All for One Page 19

  Reverend Provoost stared at Alex. “Do I understand you? You are not asking me to change the name of the parish. You are asking me to change the name of the faith itself. From Episcopalianism to, what, the Church of New York?”

  “If you want. Or the Church of the United States of America. Or perhaps something more independent. Whatever it is, it would give you the freedom to renegotiate your charter from the ground up.”

  “A—new—church?” The reverend seemed dumbfounded. “A New World reformation, as it were? With who knows what new laws and customs to go along with the new name?”

  “That is your area of expertise, not mine. I am only trying to make the church a stable financial entity so that it can fulfill its mission to succor the people of New York City.”

  “But that’s just it, isn’t it? We would, at least to outsiders, be making changes to orthodoxy for the sake of gold. It—it doesn’t seem seemly.”

  Alex did his best to remain calm. He knew the plan was outlandish, but having presented it, he felt he had to make the case. And why not be unseemly? It was a new country, after all. Americans had thrown off the British monarchy, which was seven hundred years old. The Church of England was three hundred fifty years old, and that had been tossed aside, too. Why not something as simple as a name?

  “What is unseemly,” Alex said now, “is that the colonial government of this land saw fit to use the church in its efforts to control its colonies. You would only be correcting that.”

  “By appearing to reject our faith and create a new one. Mr. Hamilton, the Reformation was several hundred years in the making and reflected the will of thousands of clergymen and untold millions of Christians. It was not cooked up, if you will pardon the expression, in a lawyer’s office.”

  Alex took that one on the chin. “There was a reason why I led with the first option,” he said, attempting a self-deprecating grin.

  “Turning the church into a business. What, shall we start selling sausage rolls in street carts, too? Or tickets to heaven, how about that?” the reverend asked.

  Alex swallowed his grin. “If I have offended you, Father, I do beg your pardon.”

  “It is not my pardon you need to seek, Mr. Hamilton.”

  Alex kept his face impassive, but inwardly he rolled his eyes a little. It was Reverend Provoost who had come to him, after all. Reverend Provoost was the one who wanted the church to make more money, not Alex. “It seems clear that my plans are not appealing to you.”

  “You are being droll,” the reverend said.

  Alex shook his head. “Merely trying to make my exit with what’s left of my dignity.”

  “I do not mean to chastise you, Mr. Hamilton. You are young and well-meaning, and obviously your service to your country is not in question. But you must realize that the church’s reputation is built entirely on appearances. If even a shadow of suspicion were to fall over our affairs, we would lose credibility with our flock. It is simply too great a risk.”

  Alex couldn’t disagree. He really wanted to, but he couldn’t. “I understand, Reverend.”

  “I am afraid you will have to try to come up with something else.”

  Alex’s heart sank a little. On the one hand, he was grateful that he wasn’t being fired. On the other, he had already devoted dozens of hours to this case with no progress—and no pay—and he had bills of his own. And he knew even better than Reverend Provoost that the church would not compensate him unless he succeeded.

  “Of course, Reverend,” he said, then continued: “This is perhaps not the best time to bring this up, but I wonder if I might speak to you about another matter.”

  The reverend shrugged amicably. “You’re here, and you’re always a pleasant interlocutor. What’s on your mind?”

  “My wife, Eliza. As you know, she has long been concerned about the plight of the city’s orphans.”

  “A most warmhearted woman. She has housed many a young urchin in the rectory until finding a more suitable home for them.”

  “You are most generous to accommodate her. Well, now she has it in mind to create a ‘more suitable home’ as you say, for all the city’s orphans. A more permanent one.”

  “You mean an orphanage?”

  “Exactly, Reverend. She has begun a subscription service among the city’s top families, and is even now embarked upon a trip north to see the Murrays, Beekmans, Van Cortlandts, and Morrises to secure their support as well. She already has a guarantee of more than six hundred pounds a year, and if I know her, she’ll return with the last four hundred she desires for the facility.”

