Love & War_An Alex & Eliza Story Read online

“Yes, sir. Pierre died defending Manhattan from the British invasion, and Louis died at Monmouth with my father. Only Jean made it back, though he left one of his legs at Yorktown.”

  Another wince from Alex. The ties between himself and the witness were too close for comfort.

  She turned to Judge Smithson. “He’d have been here, Your Honor, but he has yet to learn to get around well on his crutches. And the expense, well, was something we couldn’t spare.”

  Judge Smithson nodded sympathetically. After his earlier boredom, he now seemed rapt by Antoinette’s story.

  “Did the British offer you any compensation for your property?”

  “Compensation? They told us we were lucky we were not imprisoned for aiding the enemy! My sisters and I feared for our virtue on more than one occasion. That we escaped unstained is the only silver lining in this whole sad affair.”

  “And how have you lived since you left New York?”

  “Hand to mouth, as my dress probably indicates. Our entire livelihood was tied up with the Baxter Street building. My father ran a very successful dry goods shop out of the first floor. Virtually all our stores were seized with the building, as well as most of the furniture, too. And with our menfolk away, there has been little besides cutwork and service for us girls. I once had dreams of marrying well and living in a fine house close to my parents. Now I hope to find work as a lady’s maid, so that at least I will live in a warm house, even if it’s not mine. Unless that is”—she looked at Mrs. Childress for the first time since she had entered the courtroom—“I can get back what is rightly my family’s.”

  Again Caroline startled.

  Again Alex tried to reassure her. “Remember,” he whispered. “You did not take her property, nor do you have it now. You have not transgressed against this girl.”

  Yet all eyes in the courtroom were on Caroline, as if she had turned the girl out with a broom.

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” Burr said.

  “Mr. Hamilton?” Judge Smithson prompted.

  “Your Honor, the defense would like to thank Miss Le Beau for traveling to the court today. We have no questions for her at this time.”

  Miss Le Beau was dismissed and led from the courtroom. Burr waited until she was gone. Then, looking at Alex smugly, he said,

  “The State rests, Your Honor.”

  Judge Smithson turned to Alex again. “Would you like to call your first witness, Mr. Hamilton?”

  Alex looked down at the witness list in front of him, a litany of names of people who would speak as glowingly of Caroline Childress as Burr’s witnesses had been scathing. But they would tell Judge Smithson nothing he didn’t already know: that Caroline had survived the occupation like thousands of other New Yorkers, anyway she could. On top of that, he couldn’t stop thinking of Angelica’s party, which was, of course, really Eliza’s party. Tonight was the night. Guests would be arriving in a matter of hours. He could not show up in his lawyer’s black robes, looking like a mourner at a medieval funeral.

  “Mr. Hamilton,” Judge Smithson said again.

  Alex looked at the judge. “Your Honor, the plaintiff rests.”

  Judge Smithson looked confused. He blinked once, twice, a third time, so vigorously that his chin fat wiggled above his jabot. Finally, he nodded.

  “Very well then. The court will take a half-hour recess for tea, and then reconvene at five o’clock for closing arguments.”

  “But, Your Honor,” Alex said, taken aback. “Given the hour, oughtn’t we to wait until morning?”

  “Oh no, young man. You seem to want to get this over with in a hurry. Well, let’s get it over with.”

  Without another word, the judge gaveled once, then squeezed himself out of the courtroom by the rear door.

  As Alex filed out of the main entrance, he saw that Governor Clinton was still sitting in his bench while the court cleared. The governor’s face was calmer than it had been earlier, which is to say that anger had given way to mere contempt.

  “I do not know what your ploy is, Mr. Hamilton, but I assure you that you won’t take in a judge as perspicacious as Lewis Smithson.”

  “Perspicacious?” Alex said. “I didn’t notice him sweating at all.”

  With those parting words, he marched out of the room.

  27

  Queen of Manhattan

  Hamilton Town House

  New York, New York

  April 1784

  Everything was perfect.

