince pye and washed it down with a heady Marsala. “We're truly alone?” I marveled, desire flooding me.

  “Yes, but it may be harder for us to rendezvous in future. My wife has received anonymous letters saying I've been seen in your company. I fear she's of the mind that we've been together—” He cleared his throat. “—alone.”

  Disappointment crushed me. “I'd hoped this wouldn't happen so soon. Tell her it isn't true. Tell her you know both James and me. Tell her I'm related to the New York Livingstons and we meet to discuss politics.” Excuse after excuse rushed out in one breath. “Tell her—tell her I have no interest in you, nor you in me!”

  “Of course I told her there is nothing untoward between us. I need to prove it.” Said like a true lawyer.

  “We must quell this rumor.” My voice trilled. “All right, Alex.” I took a breath and calmed. “I shall talk to her myself.” I placed my napkin beside my plate and took another sip of wine. It rushed to my head. “She invited me for tea, but I haven't yet responded. I shall accept her kind invitation, and tell her how much in love I am with James, which should convince her how uninterested I am in you.”

  He tilted his head. “And are you much in love with James?” he challenged.

  We'd never discussed intimate details about our marriages, after his first visit to my room, when I'd admitted I still loved James, but couldn't stay with him.

  Now, in trying to answer Alex's inquiry, I became flustered. Words clogged my tongue as I tried to formulate a coherent, yet honest, reply. “I still love him, yes. But tis not the same as when we first married. Now you can say I'm—accustomed to him.”

  “As you become accustomed to a piece of furniture.” An understanding nod told me I needn't explain more. “A lumpy sofa.”

  “No, more like a highboy. But we don't share the same—” My hands fluttered about as I searched for the right word.

  “Spark?”

  I stammered, taken off guard. The spark between James and me had hardly cooled.

  “Devotion?”

  This was much easier to answer. “Among other things.” We exchanged knowing smiles.

  “You need not put on a show for my wife.” He sipped his wine. “Frankly, I believe it better not to discuss James. He's not exactly endeared to her.”

  “I've hesitated because I feel hypocritical, being her guest while—” My gaze dropped as I struggled to find respectable words.

  “Fret not, my dear. Sometimes life necessitates keeping up appearances.” He swung his goblet twixt thumb and forefinger like a pendulum. “I daresay I find it satisfactory that your devotion to James has waned. Jealousy is a deadly sin, but sometimes rears its ugly head. I only hope if your marriage recaptures its former magic, you'll let me know. That will shed a whole new light on things—between us.”

  “Worry not about that, Alex.” I stood and sauntered round the table to sit on his lap. I ran my fingers through his hair and slid the ribbon from his queue. I wanted him so badly, I burned for him. “You're the only man I'll ever love.” Oh, no, had I blurted that four-letter word? “I mean—want.” I sputtered, trying to correct myself. But I couldn't un-say what I'd just said.

  “That's fine with me, Maria. You know why? Because I love you, too. More than you'll ever know.”

  As I heard those words I desired nothing more than to melt into his arms and drown in his love.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Eliza

  As daylight faded, my carriage pulled up to Robert Troup's brownstone on the outskirts of Greenwich Village. Unseasonable warmth melted the snow, making the roads suitable for travel. A letter I'd sent ahead told Robert to expect me, baby John and his nurse Ruth.

  With Ruth carrying baby John, I lifted the brass knocker and rapped on his door. Robert himself appeared. I blinked in surprise. No servants?

  “Eliza! As I live and breathe! And this must be John. May I hold the little angel?” He took John from Ruth. Cradling the baby in his arms, he ushered us in.

  “You received my letter, I trust?” We exchanged the customary two-cheek kiss and he led us into his parlour. A fire blazed in the hearth. A brandy bottle and two snifters stood on a table next to a chessboard.

  “I did indeed, and couldn't be more delighted.” He held John up and rubbed noses with him. “He's adorable. He looks just like you!” Of course he was teasing; John was the image of Alex in every way, from the coppery fuzz atop his head to his violet eyes.

