Eliza’s resolve weakened and she leaned in against him, happily falling into his arms until a loud voice interrupted.
“I found them!” a female voice exclaimed. “So, here is where you two have been hiding!”
5
The Man Who Ate New York
The Schuyler Mansion
Albany, New York
April 1781
Eliza whirled to see Peggy and Angelica approaching with small plates of pastry in their gloved hands. Alex and Eliza separated from each other with sheepish smiles. But the Schuyler sisters weren’t about to let them off that easily.
“‘You have already stolen my heart, so there is nothing left to shoot’?” Peggy mocked. “And I thought this cherry jam was sweet! Lord preserve us. Preserve us,” she repeated in a heavier voice. “D’you see what I did there?”
Angelica moaned. “Between Colonel Hamilton’s purple prose and your purple puns, this party is off to a magnificent start!”
“Don’t forget my purple tongue!” Peggy said, sticking hers out at Angelica, who couldn’t help but giggle.
“Mama is going to banish us to the wilds of Ohio!” the oldest Schuyler girl said.
“Where we will obviously be the best-dressed girls for five hundred miles,” Peggy replied. “Speaking of which, you have yet to compliment us on our gowns, Colonel Hamilton. We don’t work this hard for no one to notice, I’ll have you know. Be honest: If you had to do it all over again, which of the Schuyler sisters would you propose to, based on tonight’s ensembles?”
Eliza laughed at her sister’s brazenness and saw Alex’s face go nearly as purple as Peggy’s tongue. But he covered himself well. “This question may be more relevant than you realize. I understand that there is a proposed law for the new country that says a husband may trade in his wife in the first year of marriage, no questions asked.”
Peggy gasped, but Eliza was not so easily shocked. “Just husbands? Are wives so easily contented with their men?” she said with an arched brow.
“To the contrary,” Alex said. “Wives get five years to make up their minds, on the understanding that the fairer sex is far more patient than we brutes, and men are much better at concealing their faults.”
“If only because they’re hardly ever home,” Eliza said with a sniff. “I feel as though I haven’t seen you in three days. You sneak in after dark and are out before the sun is up. I’m not convinced you are who you say you are. Perhaps you are not even my true husband.”
“Is that so?” said Alex with a grin. “What shall I do to make you remember?”
Eliza swatted the hand he tried to snake around her waist.
“She speaks the truth!” Angelica said. “I have quite forgotten what Mr. Church looks like. Is that him?” she said, pointing to a man who was at least sixty years old, as tall as a three-year-old maple sapling, and nearly as thin.
The girls laughed at Angelica’s wickedness, then Alex interrupted. “I believe I was promised a fashion show.”
Peggy beamed, and immediately stepped in front of Angelica. Eliza tried to slip away, but Angelica caught her wrist and pulled her back.
“Now, now, sister. Your marriage is on the line. No time to be modest.”
“I am hardly modest,” Eliza half grumbled, half teased. “I just have no desire to be exhibited like a prize pig.”
“You should be so lucky as to take home the trophy,” Angelica teased. “Now hush.”
Peggy stepped forward. With another man, this display might have been unnecessary, since the sisters had already been conversing with Alex for ten minutes, giving him ample time to survey their outfits. But Eliza knew that her husband was the type of man who noticed the person rather than his or her garments. One time he spent an hour in conversation with General Lafayette, and when the latter had departed—and when they were safely alone—Eliza had asked him how he had managed to concentrate when the general’s shirttail had been poking out of his trouser fly. Alex had merely looked at her blankly.
But now Alex summoned a breath and put on a serious face, as though he were judging not pigs or even cattle, but something as valuable as a saddle horse.
Peggy was wearing a silk dress of the deepest, most shimmering reds, given a moiré effect by an overskirt of burgundy lace. Full panniers made it as wide as a love seat, making her already tiny waist seem that much smaller. Her corset was strapped tighter than a mummy’s bandages, the bodice of her dress tightly laced and low cut, revealing an abundant serving of décolletage. Breasts, neck, and face were so heavily powdered as to be almost shimmering, which blended seamlessly into the silver pompadour wig she had lately taken to wearing. Amber dewdrops hung from her ears, matching the silver chain and pendant on her chest, which complemented her dark ruby lips and her flashing eyes.
