I, Eliza Hamilton
Susan Holloway Scott
PROLOGUE
New York City, New York
August 1804
You know who I am.
As much as I would wish it otherwise, I cannot ignore the attention, not now. The sudden rush of interest and recognition as I step from my carriage, the bows and curtseys that quickly give way to the whispered explanations and curious stares with no respect for my mourning or the veil I hoped would keep the keenness of my suffering to myself.
Nor does it matter that I have my youngest children with me, Little Phil on one side and Betsey on the other, both clinging tightly to my hands and skirts. How can I guard my babies when strangers crowd so close? How can I defend them from those who would steal away not only our home, but also the sweet legacy of their father’s love? What can I do, when I am all they have left in this world?
Yet I will be brave and strong for the sake of my children. Our children. That is what my husband would have wanted, and what I must do to honor his love. I must give no credence to the lies and calumnies his enemies continue to spread against him, and do my best to combat their slanders. I haven’t faltered before, and I won’t now, no matter how sorely tested I might be.
Love is not easy with a man chosen by Fate for greatness. My Alexander was such a one, a man so bold and brilliant that all others dulled in his company, just as the brightest comet that shoots across the night sky will make the other stars fade meekly in its trail. Yet he was so much more than what the world saw. I knew the rare kindness and gentleness he gave to those he cherished most, and the heartfelt tenderness that I miss more sorely than any words can describe.
I was not born as clever as my sister Angelica, nor so beautiful as my sister Peggy. I don’t possess the gentle serenity that graced my friend Lady Washington, the regal elegance of Mrs. Jay, or the hospitable ease in company of Mrs. Madison. Yet I maintain I am the most blessed among women, because I alone had the love of my dear husband. He was mine, and I was his, and even through death our love will bind us forever together.
But that is what you don’t know of me, isn’t it? Not the scandals and the lies and the rumors, but the truth—not only of my Alexander, but of me, Eliza Schuyler Hamilton.
CHAPTER 1
The Pastures
Albany, Province of New York
November 1777
I was twenty years of age when I met Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton.
To be truthful, at first I found little that was memorable regarding him that evening. Because our country was mired in war and my father was a major general of the Continental Army, our house was frequently overrun with young officers, and I was hard-pressed to recall one from another.
But no: I shouldn’t say that about Colonel Hamilton. He did immediately distinguish himself from the others, though not necessarily for reasons he might have wished.
Before he arrived, my family and our guests were gathered in the front parlor, as was our custom before we dined at The Pastures, our home here in Albany. Evening came early in November, and the candles were already lit, their glow soft against the yellow wool flock-papered walls. Papa was standing before the fireplace, where the heat of the fire would ease the perpetual ache of old wounds and gout in his knees for all that he was only forty-four, while my mother sat in the mahogany armchair beside him, her silk skirts spread gracefully around her as she greeted their guests. My younger sister Peggy and I stood waiting near one of the windows, dressed for evening with silk flowers in our hair and prepared to be charming and agreeable. We knew our roles with company. Our parents were proud of their reputation for hospitality, and Peggy and I were as much part of it as the rich meal and imported wines that would be served at table.
Yet we were also a home suffering beneath a cloud of disgrace. Although my father had served his country and his men with courage and efficiency, his political enemies in Congress had plotted against him, and after the fall of Fort Ticonderoga this past summer—a blow to the cause that even he could not have avoided—he had been removed from his command of the Northern Department. Papa had requested a court-martial to clear his name, but his request thus far had been ignored, and the fact that his replacement, General Horatio Gates, had employed Papa’s forces and tactics to defeat the British at Saratoga had been especially bitter for Papa. He had considered his career for the Continental Army to be done, and he’d given up wearing his uniform. Although he spoke little of it to us, we understood the depths of his disappointment, and as a family we defended his reputation however we could.
Little wonder, then, that Peggy and I met the arrival of the aide-de-camp from the army’s commander-in-chief with wariness, if not open suspicion. Was he bringing further humiliation to our poor father? Was he the bearer of more ill news from the army, more disgrace to tarnish our family’s name?
Colonel Hamilton himself did little to dispel our suspicions. When his name was called by one of our footmen, he remained standing alone in the room’s arched doorway for a moment too long, appraising the room and all of us in it, before striding forward to present himself to my parents. It was rude, that pause, especially to my father, still his superior in rank, and it clearly appeared to be born of a surfeit of confidence and perhaps an arrogant desire to be noticed. As unmannerly as such a gambit might be, however, it was also effective.
“Look at that cocky fellow!” Peggy said to me from behind her spread fan, adding a shocked little hiss for emphasis. “You know who he is, don’t you?”
“Colonel Alexander Hamilton,” I said, letting contempt curl through my pronunciation. He wore the elegant blue uniform of an artilleryman, with buff facings, brass buttons, and buckskin breeches, yet it fit him ill, the wool coat hanging loosely about his frame, the cuffs threadbare, and the green sash of an aide-de-camp slung across his chest like an afterthought. No wonder, really: he was slight for a soldier, slender and boyish, with a wind-burned face and reddish-gold hair.
“I cannot fathom why he is here,” Peggy said. “Aside from the fact, of course, that Papa invited him to join us, but then Papa invites everyone. They already met together this afternoon. What could Colonel Hamilton possibly have left to say? One would think a gentleman officer would have declined such an invitation under the circumstances, simply to be respectful.”
I sniffed with disdain. “I doubt Colonel Hamilton has considered respect.”