It took us several long nights before he had the words to his satisfaction, and as we often did, I wrote out the final copy for him to take to the president for his approval. In the end, it was thirty-two pages long, and for Alexander it had become something of a labor of love and regard, the last he’d do for his president and his general. No one was aware that he’d done it, exactly as was proper.
The farewell address was printed first in Philadelphia on September 19, 1796, and reappeared in numerous cities throughout the country afterward. It was almost universally hailed and applauded, and treasured for containing the final public words of a great gentleman. Only the Democratic-Republicans dared mock it, and by so doing, only made mockeries of themselves. The address was so popular that enterprising printers made it available in pamphlet form, selling briskly for many years afterward, its wisdom never fading.
Not long after it first appeared, Alexander and I were on our way home from a pleasing autumn walk along the Battery when an old soldier approached us. Bent and scarred, yet still wearing the tattered remnants of his blue uniform coat from twenty years before, he’d a bundle of the pamphlets to sell from a haversack over his shoulder.
“His Excellency’s final address to th’ nation, sir,” he said, waving a copy in Alexander’s face. “Help a poor old soldier, sir, an’ read the words of th’ greatest general in th’ world.”
Alexander bought a copy, generously giving the man four times what he’d asked.
“Another for the collection,” he said as he handed it to me. “Poor old fellow! He’s no idea that he just sold me my own work.”
Once again he glanced back over his shoulder to the old soldier, his gaze lingering with a melancholy air. It wasn’t until later, when I thought about it again, that I realized when my husband had pitied the “poor old fellow,” he’d really been speaking of himself.
CHAPTER 20
New York, New York
May 1797
“Will you not play, Eliza?” my sister Angelica asked as she joined me where I stood beside the card table. “You needn’t worry if you don’t know the rules. Loo is a wickedly simple game, and I’m sure you’d have it after a hand or two.”
“Thank you, no,” I murmured. “I’d rather watch.”
The play itself might be simple, but to me what was truly terrifying was the speed with which the players, women and men, won and lost large sums, and without showing any reaction, either. Mr. Church himself was dealing the cards, his fingers quick to dispense pasteboard and luck, good and bad. He’d only grown heavier whilst he’d been in London, his face rounder and his chin swelling grandly over his tightly wrapped neck cloth. Following the new fashions, he’d ceased to powder his hair, and instead wore it cropped, shiny, and very black against his face.
“Then I shall watch with you,” Angelica said, looping her arm through mine. “Anything to be in your company once again.”
I smiled, just as I’d been smiling ever since Angelica, Mr. Church, and their five children had returned to New York two weeks ago. I still didn’t know what had brought them back: whether Angelica had finally worn her husband down with her constant pleas to return to America, or if Mr. Church himself had at last soured on his heady life in London.
No matter. Alexander and I could not be happier to have them back with us, and it was clear that the rest of New York society agreed with us. Mr. Church had had Alexander purchase the grandest house available for them so that once he and Angelica had arrived, they could be immediately at home, and immediately giving parties like this one.
Overnight the Churches had become the wealthiest family in New York City, and they lived on a scale of ostentation that had never been seen here before. Their house was filled with carved and gilded furnishings, paintings and sculptures, silver and porcelain, and because Mr. Church liked to play and wager, they’d also brought with them the accoutrements of a private gaming house. It was all very fast and very extravagant, and fashionable New Yorkers flocked to parties like this one.
Her diamond earrings swinging, Angelica leaned forward to kiss the top of her husband’s head. “For luck, darling.”
He grunted in acknowledgment, and didn’t look up from his cards. I know my sister loved her husband, but I couldn’t help but think I’d made much the better choice in mine, even if mine was poor and hers was rich.
The crowded room seemed suddenly warm to me, and I opened my ivory fan.
“I believe I’d actually prefer to go to the other room and sit for a bit, Angelica, if you do not mind,” I said. “I’m feeling a bit tired.”
Angelica’s merriment immediately changed to concern. “Are you unwell? Should I find Hamilton?”
“No, no, I’m perfectly well,” I protested as she guided me to a silk-covered settee. “Only tired.”
I was halfway through my seventh pregnancy, the first since I’d miscarried three years before, and because of that misadventure Angelica in particular was treating me as if I were made of glass.
“You look so beautiful tonight, Eliza, that I forget that you’re enciente,” she said, using the French word that made my condition sound so much more elegant than it was. “That gown is perfection.”
I smiled wryly. There was much less distinction (though much the same cost) in gowns now, with nearly every woman in the room in white cotton muslin, short sleeves, and a high waist, and I was no exception.
“If it makes you overlook how sizable I’ve become,” I said, “then I must be sure to thank those dressmakers in Paris and London for contriving a new fashion that conveniently hides the waist.”
“You’re not the first to make that observation.” Angelica lowered her chin and raised her brows, the way she did when ready to relay an especially delicious morsel of scandal. “Of course, you are respectably wed and so there’s no doubt that your child is your divine Hamilton’s, but Mr. Church vows that the fashion was first designed to accommodate all the London ladies with lovers who need to hide their little inconveniences.”
“ ‘Little inconveniences’!” I repeated, stunned she’d use that expression, and instinctively I rested a protective hand across my belly. I do not know which shocked me more: that my worldly sister could speak so blithely of innocent babies, or the wanton ladies who’d conceived them outside of marriage.
“Ah, you know how blunt Mr. Church can be,” she said, unperturbed. “In truth he used a much more direct word.”
“I pray he doesn’t use it in Alexander’s hearing,” I said uneasily. “One of the papers in Philadelphia claimed that Mr. Adams himself has taken to calling my husband ‘that Creole bastard,’ and I’m terrified that Alexander will go demand satisfaction from the president on account of it.”