The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr

by Susan Holloway Scott

  Miss Burr and I took turns reading aloud to her from the new books ordered from the Colonel’s London bookseller and from her old favorites, well-worn volumes that I recalled first seeing on her shelves at the Hermitage. We read in French—Rousseau, Voltaire, La Fontaine—as well as English, the better to divert her. The laudanum that Dr. Bard prescribed often made her stuporous as well, and some days I doubted she even heard our voices, let alone the authors’ words.

  Still we read on, as much for our own comfort as for her own. Unwilling to leave her mother’s side, Miss Burr took to writing her daily lessons from her tutor Mr. Leshlie at the table in Mistress’s room. Here, too, the girl dutifully wrote the letters that the Colonel expected, describing her mother’s condition and treatment in great detail. It was the grimmest of tasks for a young lady of her age, and one that was too often completed through a haze of tears.

  Because Congress had resumed later than usual on account of the yellow fever in Philadelphia, the Colonel was forced to remain there over the Christmas holidays, and into the spring as well. For Christmas he sent books, the gifts he knew were most desired within his family. As a special remembrance for Mistress, the Colonel sat for the artist Mr. Gilbert Stuart, whose studio was not far from Congress Hall. She wept when the portrait was delivered and taken from its crate, and ordered it hung immediately opposite her bed, where she would see it day and night.

  The Colonel had obviously ordered the picture as an intimate gift meant for her, not posterity, for it showed him informally dressed against an unadorned black background, with his shirt collar open and his hair unpowdered. Considering that he was in his prime, only thirty-seven, the Colonel hadn’t even asked the artist for the vanity of hiding how his dark hair had begun to thin away from his forehead. But Mr. Stuart had perfectly captured the intelligence in the Colonel’s dark eyes and the sensuousness of his full mouth, so much so that whenever Mistress was asleep and unaware I would stand before it, and marvel at how it seemed as if the man himself were with me once again.

  Yet books and a portrait were not all the Colonel sent to Richmond Hill. Even from afar he sought cures for his ailing wife. His friend Dr. Rush first advised hemlock, in a dose of a tenth of a grain, and when that brought no relief prescribed the dose to be increased to two whole grains, fresh and pure. Because Mistress could keep nothing in her stomach, he suggested attempting a spoonful of milk at a time, mixed with molasses or porter, to provide some nourishment. When that failed (as had everything else), Dr. Rush recommended Peruvian bark, and then, as a final resort, a tincture of mercury, which even the Colonel balked at employing. To me it seemed as if in desperation Dr. Rush was suggesting every remedy he knew, and every one was equally seized upon by the Colonel.

  In early May, Mistress showed a slight improvement. She was able to sit up in bed, and she listened to Miss Burr recite her lessons again, as she’d once always done. Because everyone had expected the worst, the change in her condition seemed so remarkable that Dr. Bard himself sent an optimistic letter to the Colonel in Philadelphia with the good news.

  A week later, I sat alone by Mistress’s bed, knitting a stocking by the light of the fire while she slept. By Dr. Bard’s orders, she was never now left alone, but I was here in place of Mrs. Johnson, who had gone down to the kitchen for tea. The hour was early, sometime before dawn. I’d heard the case clock downstairs chime four times, and the rest of the house was quiet. On the table beside Mistress’s bed was a large Chinese vase filled with yellow and white Dutch tulips, proudly gathered by Miss Burr from the bulbs that she and her father had purchased together last fall.

  I was so accustomed to the raspy rhythm of Mistress’s breathing that I took no notice of it. Because she’d felt better, she lay on her back tonight, her painfully thin arms and hands resting over the coverlet with the long plaits of her hair—mostly gray now—arranged beside them. Since the flesh had shriveled from her fingers, she wore her wedding ring on a gold chain around her neck, and the little gold circle had also been carefully centered on her chest. Mrs. Johnson must have done that, too, in her constant desire to tidy things, and shaking my head, I returned to the needles in my hands.