“Very nice,” Alex said. “I think the housekeeper said we were looking for a charwoman to clean the fireplaces. I’ll let her know. Next!”
Peggy’s jaw dropped open, and you could almost see her blush beneath her powder—almost. Fortunately, she was far too aware of her beauty to take him seriously. She raised an eyebrow, stepped aside, and allowed Angelica her turn.
Angelica had reversed Peggy’s color combination. Her dress was gold and her jewels ruby. Her silhouette was less imposing, the skirts of her dress augmented by a small crinoline, though she had foregone a corset, and even lacing, giving her waist a daringly mobile mien. The powdering on her face and breasts was lighter, allowing the natural golden tones of her skin to be complemented by the richly gathered silks of her dress. She had taken the unusual step of selecting a dark wig to give the outfit a more solid cap, and Eliza saw Alex’s eyes widen when he noticed it. Angelica had lovely brunette hair but her wig was as black as a raven’s plumage, and the dark frame made her pale complexion seem almost pearlescent. Her lips were peach. Her hazel eyes seemed by turns green and gold depending on how they caught the light. Truly, her eldest sister was radiant tonight.
Alex pursed his lips. “Satisfactory. I would let you serve at table, if I were not afraid that you might distract my guests from their food.”
“You flatter me,” Angelica said archly.
“You haven’t seen my dinners,” Alex replied with equal color. “My food is not so pretty as all that. Next, please.”
Angelica rolled her eyes and stepped to one side. And there was Eliza.
Or, rather, the back of her, for she was busily conferring with Hendricks, showing him how the small tartlets on his tray should be arranged so they didn’t bunch up in a jumble “like leaves pooling behind a dam,” as she could be heard saying.
“And tell Cook to slice the bresaola thinner,” she said as the footman moved to rejoin the party. “It is not sausage. It is should melt in the mouth, not be chewed like jerky.”
She started then, aware of eyes on her, and turned suddenly toward her husband. Her face was completely open, with the practical expression of a busy hostess rather than the tempting pout of a coquette. She had chosen a dress of American indigo, a rich blue that gave off purple tones when struck by candlelight. As was her custom (and despite her sister’s teasing earlier), she had eschewed a corset, and the skirts of her dress were filled out by nothing more than a strategically draped underpaneling. She looked, in other words, not like a statue, but like a woman, and as Alex took in the sight of her, his eyes softened and his lips curled into a gentle, unconscious smile.
(“Come, Sister,” Angelica whispered to Peggy. “Our game is over.”)
They eased back into the party as Alex stepped forward and took Eliza’s hands in his. He did not bother to see if anyone was looking, but leaned in and kissed her softly, briefly, on the lips.
“Do you remember me now, Mrs. Hamilton?” he asked in a hushed voice, his blue eyes shining.
“It’s coming back to me,” Eliza said. “Kiss me again and perhaps I’ll be able to
place your—”
Her voice dissolved as Alex did her bidding and kissed her again, longer and more urgently this time. Eliza’s breath caught in her chest as if her corset had been pulled too tight—but she wasn’t wearing one.
“My darling,” he whispered throatily.
“Oh,” said Eliza, speechless and swooning at his touch, as he made his way dangerously close to her décolletage.
Alex looked around and pulled her deeper into the shadows. He kissed his way back up to her lips, and for a moment, they both quite forgot where they were, until the coughing of a few disapproving guests brought them back to their senses. They quickly pulled away from each other.
“I have missed you, Colonel Hamilton,” she said when she could speak again.
“And I you, Mrs. Hamilton,” said Alex, helping her set her gown to rights as he straightened his lapels. “Fortunately, the war will be over soon, and it will be merely Mr. Hamilton again. General Washington is preparing—” His face clouded and his voice broke off.
