*
I gave birth to another son, our fifth boy, on August 4, 1797, five days before my own fortieth birthday. We named him William Stephen Hamilton, a fine, fulsome name in honor of two of his uncles. Alexander and I together relished anew that sweetly indescribable love for a newborn, and the wonder that such a charming little creature had been created through God’s grace, and our love. I never tired of watching my husband care for our children, cradling each one in his arms with such unabashed devotion that it always brought tears to my eyes.
I was still in this blissful state some two weeks after William’s birth when Alexander joined me in the parlor. To grant me a respite, Angelica had taken our older children with her for the day, and except for little William and the servants, Alexander and I were as alone in our house as we ever were. He’d a stack of pages in his hands, and I smiled in expectation.
“Is that your pamphlet?” I asked, patting the cushion on the sofa in invitation. “You cannot know how eager I am to read it at last.”
I was surprised that he didn’t smile in return. In fact he was unusually solemn, continuing to hold the manuscript.
“It’s already been printed, and is with the binder now,” he said. “I’ve just had my original pages returned to me.”
“It’s a good thing it’s at the binder,” I said, “considering you’ve already placed advertisements for its sale.”
Yet still he hesitated. “I wished for you to be recovered from William’s birth before you read it,” he said. “I didn’t wish to cause you any mishap.”
“I’ve never been so fragile as that, Alexander,” I said, smiling warmly at his solicitude. “If I’ve been strong enough to read Callender’s vile letters, I’m more than strong enough to read your rebuttal.”
At last he handed me the manuscript.
“Everything I have written here,” he said slowly, “adheres to the most absolute truth, no matter how painful.”
“Painful for Callender and that villain Mr. Monroe,” I said, glancing at the first page. “What a splendid title! Observations on Certain Documents Contained in N. V & VI of ‘The History of the United States for the Year 1796,’ In Which the Charge of Speculation Against Alexander Hamilton, Late Secretary of the Treasury, Is Fully Refuted. Written by Himself.’ That sets it all out, doesn’t it?”
“Almost,” he said, and cleared his throat. “And recall, my dearest wife, that I love you above all others, and always have.”
“As I love you, too,” I said, smiling. His obvious nervousness as I began to read touched me; clearly this work was so important to him that he seemed almost desperate for my approval. He needn’t have worried. I always enjoyed his writing, the concise beauty of his sentences and the clarity and brilliance that showed in every word. The best way to alleviate his anxiety would be to read, and thus I began.
His argument began much as I expected it would, linking the Democratic-Republicans to the Jacobins, as was entirely accurate. Then he systematically began to explain and refute every calumny and slander that had been made against him, complete with affidavits and other letters for reference.
I will not paraphrase or copy the entire document here, for surely over time it has unfairly become the most widely read of any of my husband’s writings, and a certain line the most infamous. It is also known by a far shorter name now—The Reynolds Pamphlet—and one that proves that prurience will always sell. Yet on that day, unlike all later readers, I was completely unprepared for what it contained.
The charge against me is a connection with one James Reynolds for purpose of improper pecuniary speculation. My real crime an amorous connection with his wife, for a considerable time with his privity and connivance . . .
I caught my breath as if I’d been struck. His real crime . . . an amorous connection. . . . I could scarcely comprehend the words I was reading. I resisted the impulse to push away the pages, realizing too late that I did not want to learn what was contained in this writing. But having started, I had to continue.
Some time in the summer of the year 1791, a woman called at my house in the city of Philadelphia, and asked to speak with me in private....
I forced myself not to rush, to read each word with care, and to overlook nothing.
She told me the street and the number of the house where she lodged. In the evening, I put a bank-bill in my pocket and went to the house. I inquired for Mrs. Reynolds and was shewn up stairs, at the head of which she met me and conducted me into a bed room. I took the bill out of my pocket and gave it to her. Some conversation ensued from which it was quickly apparent that other than pecuniary consolation would be acceptable....
Without realizing it, I’d crumpled the edge of the page, my fingers had been holding it that tightly.
After this, I had frequent meetings with her, most of them at my own house; Mrs. Hamilton and her children being absent on a visit to her father . . . .
The words were swimming before my eyes, and I had to blink for them to make sense.
My intercourse with Mrs. Reynolds continued. . . .
I paused as the meaning of the words sank in: nearly a year, then, that this betrayal had gone on.
This confession is not made without a blush. I cannot be the apologist of any vice because the ardour of passion may have made it mine. I can never cease to condemn myself for the pang, which I may inflict in a bosom eminently entitled to all my gratitude, fidelity, and love. But that bosom will approve, that even at so great an expence, I should effectively wipe away a more serious stain from a name, which it cherishes with no less elevation than tenderness. . . .
I compelled myself to read to the very last word. I hadn’t looked at Alexander once from the time I’d begun, and I didn’t now that I’d finished.
I was shaking with grief. I could scarcely breathe from the pain of it.
“Betsey,” he said softly. Somehow he was next to me, his voice anguished.
I pushed myself away from him as I staggered to my feet. I let the pages drop to the floor, where they scattered on the carpet.
I rushed from the parlor, up the stairs, and into the room where little William lay sleeping. I gathered his tiny body from his cradle and held him close, seeking comfort in a love I could trust.
“My dearest,” Alexander said behind me.
I didn’t turn, and I didn’t reply. Swiftly I began gathering a few of the baby’s things to take with me.
“Betsey, please.” He stood in the doorway, blocking my way. “I know I’ve no right to ask your forgiveness, yet . . .”
“Don’t,” I said sharply. The baby in my arms wailed mournfully, and at last I began to cry, too, hot tears of mortification and shame and hurt drawn straight from my heart. “Let me pass. Please let me pass.”
At last he stepped aside from the doorway.
I slipped past him, and hurried down the stairs and away from the house, and from him.