  The color drained from Reverend Provoost’s already pale face. “A thousand pounds a year! That is a fifth of our income!”

  “Indeed, Reverend. When Mrs. Hamilton sets her mind to something, she doesn’t do it halfway.”

  “I should say not. Perhaps I should have hired her to work out this charter business instead of you.”

  Alex laughed good-naturedly and resisted pointing out that he hadn’t been hired as much as lassoed. “Which brings me to my request, Reverend. Eliza still needs a domicile in which to house the new facility. I might have mentioned that the church has a few empty buildings it isn’t using.”

  The reverend nodded. “I think I see where this is going. Well, what building did you have in mind?”

  “It is a warehouse on Vesey Street. As I understand it, it hasn’t been used since the city was liberated five years ago.”

  A laugh from Reverend Provoost. “I suspect you know better than I do at this point. What were the terms you were thinking of?”

  “Terms, Reverend?”

  “For the lease of the building.”

  Alex was a little taken aback. “Well, you see, Reverend, with the church’s finances being what they are, you are not exactly in a position to, well, to make any more money.”

  “I know things are tight, Mr. Hamilton, but is it really so dire that we must give away our property?”

  “According to my calculations, Reverend, if the property were developed in a manner commensurate with the buildings that surround it, it would generate income of about one or two hundred pounds a year. At this point, you could probably sell it for a thousand pounds, which is, as you know, a fifth of your income cap as defined in your charter. And you have dozens more properties like this one. Scores. Even using the most conservative valuations, the worth of your material assets alone, before any income is taken into consideration, exceeds the limit of your charter by two or three times—”

  Alex broke off. A thought had just come to him. It was half formed as yet, but if he was correct . . . !

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “Pardon?” Alex shook his head, then suddenly stood up. This idea would make his earlier scheme for a new church seem like a run-of-the-mill property claim. And yet not only would it be completely beyond reproach, it would save the church. “No, no, Reverend, nothing is wrong. Only I think I’ve just solved your problem.”

  “What? Do tell?”

  “It’s just a theory. I have to check a few things first. I don’t want to get your hopes up. But if my hunch is true, I can completely free you from any restriction whatsoever.”

  “That is unbelievable,” the reverend said. “Can you give me a hint as to what your plan is?”

  “I’m sorry, Reverend, I’m not even sure I can put it into words just yet. Suffice it to say, that you will be only too happy to part with one of your buildings for Mrs. Hamilton’s orphanage.”

  He shook the flabbergasted rector’s hand quickly and dashed from the office.

  17

  Out to the Country for Some Cash

  Inclenberg Manor and Mount Pleasant

  New York, New York

  August 1785

  It was time to set off to collect more subscriptions to her cause. While Eliza had already ra
ised a considerable amount, there were more wealthy families to solicit. And while this trip would take her away from Alex, she wondered if perhaps they needed the space. Absence made the heart grow fonder, or so she hoped.

  Eliza wasn’t sure when Drayton had had time to learn the city so well, but he piloted the carriage out of town with such ease, it would be easy to assume he’d been raised there. He veered off Broadway onto Park Row, past City Hall Park, and thence onto Bowery Lane and onward to the north as though he’d taken this route hundreds of times before.

  “It’s not a race, Drayton!” Rowena said, twisting round in her seat. “Mrs. Hamilton would rather arrive early this afternoon with her bones still connected to one another, than later this morning shaken all to pieces!”

  In answer, Drayton flicked his whip over the geldings’ withers, causing them to pick up their pace. Rowena lurched dramatically, as if a carpet had been pulled out from under her. “Drayton! Are you trying to throw me from the carriage?”

  “If I wanted to do that, I would use my hands, Aunt,” Drayton replied, turning around with a wink.

  “For goodness’ sake, keep your eyes on the road! We shall all be killed!”