  The silver was polished to a reflective sheen, bouncing the lights of a score of candles around the softly papered walls and giving the front and middle parlors the feeling of underwater caverns. The table linens and napkins were crisply laundered and bright as snow. Beautiful silk tulips, lilies, and roses, as delicate as the real thing but ten times more vibrant, were set out in six Delft vases that competed with their bouquets for vividness of color. The crowning touch, though, was Ralph Earl’s completed portrait of Eliza, which hung over the fireplace in the front parlor, and elicited gasps from each arriving guest.

  Eliza had stationed Angelica in the front room so that it did not seem as if she were fishing for compliments, but even in the middle parlor and dining room she could hear the oohs and aahs. Fortunately, she had gone for a formal maquillage, her face regally serene with its dusting of silvery-white powder, complemented by the simplest red lip and dark mascara. Beneath it, though, she was blushing like mad.

  No one comes to party for the decorations, however. They come for the food. And Rowena hadn’t let Eliza down. She’d worked every last one of her connections to track down the most succulent cuts of beef, pork, lamb, turkey, and duck. The table was as laden with meat as a Parisian charcuterie, sausages and schnitzels, racks and rib eyes, stews and aspics, and, presiding over them all, a massive joint of smoked bear—yes, bear!—mounted on a spit, from which a footman carved wafer-thin slices with a knife the size of a small sword. The meat itself was a little bland in Rowena’s opinion (Eliza herself refused to try it), but the wow factor was off the charts. A half-dozen sauces and jellies accompanied the meats, from a brown onion gravy so rich that you wanted to eat it like soup to a horseradish sour cream so spicy it made your eyes water. Last year’s gourds and tubers were still the only vegetables to be had—roasted squashes in colors ranging from pale yellow to intense orange, along with roasted and riced potatoes and a tart applesauce redolent of cinnamon and nutmeg. If Eliza was being honest with herself, though, she had to admit that the star of the banquet table was Jane Beekman’s lettuce. At one point, she actually saw eighty-four-year-old John Van Schaick elbow Ralph Earl out of the way to snatch up the last few leaves in the bowl.

  “I’m old, young man,” he said, only half joking. “If I don’t eat this, I may die.”

  “Never fear,” Eliza said. “There are a dozen more heads downstairs. Of lettuce,” she said, when Van Schaick looked at her blankly. “Heads. Of. Lettuce.”

  The presence of an éminence grise like John Van Schaick—a man whose house on Cohoes Island had once served as the capital of New York State—along with at least four dozen other guests, was a testament to Simon’s wherewithal as much as to the growing appeal of the host and hostess. Rowena’s son had (happily) shucked his footman’s uniform for rougher garb, hopped atop a hired horse, and ridden a good two hundred miles over the last week, delivering invitations from one end of Manhattan Island to the other, and beyond. He had been as far north as Morrisania and Van Cortlandt Manor, stopping at Inclenberg to call on the Murrays and Mount Pleasant to invite the Beekmans.

  Thank heavens, the Rutherfurds were still in town—a journey across the Hudson to the western border of New Jersey would have taken at least another three days. But everyone who was anyone had accepted, and they’d all shown up as well. From John and Helena Rutherfurd to James and Jane Beekman, from Lindley Murray and Gouverneur Morris to John and Sarah Jay, from William and Elizabeth Bayard to Philip and Pierre Van Cortlandt, along with more Duanes, Reades, V
eseys, Brevoorts, Pecks, Wyckoffs, Van Dusens, and of course Van Rensselaers and Livingstons than you could shake a stick at.

  Even old Pieter Stuyvesant had deigned to come. He had used his cane to beat himself a path to the big yellow sofa, his heavy wooden leg threatening to crack the floorboards, and seated himself squarely in the middle of the cushions, telling one of the two hired footmen serving drinks that he was to attend to him and him alone. For the first hour, everyone was too intimidated to sit beside him, until at last, Angelica dropped down next to him, nearly smothering the old man with her skirts, and then, to Eliza’s horror (and delight), plopping baby Philip in his lap—and leaving him there.

  “You! Are! Terrible!” Eliza whispered as Angelica swept over to her.

