Love & War_An Alex & Eliza Story

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Well then,” she said now. “I suppose it behooves me to ask if my portrait is actually finished, and can be hung in some place of prominence.” As she spoke she was glancing above the mantel, only now noticing that the silver-framed mirror that normally hung there had been taken away.

  Why, Alex! she said to herself. You remembered!

  “In fact, it does require a touch more shading. Your gown was of such subtle luminescence. I want to do it, and of course your exquisite complexion, justice.”

  She felt a blush add itself to her “exquisite complexion,” then nodded and went upstairs to change quickly from her everyday frock into the silver-pink gown. It fastened in front so she didn’t need Rowena’s help to put it on, and she decided to forego the wig unless Mr. Earl insisted on it. Twenty minutes after she went upstairs she was back down. Earl had set up his easel and paints, thoughtfully pulling over one of the cane chairs that had no fabric to stain, should he drip.

  And there was the painting. She had caught sidelong glimpses of it before, but Mr. Earl hadn’t let her have a good look in some time—no doubt because he was hiding how close to completion it was. If his sketches had somehow managed to capture the heart of her being, this painting, in its exquisite lifelike detail, gave that heart flesh that seemed to pulse and perspire.

  “Oh, Mr. Earl! It is so beautiful!” She blushed anew. “That makes me sound vain. I mean the painting is beautiful, not its subject.”

  “Do not apologize for what God has graced you with, Mrs. Hamilton,” Earl said, but he was frowning, and looking back and forth between her and the picture. “There is something missing. Something—here.” And he waved a dry brush in front of the long, bare, pale column of her throat and décolletage. “There is too much white. It lacks an edge. I know!” He reached into the valise in which he stored his oils and retrieved a simple black grosgrain ribbon. “If you would allow me,” he said, stepping toward her.

  Eliza was not sure what he was doing until he reached up to her neck and looped the ribbon lightly around it, tying it in a simple bow that draped down to her chest. His touch was as deft as a lady’s maid’s, yet Eliza was acutely conscious of his eyes on her, which gleamed with an adoration that no maid had ever bestowed.

  She thought about pointing out that Mr. Earl could have just painted the bow into the picture without adding it to her ensemble, but she kept that to herself, feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

  He stepped back, and gazed at her with revering eyes.

  “I was going to say that the light in this room was beautiful, but as I look at you I realize the light is superfluous. My brush is honored to preserve even the tenth part of such radiance.”

  He lingered then, staring at her, and for a moment Eliza thought he might even kiss her. She even imagined him leaning in, their lips meeting, his arms around her waist …

  And then, with a thoroughly unromantic cackle, Earl whirled toward his canvas, grabbed a brush and stabbed it against his pallet, and Eliza realized with a mixture of relief that in the end, like all men, his first love was his work.

  She didn’t know whether she was relieved or disappointed, but her mind filled with a picture of Alex’s face and she was overcome with tenderness. Such fragile creatures, men, she thought. What on earth would they do without us?

  24

  If It Please the Court

  New York State Supreme Court

  New York, New York

  March 1784

  Suddenly, after ages of interminable back-and-forthing, the day of the trial was upon him.

  Alex had been preparing for months. He knew the legal issues inside and out. He could cite English and Colonial precedents as well as the dozens of different—and conflicting—statutes the various new states had passed to handle the loyalist issue. He knew Caroline and Jonathan Childress’s story backward and forward. Yet he still felt like he did on that long-ago day when he walked into a King’s College classroom as a newly arrived immigrant, deeply conscious of his Caribbean accent and hand-me-down clothes. He had practiced law in Albany for a year and argued before the bench numerous times, but he couldn’t shake the worry that he was about to be judged based not on his research or his arguments but on who he was. A Johnny-come-lately in a world of silver spooners and blue bloods. A striver.

