Love & War--An Alex & Eliza Story

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “They’ll take an acre of Rensselaerswyck over my dead body,” Stephen declared hotly.

  “That would be a travesty,” Peggy said in a teasing voice. “Why, you’d only have nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine left!”

  “It is the principle that matters!” Stephen said. “Is Chancellor Livingston offering parts of Livingston Manor for this criminal enterprise?”

  “With only five hundred thousand to his name,” Eliza said with a smile, “he can afford to lose them even less than you!”

  “He hasn’t offered anything yet,” Alex answered, “but to be fair to him, I doubt he will ever be called upon to do so, because his scheme is simply too far-fetched to catch on. Or at least I hope so,” he added, in a voice that was only half facetious.

  “It sounds like you have some ideas about this, Mr. Hamilton,” Gouverneur said now. “Please, enlighten us.”

  “Now you’re in for it, Mr. Morris,” Eliza warned proudly. “Mr. Hamilton loves to talk finance.”

  Alex held up his glass to toast his wife. “To poor Mrs. Hamilton, who has heard me go on about this subject one too many times, I’m afraid. But the truth is, we need a bank. And not a state bank but a national one! A real bank, with deposits of gold and silver bullion in its vaults, and the ability to hand out minted coins and specie!”

  (“Specie?” Peggy faux-whispered to Eliza.

  “Paper money,” Eliza whispered back, as if everyone should know that.)

  “A national bank implies a national government,” Gouverneur said in a dubious tone of voice.

  “Which we have,” John said, though his tone was equally dubious.

  Alex knew that both men were heavily connected with the powers that ran their respective states, and were likely to be skeptical of what he was about to say. Nevertheless, he was too carried away to stop.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Alex said. “But a government without the power to regulate the constituent bodies over which it has jurisdiction is a government in name only.”

  “A what now?” Peggy said.

  “He means that the federal government cannot tell the states what to do,” Eliza said.

  “Or raise an army or regulate trade or collect taxes—”

  “Now, see here,” John cut in. “Didn’t we just fight a war to rid ourselves of the scourge of taxes?”

  “Taxation without representation,” Alex clarified. “There is a difference.”

  “I for one do not miss paying taxes to one more body,” Gouverneur said.

  “No one likes to pay taxes, but we can all admit, however grudgingly, that they are necessary if a government is to do the work for which it is created in the first place. To maintain a militia and a navy, for one thing, so that it can to protect its citizenry, and to build roads and bridges and ports, and to assist in the education and well-being of its people,” said Alex.

  “But don’t you think such issues are best handled locally?” John said. “Surely a governor or mayor knows what his constituents require better than a government located half a thousand miles away.”

  “Some of those projects are simply too large to be handled by local governments,” Alex answered. “And what does local mean, anyway? The state? The city? The village? How long can you keep passing responsibility until we end up saying that each individual is responsible solely for himself—

  “Or herself,” Eliza threw in.

  “—or herself, and can expect nothing from his—or her—government?”

  “But why should a New Yorker, for example, come to the aid of a Virginian or a Georgian?” John said. “What does he—or she,” he added, smiling at Eliza, “get out of it?”

  “Why, he gets to buy Virginia tobacco without paying a customs duty, or Georgia peaches!”

  “We can grow peaches right here in New York,” Peggy said.

  “They’re not as good as Georgia peaches,” Alex said. “And we cannot grow cotton and indigo and peanuts, nor can they produce wheat as we do.”

  “It’s true about the peaches,” Helena said. “It has something to do with the warmth of the summers and the rain and the soil as well. They’re a class apart. John, we must go to Georgia at our first opportunity! I want a peach!”

  “But can you not see,” Alex said now, “that being divided into a patchwork of little states all jumbled on top of each other is precisely what is wrong with Europe? Why, not a day goes by when one of them is not declaring war on another, or these five are forming an alliance against those three, or some erstwhile bit of Spain is declaring itself ‘the Netherlands’ or bits and pieces of Italy are being auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

  “Yes, but Europe has the problem of all those different languages,” Gouverneur said. “It would be next to impossible for them to create a single large country as we have here, or even two or three, if the citizens in the various provinces cannot understand each other. Here we have English to hold us together.”

  “Exactly!” Alex said. “And we must take advantage of the things that hold us together and build the kind of country that can rival Tsarist Russia or Cathay China in scope and power. But to do that, we must recognize that our common interests override our differences. That we can be united and be individuals at the same time. And for that, we must have a strong central government to provide the leadership such a vast project requires!”

  John and Gouverneur laughed.

  “You have a formidable husband, Mrs. Hamilton,” John said. “Or at least a talkative one.”

  “Indeed,” Gouverneur added. “I wonder that you ever manage to win an argument with him.”

  “Oh, trust me, the Schuyler sisters have resources of their own,” Stephen answered. “It is Alex you should worry about on that front.”

  Eliza held her tongue, but exchanged a look with Peggy that said, We’ll deal with the boys later.

  “So, tell us,” John said, turning back to Alex. “How is your law practice going? Do you find it much different in New York City as opposed to Albany?”

