General Washington listened to Alex’s impassioned speech with his usual stony, unreadable face. There was a long moment of silence. Then, “I have heard each of your arguments and see merit in both of them,” he said. “I will consider them overnight and give you an answer in the morning.”
Alex knew that Washington was merely stalling. He was not a rash man, but there was no real considering to be done. He had only to choose if he was going to reward a fellow patrician in Lafayette, or a faithful subordinate in himself.
“With all due respect, General, I need an answer now,” Alex pressed, as courteously as he could.
Washington blinked. From such a reserved man, it was the equivalent of a gasp. Then Alex could have sworn he saw a bit of a smile flicker over the man’s lips. “Well then, Colonel. You may lead the assault.”
Alex was stunned to silence. Though he believed every word he just said, he hadn’t thought they would have any effect. Washington was a man of his class, and his generosity rarely extended itself to the plebeians. He recognized talent and ability, but only to the degree that their possessor was useful to him. All other things being equal—and Alex had no doubt that Gimat had studied as faithfully at Lafayette’s side as Alex had studied at Washington’s—he would always side with gentry against the common people.
“You have earned this, Colonel Hamilton,” Washington said now. “With me, and with your men. I trust that you will lead them, and the Continental army, to victory.” He paused and continued with a hint of a smile. “That you are capable of eliciting this kind of quick, resolute decision-making from me helped you win your case.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Alex said, when he found his voice. He turned to Lafayette. “My condolences to Major Gimat.”
Lafayette shrugged, an amused twinkle in his eye. “Ah well. There will always be another war.”
9
Hot Towels!
The Schuyler Mansion
Albany, New York
September 1781
“Eliza!” Peggy gasped as her older sister burst into the house. “Thank God you’re here! Mama’s time is upon her!”
Peggy’s face was simultaneously ashen and splotched with color, and her hair hung loose around her face. Eliza didn’t think she had seen her sister look so bedraggled since she had first discovered powder. Somehow the sight of Peggy so distressed immediately made her calmer, and she took her younger sister’s hand and patted it soothingly. “Lew tells me Dot has been fetched.”
“Yes, yes. She says Mama has been very naughty and bore her early pains without telling anyone. She is very close now,” said Peggy, wiping her forehead.
“And what does Dot say we should do?” asked Eliza. “Should we call Dr. Van Vrouten?”
Peggy made a face. “Dot says no, she has it handled.”
Eliza did not quite understand. She felt a stab of panic. “So what does Dot need from us?”
“Dot says she would like a pot of chocolate.”
Eliza blinked in confusion. “Chocolate? For Mother?”
Peggy shook her head. “No. For her. For Dot.” When Eliza still looked at her blankly, she continued. “She said if I wanted to be ‘useful’ I could fetch her a nice pot of chocolate and a bowl of sugar.”
Eliza smiled inwardly but kept her face passive. If Dot was ordering the mistress’s daughter to make her chocolate, there couldn’t be anything too amiss. “Yes, well, why don’t you see if you can find Mary or Rosie and get them to help you with that? And some clean towels and hot water. I seem to recall that these are often needed during births.”
Peggy still looked frazzled, and the truth was, while their mother had given birth quite a number of times already, the three older girls were still shielded from the messy reality of the endeavor. It was only now that they were allowed to be by their mother’s side. The rigors of childbirth, Mrs. Schuyler and Dot believed, were best kept away from the girls’ “delicate” constitutions while they were growing up.
Eliza sent Peggy on her way, then hurried upstairs to her mother’s room. At first, she panicked because the bed was not just empty but missing, but then she remembered they’d moved Mrs. Schuyler to the front chamber when the hot weather set in. She hurried forward and knocked once before letting herself in.
Since Catherine had never allowed her daughters to assist in one of her deliveries before, Eliza wasn’t sure what she expected. But she certainly didn’t anticipate peals of laughter coming from the bed.
“Oh, I know!” Catherine Schuyler said merrily. “Philip Jr. really was incorrigible. I tell you I could feel him holding on with his little fists, just refusing to come out. Boys really are the worst! Eliza!” she added in a gay voice. “Do please close the door! This isn’t a barn stall.”
