“My husband loved this city and this country. He considered them his home. He married me, who was born right here in Westport, Connecticut, and bore our son and daughter with the expectation that, like a more modest version of the Livingstons of New York State and the Carters of Virginia, the Childress name would become synonymous with the American upper classes. Yet to Jonathan, America was always an extension of England, which had made him and, he felt, made also this country. When his king called on him to defend the union of the mother country with its far-flung colonies, he did so willingly, and when he was taken home on the field of battle, I do not believe he regretted his choice. Though I have no doubt he thought sadly of the family from which he was being taken.
“I confess that my loyalty to one side or the other was never as pronounced as was my husband’s. I wanted peace far more than I wanted to be a British subject, or an American one. While all this was happening, I oversaw the business my husband built with, if I may say so myself, a fair degree of skill. Despite the imposition of the British occupation and the grudging assistance of male employees who did not at first enjoy being subordinate to an employer of the female persuasion, I expanded the number of establishments to which we sold, raising it from eight to twelve over the past seven years.
“Of course, our clientele were much diminished as many patriots had fled the city, but so thirsty were they and their British occupiers that I was compelled to purchase a building on Baxter Street and transform it into a brewery. I outfitted it with the newest vats and stills so that I could meet demand and maintain the quality of our product, a task at which I was so successful that Ruston’s Ale became well-known as one of the very finest in the city, and indeed in the colony.”
“You mean state, don’t you,” Alex prodded gently.
Mrs. Childress smiled ruefully, and though tinged by sadness, the smile still lit up her face. “I suppose I do.”
He cleared his throat.
“It would seem that you survived the war with less privation than did many,” he said, yet even as he spoke his eyes were taking in once again the frayed edges of the once-fine mourning gown, echoed in the worry lines that framed her mouth and eyes. From her story she was a wealthy, even unctuous, woman, but her dress and face were at odds with her words.
Mrs. Childress stared at Alex blankly. “Money cannot buy a husband or father,” she said finally.
Alex struggled to keep his face impassive. “It cannot,” he concurred. “So, tell me: Is the issue something to do with your late husband’s estate?”
A short laugh erupted from Mrs. Childress’s mouth. “Issue? Yes, that’s what it is, all right.” She sighed as if she could not believe what she was about to say. “Though it has almost nothing to do with my husband’s affairs, and everything to do with mine. It would seem that the Baxter Street building I purchased had been owned by a patriot of the name Le Beau, who was away at war when General Howe drove General Washington from Manhattan Island in 1777, though I only learned his name much later. Fearing retribution, the remaining Le Beaus fled the city. They had been gone for some three years when I purchased the property, and, as I said, I knew none of this. The transaction was handled by a British colonel by the name of Lewiston, and the sale and deeds were reviewed and approved by a military tribunal. I had no reason to believe that this was in any way unusual, let alone illegal.
“Nevertheless, when the British left the city and the Americans entered, my building was seized from me by the Continental army, who promptly ransacked it, draining and destroying every last cask on the premises, and removing every piece of distillery equipment to who knows where. The building itself was returned to the heirs of Mr. Le Beau, who, like my husband, met his end in the war. I say ‘returned,’ though that is not quite accurate, for Mr. Le Beau’s family had relocated to a small village in Pennsylvania called Harrisburg and have shown no desire to return to New York.
“I sank all of my family’s fortunes in the purchase and outfitting of the property, Mr. Hamilton, and now find myself deprived not only of my investment but of the means to make my living. Even the original inn on Water Street that my husband received from his employer threatens to be taken from me, as it was collateral on the loan with which I purchased the Baxter Street property. Unless some redress is done to me, my children and I are ruined. My creditors shall turn us out of our house, and likely throw me into debtors’ prison to boot. In short,” she said, turning to Alex with the first trace of emotion in her voice, “I am penniless, unless you can save me.”
