He reached out and rested his hand on my shoulder, the weight of it comforting, and linking us together as father and daughter.
“I recall something else from our journey to Morristown, Eliza,” he said. “I recall that you told me you believed Colonel Hamilton had been spared from danger for the benefit of the country. You believed that he was meant to do great things, and that nothing would stop him until he’d done them.”
“I did say that,” I said, surprised that he’d remembered.
He narrowed his eyes, watching me closely. “Do you believe it still?”
“I do,” I said softly. “Except that now I believe it even more.”
“Then you have your answer, Eliza,” he said. “You needn’t ask me. You already know.”
*
Despite my fears, that wasn’t the last letter I received from Alexander that autumn. While I knew he wrote to me whenever he could, the letters were delivered to me willy-nilly, sometimes three or four together, followed by another that had been written a month previously, and then none for what seemed an eternity. There were still others that were altogether lost, and never arrived at all.
It was the same with my letters to him, and his customary (and untrue!) complaint that I didn’t write to him with sufficient frequency must, for once, have seemed justified. He’d been horrified when I’d written to him of the attack upon our home and the attempt to kidnap my father. He now worried for my safety just as I worried for his, which made the erratic delivery even more of a trial to us both. But in the middle of a military campaign with the army on the march, that was to be expected, and I told myself not to be disappointed when no letter came for me, or when all he’d sent was a scribbled line or two to assure me he was well.
Short or long, Alexander’s letters were my best comfort, especially at night. Before I said my prayers, I always read his last letter again, concentrating on the part where he’d written how much he loved me. Alone in our bed with no one else to overhear, I’d prop his miniature portrait against his pillow beside mine, and read the letter softly out loud, trying to imagine his voice speaking the words.
Alas, my voice was no more his than the painted smile of the miniature possessed his warmth and charm, and I’d sadly put the letter in the wooden box with all the others he’d written me. I’d say my prayers—and oh, such prayers I said for him!—douse the candle, and climb into bed.
Even when surrounded by my family during the day, I felt Alexander’s absence as a constant, gnawing ache, and it only grew worse at night. The bed we’d shared seemed too large and lonely, and I’d always sleep to one side, as if expecting him to join me in the course of the night. It was then that I missed him most: the warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his breath as he slept, the scent of his skin on the sheets.
I’d lie on my back with my hands settled protectively over the rounding swell of my belly, over our child. Alexander hoped for a boy (though his reasoning for the preference—that a girl combining our best qualities would be too devastating to men—was so outlandish that I was convinced he’d love a daughter just as well) and most nights I was sure the child I carried was a son. By now the baby had quickened, and whenever I’d feel those first little kicks of new life within me, I’d wish that Alexander was here to feel them, too. My sister had been safely delivered of her child, another boy, which made me only long the more to meet my own baby.
I’d leave the bed curtains open so I could see the night sky and the moon through the window, and think of how that same moon was shining on Alexander. He wrote to me that he believed that not just the last battles but the war itself could be over before the end of the year, and he’d be back with me by Christmas, never to leave again.
And each clear night I’d watch the moon rise, and pray that he was right.
*
As I have mentioned here before, my parents’ house drew many visitors and guests. Because of my father’s continued importance in the affairs of both state and county, every stranger of means or ambition made sure to present himself to Papa with a letter of introduction. In turn my father would often oblige them as far as he could, and through his kindness arrange other meetings and advantages to help the newcomer find his place in Albany.
Since New York City continued to remain in the hands of the British, Albany’s importance had only increased, and each week brought fresh visitors to our doorstep. Depending upon their importance, some would be invited into our parlor for tea, or perhaps to stay to dine, at Mamma’s discretion, and my sisters and I were expected to play our parts in the family’s hospitality, too. I enjoyed it, and I was also grateful for the diversion from my own worries.
One afternoon Mamma, Peggy, and I were pouring tea for several gentlemen in the parlor when Papa joined us. With him was a gentleman in a dark gray suit, similar to Alexander in age and stature. There the resemblance ended, however. While handsome enough, this gentleman was dark, with a saturnine face and restless eyes beneath heavy brows. He was also notable for not wearing a uniform, a rarity for any man of his age at that time. Yet when Papa brought him to me, I held out my hand and smiled in welcome.
“This is Lieutenant Colonel Burr, Eliza,” Papa said as the gentleman bowed over my hand. “He has come to Albany from New Jersey intending to solicit license to practice the law in our courts. He tells me he is also a longstanding acquaintance of your husband’s, having served with him under His Excellency.”
“How do you do, Colonel Burr?” I said, more eagerly than I’d been first inclined. Despite having attended two winter encampments of the army, I’d still met few of Alexander’s friends and acquaintances. “Forgive me, I did not realize you were an officer.”
He nodded, gracefully accepting my apology. “I was forced to resign my commission on account of ill health, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“He is too humble by half,” my father said. “He was an excellent officer who discharged his duty with uncommon vigilance. Hamilton may not have told you, but long ago, in the early days of the war, Colonel Burr relieved Hamilton and his company when they were cut off at Fort Bunker Hill during the enemy’s attack at Manhattan, and by doing so, likely preserved his life as well.”
“Then I must offer you my heartfelt thanks, Colonel Burr,” I said. Alexander had in fact never mentioned this incident, but then from respect for my tender feelings, he often spared me from past exploits where his life had been in danger. “You must indeed be friends.”
“I was only following the general’s orders, madam,” he said with becoming modesty.
“He also served as an aide-de-camp with the general,” Papa said. “Unlike Hamilton, however, he only lasted a fortnight in that service.”