  “Oh, certainly,” Alex said. “In Albany I was able, if I may be so modest, to trade on the good name of my wife’s family, which brought me more clients than I could represent. Here, though the Schuyler name is certainly respected, it is not personally known to many, and I have had to attract my own business, as it were.”

  “Attract business?” Stephen said. “You make it sound like so many flowers offering up their competing petals for a bee’s attention.”

  “If I had to paint my face red or blue to feed my family, I would not hesitate,” Alex said in a somewhat testy voice. He didn’t like Stephen’s insinuation that working for a living was somehow uncouth. “We can’t all be born with the proverbial silver spoon in our mouths.”

  “In Stephen’s case, it was more of a silver ladle, or maybe just a bucket,” Peggy said, goosing her husband.

  “Fortunately, things haven’t come to that pass,” Eliza said soothingly.

  Stephen stared at Alex for a long moment, before taking a sip of his beer. “We are all born with different advantages. Most of us here were born with wealth, but I’m sure we would all trade a good portion of our fortunes to have a share of your intelligence.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” John said. “I quite like being rich and stupid.”

  Helena rolled her eyes and pinched her husband’s cheek. “You’re so lucky you’re cute,” she said drily.

  “Business is not so dire as Mr. Hamilton’s words might suggest,” Eliza said. “In the last week he has acquired nine, ten—” She looked at Alex for confirmation.

  “Over a dozen now,” Alex said.

  “Over a dozen new clients,” Eliza amended. “As these cases go to trial and Alex’s name makes the rounds of official circles, he will no doubt have even more business.”

  “That sounds like quite
a load,” Gouverneur said. “Anything interesting?”

  “Oh, all interesting, in their own way,” Alex said. “And related to each other as well.” He quickly outlined the details of Mrs. Childress’s story and the loyalist conundrum.

  “Oh, this vexing issue!” Helena said quickly. “It is so distressing to read all the nasty columns in the papers, but it is even sadder when you hear how it affects real people. A widow ought not to be disrespected so, no matter which side her husband fought on!”

  “It is a topic that divides families as well as countries,” Gouverneur agreed. “Why, my own mother gave our estate over to British forces willingly, to use as billet and depot.”

  Alex had known this, of course, but had chosen not to mention it.

  “My great aunt!” Helena wailed. “And her husband’s brother a signer of the Declaration, too!”

  “And yet, now Mrs. Morris is as American as you or I,” Gouverneur said in a calming tone.

  “American, yes,” Helena said. “As American as me? I am not so sure.”

  “But she is.” Eliza felt she had to chime in. “Why, that is the very nature of our country, is it not? A place where people from all over the world gather to form one new country.”

  Alex looked admiringly at his wife, and Eliza flushed at his approval. She had missed him so, missed his quick wit and passionate conversation. Part of her wished their guests away so that they might be able to talk more intimately. She always had to share her husband with so many people, it seemed.

  “That is a somewhat idealized version of the story,” Gouverneur said. “We would do well to remember that this land was won from people who already lived here through the violence of war. And many of the people we call Americans were brought here unwillingly, either as indentured servants who sold themselves to pay their debts, or as slaves. And many of them have not been granted citizenship, and thus live without the rights we take for granted.”

  “Oh, we have our flaws, all right,” Alex said. “We are creatures of flesh, after all. We make mistakes. But my wife articulates the truth of the American dream. We have our eyes fixed on an earthly ideal, and though we fall short of it, we should ever strive in that direction. Indenture has already been done away with, and though it may take some time, I have no doubt that slavery as an institution will eventually be banished from these shores.”

  “Yes, and women will be granted the right to vote, too,” Peggy said. “One can only hope.”

  “It will happen,” said Alex. “I don’t know if woman’s intelligence is different from man’s, but the idea that it is somehow inferior is increasingly hard to maintain. Why, if King George had had half Queen Elizabeth’s diplomatic skills, I dare say we would have never revolted in the first place, let alone won the war.”

  “I, for one, would like to vote,” Eliza said, “but there are a few women—and a few men—who I wouldn’t mind taking the vote from. I feel there should be some kind of test. People should demonstrate a basic understanding of the issues before they are allowed to cast a ballot.”

  “Oh, heaven forbid!” Helena said. “I am busy enough as it is! I cannot be learning how the world works.”

  Eliza did her best not to roll her eyes. And here she had thought Helena a woman of her own ideas. Perhaps John wasn’t the only one in that marriage who was rich and stupid.

  “Never you fear, darling,” he said now. “My ignorance shall serve for both of us!”

  “Thank you, dear. Sometimes oblivion is so much easier. Certainly,” she said, raising her glass, “it’s much more festive.”

  Alex could see that the Rutherfurds’ jokes were upsetting Eliza, who disliked intellectual incuriosity under the best of circumstances, but positively despised it in her own sex, because she felt it contributed to their second-class status in society. Nevertheless, this was a party, and it was nearly midnight as well, and he had been up since 5:00 a.m. He caught Eliza’s eye and winked at her. She winked back, and then he grabbed his glass and clinked it against Helena’s.