  “Just you watch,” Angelica said. “Philly can soften the heart of the meanest, most miserly Dutchman in Old or New Netherland. Within five minutes, ol’ Peg Leg Pete will be bouncing him on his knee.”

  “On the good knee, I hope,” Eliza said. “Else poor Philly is going to have bruises on his bum!”

  Yes, everything was perfect. Except Alex wasn’t here.

  It was a cruel twist of fate that Mrs. Childress’s trial had been moved up, but even so, the court almost always adjourned by five, and never stayed in session past six. And yet, it was half seven and still no sign of him. Eliza had even sent Simon to the court at seven to see what was going on, but he returned to report that the building was all locked up, and he had seen no sign of Alex anywhere.

  “Was there any news of the trial itself? Surely there must have been a guard around to ask.”

  Could it be over already? she asked herself. Alex had told her of his litany of witnesses. He couldn’t possibly have run through them so quickly, could he? And if the trial was over, did Alex win or lose? She prayed that he won something, because the party had used up every last penny of credit the Hamilton and Schuyler names could fetch. Once the leftovers were gone, they would be existing on air until some cash came in.

  “I did ask one man in uniform for news of Mrs. Childress’s trial, but he just said I was a little young to be chasing after widows and laughed me away. I even stopped in at the Burrs’ house, pretending to be looking for work, but the servant told me the master hadn’t returned and the missus didn’t hire boys under eighteen.”

  Eliza shook her head in consternation—then quickly stilled it to keep her towering wig from shaking too much. Here they were with yet another dinner party, and Alex late again! It was clear she was but a low priority on his busy schedule. But if she gave in to her consternation, she would start screaming. In as calm a voice as she could muster, she said:

  “Thank you, Simon. Now, head downstairs and wash up. We may need you to play footman if Mr. Stuyvesant refuses to release Andrew from his side. And make sure your mother feeds you. You look like you burned off ten pounds this week, and you were a skinny lad to start with.”

  Simon ran off, quickly replaced by a figure in yellow and pink. It took Eliza a moment to recognize Ralph Earl, whose wig looked like something from the court of Louis XIV and whose coating of powder was if anything thicker than her own. But even more startling than his European visage was his suit. Eliza remembered Alex’s stories of Baron von Steuben, the German general who constantly surrounded himself with a bevy of handsome young men and dressed in suits made from jacquards and toiles more suited to upholster the furniture in a courtesan’s receiving room than a gentleman’s torso. The yellow of Earl’s suit was not quite as gaudy as Alex had described Baron von Steuben’s attire, but only just. It outshone the buttery wallpaper they had chosen for the middle room, and was made rather more garish by the pink embroidery. Well, not garish really, but decidedly feminine. With her raven tresses, Peggy would have looked fabulous in a gown made of such material, but Earl looked a little like a French count who had run out of money, and was now having suits made from the remnants of his wife’s curtains. She wondered that she had ever found him attractive.

  “A brilliant party, Eliza. You have gone from being the most sought-after guest in New York society to the most celebrated hostess in a single evening. Brava!”

  Eliza immediately felt guilty for making fun of Mr. Earl’s appearance in her head. He even sounded more sober than usual, though a wineglass was, as always, clutched in his hand.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Earl. I cannot take all the credit. Helena Morris really did introduce us to the right people, and of course everyone wants to say they’re friends with Mr. Hamilton, General Washington’s right-hand man.”

  “Where is the hero of Yorktown?” Ralph asked, his voice so smooth that Eliza couldn’t tell if he were joking or not.

  “I assume his duties kept him late at the—” She was going to say “at the courthouse,” but could not bring herself to lie. “At the office,” she said, a little lamely.

  “A brilliant man’s work is never done,” Earl answered, his voice once again so supercilious that it was impossible to guess his intent. “You should rejoice in his success, but resign yourself to evenings such as this. Neither commerce nor politics cares for the plight of the lonely wife, but you still control his social life.”

  “Oh, I should hope not. Mine is more than I can handle. But speaking of brilliant men. I do hope it’s okay that I’ve pointed you out as the painter of my portrait. Everyone is asking, and I should think you will leave tonight with rather a few commissions.”