Eliza paled, but then her mother giggled again. She eased the door closed, then slipped to the side of the room.
“That was such a long lying-in,” Dot said, cackling. “I’m not sure who it was harder on—you or General Schuyler. He must have lost half a stone in perspiration!”
“I’ll tell you who it was harder on: my beautiful hallway carpet. The general paced so long he practically wore away the flowers in the weave. And that carpet imported all the way from Persia!”
Her mother laughed once more, a relaxed belly chortle the likes of which Eliza had never heard pass her mother’s lips. Only then did she notice the brandy decanter and glass on the bedside table. Eliza had filled it herself last night. Now at least a third of the bottle was gone—a feat all the more impressive given the tiny size of the cordial glass beside the table.
“Uh-oh!” her mother said now. “Eliza has spied the evidence of our mischief! Oh well, might as well have another.”
Dot refilled the small cordial eagerly.
“Dot,” Eliza said as the midwife handed the glass to Mrs. Schuyler. “Do you really think my mother ought to be indulging in spirits at this exact moment?”
In answer, Dot only looked at Mrs. Schuyler, who made a pouting face. A moment later, both women giggled wickedly. Eliza realized it wasn’t just her mother who had been indulging. She didn’t know if it made her feel better that her mother had drunk less than she’d thought, or that the woman who was to deliver her of her child was somewhat intoxicated as well.
“Now, now, Miss Eliza, don’t you fret,” Dot said. “The brandy relaxes your mother, which eases the experience. And she and I have done this more times than I can count.”
“I can count,” Mrs. Schuyler said. “We have done this eleven times before. Eleven! And I can promise you that THIS IS THE LAST!”
“At any rate,” Dot said, “we have done this so often that we could play a game of skat at this point, and still get the job done.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Schuyler said, handing her (empty) glass back to Dot. “One moment, please.” Her face twisted into a grimace of pain then. Not agonizing pain, but as if she had stubbed her toe or was experiencing a heavy bout of indigestion.
Eliza had of course heard about the pains of childbirth and knew they could be quite severe, but the whole concept of labor still remained a little vague to her. So, it alarmed her to see her mother in such a state. “Dot, what’s happening? Do something!”
By the time she’d asked the question, however, her mother’s face had relaxed, and she was nodding at Dot to refill her glass.
“What, Miss Eliza, have you no idea how this works? There’s nothing wrong, it’s just a contraction.”
“A contraction?” Eliza parroted, having no idea what the word meant. All she could think of was the linguistic meaning of the term.
Just then there was a knock at the door, and Angelica slipped in. She looked noticeably flushed and, despite the heat, wore a long, light blue shawl around her shoulders. She carried a tray on which sat a pot of chocolate and a pair of glasses, which she handed to a grateful Dot.
“I am so sorry I wasn’t here sooner, Mama. I was visiting at the Van Alens, and Cary”—Lew’s brother—“came to fe
tch me. If you can believe it, I have just ridden three miles in a man’s saddle! I galloped right past old Mrs. Vandermeer, who looked as if she might faint!”
Eliza had a flash, then, to a year and a half ago, when she too had ridden in a man’s saddle—with Alex sitting behind her. He had rescued her from a coach with a broken axle and, in order to fit her astride his horse, had had to rip her skirt and petticoats so they didn’t drown them both in fabric. She told her mother all about it. It had been one of the most romantic moments of their courtship, although, as with almost everything else that happened to them as they were falling in love, it had ended in a fiasco based on a silly misunderstanding.
Oh well, she thought, remembering the feel of Alex’s body behind her own. All’s well that ends well.
She wondered where he was at the moment, and if he was thinking of her, then braced herself for her mother’s inevitable scolding at the anecdote she had just shared. Mrs. Schuyler was inflexibly strict when it came to her daughters’ decorum in public.
But her mother just shrugged her shoulders. “No matter. You have a husband now, you have no need to worry about your reputation, let alone the condition of your maidenhood! Why, Mrs. Vandermeer’s first child was born six months after she married, and he was ten pounds if he was an ounce!”
Eliza almost clapped her hands to her ears. Had her mother actually implied that Mrs. Vandermeer had engaged in the most private marriage ritual before she was actually married?
“M-mama’s,” she stuttered to Angelica. “Mama has been drinking.”
“I see that,” Angelica said in voice half amused, half stunned.
“Apparently, it relaxes Mama, which, how did you put it, Dot? ‘Eases the experience.’”
“Indeed,” said Angelica.
Eliza was not at all sure what to say next. “Um, Dot was just explaining to me what a contraction is.”
Angelica scowled. “You mean, ‘don’t’ for ‘do not’?”
Peals of laughter from Mrs. Schuyler and Dot.
Even Eliza had to smile. “Not exactly. Apparently, it has something do with, um, delivering the child from Mama’s womb.”
“Exactly!” Dot said. “When the child decides it’s time to be born, it knocks very gently at the door of the world. This tells the muscles that surround the mother’s womb to constrict in a very specific manner. It’s a bit like wringing the water from a towel. You start at one end and squeeze toward the other. So does the womb. Lightly at first, to position the child properly, then more strongly as it pushes toward daylight.”
“Now, this is the one area on which Dot and I disagree,” Catherine Schuyler chimed in. “I do not think it is the child that tells the mother it is time to be born. I think it is the mother that tells the child it is time to GET OUT!” Mrs. Schuyler directed the last words directly at her abdomen in a voice that, though loud, was suffused with both humor and love.
As if in answer, her face twisted into another grimace.
“What is this?” Angelica asked in alarm, grabbing Eliza’s hand.
“It is one of the contractions,” Eliza said. “It is, uh, quite normal, and as you can see they do not last long.”
“Oh, they’ll last much longer soon,” Dot said. “They’re coming closer together now.”
“Yes, she’s quite eager now,” Mrs. Schuyler said, patting her stomach. “Girls, may I suggest you have one of the footmen—on second thought, make that one of the maids—bring in a pair of chairs and sit yourself rather out of the line of sight. There are a few mysteries that should persist to the end between mother and daughters.”
“I’ll just get them myself,” Eliza said.
“Bring a glass, too,” Angelica said. “I think I might join Mother and, uh, Dot in a tipple.”
Eliza darted from the room. There were a pair of lightweight cane chairs flanking a walnut sideboard in the hallway, and she carried them back in quickly, then ran back out and grabbed a water glass from the same sideboard. It was a rather large glass for a cordial, but Eliza didn’t think anyone was standing on ceremony today. And she was pretty sure she was going to join Angelica in that “tipple.”
She hurried back into the room just as her mother was grimacing again. What struck her now was the disconnect between her mother’s downturned lips and her calm, if slightly impatient, eyes. She seemed less bothered by the pain than by the protracted nature of the experience, as if she were eager to get back to her regular routine. With another woman, one might have said she was eager to hold her newborn in her arms, but Mrs. Schuyler had not started out particularly affectionate—her husband was “soft-hearted enough for two,” as she often said—and a dozen childbirths had rather sapped what little energy she had for that kind of thing.
The spasm passed as Eliza poured some brandy into the glass and took a seat beside her sister. Dot had moved to the foot of the bed and was washing her hands and forearms in a bucket of steaming water.
Angelica took the glass gratefully. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, arranging and rearranging her shawl around her bare arms, as if, despite the heat, she were chilly. Despite her fussing, however, the light fabric mostly bunched in the middle of her dress—a high-waisted garment in pale yellow muslin, and daringly loose around the waist. An unusual style for Angelica, who, like Peggy, enjoyed showing off her tiny frame (or at least enjoyed the attention it got her), but Eliza supposed it was too hot for even someone as style conscious as her oldest sister to cinch. Indeed, now that she thought of it, Angelica had been favoring this particular style since the weather had first turned summery six weeks ago.