  “We still have Louisa's cradle. I can bring your nurse—Ruth, is it? I'll show you to your quarters, Ruth.” As he led the nurse upstairs, I snooped a bit. I felt right at home here in the cluttered and cozy parlour, the furniture and rug a bit worn. Toys and books lay scattered about, and a colorful patchwork quilt covered the sofa.

  Robert came back down and closed the door. “Jennet and the youngsters are visiting kin in Connecticut, expected back tomorrow. Now, what brings you here? A shopping expedition en route to Albany?”

  “No, Robert, I fear we haven't the means for a shopping expedition.” We sat in the facing wing chairs. “That is what I came to discuss with you. Alex admitted that he borrowed a large sum from you—was it six hundred? Between that and some strange letters I've received, I need to get to the bottom of this.”

  Robert fingered his queue, leant forward and filled the two snifters with brandy. “Sorry, but my servants are ill, so I'm very much on my own.” He looked at me. “Alex didn't divulge what the loan was for. I did ask, but in reply, he told me he was investing in some land speculation. I thought this out of character for him, the Treasury Secretary gambling with his funds like this. He was always so frugal, so careful with his money. As I know he is with the treasury's funds.”

  “You don't believe him either.” My fists clenched in anger. “I understand his not telling me, but why wouldn't he share this with his best friend?”

  He sipped his brandy, his eyes shut as he shook his head. “I care not to say I disbelieve him. We've always been candid with each other about everything. I always knew how he felt, and he me. But this time, I find it hard to believe he'd engage in speculation—and resort to borrowing. It didn't ring true.”

  “Of course it doesn't,” I stated. “And I have these letters, which, to my chagrin, are ringing more true every day. I have no proof, of course, and want to believe they're a vicious ploy to cause disaster, but—” I heaved an exasperated sigh. “Alex is a handsome and desirable man, as you know. Well—mayhap you should not know—” I quit stammering and opened my drawstring purse, retrieved the letters and handed them to him. He scanned them and gave them back, his cheeks flushed.


  “Who is Mrs. Reynolds?” He refilled his glass.

  I told him who the Reynoldses were, and bared my soul to him. I broke down in tears at the end. “I've never told this to anyone before now. Speaking of it makes it all the more distressing.”

  He handed me a handkerchief from his top pocket. “This cannot be true at all. All the years I've known Alex, I've—” He stopped dead in his tracks and clamped his lips shut.

  “I know all about Alex and his dalliances before we married. But since—never did I have reason to doubt his faithfulness. When would he have time? He's always working.” I scowled. “Neither I nor a willing mistress could keep Alex from his shaping of this nation, assuring his place in history. Work is his mistress. But these letters, and now his spending of large sums—even if it is rumor, someone is out to ruin him.” I took a sip. I was not keen on spirits, but lifted it to my lips, trying to hide my grimace. “Of course he has enemies, they all do. Jefferson actually paid the reporter Thomson Callender to print harsh attacks on Washington, Adams, and others. But it never involved the wives. This, I fear, may be a personal vendetta against me. Everyone knows my father is one of Alex's most loyal backers of the bank.”

  Robert shook his head, and I studied his features: lines around his eyes, strands of gray at his temples, and his face had filled out since I'd seen him last. We all grow old, I lamented.

  “No one would want to hurt you,” he assured me. “I'm sure it's one of his political foes. No level is too low to stoop for some of them. I only wish he'd told me what the loan was for.”

  “Robert, I must ask you this.” I put down the glass and clasped my hands in my lap. “If the loan had been to pay off some blackmailer, would you still have sent it to him?”

  He took a deep breath and expelled it. “Probably. I'd give him my shirt, for any reason, as I know he'd do the same. Now you've got my curiosity piqued. I also don't want to see him fall victim to a blackmailer, or worse. If you want to learn the truth, you should hire someone who does private investigations.”