  Eliza winked back at the footman-cum-coachman. “I think we should leave the driving to Drayton, Rowena,” she said soothingly. She hadn’t been for a good bumpy carriage ride since she’d moved away from the Pastures, and had forgotten how much she enjoyed it. It made her feel like a little girl again. She was past the woozy stage of her pregnancy and beginning to feel like herself once more.

  The only thing better would have been if she were astride a horse herself. In the country, it was perfectly permissible for gentlewoman to ride—sidesaddle, of course—but in the city it was considered gauche, and since the Hamiltons didn’t keep horses of their own, she had given away her riding outfit. A rollicking ride in a tightly sprung carriage would have to do.

  The air changed once the carriage passed Grand Street. The dust of the city’s well-traveled roads, laced with an ever-present tinge of manure, was swept away by the sweeter air of the countryside. The buildings grew farther apart and were soon surrounded by split-rail fences holding in chickens and pigs, before giving way to small but proper farms and manicured estates (which were essentially farms surrounding bigger houses with more elaborate gardens). Cows and sheep grazed placidly on rolling fields; wives and daughters tended to their fruits and vegetables while husbands and sons split wood and stone to mend fences. The apple trees grew in neat rows, heavy with fruit that was almost ready to pick, while the wheat and barley fields lay neatly plowed after the midsummer harvest. The tobacco stood in bushy trails, its heady fragrance clinging to the ground, like an invisible, odorous layer of fog.

  “I do not much care for pipe smoke,” Emma said, “but I confess I find the smell of the growing plant to be quite pleasant.”

  “Truly,” Eliza agreed. “It is like new leather and freshly turned earth and a hint of nutmeg.”

  “Mrs. Hamilton!” Rowena marveled. “Such powers of description! You could write the copy for apothecary bottles!”

  It was a little over an hour to Inclenberg, or Murray Hill as people whose last name wasn’t Murray tended to call it, because who really wanted to wrap their tongue around “Inclenberg”? The elegant five-bay house (Inclenberg Manor) had a large Greek gable spanning the central windows and a delicate widow’s walk framing the roof. A woman in her mid-fifties appeared on the porch as the carriage drove up, not waving, but smiling warmly. Mary Murray, the mother of Lindley, an old friend of Helena and John Rutherford, was dressed in dark Quaker gray, but there was a mischievous gleam in her eye that suggested an inner mirth belying the outer sobriety. The plan was to take tea at Murray Hill before heading on to Mount Pleasant, where they would spend the night before heading farther north. A footman helped Eliza, Emma, and Rowena from the carriage, then directed Drayton to park it by the barn.

  “Your man is welcome to join your maid in the kitchen if he’d like a bite to eat while we have tea,” Mrs. Murray said. Rowena was already walking around to the rear of the house. “Perhaps he would like to join her for a smoke,” she added with a little laugh.

  “She is my cook actually,” Eliza said, and, when Mrs. Murray frowned in confusion, added, “Her son is employed as a groom at Mount Pleasant. We are taking her for a visit.”

  “How very unconventional! I do not even enjoy sitting with my maid in the same carriage. She either refuses to say anything other than ‘Yes, ma’am’ or ‘No, ma’am,’ or else she goes on and on about domestic matters that are of no concern to me.”

  “I would think that the running of your household would be of great concern to you,” Emma said, and only someone who knew her as well as Eliza did would have recognized the archness in her tone. Her blue eyes were flashing, which anyone else might have taken for vivacity, but Eliza knew was anger.

  Mrs. Murray looked at Emma for the first time since they had been introduced. A single glance took in the ever so slightly faded nature of the dress, recognizing it as a hand-me-down from her mistress. She offered a thin-lipped half smile, and, though she didn’t actually say anything, her pout said clearly, poor relation.

  Eliza lagged a little as they went into the house to lean close to Emma. “Is there something wrong?”

  “I just don’t like seeing Drayton dismissed as a servant,” Emma said in a quiet, if firm voice. “Or Rowena, for that matter.”

  “I wouldn’t say Mrs. Murray dismissed him. She offered him a bite to eat, after all.”