  However, the courtroom itself was oddly soothing. Alex reveled in the sober probity of its lines: the beamed ceiling and the paneled walls, both lacquered in a cool blue-gray, gave the room an elegance that recalled a Greek temple, without the ostentation of friezes and scrolls and naked statues. The benches were as solid as pews, and simple arched windows allowed the wet March sun through in angled rays. Even the floors were of well-trod planks, their varnish worn away to a smooth paleness, attesting to the steady passage of justice through these halls.

  And if nothing else, it was convenient. The case was being tried in City Hall, just a few steps from his front door.

  He arrived early and waited for Caroline on the front steps, wanting to escort her into the building and to the courtroom. The case had not received any press, yet he had heard whisperings here and there. The war hero Alexander Hamilton was defending a loyalist! Was he one of those secret monarchists, who had fought to toss out one king so that he could enthrone one of his own choice? The federalists outnumbered the loyalists two to one, but their leaders were numerous and fractious, preventing any one person from amassing too much power. But the loyalists were rudderless and adrift. If someone were to step up to defend their interests, that person could find himself with a full third of the country at his back. The potential for power—for income and, should the tide turn that way, votes—was enormous. And all this speculation about Alex was being focused through the slim, delicate form of Caroline Childress, who was less a lens than a funnel through which a raging torrent was about to pour. Alex wanted to make sure she had all the support she needed, lest she be washed away in the flood.

  On Alex’s advice, Caroline arrived at City Hall on foot rather than in a carriage. It was important that she not appear too prosperous, as though she had grown rich off British silver during the occupation. He had also purchased a black coat for her. It was crucial that everyone, even spectators, be reminded that she was, after all, a war widow, no matter which side her husband had died fighting for.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Childress.”

  Mrs. Childress started, before accepting his hand gravely.

  “Mr. Hamilton! I did not recognize you in robes and wig!”

  Alex smiled uncomfortably, and resisted the urge to scratch beneath the stiff hairpiece screwed on over his own perfectly ample head of hair. He found the custom of judicial dress to be ridiculously formal and archaic—one of the many lingering Briticisms he, like Eliza, hoped would soon be abolished from American life. But for now it was the custom, if not the law, and so he had let Eliza pin the dusty-smelling wig to head and sprinkle it with powder, then donned the long black wool robe.

  “We make a fine pair of shades,” he joked. “Though put a hat on me and I fear I would look like a country parson.”

  If Caroline heard, she didn’t answer, but only wrung her hands, staring at the people passing by on the street.

  “I suppose it is the very purpose of the costume,” he continued. “To submerge the individual, as it were, behind the anonymous veil of the law.”

  Caroline let this statement, too, pass without answer. She was clearly nervous, and at length she glanced at the low, cloudy sky.

  “I fear we will have rain before lunch.”

  Alex offered her his winningest smile. Her anxiety was perfectly understandable, but a nervous client looked like a guilty one. He needed her calm, and perhaps slightly sad, the aggrieved widow rather than the greedy schemer.

  “Then let us hie inside, where we will be protected by the sturdy joists and pillars of justice.”

  Together they headed through the foyer and up the stairs. They found the courtroom perhaps three-quarters filled with sp
ectators. A few were witnesses for one side or the other, a few had the look of reporters, with their tattered notebooks and knife-sharpened pencils, but most were clearly there out of curiosity. The courts have always attracted gawkers, just as the church has. People are fascinated by the collision of the individual with a force that has the power to convey life or death, liberty or bondage, riches or poverty. Sometimes they had a vested interest in one side or the other, but often it was just the process itself that drew them.

  Judging from the harsh stares, however, Alex sensed that today’s audience was far from impartial. Well, it was New York, after all. The city had suffered under military occupation for seven years, and seen the bodies of its native sons wash up on shore every morning, tossed from the prison boats during the night. You wouldn’t expect to find a lot of warmth among the populace for a British sympathizer. And if they did feel it, they’d probably keep it to themselves.

