Love & War--An Alex & Eliza Story

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “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.

  “They’re empty,” she said when they were back outside, “but they’re not actually available. They say speculators have swooped in and snapped them up for a song, and are sitting on them until prices go up.” She paused a bit. “Have you met Sarah Livingston’s husband, Mr. Jay?”

  “I have not. I was going to say that I hope they’ll be at the party, but the tone of your voice seems less . . . receptive.”

  “Oh, I don’t
mean to speak ill of them. I was just going to say that I have heard that John is one of the people purchasing properties for pennies on the dollar. I would say that he is going to make his fortune, but he already has one, so he will be merely adding to it.”

  “Still, Sister, it sounds as if you disapprove. After all, surely it is good business sense to buy low and sell high?”

  Another errand interrupted the conversation, this one at a bakery. “Rowena is a wizard, but she will not be able to provide for a houseful of revelers,” Eliza said as she ordered dozens of loaves and rolls, as well as half a dozen sweet and savory pies, again signing a note rather than paying in coin.

  When they had completed their errand, though, she took up Angelica’s question immediately. It was something that had been on her mind. She had come to love New York City, or, if not to love it, then to think of it as home, and she did not like to see it ill-treated.

  “From a business point of view, of course, it makes sense to maximize one’s profits. But from the point of view of society, it seems rather . . . limited, I’ll say. There is an opportunity for thousands of people to gain a toehold in New York. To buy a house or a shop that they can pass on to their descendants just as Papa built the Pastures for us. Instead a handful of men have snatched up nearly all the properties, and the poor people locked out of the deal are forced to rent rather than buy.”

  “Locked out of the deal?” Angelica seemed both shocked and dubious. “Do you think there has been collusion on the part of Mr. Jay or the other investors?”

  “Collusion is a serious word. I would say that it is simply a case of opportunity. The men who make the decisions and do the deals all come from a very slim section of society—perhaps one percent of the whole population. They live and work near each other, attend the same clubs, have each other over to parties.”

  “Like the one you’re about to throw,” Angelica couldn’t resist interjecting.

  “Oh, indeed. We are as blessed as they come. But by the time a poor man gets wind of an available property, it will have long since been snatched up.”

  “Pardon me, Sister,” Angelica said in a curious tone. “But since you and Alex move in that same circle of the ‘one percent,’ as you call it, how is it that you have not managed to purchase a house if they are so cheap? Not that the house you rent isn’t quite lovely, but it seems that the time to strike is while the iron is hot.”

  In answer, Eliza turned into another shop, where she purchased a crystal punch bowl and a set of embroidered, lace-edged napkins, again paying with a promissory note. Back outside, she shrugged. “A house that once cost a thousand pounds and now costs a hundred still costs a hundred pounds. Five pounds of credit here and there is easy to come by,” she said, waving a hand at the shop they had just come out of, “but for that kind of purchase one needs cash to hand, and we have almost none.”

  “But surely Papa—”

  “Alex refuses. Papa and Mama were generous with furniture and moving expenses, and of course they put us up, off and on, for over three years. Alex is determined to make it in New York on his own terms. My husband is a very proud man, and I have to support him in that decision. And I would rather be married to a man who cares more about what he does than what he has.”

  “I suppose I agree with you,” Angelica said doubtfully, “but I must say I’m happy to have found a man who has moral convictions that are financially lucrative.”

  Eliza laughed. “Between you and Peggy, I suppose I will always be known as the poor Schuyler sister. But I have no doubt that Alex will do well by us. Besides his law practice, his fingers are in virtually every pot. In finance, and trade relations, and alliances with European powers, and the military, and something that for want of a better word I would call general political theory.”

  Angelica frowned, unsure if she wanted to open this topic. “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.

  “He thinks we need a document, a charter similar to the Articles of Confederation, but more extensive and more binding. Something that will finally make a genuinely united nation of us, rather than a motley collection of states.”

  “Those sound like the words of man with political ambitions.”

  “No doubt, just like Papa, and Peggy’s Stephen, and your John. I expect he will make senator at the very least.”

  “At the least? What is higher than a senator?”

  “Alex thinks the United States needs an executive vested in a single person.”

  “A king?” Angelica almost gasped.

  “No, more like a prime minister. But not of the British variety—a toady who has to report to his monarch. More like the head of a corporation, whose only responsibility is to his shareholders.”

  “So much power granted to a single person can be dangerous.”

  “Alex agrees, which is why he thinks it needs to be balanced by other branches of government. A strong congress and an equally strong judiciary. Each branch can keep the other from crossing the line to tyranny.”

  “My word!” Angelica laughed. “Listen to you! The last time I saw you, you were helping to change Kitty’s diapers. Now you’re outlining plans for a whole new government!”

  Eliza laughed modestly. “Oh, it is mostly dinner party gossip,” she said, though the truth is, she was proud of herself. This was her future, after all, not just Alex’s. “It’s all anyone ever talks about in society. I look forward to the day when all we have to worry about is catching the fashionable play or opera and securing the best dress fabric.”

  “You liar,” Angelica teased. “You love it. But still . . . ?”

  “Yes?” Eliza prompted when Angelica’s voice trailed off.

  “All of this is man’s world, to which woman can only be spectator. Does it do to take too much interest in politics, rather than in, say, culture—music and painting and plays—over which we can have more sway.”

  “I suppose they are men’s things, in the sense that men make the decisions that keep things this way. But as Helena said, women don’t take a hand in politics, not because they can’t, but because they are shut out of it. When circumstances allow them in, they can do great things. Look at Queen Elizabeth—it was she more than any of her male predecessors or successors who made England the great power it is. Or Catherine of Russia. They say she is the most powerful woman on the planet, ruler of the largest empire the world has ever known. Why, under her reign, Russia has replenished its treasury and won a war against Turkey. Why should we not have a similarly powerful woman here in America?”

  “Let’s hear it for sisterhood!” Angelica said, making a fist. “But is it what you want to do, Eliza?” This last question came after yet another stop, at a distillery to procure some stout whiskey. Mrs. Childress had given them all the ale they could drink, but you couldn’t have a party with just beer and honey wine. “Don’t you want to start a family?”

  “I would love it but we have not yet been blessed,” said Eliza. “When we moved here, I thought it would happen immediately, yet with everything else that’s has been going on—finding new friends and work and just learning how to live on our own—I have to say that I am a little relieved that we have not had a child added to the mix. It might be too much. But still . . . ,” she added, her voice fading off wistfully.

  “It will happen,” said Angelica with a sympathetic squeeze. “Families are like rain showers. They always come in time, but they are not exactly a goal, if you see what I mean, any more than eating and sleeping are. They are just a part of life.”

  Eliza nodded, trying to stop the full feeling in her throat. She was glad to have her sister by her side to understand her pain so acutely. She took a moment to recover, then pulled up in front of a window through which could be seen an exquisite bolt of lace.

  “For now, all I want to do is buy that tablecloth,” she said, pushing open the door. “So I can throw my sister the bes
t bon voyage party New York has ever seen!”

  26

  Closing Arguments

  New York State Supreme Court

  New York, New York

  April 1784

  Burr’s strategy over the next three days seemed to be to wear everyone down. He did so by calling a veritable parade of witnesses, all of whom said more or less the same thing: that Caroline Childress had operated a bustling alehouse on Water Street all through the occupation, serving any British soldier or sympathizer who came in. Alex didn’t know why this should be any more damning than the simple fact that Mrs. Childress, like her deceased husband, had herself been a loyalist, until he heard the increasing murmurs from the gallery. Burr’s witnesses made Ruston’s Ale House sound like a raucous establishment. Not improper, per se, but it seemed as if Mrs. Childress had partied through the war. Alex was able to counter the latter claim by getting Burr’s witnesses to admit that Mrs. Childress was in fact rarely if ever in the bar room, being usually occupied with managing inventory and production and staff, and when she did appear, she was dressed soberly in honor of her fallen husband. Still, the impression was that she was creating a festive space for the redcoats who had seized Manhattan. With each successive witness, the murmurings grew louder, till eventually they approached outright jeers. But even worse than this was the fact that Judge Smithson did not silence them, but only shook his head in tight-lipped anger at the account of the festivities.

  Alex knew he had to go on the counteroffensive. After Burr’s twelfth witness, a scruffy-looking man of about thirty named Robert Frye, had delivered his clearly rehearsed account, Alex was awarded cross-examination. He had eschewed any questions for Burr’s previous witnesses, but this time he all but leapt from his chair.