As she’d spoken, Alex’s mind had turned over all the new laws he’d reviewed in the past weeks. As he understood them, the sale of Le Beaus’ building to Mrs. Childress fell into a gray area. If it had been directly seized from them by the British, any subsequent sale would have been invalidated. But since the Le Beaus appeared to have voluntarily abandoned their property, the British, as the government of good standing, had simply disposed of the building as they saw fit. No doubt George Clinton’s courts would take a skeptical view of such an interpretation, however, and Alex knew there was very little chance he would be able to recover the property for Mrs. Childress.
But if the court ruled the sale invalid, then by their own logic, Mrs. Childress’s loan would also be rendered null and void, which would at least clear her of her debts. And if he could recover the costs of the stolen ale and distillery equipment, he might be able to put a little cash into her pocket, which might enable her to keep her business solvent—and out of prison. But getting the Continental army to pay a loyalist what amounted to war reparations was a tall order indeed, and one that seemed likely to lose Alex more friends than it would gain him. It was not exactly the ideal first case for a young lawyer.
He peered down at Mrs. Childress, who was looking up at him with anxious eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but she spoke over him.
“I know that you fought on the opposite side of the war from my husband,” she said. “I know that you served with General Washington himself, and that you distinguished yourself at the Battle at Monmouth, where my Jonathan fell, and at Yorktown as well. But I’ve also heard that you have argued eloquently and passionately for reconciliation, and even gone so far as to challenge some of the laws that penalize those of us who supported the losing side. I am not wise in the ways of the world, but I know that only a man like you—a known patriot and hero—has any hope of convincing an American jury that a wrong has been done to me. But honesty compels me to tell you that I cannot pay unless you are victorious in your suit.” Another small smile cracked her sad face, offering a glimpse of the vibrant woman she must have been before war ripped her life asunder. “I can, however, give you all the beer you can drink.”
Alex wondered if he were making a mistake even as he replied. “As it happens,” he said with a grin, “I have quite a taste for beer.”
15
Bonds of Sisterhood, Part One
The Hamilton Town House
New York, New York
January 1784
Meanwhile, a week or two after Alex got his first client, one afternoon, Eliza found herself in the middle of her dining room, pensively studying the silver serving dishes displayed on the walnut cabinet. The four-legged covered platter with its intricate repoussé lid—large enough to hold four chickens, two geese, or a whole turkey—occupied center stage on the eye-level shelf, flanked by a pair of four-pronged candelabra that had been made by Paul Revere himself. On the next shelf down was a large oval salver stood upright on a carved ivory stand to better show off the illustration intricately etched into its base, which showed the Pastures in all its glory and remarkable detail, right down to the panes of the windows and the mortar between each brick.
To one side of the salver was a pedestaled cake plate, while the other side was occupied by a medium-size soup tureen, which, while round like the cake plate, had four legs and thus did not create the most symmetrical of arrangements. There were a pair of large porcelain serving platters from the famous Bo
w porcelain factory, but Eliza was skeptical about mixing silver and china, and, as well, the pattern on the platters was a dark burgundy and made little statement except in the brightest daylight—not exactly ideal ambiance for a dinner party. Not that she had any plans to throw a dinner party, of course.
Alex spent so much time in the office in the past month it was hard to plan a social gathering, let alone a dinner à deux, since he was often home long past mealtimes. She was alone rather often, hence the ten minutes she had just spent staring at a motley collection of china and silver. When they lived at the Pastures and Alex was busy at work or war, she had her family to spend time with. But here in New York, she was all by herself, and there were only so many different ways one could arrange one’s dishes.
Eliza had been under the presumption that once they had a home of their own, they would have more time for each other, but with Alex consumed with his work, it appeared the opposite was true. For the first time in her life, she was truly lonely. Without her sisters around her to tease her, the young ones running around, and her mother fussing, she found her life very empty indeed. She understood that Alex was working hard for them—for their future—but she wished he would come home earlier once in a while. He had already given the early years of their marriage to the war, and now it seemed, he would give these years to his work.