  “A bite to eat,” Emma repeated. “The leftovers of our own meal, which will be served on silver and china, while his is eaten off a dusty kitchen table.”

  “I only hope the table isn’t dusty,” Eliza tried to joke. “Rowena will have poor Mrs. Murray’s cook in tears if she finds the kitchen untidy. Now, buck up. We are here to solicit money for the orphanage, not to make friends. In an hour we will be gone, and it may well be years before you meet her again. And I’ve heard she’s a good raconteuse.”

  Emma offered her a weak smile but clearly wasn’t mollified. By then they were being shown into an elegant parlor with a pair of tall windows that offered a view of a green field sloping down to the East River, less than half a mile away. Piles of sandwiches and scones and other delectables were indeed arrayed on ornate silver and china platters. A coffeepot was present, as well as, surprisingly, tea, which was only just starting to be an acceptable beverage since the Boston Tea Party had transformed a once-loved quaff into an unsavory symbol of British oppression. There were also cider and perry, if the travelers wanted something cool.

  “The cider is fresh, but the pear juice has been allowed to ferment,” Mary said as she took a seat. “Mr. Murray and I are Quakers, but we do not insist that our visitors adhere to our sobriety. Coffee for me, Sheldon,” she added, without looking at the footman.

  “Very good, madam,” the footman said. “Mrs. Hamilton? Miss Trask?”

  Eliza had coffee, while Emma took a glass of cider. After their drinks had been poured, Sheldon approached them with one platter after another until they had laden their plates with a variety of savory and sweet items.

  Then, even as Eliza was impatient to get to the reason of their visit, Mrs. Murray was telling them about her famous afternoon with General William Howe, the British commander who had taken Manhattan Island in September 1776, nearly capturing George Washington in the process.

  “You might know that Lindley remained loyal to King George despite the fact that both Robert and I supported independence. It pains me, although I cannot fault him for it. It is a quintessentially American trait to stick to one’s convictions even if they contravene those of your family. And on that day I was able to use my son’s retrograde beliefs to my advantage, not least because Lindley always kept tea in the house, which we of course had long since given up. General Howe’s horses needed refreshing,
and he chose to commandeer supplies from Inclenberg, knowing that at least one loyalist lived in the house. While his horses were being fed I asked him in, saying that my son had a particularly fine Lapsang souchong on hand, which I had heard the general was fond of, as well as some decent Madeira. If Robert had been home I wonder if General Howe would have come in, but as it was just a lone woman of middle years, he didn’t feel under any threat.

  “Once he was seated, of course, I had him. The British are slaves to manners, and no gentleman would take his leave without the lady’s permission. I simply made sure he never got an opportunity to ask for it. I must have told him the story of every tree we ever planted, every foal, calf, lamb, shoat, or chick ever born, every business deal Mr. Murray ever transacted, and of course Sheldon kept the wine flowing steadily and the cakes piled high. At one point I even proposed a toast when I thought he was about to depart—I, who have not touched a drop of alcohol in all my life! I fairly thought I would lose my head! In the end he was here nearly four hours, which time—General Washington later wrote me personally—made all the difference between the Continental army’s capture and escape.”

  One would have thought this was the whole story, but it turned to be merely a précis. Eliza was more than ready to direct the conversation to the orphanage when Mrs. Murray, having given them “the bare-bones outline of the momentous afternoon,” began going into the blow by blow of the encounter. Eliza could only smile stiffly, as she imagined General Howe had done.

  An hour later, neither Eliza nor Emma was in any doubt that the otherwise unremarkable woman sitting before them could have held a general captive. They had not managed to get a word in edgewise and were almost uncomfortably aware of the distinction between the milk given by Frisian, Ayrshire, Guernsey, and Jersey cows, which Mrs. Murray described the way a vintner talks about his finest wines (“Now, your Jersey, she may only give a few gallons each day, but it is of such creamy sweetness that it rivals butter in its natural state, with notes of walnut and sage rounding out the flavor”).