“Childress,” the woman said. “If he is not too busy, I wonder if I might meet with him.”
Alex laughed. “He’s not too busy at all. Please, do come in,” he continued, stepping aside and gesturing her into the office. “May I take your coat?”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Childress said, removing her coat. Alex hung it up on a peg, then led the woman into his office, where he was mortified to realize that there was no second chair. How had this not occurred to him in more than two weeks of occupancy? He scurried behind the desk and pulled his own chair out and offered it to Mrs. Childress.
If his new client—he hoped she was a client, and not a woman looking for work—noticed the irregularity, it didn’t show on her composed, though somewhat tense, face. She sat down and stared straight ahead, while Alex, after weighing his options, decided to half lean, half sit on the corner of his desk, so that he would not be standing right next to her, forcing her to crane her neck up at him.
After several seconds of silence, Mrs. Childress said, “Could I have a glass of water?” She didn’t look at him when she spoke.
“Ah, of course,” Alex said, somewhat nervously. At least there was an ewer in the room, which he had topped off from the street well when he arrived that morning. Only one cup, though. He discreetly wiped it clean, filled it, and handed it to her. She took it in one of her black-gloved hands, but didn’t drink from it, instead placing it on the corner of his desk.
After several more seconds of silence, Alex cleared his throat. “If I may ask, what brings you here today?”
“Oh, if you don’t mind,” Mrs. Childress said in somewhat confused voice—as if she were embarrassed almost—“I would prefer to speak to Mr. Hamilton directly.”
Alex felt his cheeks color, and the woman’s did in turn.
“Unless there is another Mr. Hamilton who occupies these offices when I am out, then I am he.”
“Oh!” she said, immediately realizing her error. “When you opened the door, I thought you were the servant!”
Alex smiled sardonically. “Please think of me as your servant, Mrs. Childress. One who has yet to procure a secretary to open his doors and fill his glass.”
“It’s not that,” Childress said. “It’s just, well—you are so young!”
Alex felt his cheeks go redder. “Revolution has a way of foreshortening life,” he said, but even as the words left his mouth, his eyes alit on the dark attire shrouding her frame and he realized his comment must have sounded glib to her.
But she seemed to take it sympathetically. Her eyes followed his, and one of her gloved hands reached up to touch the ribbon.
“I do know that,” she said in a distant voice. “I have worn this ribbon so long now that I almost forget it’s there. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of my beloved Jonathan.”
Alex’s mouth opened to murmur a condolence even before she finished speaking, but at the name “Jonathan—” His voice caught in his throat. Ah, Laurens! he thought. He wished he could say that he thought of him every day, but the truth is he had pushed his dearest friend from his mind almost as soon as he heard of his death, lest he be overcome with grief. Whoever said war is glorious is a lying fool.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” Alex said when he had recovered himself. “Is the legal matter that brought you here perhaps related to your husband’s passing?”
“Legal?” Childress said in a bemused voice. “Well, I suppose it is a legal question, though to me it seems an act of straightforward perfidy.” She summoned a deep breath. “My husband that was, Mr. Jonathan Childress, arrived in this country from Liverpool as a teenager. He was indentured to Mr. Philip Ruston, who operated a prosperous alehouse on Water Street, and after completing his seven-years term of service had formed such a bond with his master that he stayed on as brew master and, eventually, partner. When, in 1769, Mr. Ruston prepared to depart this world without any natural-born heirs, he named my husband the beneficiary of his estate, and so he became owner of the enterprise. My husband was known to be a gifted brewer, so much so that in addition to brewing all the lagers, ales, and stouts for his own establishment, which he continued to call Ruston’s in honor of his benefactor, he also supplied the needs of eight other inns in the city. He was on his way to becoming a rich man indeed when independence was declared, and—”
Childress paused, less for breath than to calm herself. Alex indicated the cup on his desk, and she took a small sip.
“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 bui
lding 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 Bow 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?”
Love & War--An Alex & Eliza Story Page 16