She perked up at the thought that while she didn’t have family around, they could make new friends in New York. Alex had expressed a fondness for the idea of a dinner party, recalling the intimate yet lively gatherings he had experienced at the home of William Livingston when he first came to the United States, not to mention any number of occasions at the Pastures—“Although your mother does seem to prefer a ball to a seated affair,” he had joked.
At any rate, if and when they began entertaining, Eliza wanted the house to look its best, and as she studied the cabinet, she contemplated the radical step of removing all the silver and replacing it entirely with patterned china. Her parents had gifted them a mismatched if numerous assortment of pieces, but each was fine in its own way. Plus, she and Alex acquired quite a few nice specimens since their arrival in New York, including the prized set of Crown Derby they purchased on the day of General Washington’s farewell. None quite matched the others, but this might give the effect of a curated collection accrued over time rather than an assortment of hand-me-downs, which is what, for the most part, it actually was. It would be a little bohemian, and quite possibly outré, but she and Alex were young, after all, and did not need to decorate like a pair of sixty-year-olds.
“It cannot hurt to try,” she said out loud, though there was no one else around to hear her speak. Indeed, the house had been empty a lot lately, despite Rowena’s and Simon’s cheerful presence as they were often out on some errand or another. Alex’s work with Mrs. Childress had brought in a dozen more clients, all former loyalists whose property had been seized. He had taken them all on, but the bulk of his attention was devoted to the Childress case, which he thought stood the best chance of securing some kind of compensation for the plaintiff, and would thus serve as a precedent for subsequent cases. Eliza was not fully versed on the legal intricacies of the case, but she had met Mrs. Childress once in Alex’s office, and immediately saw how such a woman could appeal to a jury. She was refined, independent, articulate, and attractive as well, even in her shabby widow’s weeds.
A little too attractive, Eliza couldn’t help thinking, but tried to suppress the jealous instinct. She had married a brilliant, ambitious, and charismatic man, and she did not want to hold him back. She trusted him with her heart, and she knew that his heart was hers alone, in that she was fully confident.
She had just finished removing all the silver dishes from the cabinet and pulling the china from its various shelves and cubbies in the kitchen and crowding the dining table with them when the front door knocker thudded hollowly from the hall. Rowena had gone to market, which, given the still-erratic state of food supply in the city, could take the entire day. Simon was hiding in whatever nook or cranny he secreted himself in when his mother was out, so Eliza hurried to answer the door herself, assuming it was another maid of some lady or other who wanted to leave her card to arrange for a social date. Wives of the men who’d served with her husband, as well as friends of her parents.
There was no reason to be lonely when she could answer these social calls and fill her days making new acquaintances, and Eliza decided she would do just that starting tomorrow.
She pulled the door open and, as she expected, a woman’s form greeted her. Eliza immediately noted the luxurious fur of the hat and stole protecting its owner against the January cold. But her head was turned to the southeast, looking down toward the water, so at first Eliza couldn’t see who her visitor was. One of those women who doesn’t send her maid to do her calling, Eliza thought.
But not even she was prepared for the face that greeted her when her caller turned toward the opened door.
“Peggy!” Eliza threw her arms around her sister without thinking. “Oh my darling, you cannot imagine how wonderful it is to see you!”
“Eliza!” Peggy returned the hug with as much enthusiasm as her sister. “How are you, darling?”
“Good, now that you are here!” Eliza felt a rush of joy at seeing her beautiful sister once more, and so unexpectedly. She ushered Peggy in and closed the door against the frigid air. “It’s so nice to have company after being alone in the house for weeks and weeks.”
“What? Weeks? Where’s Alex?” Peggy asked, frowning from underneath her rather fantastic hat with a profusion of ostrich feathers.