  It was the little sigh that caught my ear, a sharp intake of breath that was almost a cry, and then silence.

  Silence.

  Swiftly I rose and hurried to the bed. Mistress’s eyes were open and staring, her head slipped awkwardly to one side and a half smile on her parted lips.

  Once again, I’d been death’s companion.

  I should have gone directly to raise the rest of the house. Instead, I stood there beside Mistress for the last time, just the two of us. I pressed my hands over my mouth to keep from crying, overwhelmed in a way I didn’t understand, and made little sense. She would be mourned as a good woman, a fine mother, a loving wife and daughter and sister.

  But she had owned me. I had come to her as a girl and now I was a woman with children of my own, and her actions and decisions regarding me had altered my life in more ways than I would ever know. Even now in death, she’d determine not only my future, but those of my son and daughter, too. By the terms of her will, we would be disposed of like the rest of her property.

  Yet I lived, while Mistress was dead.

  I closed her eyes and mouth, and gently settled her head into the pillow. Mrs. Johnson was not the only one who liked order.

  Then I left her, and went to tell the others.

  * * *

  The Colonel came home from Philadelphia for his wife’s burial. Through a terrible coincidence, he’d received Dr. Bard’s first letter informing him that Mistress had improved, and then, only an hour later, a second letter by an express courier that told him she was dead.

  The first shock of his loss had passed by the time he reached Richmond Hill. The house was filled with Mistress’s family, Brownes and Prevosts and Bartows and Stillwells. I was kept busy making sure that we servants looked after them, fifteen more people who required food and drink and beds and laundry done, so that they might have the luxury of their grief and tears. I suppose the Colonel found consolation among them, just as he in turn did his best to comfort Miss Burr and Mistress’s grown sons.

  Mistress’s family all remarked on how fine the funeral was, on how the Colonel had arranged for Mistress’s casket to be carried in a white hearse, drawn by white horses. Dr. Miles made elegant remarks, and there was an impressive group of gentleman mourners, from the most distinguished families in New York, to accompany her to her grave.

  Finally they all left, a rumbling process of carriages returning to the city and beyond. Dr. Bard and Mrs. Johnson and all the others were gone, too, their absence from the house more noticeable than I’d expected.

  It wasn’t until late that afternoon that the Colonel sent for me to join him in his study. As I stood outside the door, my heart was racing so fast that I feared I’d be ill. This would be the first time I’d seen him alone since Mistress’s death. I didn’t know if this had been by his choice, or by circumstance in the crowded house. But his summons now could mean only one thing: as the executor of his wife’s will, he knew my fate, and that of my—of our—daughter and son.

  “Mary Emmons,” he said as I entered the room. He hadn’t called me that for a long time now, and I couldn’t tell if it meant good, or ill. He looked exhausted and impossibly sad, the black of his new mourning stiff and heavy on his shoulders. Everything had changed. His desk was uncharacteristically clear, with only a single portfolio in the center of it. He motioned toward the nearest chair for me to sit, and I perched on the very edge, too anxious to do otherwise.

  “This will not take long,” he said in his lawyer’s voice. “In accordance with my late wife’s status as a feme covert, her estate is quite small, and limited to several personal bequests that were read to the others earlier today. I judged it best to spare you being party to that, and—”

  “Tell me, sir, I beg you.” I had never before interrupted him, but I could bear it no longer
. “Tell me.”

  He sighed deeply. He opened the envelope, took three bundles of folded pages from it, and slid them across the desk to me.

  “You’re free, Mary,” he said quietly. “Those are your manumission papers, for you and your children. It was the wish of my late wife, in return for your service to her.”

  My eyes swam with tears as I stared down at the papers that sat between us. As foolish as it sounds, I didn’t dare touch them from fear they’d somehow vanish, and my freedom with it. After all Mistress had done to me, I could not believe she’d done this as well.

  “You knew of this,” I whispered. “Through everything, you always knew.”

  “I did,” he said with a catch to his voice that betrayed his pain. “But I also knew that your freedom could only come at the cost of her life.”

