Love & War_An Alex & Eliza Story Read online

  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.

  “Good afternoon,” Eliza said. “My name is Eliza Hamilton. I am here to see Mr. Ralph Earl.”

  “Oh!” the attendant said. “I should have guessed from the dress. Pretty color,” he added, standing up. “What d’ye call it?”

  “Um, pink?” Eliza said, wondering if this was a trick question. She looked down at the hem of her gown where it peeked out beneath her overcoat. Though the lobby was dark, the visible fabric was still, clearly, pale pink.

  “Well, yes, o’course, pink. But champagne pink, y’think, or p’raps coral? Or, you’ll pardon the impertinence, good old-fashioned sow’s ear? No disrespect meant, o’course. The hue of a sow’s ear is of unparalleled delicacy, if you ask me.” While the attendant was making these bizarre pronouncements, he was leading Eliza down a hall and through an imposing if unlocked wooden door that looked to be at least four inches thick, with a small iron-barred window set in it at eye level. The hallway beyond retreated into darkness.

  “Mr. Earl’s been teaching me the names of colors,” the attendant said as he led Eliza up a flight of stairs. “I always thought there was just five or six myself. Y’know, blue and green and red and the like. But there’s hundreds. Thousands even. I think my favorite’s periwinkle. The name, I mean, though the color’s nice, too. Little cool for someone with your complexion, you don’t mind my saying. The sow’s ear warms your skin tone right up.”

  “I do think I prefer champagne or coral,” Eliza said now. “No offense to you, or to pigs that matter, but they are not something I often think of wearing.”

  “Sure, sure,” the attendant said good-naturedly. “Pig makes a fine leather, actually. Very durable. Good for boots. Also wine sacs, though I s’pose m’lady drinks from crystal, or at least pewter. Well, here we are,” he said unexpectedly, pulling a good-size collection of large iron keys from a pocket and jangling one loose. He fitted it into the iron-framed keyhole, turned it forcefully, and pulled the door open.

  “Here you are, m’lady,” he said, flourishing a hand toward the open portal, through which Eliza could see naught but a stone wall.

  She hesitated, then took a deep breath. What on earth have I gotten myself into? Before she could cross the threshold, however, the attendant’s arm came down and blocked her way, nearly landing on her chest.

  “Now, you wouldn’t be carrying any weapons, would ye? Any knives or pocket-size pistols?”

  “What? Of course not?”

  “No files or rasps for sawing through bars?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “No poison secreted in a vial of perfume so that the prisoner can take the easy way out?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, O’Reilly,” a voice called from within. “Let the poor girl in before she poisons you.”

  The attendant smiled sheepishly. “Just doing my duty, y’unnerstan’. No one would ever think a manifest lady like yoursel’ would break the law.” He stepped aside. “Regulations require me to lock the outer door. I’ll be back in one hour to let you out.”

  “A-an hour?” Eliza said nervously, even as a pat of the attendant’s hand was propelling her into the little room. The only answer she received was the sound of the door slamming behind her.

  “Well, I guess it’s just the two of us now.”

  Eliza whirled. She expected to see someone right behind her and was surprised to discover that the cell she was in was a room divided by a wall of iron bars. The voice came from a man who was standing on the far side of them, in a tiny nook that held nothing but a narrow cot, a small table with a four-tiered candelabra, and an easel.
At the foot of the bed stood a dark vessel that, at first, she took for a chamber pot, but then realized was actually a small brazier, the only source of heat in the windowless room.

  Oh, and the man of course.

  He was tall and much younger than Eliza had expected—not yet thirty, and handsome, with rather long angular features made all the more rakish by the shadow of a beard that grazed his hollow cheeks. He was clothed in expensive-looking, if somewhat wrinkled and stained, white silk breeches with a matching silk shirt and a rather … pronounced chartreuse overcoat adorned with three of the eight gold buttons it should have had. In lieu of shoes, he was wearing socks—from the shapeless appearance of his feet, she guessed several pairs. Yet despite the silliness of his lumpy feet and missing buttons, he still struck a debonair, indeed flirtatious figure. She couldn’t help but notice, despite her being a married woman. Said marriage and beloved husband being the reason she was here in the first place, of course.

  Smiling crookedly, the man extended his arm through the bars.

  “Ralph Earl, at your service, madam.”

  Eliza took a moment to calm herself, then, stepped forward and took his hand. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Earl. My name is—”

  “Your name could be none other than Eliza Hamilton,” Earl said in a leading tone.

  Eliza smiled nervously. “How did you know?”

  “Your husband has been very complimentary about your appearance, although I dare say he did not quite do your beauty enough justice.” He shrugged.

  While Eliza was flattered, she was also a little taken aback by his aggressive flirting. Thankfully, the painter soon changed the subject.

  “I wonder,” he added in a somewhat keener tone of voice. “Did he happen to send anything with you?”

  “Oh yes,” she said then. She reached inside her coat and pulled out a small flask. “He said you would appreciate this.”

  Earl accepted the bottle with somewhat shaky fingers, pulled the cork from it, and took a long—quite a long—pull. His eyes closed, and a contented sigh passed from his mouth. Then he took a second, shorter nip and stowed the bottle inside his coat.