  “Let us let Mrs. Childress’s ale do the talking for us,” he said, and emptied his glass down his throat.

  * * *

  IT WAS NEARLY three in the morning by the time Alex and Eliza saw off the Rutherfurds and Van Rensselaers and exhaustedly climbed the stairs to bed. Eliza went straight to the fireplace to bank the coals. The activity had become part of her daily routine since moving to New York. For some reason, she had fallen in love with the task, and even after she’d removed the excess ash and added a log and narrowed the flue to a sliver, she knelt before the open grate, staring into the flickering coals.

  Alex, who was about to change into his nightshirt, couldn’t resist walking up behind her and wrapping his arms around Eliza’s back. She reclined into them eagerly and accepted his kisses on her neck with gentle, contented sighs.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said, still staring into the coals.

  “And I you,” he answered. “I am sorry I was so late tonight. I picked up another new client today.”

  “Oh?” Eliza wrapped her hands over his where they sat on her waist. “Another loyalist looking to safeguard his property? You be careful, Alexander Hamilton, lest people think you too fair-minded and actually harbor monarchist views.”

  Alex chuckled softly. “A one-time loyalist, although he says that since he sipped from ‘the cup of liberty,’ he has renounced all other spirits. And fortunately or unfortunately for him, he has no property to worry about losing. Which is why he is in debtors’ prison—he has long since lost the collateral meant to cover his liabilities.”

  “Oh, the poor man,” Eliza said with genuine concern. She turned in Alex’s embrace and slipped her arms around his shoulders. “But, dare I ask, if he is in debtor’s prison, how will he pay you? We need to pay our mercer’s bill before the interest becomes larger than the principal.”

  Alex winced slightly. The fact that his wife was now receiving bills pained him greatly.

  “The Childress case will soon go to court. If I win, as I believe I will, the verdict will serve as a blanket judgment for all the other cases. The damages could amount thousands of pounds, of which I will receive between ten and fifty percent, depending on the case. We will be able to pay off the mercer, the butcher, and the cabinet maker and everyone else,” he said.

  “The mercer, the butcher, the cabinet maker,” Eliza said. “It sounds like a children’s rhyme.” She kissed him on the nose. “I’m sorry, darling. I know you hate to talk about money. You were telling me about a new client.”

  “Yes. I am trying to help him raise funds.”

  “But you said he is in debtors’ prison. How can a man possibly work in jail?”

  “Well, he is a painter.”

  “A painter!” Eliza’s eyes widened. “I confess I did not expect that word to come out of your mouth. It’s so hard to imagine an artist languishing in a cell.”

  Alex felt a little smirk on his lips. “You might not have to imagine.”

  Eliza frowned with mock sternness. “Excuse me?”

  “I have commissioned Mr. Earl to paint your portrait. Before his unfortunate incarceration, his paintings were worth dozens of pounds. It is part of his payment to me. But—” His voice trailed off.

  It was Eliza’s turn to smirk. “But I have to sit for it . . . in prison.”

  “Do you mind? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh, it sounds like an adventure. And it will get me out of the house. But don’t tell my father that you arranged for his daughter to visit a prison, no matter which side of the bars she is on. I dare say he’d skin you alive.”

  Alex kissed her the forehead. “I dare say you are the most remarkable woman alive, Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Hamilton,” Eliza said coquettishly.

  “Not even into bed?”


  Eliza pretended to be angry, then began to loosen the laces on her dress with a smile, and soon enough, her husband joined her in the task.

  18

  Prison Portrait

  Debtors’ Prison

  New York, New York

  January 1784

  The debtors’ prison in which Ralph Earl was incarcerated stood at the northern end of the Fields, the large park near the top of the city between Broadway and the Boston Post Road. It bore the unimaginative name, “Debtors’ Prison.” Before that, it had borne the equally unimaginative and even more inexpressive name, “New Gaol,” but despite these failures of nomenclature, the building was a handsome three-story stone structure with a dormered attic floor, above which stood a large, graceful octagonal cupola. In a more bucolic setting, the building might have been mistaken for the country house of a member of the gentry, but the whipping post and pillory that stood just to the side of the entrance overshadowed any genteel feeling that might have been engendered by the stately architecture.

  “Begging your pardon, m’lady,” called the burly, Irish-accented man seated behind a desk at the far end of the lobby before Eliza had taken two steps inside, “but p’raps you’re, well, lost?”

  Eliza resisted the urge to shout her answer down the long, narrow anteroom, which smelled equally of smoke, cabbage, and a third element that Eliza didn’t want to put a name to. (Suffice to say that it reminded her of the errand she’d made Alex perform before he came to bed last night.) She lifted the skirts of her overcoat and gown a little higher and strode toward the attendant across the not-particularly clean flagstone. Perhaps she had agreed too readily to Alex’s request last night—that man and his kisses!

  What was she doing here? Why had Alex sent her here? Was this even safe?

  “Miss?” A tankard of dark liquid sat on the desk, which was strewn with what looked like a week’s worth of newspapers—there had to be at least twenty pages—and the remnants of what might have been a mutton sandwich, or perhaps mutton stew.