  “I am sorry, sir,” I said. “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He pushed the papers closer to me, then stood abruptly to leave. “I also knew this day would arrive. It’s what you said you always wanted, Mary. You’re a free woman. What you do next is for you to decide.”

  A free woman. When I’d imagined this moment, I was sure I’d be elated and joyful, my freedom as light as the wings of birds in the sky.

  But with these papers now finally before me, instead I felt bewildered and confused and strangely lost.

  I was free, and yet I wasn’t. He’d made sure of that. In ways I could not explain, not even to myself, he’d bound me as closely as Mistress had done through the law.

  I twisted around in my chair. “Please, sir, don’t—don’t go.”

  He pretended not to hear, his hand on the doorknob, and I quickly crossed the room to him.

  “Please, sir,” I said, and my voice broke. I’d no idea of what I wanted, or what I expected. All I knew was that I didn’t want him to leave me like this.

  “You were with her when she died,” he said, his back still to me. “I wasn’t.”

  “You couldn’t help it.” I was weeping now, heavy, confused tears. “She didn’t suffer, not at the end.”

  He groaned, and turned, and I could see that he wept, too. At once I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, drawing him close. I held him as tightly as I could, and he held me. I do not know how long we stood together like that, but I knew then that I hadn’t the strength to leave him.

  I was finally free, but I wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 22

  Philadelphia

  State of Pennsylvania

  June 1794

  “Do you think Papa will be much longer, Mrs. Emmons?” Theo asked, more hopeful than plaintive. Taking advantage of the warm early-summer evening, she and I were walking in the small park behind Congress Hall in Philadelphia, where we’d agreed to meet the Colonel once his committee’s meetings had ended for the day. “He promised we’d dine together.”

  “You know he’ll come as soon as he can,” I said. “He’d much prefer your company to any committee.”

  She smiled, a rarity these days since her mother had died. Dressed in black muslin for mourning, she seemed bundled in grief. I could scarcely fault her for it. She’d just celebrated her eleventh birthday, yet she had already endured the deaths of her three siblings and now her mother. It was no wonder that in these last months she’d become even more devoted to her father, for he was all she had left.

  Her father, too, had been unable to leave her behind when he’d returned to Congress. With only a short time remaining before the summer recess, the Colonel declared that a change of scene would do her well, and had brought her, and me, to Philadelphia with him.

  But then, there’d been many changes since his wife’s death. In light of my new status as a free woman, I was no longer Mary, but Mrs. Emmons. I’d long been the highest-ranking servant in the household, and now I was also the only one who wasn’t in bondage. I was paid wages for the first time in my life: twelve pounds per annum, a most handsome sum to me. When black mourning ribbons to wear on sleeves and around caps and hats were supplied for the other servants to wear, I’d been given a black gown, as if I were part of the family.

  Now there will be some who’ll say I should have taken my children and fled the Colonel as soon as I had my manumission papers. I say that my departure would not have been so easy as it might seem.

  I was a widow thirty-four years of age with a young daughter and an infant son. At Richmond Hill, I was over a mile away from the city, without any family or other free people to guide my next steps. True, I possessed considerable skills and experience, but I’d also no knowledge of how I’d find an employer. The money I’d managed to put aside over the years would be pitifully small against the costs of starting a new life on my own.

  It was also a cold fact of those times that the world did not look kindly upon unattached women, especially those with children. My situation would have been made worse on account of being considered a mulatto or Negro. I would have been regarded with suspicion, and judged to be licentious, dishonest, lazy, and a bad risk all around. I knew what desperation had forced many women to do, and I didn’t want to subject my daughter to that.

  Yet despite these impediments, I was determined to remain in the Colonel’s employ only until I’d saved sufficient money to leave, and could find myself another place. I’d decided upon Philadelphia, a city that seemed more hospitable to free men and women than New York, and one that I’d come to know when I visited with the Colonel.

