“Well, Mr. Earl,” Eliza said, turning from the closed door, “it seems like it’s just you and me.”
And the decanter, she added mentally, for when she returned from the hall she saw that Earl had made his way to the drinks table and poured himself a double helping. Eliza had made Alex hide the honey wine before he left, leaving out only the heavy red wine her father brewed at the Pastures. Her father was, by his own estimation, “an unaccomplished oenologist,” but had taken the precaution of fortifying his liquor with strong Portuguese brandy. The resulting beverage was not particularly tasty and the dregs turned your tongue as black as a berry, but it got the job done.
“Hmmm,” Earl said after his first sip, which drained half his glass. “The honey wine seems to have lost a bit of its sweetness.”
“Alas, we seem to have drunk all the honey wine last night,” Eliza said. She told herself that technically it wasn’t a lie, since last night’s party had indeed drained the opened cask, and the remaining ones were stored below in the kitchen. “Well, Mr. Earl, you are a free man. How do you wish to spend your first day out of a cell?”
Ralph had already refilled his glass, and now he sprawled across a sofa. Eliza winced, fearful that he should spill the dark purple liquid across the delicate yellow silk upholstery, but Earl handled his glass with the same delicacy he handled his brushes and spilled not a drop on the sofa or himself.
“In the company of a beautiful woman,” he said now, so roguishly that Eliza found herself blushing.
“Mr. Earl! Have you a paramour that you’ve failed to mention?” But even as the words left her mouth, she realized that he was referring to her.
“You are too modest, Mrs. Hamilton. And too formal with me lately. It seemed that we were closer when there were bars between us.”
Eliza stiffened. She was suddenly aware of their intimacy and isolation. She had not been alone with a man other than Alex since she left Albany. “I do not at all want you to feel unwelcome, but I must confess to being very startled by both your and my sister’s presence here yesterday.”
“I hope I will not inconvenience you for any longer than is necessary, Mrs. Hamilton.” Eliza also couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t specify any kind of time frame for finding a place of his own.
“Your and Mr. Hamilton’s immense generosity in my hour of need has meant more to me than I can possibly convey,” Earl continued, “or repay for that matter. I painted no fewer than seventeen portraits during my time in prison, and all but two of the commissions were sent to me by your husband. It is thanks to him that I was able to pay my creditors and earn my freedom—or should I say”—waving a hand at the parlor—“release to a far more luxurious cell.”
Eliza took a moment to look around the parlor. She had to admit that after four months in New York, she and Alex had created a beautiful home. The walls, which had been a handsome but somber cerulean shade when they first moved in, was now covered with mint-green wallpaper with a toile pattern in a color that both Alex and Eliza had delighted to learn was called Hooker green. The darker of the two greens depicted a seven-bayed brick house in a pastoral setting that bore more than a passing resemblance to the Schuylers’ Albany mansion.
The heavily carved walnut sofa was long enough to seat three, and covered in beautiful yellow silk jacquard. It was flanked by a pair of wing chairs, which, though not a set, had also been covered in yellow silk and thus complemented the sofa without being too much of a piece. A low oval table with a pale gold lacquer finish held table and chairs together, while a second, smaller sofa in matching yellow silk, flanked by pair of delicate cane chairs and one well-worn Windsor chair, rounded out the room. The Windsor had the look of a family heirloom (it was), along with a couple of tiny wooden tables with painted tops, and added just the right note of hominess to the room, which otherwise might have looked too impersonal in its newness. The clock on the mantel was marble and silver, flanked by the Revere candelabra that had formerly been in the dining room.
It was indeed “luxurious,” as Mr. Earl said. She and Alex had chosen each piece with care, and at the time Eliza had thought they were creating a room—a home—that they would share together and start their family in. Yet it seemed the only time they ever shared the room was when it was filled with a half-dozen guests besides. The rest of the time it was just Eliza’s prettily decorated cell.
She chose to keep this feeling to herself, instead saying:
“Seventeen paintings. And how long were you incarcerated?”
“For just over eight months.” Ralph said it almost longingly, as if he had visited one of the southern states during winter, and enjoyed the balmy winter. And indeed he continued. “I must admit, though, that prison agreed with me in some way. I have never been a particularly gregarious man, preferring the company of just one or two quality people to that of the mob. And I have never had such a sustained period of productivity in my life.”
“Yes, I was trying to sort that out in my head. You worked on the portrait of me for nearly a month, and it was still ‘not quite finished’ when you were released yesterday. So how on earth did you manage to paint—sixteen, is it?—in the seven months prior?”
Earl tried to stone-face her, but failed. A smirk cracked his face, quickly widening to a grin, and a moment later he broke out into peals of laughter. So violent were his paroxysms that he actually relinquished his wineglass, setting it down on the lacquered table (mercifully without spilling atop it). Eliza did her best to laugh with him, though she had no idea what he was laughing at.
“I’m afraid you have found me out,” he said when at last he could speak again, which is to say, after he’d cleared his throat with a hearty swig of wine, and refilled his glass. “I was stalling.”
“Stalling? You mean, deliberately prolonging my visits?”
“Prolonging the pleasure of one whose charming visage is only matched by her charm of temperament. I confess that toward the end I would prepare my palette with paints the night before, so they would be dry by the time you arrived. Then I’d daub a dry brush into them and across your portrait.”
“Why, Mr. Earl, you scoundrel!” Eliza said, only half joking. “Had you no qualms about continuing to invite a lady into such an environment? Were you not afraid that my virtue might be compromised?”
Ralph shrugged. “It was not I who initiated the visits, but your husband. If he believed no ill would befall you, then I saw no reason to assume contrariwise. After all, I am a gentleman, and I lived there day in, day out. I know ladies are more delicate—”
“Be wary of what you say, Mr. Earl,” Eliza warned with a twinkle in her eye, “lest Mrs. Rutherfurd get wind of your retrogressive ways, and return to school you in women’s equality.”
“Well then, Mrs. Rutherfurd will surely take my side. If a man can stand such conditions, surely a woman can, too.”
Eliza had to admit to herself that she had suffered no harm during her month of visits, and, in fact, had found the experience interesting, illuminating even. She had been shocked to learn, for example, that the inhabitants of debtors’ prison were not, like regular criminals, wards of the state, and as such, the state did not provide for them. It struck Eliza as an absurd, not to mention cruel, system. A man is unable to pay his debt so he is locked away from gainful employment, and forced to go still deeper in debt just to pay his upkeep? There was no way for a creditor to recoup his losses in such a scenario. It was purely punitive. It was yet another holdover from the Old World that she hoped her country would do away with sooner rather than later.
“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 spectators. 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 ind
ividual 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.
Love & War--An Alex & Eliza Story Page 24