“Oh, my love, please don’t cry,” he said softly. “I’ll be back before the baby’s born. I’ll be here with you. You have my word.”
My anger crumbled. I could never remain angry at him for long, not when he spoke to me like that. I went to him then, circling my arms around him and our baby both, and finally, I let my tears flow: for him, for us, and for the entire foolish, foolish world.
*
Soon after, at the doctors’ insistence, I took Johnny with me to Albany. It was not just that they hoped the more salubrious air of the country would help my little boy; the doctors and my husband feared for my health as well. Even as I knew this was wise counsel, I hated leaving Alexander and our other children behind. Our two oldest sons, Philip and Alexander, were away in Trenton studying with Reverend Frazer, and Angelica, Fanny, and James would remain in Philadelphia with their father and the servants. My leaving was especially difficult on Angelica, who with a child’s intuition may have understood the gravity of my situation as well as her little brother’s.
This pregnancy was different from my previous ones. I was often ill and plagued by headaches, and weary to the point of exhaustion. As much as I hated to leave Alexander and my older children behind in Philadelphia, even I was forced to admit it was for the best, and by the time I reached The Pastures, I was so unwell that I needed to be helped from the carriage.
Both Johnny and I were given over to Dr. Stringer’s care. I was put to bed, and permitted to do nothing for myself, while Johnny was given yet another regimen that included limewater and laudanum. It fell to my mother instead of me to take my son outside each day for the fresh air that the doctors had prescribed, and I watched them together in the gardens each morning from my window. Alexander wrote to me almost daily, letters full of worry and concern and love for both me and Johnny.
But just as he’d done years ago whilst in the army, he carefully omitted from his letters all but the briefest mentions of the plans to confront the rebellion, not wanting to distress me or my unborn child. And just as before, I pressed my father for the details my husband wouldn’t give me. The rebels were variously estimated at six, seven, eight thousand men, all armed. To face them, militia forces were being summoned from as far away as Virginia. By most reports, the expedition would set out in September.
Slowly, slowly Johnny began to improve, growing stronger and more alert each day, and by early August I could finally write to Alexander that our prayers had been answered, and that Dr. Stringer considered him out of danger. I felt better, too, and well enough to travel. Although my parents and Dr. Stringer urged me to be cautious, I was determined to return to Philadelphia before Alexander left. But I soon discovered I was not nearly as recovered as I’d thought, and for the sake of my unborn child I was forced to rest for some time with friends in New York City before I finally returned home in October. By then, Alexander had left.
I was convinced my beloved husband would be killed by the rebels, and I had terrible nightmares of his head on a pike, as if he’d been murdered by Jacobins. I wrote him frantic, desperate letters, and no matter how he tried to reassure me and tell me of their success in quelling the rebels, I still feared for him.
One night in late November, I woke in great pain. I summoned Dr. Stringer to my side, but his best efforts were to no avail, and I miscarried our child.
Alexander came home on the first of December, riding with an escort ahead of the army. I hadn’t been expecting him, and was sitting in bed, writing letters, when I heard his voice in the hall below and his step on the stair. I swiftly set aside my pen and writing desk, intending to meet him, but I’d only gotten so far as to be sitting on the edge of the bed when he rushed into the room.
I’d written to him of how I’d lost our baby, and I saw at once from his expression that he’d received the unfortunate news. He didn’t embrace me at once, as I’d expected, but hung a few steps back.
“My dearest wife,” he said, his voice filled with sorrow. “I never meant to do this to you. Everything that has happened is my fault. If I hadn’t gone away . . .”
His words drifted off, and he held his arms outstretched in grief and appeal, and then let them drop to his sides. He hadn’t paused to change his clothes, and I thought of how many times he’d been away and returned to me like this, his cheeks ruddy from riding in the cold, his jaw bristling with last night’s beard, and his clothes dusty from the road.
Yet this time was different. I still ached too much with loss. I’d no spirit left within me for rejoicing or celebration, and though I’d thought my weeping was done, at the sight of him fresh tears welled up from deep within me.
“Betsey,” he said. “I cannot undo what has been done, but as soon as I received your letter, I knew at once what I must do. I have resolved to go to the president directly from here and resign from the cabinet. I intend to return to the law, and devote myself to you and our children.”
I caught my breath, shocked, for I realized what a monumental sacrifice this would be. For the last seven years that he had been the secretary of the treasury, he had defined the post, and he had in turn let it define him so closely that I wasn’t sure he could tell any longer where the secretary left off and the man—my husband—began. I would never have dared ask him to resign, nor would I even have thought to do so. This grandly generous decision that he was making had to be his, not mine, for I didn’t want to be blamed if he later thought better of it.
“You would do that, Alexander?” I asked slowly. “You would make so large a sacrifice for me?”
“I would,” he said. “I will. I have given more than I should to the government, and it’s time for me to step back and instead tend to those whom I love most of all.”
I wanted so much to believe him, and I tucked my hands around my body, hugging myself.
“Once you resign, it will be done,” I warned. “You won’t be able to return.”
He nodded decisively, without hesitation. He was standing before the window and the pale winter sunlight washed over his shoulders, and I realized there were tears in his eyes as well.
He took a single step toward me. “My dearest wife,” he said. “I love you more now than I ever have.”
At last I silently held my arms open to him, and he came to me, and together we grieved for what we’d lost, and hoped for what was still to come.
*