Eliza peered at him nervously. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Alex said vaguely. “Just routine military matters. I will give you all the details later, after the guests have gone—if you can stay awake to hear them all,” he added with forced levity.
“I sense that these are more than routine matters,” Eliza said. “But you are right. This is a party, and you are its guest of honor. Everyone has come to say good-bye to you before you rejoin General Washington at Newburgh.”
Eliza noticed another pained look from Alex but didn’t inquire about it. Growing up with a military man for a father had taught her that he would tell her what he could, and pressing him would only cause them both distress.
“Come,” she said then. “Let me present you to all these people who you will never see again—if you’re lucky.”
The next two hours were a blur of handshakes and hugs, colognes and perfumes, drinks sipped and sometimes swilled, foods nibbled and chewed. Eliza led Alex adroitly from one conversational group to the next, angling him in and making introductions, allowing her guests to pepper him with questions about General Washington or the war or what his plans were for Albany’s favorite daughter.
General Washington was “the greatest of men,” Alex replied every time; the war “would be over before you could say Yankee Doodle”; and as for Eliza, Alex said that he had every intention of making sure that the next twenty years of her life were as sumptuous as the first twenty.
“But how?” the widowed Mrs. Peter Rycken asked bluntly. “I hear you have no money and no profession. You can’t be General Washington’s errand boy forever.”
Alex blushed and attempted to answer, but Eliza stepped in smoothly, with a cold smile at the nosy widow. “Alex was reading law before the war started,” she said, “and his years at General Washington’s desk have given him a unique opportunity to continue those studies, if he chooses to. But who knows? Perhaps he will seek out a career in public service. A new nation needs new leaders.”
“Pah!” Mrs. Rycken exclaimed. “Government is not a career, it’s a hobby for wealthy men. At least if they’re honest. You strike me as an honest boy,” she added, as if that were a character flaw.
“Indeed!” a male voice cut in. “The most ineffective leaders have always been the most scrupulous.” A chuckle punctuated the still-faceless words. “That must be why I’m such a bad governor, ha-ha-ha!”
Eliza turned to see Governor George Clinton approaching them, preceded by his bloated stomach, plainly visible between the sagging folds of his unbuttoned coat, which was stained by the remnants of many meals and drinks. His lips were equally greasy and dark, and he held a whole pie in his right hand, from which he now took a large bite, exposing the dark creamy filling. Eliza did her best to keep her eyes fixed on the governor’s as some of the blueberry compote spilled onto her father’s exquisite Ottoman carpet.
Governor Clinton held out a blueberry-stained hand toward Alex. “George Clinton. But you can just call me Governor.”
Eliza knew Governor Clinton well enough to understand that he was fully aware of who Alex was. He was far too cagy to ever approach a strange man at a party without finding out his name and particulars first.
She half hoped Alex would offer Governor Clinton a napkin instead of his hand.
Instead she watched, a little disappointed, as Alex allowed the governor to smear blueberry pie filling all over his fingers. “Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton.”
“Colonel Hamilton, isn’t it?” Governor Clinton said, omitting the obligatory “sir” that military protocol dictated. “Your reputation precedes you,” he said, pointedly glancing at Eliza, not as though she was his wife, let alone the daughter of General Philip Schuyler, but one of the many young beauties Alex had been linked to before he met her.
He’s gone too far! she thought. Alex will not stand for this! Let him have it, Alex!
But all her husband said was, “I-I believe you know my wife, Eliza Schuyler Hamilton.”
“Know her?” Governor Clinton took another bite of pie. “Why, I bounced this young lassie on my knee when she was no taller than one of the lambs carved up on yonder table. My, my, Eliza Schuyler. I’d say that in the game of wife-hunting, Colonel Hamilton, you went out looking for a rabbit and bagged yourself a ten-pointed buck.”