  And pay your legal bills, she couldn’t resist adding mentally. Or at least find a home of your own.

  “Indeed.” He lifted the flap on a bulging pocket, which was full of calling cards. “I have gone from debtors’ prison to portraitist of the rich and famous in the space of a week. I will be busy from now through the turn of the century.”

  “Well then, bravo to you, too.” Eliza clinked her glass with his and took a sip even as Earl drained his in one gulp. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find Angelica and make sure Philly—er, baby Philip—is taken to bed.”

  She found her sister in the middle parlor.

  “Do you need me to summon the maid to put the baby to bed?” she asked.

  Angelica pointed. “I think you will have a hard time tearing him away from his new best friend.”

  Eliza turned to see that, true to Angelica’s prediction, Pieter Stuyvesant was bouncing the laughing boy on his (fleshy) knee while a group of onlookers cheered them on.

  “Oh, dear. We should commission Mr. Earl to do a sketch. No one will ever believe us without proof.”

  “This sight alone would have made for a memorable party. But truly, Sister, you have thrown John and me a remarkable sending-off. I only wish—”

  She broke off.

  “What is it, Angie? What can I get you?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I was just going to say that I only wish the family was complete. For your sake,” she said meaningfully, letting Eliza know that she had noticed Alex’s absence and felt for her.

  “I am learning,” Eliza said now, “that much of marriage is time spent apart. I think of all those times Papa was away, at war, or at Saratoga on the farm. It is the norm.”

  Angelica took her sister’s arm tenderly. “But, my darling, I hope you are not too lonely.”

  “What? No!” Eliza said, feeling disloyal. “Alex and I do have our social life. I suppose I had assumed once we were married we would have more time for just the two of us. I did not realize marriage was actually so inconvenient for … intimacy.”

  “I do not think it is marriage as much as it is adulthood.” Angelica laughed ruefully. “I must say, there are days when I do miss being sixteen without a care in the world. Not that I’d go back.”

  “Oh, heavens no. The spots, for one thing.”

  “As if you ever had spots,” Angelica teased. “You have always had a flawless complexion, whereas once a month I gain half a stone and have to cover myself with a veil!”

  “Ha! You are misremembering my experience as your own,” Eliza said, laughing. “I w
as such a homely girl. All elbows and frayed ends. But I think we can both agree that Peggy sailed through adolescence unscathed.”

  “And landed the richest husband, too!”

  The two sisters enjoyed a hearty laugh.

  “Oh, Angie, I can’t believe it. You’re moving to London! With your husband and son!”

  “And you live in a Wall Street town house with the most sought-after lawyer in New York City. A future, what did you call him, president? How did we become so grown-up?”

  Another shared laugh, though this one was tinged with melancholy.

  “I’ll miss you terribly, you know,” Angelica said at length.

  “I’ll miss you more. You will have all of London—all of England, of Europe!—to discover, while I’ll be stuck here in plain old New York.”

  Angelica beckoned at the rich and powerful guests thronging the two parlors and the dining room, nibbling at succulent cuts of meat and sipping strong ale or wine or whiskey.

  “As if this could ever be boring! Listen to them, Eliza. They are literally planning the future of this brand-new country. Whether the United States be a democracy or a monarchy, a single country or a loose-knit confederation, whether slavery be abolished or women be granted the vote—the stage for all of it is being set right here, right now. History is happening in your house, Eliza, and you are its hostess.” She shrugged, as if embarrassed by her flight of fancy. “And you will have Mama and Papa and Peggy and John and Philip and Ren and Cornelia and little Kitty all close to hand, while I shall only have acquaintances.”

  “You will have your husband’s family.”

  “He has few relations, and what little he has, he doesn’t get on with. No, I will have to make some dazzling friends, or we shall have to make our own private world,” said Angelica with a smile. “Even as you and Hamilton make the larger one.”

  “If he ever gets home!” Eliza said, finally giving vent to her frustration. “It’s nearly ten! I fear people will start to leave soon if their host doesn’t bother to put in an appearance.”

  As if on cue, there came the sound of the front door opening. Eliza turned with a smile, only to hear a rough voice say: