“Well enough,” he said. “It needs a few improvements, though. The farmhouse will do in a pinch, but I’d rather envisioned a fine country house, with tall windows and porches so we can sit outside and watch the boats on the river. A stable for the horses, and gardens. I’ve never had a garden, you know.”
I flung my arms around him and kissed him, too overjoyed for words. I could envision a house for us and our children and our eventual grandchildren, too, far removed from the turmoil of the city, and it was a very fine vision indeed.
*
Once the Democratic-Republicans took possession of the government in February 1801, President Jefferson wasted no time in removing as much as he could of the Federalist legacy, especially anything that could be attributed to my husband. In his usual irksome manner, the new president claimed full credit for a peaceful nation and a happy economy. Neither were the result of his exertions or policies, but his inheritance from the previous Federalist presidencies that he had so desperately despised. Yet the common American seemed incapable of realizing these truths, and lavished President Jefferson and his party with the praise and reverence that their predecessors had deserved, but seldom received.
It was a bitter time for Alexander, who could not resist writing more taunting essays and letters attacking the new president. But to my relief he also spent considerable time on the law, and on the construction of our new house, called The Grange, after a country house in Scotland that had belonged to one of his distant ancestors.
He and I both took delight in our oldest son Philip’s accomplishments, too. He had graduated from Columbia rewarded with prizes and praised as one of the brightest scholars in his class, and he was now reading the law with the aim of joining Alexander in his office.
At nineteen, Philip was tall and handsome and, like his cousin of the same name, a great favorite with the young ladies at balls and assemblies. I also guessed that he enjoyed himself with his friends in ways and places that young gentlemen his age often explore, and that on occasion he was party to certain small scrapes and misadventures that he and Alexander chose not to share with me. I was content to remain ignorant. So long as Philip dined regularly at our table, made sure his younger sister always had a partner at the assembly, and joined us for church on Sunday morning, I was content.
I suspected one of these misadventures on a chilly Friday evening in November, when he and another friend appeared very late at our house to speak to Alexander. There had been some sort of scuffle—I could tell that from the disarray of their evening clothes—and likely some sort of difficulty involving the watch, for both young gentlemen had long, somber faces before they disappeared with Alexander into his office. I was pregnant with my eighth child—one more proof of the new contentment between Alexander and me—and because I was forty-five years old and often tired, I was reluctant to sacrifice so much as a moment of my sleep. I went back to bed, and thought no more of Philip’s mischief.
I did note, however, that he seemed especially devout at his prayers on Sunday, and that after supper, he praised my apple pie as exemplary, and embraced me with more open affection than he usually before he left.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I teased, ruffling his hair back from his forehead with a mother’s prerogative.
He shrugged, his shoulders working restlessly beneath his coat. Most of the time now he seemed a grown man to me, but I still could glimpse moments when he was a boy again, a bit awkward and uncertain.
“There’s nothing to it, Mamma,” he said solemnly, and swallowed. “Only that you are the best mother in Creation, that’s all.”
“And I the most fortunate of mothers, to be blessed with such a son,” I said, touched by his words, “Now you’d best go, if you’ve so much more reading to accomplish today.”
I hugged him again, and kissed him on his cheek so that he flushed. Then he loped down the steps two at a time, mounted his horse that the servant held for him, waved one last time to me, and departed. I watched him go, observing that he was riding too fast for the state of the road after last night’s rain, and that I’d have to scold him on the subject when I saw him next.
On Monday afternoon I had just finished dusting the books in Alexander’s library (a task I never trusted to maidservants) when there was a frantic thumping on the front door. Because I was in the hall, I opened the door myself. One of the Churches’ servants was on the step, breathing hard from running. He bowed quickly to me, and handed me a terse, swiftly written note in Angelica’s hand.
My dearest sister come at once. Your Philip has suffered a Terrible accident. ~ A.C.
I cried out with alarm and fear just as one of my servants appeared. I told her to fetch my cloak and then to watch the younger children whilst I was gone to my sister’s house, and then left with the Church servant.
“Can you tell me what has happened?” I begged of the man. “Did my son fall from his horse? Was he struck by a wagon in the street?”
But the man only shook his head, his face wreathed with sorrow. “Mrs. Church told me not to tell you, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said. “Only to bring you as fast as I could.”
I didn’t press him, but my fear grew with every hurried step. Angelica met me at the door, taking me firmly by the arm to lead me to a small bedroom at the back of the house.
“What has happened to my boy, Angelica?” I demanded breathlessly. “What is wrong?”
“My own dear sister,” she said, supporting me as she spoke. “There has been a duel.”
If she said more after that, I do not recall it, for I was already in the room where my poor son lay, on a plain open bed without curtains. His handsome face was ashen and contorted with pain, his eyes blank and unseeing, and if not for the painful wracking that each breath caused him, I would have thought he was already lost to me. Although some attempt had been made to bind the wound in his side, there was blood everywhere, on the sheets, on the mattress, in a puddle on the floor. Also on the bed lay my husband, tears streaming from his eyes as he cradled our shattered boy in his arms.
With a wordless cry of anguish, I rushed to them both, claiming my son’s other side. Heedless of how his blood stained me, I curled beside my boy, his father and I holding him as tenderly as we could while his young life slipped away. I could not help but think of how Alexander and I would lie together with our baby Philip between us, how we’d pet and kiss him and dream together of the fine future we were certain would be his.
And now it had come to this instead.