CHAPTER 21
New York City, New York
August 1797
The distance between our house and the Churches’ on Robinson Street was not far, and I had walked it countless times before without much thought. But on this day I was only a fortnight removed from childbed, and the child I’d carried for nine months in my womb was now squalling in my arms. The afternoon was hot, and in my haste to leave I’d neglected to pause for a hat, so the sun was full in my face. But most of all, I carried upon my shoulders the impossibly heavy weight of my husband’s betrayal, and by the time that I climbed the white stone steps to my sister’s house, I was gasping for breath. When the footman opened the door, I stumbled inside, my tear-filled eyes slow to adjust after the bright sun, and the servant caught my arm to support me and the child.
“Eliza!” exclaimed my sister, hurrying into the hall to me. “What is wrong? What has happened?”
“It’s Alexander,” I said, my voice choked with fresh tears. “Oh, Angelica, what he did, what he has done! I would never have thought him capable of such a thing. How could he have done this to me, to us, to our children!”
Angelica’s expression softened with pity. “He has finally told you, then.”
“You knew, too?” I cried. “How is it that everyone knew of this except for me?”
“Not everyone,” she said, striving to calm me as she took my arm. “Come upstairs, and we shall talk. Let’s give little William to Agnes to hold, and I’ll help you the rest of the way.”
Her children’s nursery maid was standing beside her, and with a mixture of reluctance and relief I handed my child into her capable arms. Now I noticed that there were other servants here as well, hovering to one side, and that her two daughters, Kitty and Elizabeth, and my own Angelica were watching, wide-eyed and uncertain, from the doorway to the parlor. For their sake, I tried to gulp back my sobs, and failed.
Angelica slipped her arm around my waist. “Come upstairs to my room with me, my dear,” she said gently. “We’ll have a glass of lemonade, and we’ll talk.”
I sagged against her and let her lead me up the stairs to her bedchamber. It was cooler in here, with this corner of the house shaded by trees, and the windows thrown open and the shades drawn against the afternoon sun. I dropped onto the sofa in her bedchamber and buried my face in my hands, and she sat beside me, her arm around me. She said nothing, but let me cry, and cry I did, until my handkerchief was sodden and my eyes burned, yet still more tears came, drawn straight from the break in my heart.
A servant entered with a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and a plate of biscuits, as if I were making an ordinary call. Angelica murmured something to the servant, who curtseyed and left us again.
“I sent word to Hamilton that you and William are safe with me,” she said quietly. “I didn’t want him to worry.”
I sat upright with a shuddering sob. “What does he care?”
“He cares, Eliza,” she said, carefully smoothing strands of my tear-soaked hair away from my forehead. “No matter what you think at this moment, he loves you, and he always will.”
“Do you know what he has done, Angelica?” I asked tremulously. “Has he told you and Mr. Church?”
“Why don’t you tell me instead,” she said. “That is, if you can.”
I nodded, steeling myself. “He has written a pamphlet in which he confesses to having had an—an amorous connection—six years ago!—in Philadelphia with some coarse, wanton woman named Maria Reynolds.”
Oh, how I hated saying even her name aloud, and from anger and shame I broke off, looking down at my crumpled handkerchief.
“My poor, dear sister,” murmured Angelica. “How dreadful for you to learn of it like that.”
“I remember when she came to our house seeking his assistance,” I said, the painful words coming fast now that I’d begun. “I thought nothing of it and yet he—he went to her rooms later that night, and she offered herself to him, and he—they did what they did, and then he came home to me. And I didn’t know, Angelica. I didn’t realize any of it was happening.”
“But how could you, sweet?” she asked. “You’d no reason to suspect him, nor reason for distrust.”
My eyes burned with fresh tears. “That was when James was so sick and I took him to Albany, and while I was worrying over our child, he—Alexander—was bringing this woman into our home, into our own bed, many times.”
Angelica drew in her breath. “He wrote that in the pamphlet, too?”
“He did,” I said, my voice squeaking with emotion. “He says that he continued to—to be with her for nearly a year, and even paid her husband—her husband!—for the privilege of continuing with her, and keeping the secret.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing it were as easy to blot out the tawdry words I’d read. “There were other men who knew of it, too, including Mr. Monroe, who told that hateful man Callender. I understand that it is better for the world to know the truth, that Alexander wasn’t compromising his—his integrity as the secretary. He was just compromising . . .” I broke into fresh sobs. “. . . our marriage.”
I lowered my head, overwhelmed. I heard the clink of the silver pitcher against the edge of a glass, and then Angelica was pressing that glass into my hand.
“Drink this,” she ordered, and I did, so broken by despair that I was as obedient as any of our children. The lemonade was sweet with sugar and orange-water, with the bite of mint: my sister’s own recipe. From that day onward, I could never bring myself to drink it again.
“None of this is your fault, Eliza,” Angelica insisted. “I know you will somehow blame yourself, because that is how you are, but it isn’t. Not one bit.”
“But why else would he have gone to her?” I asked miserably. “I’ve always loved him with all my heart, but if that wasn’t—”
“Hush,” she said, taking my hand in hers. “It’s always the case that evil will do what it can to corrupt goodness, and break and reduce a noble spirit to its own base level.”
“The Democratic-Republicans,” I said, my bitterness undisguised. I couldn’t forgive these fine gentlemen, nor did I wish to. “Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Burr, and especially Mr. Monroe.”
“Exactly,” Angelica said. “Your Hamilton is known for his generous spirit to those in need, especially to women in difficult circumstances. One of his finest qualities became a weakness to be exploited by his enemies.”