“What of it?” I said warily. Such behavior among gentlemen was hardly unknown to me; my father’s entertainments for his friends were often like this.
“What of it?” she repeated, unable to keep the triumph from her whisper. “Because I have it on the best advice that when the officers take their turns with a toast for each wife and sweetheart, our dear friend Hamilton raises his glass to you by name, and all the other gentlemen follow.”
I listened, stunned. Having my name toasted in the officers’ quarters would not please my aunt, but I found it undeniably thrilling to think that Alexander Hamilton would toast me as his sweetheart.
“You are sure of this?” I asked eagerly. “You know it for fact?”
“I wouldn’t tell you if it weren’t so,” she said. “We both know that Colonel Hamilton has left half the women in New Jersey panting for his attentions, yet you, Eliza, are the one who has dazzled him. Though it’s not surprising, is it? You’re a perfect match for a man like him. You’re a Schuyler, and you’re rich, and your father’s a friend of His Excellency’s, and—”
“Why must everyone assume that he likes me only because of Papa and his money?” I whispered, my frustration spilling over. “Your family has power and wealth, too, Kitty, and no one says that of you.”
Kitty gave a small, dismissive shrug to her shoulders that was also faintly pitying. “That’s because no suitor of mine has been as impoverished and without a respectable family as Colonel Hamilton.”
I don’t believe she intended to wound me or insult Alexander, but her words still stung.
“Colonel Hamilton possesses qualities and virtues that are worth far more than mere wealth,” I said warmly. “I value him for himself, not for his family or fortune.”
She nodded and fell silent, and remained silent so long that I feared I’d spoken too much. I was almost ready to apologize when she finally spoke again.
“Oh, Eliza,” she said softly. “You care for dear little Hamilton that much?”
“I do,” I said so quickly that I startled myself. Yet it was true; I couldn’t deny it, nor did I wish to.
“How fortunate you are!” she said wistfully. “How fortunate you are! I have yet to have such sentiments for any gentleman.”
“That can’t be true, Kitty, not of you.” Kitty was a belle, a beauty, and always surrounded by admirers at every ball and assembly in a way that they never had been for me.
By the glow of the sleigh’s lanterns, the edge of Kitty’s hood shadowed her face, and all I saw was her half smile, a smile that had lost all its earlier humor. Carefully she lifted her hood back over her shoulders, and the light twinkled in the paste stars she’d pinned into her elaborately dressed and powdered hair, all icy-white as if she were a snow queen incarnate. She turned, and now I could see the entirety of her face, and the concern in her eyes.
“You asked me earlier to speak plainly, and I shall,” she said, covering my hand with her own. “Take care of your heart, Eliza, and do not give it blindly. Perhaps I know Hamilton too well, and I know what he aspires to be. He is ambitious, and he is determined, and he won’t let anything or anyone stop him.”
“If you mean Alexander will achieve great things in his life, Kitty,” I said, “then we agree, as friends should.”
“Hamilton charms the world and makes friends with ease,” she said, “but he also makes enemies, and the higher he rises—and he will rise high—the more hazardous those enemies shall be to you both.”
“I don’t believe it, Kitty,” I said, the only proper answer to unwanted advice, and pulled away my hand. “None of it, not of Alexander.”
“Believe it or not, as it pleases you.” She glanced down at her muff, avoiding my gaze. “His character is widely known among the other officers, and many of the other ladies here, too. But if your father isn’t troubled by Hamilton’s flaws and faults, then why should you be?”
“Papa isn’t,” I said quickly. “Nor am I.”
“Then I’ll never speak of the matter again.” She darted forward and kissed me on the cheek, her lips cold. “Of all women I know, Eliza, I pray you’ll be happy, no matter which gentleman you marry. Now come, let’s dance, and break every heart we can.”
*
A dancing assembly held by subscription (I’d heard the extravagant sum to be $400 a gentleman, but that was at the inflated rate of our then-near-worthless paper bills) and supported by thirty-four of the most esteemed officers of our army sounds like a grand affair. For us wintering in Morristown, it was. But if I had heard described the conditions of this self-proclaimed assembly whilst still in Albany, I would have laughed aloud.
Instead of taking place in an inn or private residence of the first quality, this assembly was held in a military storehouse built by the army near the Morristown Green. Now emptied of goods, the storehouse was as full of echoes as a barn, and like most barns, it had been built for rough service, without any amenities or decoration; I would venture it to be seventy feet in length, and forty in breadth. A pair of crude cast-iron stoves stoked with wood were the sole sources of heat in this cavernous room, and lanterns for light had been strung along the walls on a length of rope. Both the stoves and the inferior tallow candles in the lanterns smoked, and even this early in the evening there was a haze gathered just below the ceiling beams.
The stables for my father’s horses in Albany were more elegantly appointed than this space, and yet the guests gathered here were as brilliant a company as any in our country. Most of the officers wore their dress uniforms, and the lanterns’ light glanced off gold bullion lace, polished brass buttons, and medals and other honors.