“Oh, you know. Seeking out clients and trying to understand all the new statutes Governor Clinton keeps passing has Alex quite busy.” An image of Mrs. Childress’s pretty blond-ringed face flashed in her mind, but she banished it immediately. “What with the vagaries of establishing a law practice in a city and state that is daily rewriting its laws, he is practically there day and night.”
Peggy peered into the house, as if she might see Alex hard at it. “But surely you can just pop in to see him for coffee now and then to make sure he pays attention to you?”
Eliza looked where Peggy was looking. “Oh, you think Alex’s office is located in this house? My dear, have you never been in a city home before? Only the wealthiest of the wealthy can afford that kind of capacious residence. Here the rooms are stacked on top of each other like dovecotes, with the kitchen in the basement and the bedchambers on the top floor, and all the receiving rooms sandwiched between. He maintains a study here, but it would be inappropriate for seeing clients, as they would have to tramp through the front parlor.”
“You mean this is … all … of the house?” Peggy seemed to think Eliza was putting her on.
“Peggy! This is considered a very fine home in New York City! It’s not large, but we have three floors. And come summer, the garden in back will be lovely. We can’t all marry Rensselaers, after all. Speaking of which—where is Stephen? And, forgive me for being abrupt, but, what are you doing here?”
Peggy looked simultaneously confused and coquettish, as if she had scored some kind of secret victory. “Didn’t you get my note? I wrote nearly two weeks ago to say that we were coming down.” As she spoke, she unbuttoned her cloak and held it out absently for a footman who never materialized. Eliza took it herself, hanging it in the small wardrobe they’d acquired, and led her sister into the living room. She took Peggy’s amazing headgear as well, and marveled at the towering creation.
Eliza shook her head. “I know that New York is supposed to be a cosmopolitan city, and we live but one block from City Hall, but I’m afraid it is only half domesticated. The British left it in such a state of disrepair as boggles the mind, and it is still very early in the redevelopment process.”
Peggy followed all this with a frown of confusion. “I take it you mean that my letter didn’t arrive,” she said when Eliza was finished.
Eliza laughed. “Only m
essenger-delivered mail has arrived for the past three weeks.” She indicated a sofa, which Peggy ignored, taking in the whole of the room with a few sweeping glances that made Eliza acutely conscious of the smallness of the room as compared with the great salons of the Pastures and the Van Rensselaer manor house. “But the city has other charms.”
“Like fine china, I see,” Peggy said, walking from the drawing room into the dining room. “This piece is lovely,” she said, holding up a fluted gravy dish covered in lilacs so lifelike you could almost smell them. She glanced at the empty china cabinet. “Rearranging?”
“It’s tricky,” Eliza said. “We have not quite enough pieces to fill the cabinet the way Mama does, but we still want things to look nice.”
“Well, I think they look nice on the table. You should leave them there.”
“On the table? But how would we eat?”
“Why, with them, of course.”
Eliza shook her head. “I know you are the unconventional sister, but this is a little … je ne sais quoi, even for you.”
“And you’re the smart sister, but you are not following my meaning. Leave them on the table because we’re having a dinner party!” said Peggy.
“A dinner par—you mean, tonight?”
“Why not? Stephen and I have no other plans. We’re staying with Helena and John Rutherfurd. Do you know them? Helena is the daughter of Lewis Morris of Morrisania, just north of Manhattan. I guess they used to own New Jersey or something? They sold much of it to the Rutherfurds, so I guess Helena is bringing it back into the family. And Helena’s uncle Gouverneur Morris is visiting. I say ‘uncle’ but he’s her father’s half brother and is not even thirty. He’s quite handsome. If I were still single, or you were …”
“Peggy! You scandalize me.” Eliza was looking around the dining room with its dishes scattered everywhere, wondering how it could possibly be readied for dinner. “But Rowena has already gone to market,” she protested weakly. “She will not have shopped for such a large party, if there is even that much food to be found.”
Love & War_An Alex & Eliza Story Page 16