  But this wasn’t a jury trial. Alex ultimately need worry about only one man’s opinion: that of Judge Smithson, who had yet to enter the room. Opposing counsel was also still absent. Alex had seen Burr socially two or three times over the last month, but had avoided a tête-à-tête. He’d overheard Burr making jokes about Alex’s “poor loyalist widow” and had to bite his tongue to keep from being drawn out. Burr’s comments weren’t particularly barbed, and he was at least gentlemanly enough not to slander Caroline’s reputation. In a way, that made it worse, because Alex could tell that Burr regarded the upcoming trial as a kind of game, and a low-stakes one at that, like an after-dinner hand of whist or quadrille. If he won, he would gloat for a moment, then forget about it. If he lost, he would be theatrically conciliatory, and forget about that, too. Which is to say, win or lose, in a few weeks’ time the name “Caroline Childress” would probably mean nothing to him, whether she was once again running a thriving business that would see her and her children through life, or was turned out of her home by fiendish creditors. Burr’s opponent in this trial was not the defendant but Alex.

  As if on cue, Burr swept into the courtroom. He was looking exceptionally rosy-cheeked this morning, as if he had walked around the block rather than from his house two doors down. The color in his complexion was heightened by his wig, which also did a good job of hiding his thinning hair. His jabot was tied with a flourish befitting a serenading swain, and unlike Alex’s, Burr’s had the sheen of silk rather than wool.

  “Does he think he’s playing dress-up?”

  Alex didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Caroline said, “Beg pardon, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing.”

  Burr worked his way up the aisle, greeting several people by name, with handshakes all around. Had he packed the courtroom with anti-loyalist agitators?

  Stop indulging in paranoia, Alex chided himself. The man is a gadfly. No doubt he knows them the same way a good bar mistress knows the names of the local sots—because they’re always here, clambering for more spirits.

  Burr swept up to his own table, at the last moment turning to greet Alex.

  “Oh, Hamilton. I didn’t realize it was you. I thought it was the chaplain come to swear the oaths.” He winked mischievously at Alex’s client. “Do not judge your attorney by the quality of his robes, Mrs. Childress. His mind is much sharper than the scissors with which that rather shapeless garment was cut.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Burr,” Alex said in his most formal voice.

  “Brrr,” Burr said, pretending to shiver. “Is it cold in here? Well,” he added, licking his lips. “I guess the duel is on.”

  He turned to his table just as the rear door of the court opened and a bailiff entered.

  “All rise!”

  Burr was already standing, so that it seemed as if everyone else was following his lead. Alex couldn’t help but wonder if he’d planned it this way. Again, he chastised himself to stop being paranoid. There was no way he could have known the judge would enter now. Was there?

  The door behind the bailiff filled with a huge shadow. For a moment, it seemed like whatever was beyond wouldn’t be able to pass through the narrow aperture. Then came a chafing noise as heavy fabric scraped against the wooden frame, and Judge Lewis Smithson was in the room.

  The judge was an imposing man in his early fifties. He was at least as tall as General Washington, which is to say six four, and his tightly curled white wig added two or three more inches to his frame. But he was big in a way that Washington was not, as thick around the waist as a vat of whale oil, with legs like sooty Roman columns. Alex had seen the man once or twice outside of chambers, so he knew the man’s bulk was all blubber, but in his black robe and extra-wide jabot he had the appearance of a lichen-covered boulder rising out of turbulent seas, ready to rip a jagged hole in the hull of an unsuspecting vessel.

  Beside him, Caroline caught her breath. Alex hoped she would keep her composure throughout the trial.

  Judge Smithson mounted the steps to his dais, which creaked and shifted beneath his weight. The dark oiled walnut of the bench only added to his imposing form. He was a snow-capped mountain now, daring Sisyphus to try to scale him one more time.

  The judge took his seat and motioned for the rest of the courtroom to follow.