She nodded toward the bed, where their mother had closed her eyes as if to compose herself. A few beads of sweat had appeared on her forehead, but otherwise she seemed completely tranquil.
“Is this the fate that awaits us now we are married?” Eliza couldn’t help but whisper to her sister.
“Only if you are blessed, my dears,” said Mrs. Schuyler without opening her eyes. “Only if you are blessed,” she repeated, but this time Eliza noticed that her hands were squeezing the bedclothes with whitened knuckles.
Angelica sipped again, then handed the glass to Eliza.
“Have you had any word from Colonel Hamilton?”
Eliza, surprised at this obvious change of subject, took a sip of brandy, then immediately wished she hadn’t. The liquor was far too warming for a day like today. She should have asked for some chilled water instead. And the mention of Alex’s name made her blood run hot, although it was with fear now, and not anger.
“He wrote me several days ago. He was on the march to Williamsburg, where they will stage the invasion of Yorktown. He should be there by now.” She was glad for the letters—as long as they arrived, it meant he was still alive.
Angelica plucked idly at the fabric bunched in her lap. “Do not worry, nothing will happen,” she said soothingly to her sister.
Of course, Eliza was worried, but she didn’t want to say it out loud and give voice to the fear. “I am rather more worried about what is going on right here,” she said, nodding at the bed. Their mother was in the throes of another contraction, which was lasting longer than the previous ones.
“Dot says that childbirth has a way of taking care of itself.”
“Not that. I meant the idea of Mama … intoxicated. It rather changes my whole picture of her.”
Angelica let out a little laugh. “Oh, I like her this way. I think we should conspire to get Mama to drink more often.”
If their mother heard them, she didn’t answer. Eliza noticed that not only were the contractions lasting longer, they were also occurring more frequently. Dot’s hands were busy beneath the sheets, working in trancelike precision. Though neither she nor Mrs. Schuyler spoke, it was clear the two women were in harmony with each other, working to bring another Schuyler sibling into the world.
“But tell me,” Eliza said. “Why were you visiting the Van Alens? You have never seemed overly fond of them previously. An
d why on earth are you wearing that shawl on such a hot day?” she added as her sister fussed yet again with the long wrap of cloth.
Angelica’s hands froze as if she had been caught doing something improper. Eliza turned and saw that her sister’s face had gone ashen, yet with bright spots of color in the cheeks. She looked back at Angelica’s hands again, and thought that they seemed to float slightly above her lap. But it was not that, exactly. No, it was as if Angelica’s lap were somehow … thicker. Now that she thought about it, she realized Angelica had been eating rather more than usual lately, extra servings of bacon at breakfast (well, who could blame her?) and, more oddly, extra portions of fiddlehead ferns for dinner. Angelica had always hated fiddleheads—said they tasted as bitter as poorly made vinegar. But now she ate them ravenously. It was almost as if she had a … craving.
A strange realization came over Eliza. She looked again at Angelica’s hands dancing over her thickened lap. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to articulate the word, even mentally. Angelica was her sister, after all. Even if she was married now, she still couldn’t be … Could she?
A heavy sigh came from the bed. “Oh, Eliza, my sweet, sweet, naïve girl. Don’t you realize you are going to be an aunt?”
Eliza laughed nervously. “Don’t you mean sister, Mama?”
“I am in labor, my dear. I am not ill, nor have I lost my wits, nor my words. I mean aunt.”
“Aunt?” Eliza repeated dumbly.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Dot said from the opposite end of the bed. “Open your eyes, girl. Your sister is pregnant!”
Eliza turned to Angelica, who was looking at her with wide eyes, her face a mixture of exultation tinged with fear. She nodded to Eliza’s unvoiced question, and then the sisters threw their arms around each other in glee, the sound of their merriment filling the already overcrowded bedroom. And as she held her sister’s body and felt the soft mound of Angelica’s stomach press against hers, all the arguments that she had conjured against children during her walk home evaporated. She realized she, too, longed to be a mother. To raise a family of Hamiltons with her Alex. She hoped that she, too, would soon be similarly blessed.
Love & War_An Alex & Eliza Story Page 8