  To this end, I took in as much sewing as I could, often working far into the night. I paid one of the boys for the wild rabbits he snared in the gardens, and, late on Saturday night, I’d bake raised game pies. On Sundays, the one day when my time was my own as a servant, I’d pack these into a basket, walk with Louisa into the city for worship, and then sell the pies to a tavern keeper who paid me well, well enough that the three-mile walk was as nothing. Because I wanted to be thorough and prepared, I began to take extra notice of the workings of things, such as the dock for the sloop to Philadelphia, and the cost of the passage.

  I was careful about these preparations. I didn’t hide them from the Colonel, but I didn’t mention them, either, and I doubt he took any notice on his own. I was sure that it would be only a matter of a few months, a year at most, and then I’d be able to make an honorable escape with my children into true independence.

  I thought of it as honorable, because despite my new wages and the respect of my title, there was much in my position that wasn’t honorable at all.

  The Colonel continued to use me as his concubine, and I still went to his bed when he summoned me. I believed that he cared for me, beyond simply being a partner to his desire, and in turn I found my own comfort in lying with him, his caresses and his embrace. I knew I should have felt shame and I should have felt regret, yet I didn’t.

  With all this in my thoughts, I’d tried to look cheerfully upon this journey to Philadelphia, so soon after Mistress’s death. The Colonel had brought me here as a companion and servant to his daughter, but also for his own convenience. By his orders, both Louisa and Jean-Pierre had been left behind with the others at Richmond Hill. I understood the main reason behind this—that he did not wish his illegitimate children to be paraded about the capital—though it grieved me mightily not to have them with me. The Colonel had urged me to wean our son, and I knew that physical separation was the easiest way to accomplish this. But I wasn’t happy. My bound breasts ached with my milk, and my heart was just as sore to be apart from my babies.

  And it was in Philadelphia that I realized exactly how many rivals the Colonel had acquired. He’d always maintained he had no enemies. Not even he could deny that he had enemies now. The notion that the government was run by gentlemanly politicians engaging in civil discussions and consensus had been proved to be the fool’s world that no longer existed, if it ever had. Instead, the factions in Congress were crystallizing into two distinct groups, or parties, and their dislike of each other was like an open, suppurating wound for all the world to see. />
  The Federalists tended to attract men who’d wished they’d been born English noblemen, with all the rank, show, and arrogance that went with it. They were merchants, landowners, men of wealth and conservative beliefs from the more northern states who believed they truly were better than those less fortunate, and continued to cling closely to British ways. They also favored a powerful central government that would benefit their investments and interests. The most noteworthy Federalists were President Washington and his vice president, John Adams, but the most vocal Federalist was surely Alexander Hamilton, the Secretary of the Treasury.

  The Democratic-Republicans were different. Most of their supporters were laborers, tradesmen, farmers, and old soldiers, and they were a noisy group who liked to make their beliefs publicly known. They favored the common man, plain speaking, and plain living. Many of the wealthy Virginian Federalists had become Democratic-Republicans, including the Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson, and Congressmen James Madison and James Monroe.

  Knowing the Colonel as well as I did, I wasn’t surprised that he’d become increasingly identified with the Democratic-Republicans. His supporters were the ones who now were forming the Democratic societies, organizations that seemed to me to be descendants from the old Sons of Liberty. These men appreciated the Colonel’s forthright manner and independence in politics. Despite his grand home at Richmond Hill, he’d never been one to hold himself aloof from those he represented, and he freely sought the opinions of his constituents wherever he was within New York.

  He also shared the Democratic-Republican stance on the greatest international topic of the day. In 1793, the French revolutionaries had taken their rebellion to the most shocking extreme, and murdered their king and queen by way of a gruesome machine called a guillotine. This was all the Federalists could see, and to me they began to sound like royalists themselves, lamenting over the dead king. In the process, they also denounced everything else about the French Revolution, and everything and everyone who was French with it. They conveniently forgot how the French were but emulating our own American Revolution, and how without their aid fifteen years before we surely would have lost to Britain.