  “We are here today to hear the case of Mrs. Jonathan Childress v. State of New York, concerning a property located at Seventeen Baxter Street which the state believes was illegally acquired by the plaintiff during the occupation of New York City by British forces.”

  “With all due respect, Your Honor,” Alex said, standing up. “The state seized the property some four months ago, and now merely wishes to codify the transfer of property with an ex post facto legal action.”

  “Your Honor!” Burr rose to his feet. “Such an accusation veers on disrespectful to the institution of our government, which many people in this room risked their lives to bring into existence!”

  Cries of “Hear, hear!” were heard in the gallery. The judge, who was known to be a man of strict order, did not gavel them to silence. Alex took that as a bad sign.

  Alex took a calming breath. “Does opposing counsel dispute the fact that the building located at Seventeen Baxter Street has not been in Mrs. Childress’s possession since November? Let me save you the trouble of answering,” he continued, waving a startled Burr silent. He pulled a piece of paper from his satchel. “I have here a copy of a bill of sale for Seventeen Baxter Street dated November nineteenth, 1783, transferring ownership from the state of New York to one Elihu Springer. So, as I said, Your Honor, the state has already taken the building, and sold it at a handsome profit. This proceeding, then, can have no other purpose but to determine the legality of that action.”

  Judge Smithson seemed to be fighting to keep a grin off his face. He turned to Burr.

  “He’s got you there, counsel.”

  A chagrined Burr sat down without looking at Alex. Alex took his seat as regally as he could, hoping his face didn’t look smug.

  “Well then,” Judge Smithson said. “It sounds like we are in for an entertaining couple of days. What say we—”

  The door at the back of the courtroom opened. The judge looked annoyed at first, then startled. At his expression, Alex turned, along with everyone else in the room.

  The figure entering the courtroom wasn’t as tall as Judge Smithson, or as big around, but he was that curious kind of fat that is almost entirely centered on the stomach, a sagging sack over a pair of comparatively spindly legs.

  It was Governor George Clinton.

  A wave of recognition went around the room in a series of whispers and gasps. Governor Clinton didn’t acknowledge anyone save Judge Smithson, whom he nodded at formally, but with a gleam in his eye, then took a seat in the very last pew.

  Judge Smithson waited a moment, then picked up his gavel and struck it once.

  “Let us begin!”

  25

  The Bonds of Sisterhood, Part Two

  Broad and Nassau Streets


  New York, New York

  March 1784

  In a stroke of bad luck, Angelica and John’s passage over the Atlantic was pushed up by a full week. Eliza had made plans to throw her sister a fabulous send-off, and now found herself with but three days to pull it together—and all while Alex was trying the most important case of his life!

  But she was determined to make it a success. For Angelica’s sake, of course, but also for her own. This was her moment to prove that she more than just an accessory to a handsome, well-regarded man, be it husband or father. She threw herself into the party preparations with a vengeance. She would avail herself of Jane Beekman’s greenhouse salad vegetables and Stephen’s honey wine, but everything else she would procure on her own, with her own hands and, more important, her own money. Or at any rate her own line of credit, as the Hamiltons’ coin was all but depleted at this point, and would be until Alex completed his case. Assuming he won, of course. If he didn’t, Eliza really had no idea what they were going to do.

  “I can’t believe how much the city has changed since before the war,” Angelica said as they strolled up Broad Street toward Nassau. She had visited once in 1775, on her way to visit the Livingstons in New Jersey.

  “It is a positive boom town,” Eliza answered. “When the British invaded, people fled by the thousands. They say the population of the city dropped by half that first year.” She gestured to the shuttered shops that still dotted the bustling street. TO LET. AVAILABLE. FOR SALE. PLEASE TAKE. “At first, it looked as though everything would return to normal overnight, but as you see, there are still so many empty buildings and storefronts.”

  “But why aren’t people moving back in?”

  They paused at a shop that was occupied, where Eliza signed a note for no less than a gross of white tapers and directed the shopkeeper to send them to 57 Wall Street.