Eliza felt her cheeks burn. To be described thus, and in her father’s house! This was too much. Surely Alex would recover his tongue now. She turned to him desperately, only to find him staring at his shoes as though they had come unbuckled.
“Oh, I’d say that she caught me, Governor,” he said in a voice that could barely be heard, “but I wouldn’t want to flatter myself.”
Alex’s words might have sounded sweet on any other occasion, but to Eliza’s ears tonight they sounded hollow.
“It would be difficult for my husband to flatter himself,” she said, “given all that he has accomplished at such a young age.”
Governor Clinton swilled another huge bite of pie, although he hadn’t quite finished swallowing before he answered.
“So I’ve heard,” he said, spewing crumbs from his lips. “Sailing into the colonies on William Livingston’s purse, marrying into the Schuyler clan, with a link to the even wealthier Rensselaers, and attaching himself like a remora to the great shark that is George Washington himself. Amazing accomplishments for a man born on an island smaller than a good-size farm, and without facing a single musket ball on the field of battle.”
From the tone of Governor Clinton’s voice, it was clear he was baiting the younger man, though Eliza had no idea why. Not the she cared. Clinton had always been a boor, and intimidating people was his primary mode of intercourse. What she couldn’t figure out was why Alex was acting so cowed. What did the man have on him?
“Well”—Governor Clinton shrugged—“I hear there may yet be chances for you to get yourself killed like a good American martyr.”
Alex cleared his throat nervously. “Were I to die in the service of my country, I would not consider myself a martyr. Just a patriot.”
“Have your wife tell the masons to carve that on your gravestone,” Governor Clinton snickered.
“Colonel Hamilton seeks no glory on the battlefield,” Eliza said, a defensive tone in her voice. “Only duty.”
Governor Clinton snorted. “No doubt you know many things about your husband that I do not, but on this account, I can assure you that you are wrong. Colonel Hamilton has been begging General Washington for a battle command for the past two years, despite his utter lack of leadership experience. And now it seems he is making a play to lead a regiment at Yorktown, which has no more need of his ‘expertise’ than a lamb has need of its wool after its throat has been slit.”
Eliza turned to Alex, who appeared to be even more fascinated by his shoes, one of which was doggedly tracing the pattern on the carpe
t beneath him. She felt her heart sink. Yorktown? A battle command? What was this? She was thankful that Peggy had made her put on a dusting of powder. She hoped it was enough to cover her flush.
“That is your second ovine analogy of the evening, Governor. It would seem you have mutton on your mind, rather than my husband’s career,” she said sharply.
“Your father does raise a tasty sheep,” Clinton said, heedlessly rubbing his belly with his dirty fingers, “but I assure you I am quite correct as to my intelligence concerning Colonel Hamilton’s military maneuvers, such as they are. He may outrank me in the army, but being governor does have its privileges.” His tone softened in mock sympathy. “Oh, you didn’t know?”
“Of course I knew,” Eliza retorted quickly, her stomach in knots. At least now she recognized why Alex was so tongue-tied. Clearly, he was afraid his secret would come out, and now it had. “Nor am I surprised that you knew. Only that you would speak of our army’s stratagems so casually. I thought secrecy was paramount in these matters.”
“There are no secrets where Yorktown is concerned,” Clinton replied. “I would say that you are throwing away your life, Colonel Hamilton, but your life is yours do with as you will, beautiful, wealthy wife or no. Yet the men who will be serving under you deserve a more qualified leader, and the chance to return to their families when the day is won.’”
Eliza glanced at Alex, who was struggling to meet her gaze, let alone Clinton’s, or even stammer an answer to such discourtesy. It appeared she would have to be the one to rise to the occasion.
“I can assure you, Governor Clinton,” she said coldly, “that my husband’s love for me and his love for his country occupy very different spheres in his heart. I would not dream of asking him to choose between us. If he feels his country needs him at Yorktown, I fully support his decision, and I know that he will acquit himself with the highest level of bravery.”
Love & War--An Alex & Eliza Story Page 4