The long march, the siege and battle, and then the ride to Albany had all taken their toll on Alexander’s health. He’d never been hardy, relying more on will and spirit than a robust constitution to accomplish the prodigious amount that he did, but the exertions and hardships of the last months finally proved more than even he could bear.
The best physicians in Albany were summoned, and though I had dreaded that Alexander was taken with camp fever, a common malady that claimed as many soldiers as battle-wounds, to my relief the physicians declared he’d no grievous illness beyond exhaustion. The prescribed treatment was lengthy, but not complicated. Alexander was duly bled to relieve any unfortunate humors that might have lingered from his efforts on the battlefield. He was ordered to remain in his bed, and not to rise for the next six weeks, or risk further weakness. As a restorative, a compress of flannel dipped in hot wine was applied to the pit of his stomach three times during the day, and his diet was restricted to strengthening nourishment, including new-laid eggs lightly poached, rich chocolate, light roast meats, savory soups, and clear jellies. He was permitted cordials and brandy for fortification, but no ardent spirits. His company was limited to our immediate family, much to the disappointment of all those in Albany who wished to call to congratulate him as a newly minted hero, and hear him describe the victory himself.
So weak was his condition that for the first weeks he was completely agreeable to these restrictions, and slept more hours than he was awake: a complete change from my husband’s normal habits. I seldom left his side, striving to make sure that whenever he did wake, mine was the first face he saw. I tended to him myself as best I could, and reluctantly relied on the servants when his care was beyond me. My sister Angelica, visiting with her family for the holidays, gave me respite as well, and pleased Alexander no end with her fussing and petting him in French.
Slowly he began to improve and regain his strength, and though he credited me, I believe it was his own indomitable will that carried him through. We were quite a pair, my husband and I: I was round as a pumpkin while he was thin as a rail, and we laughed together at what a ridiculous couple we must present.
Ridiculous, yes, but also most contented. We conversed by the hour, making up for the months when he’d been away. I sat in a chair beside the bed, and sewed while he told me of the campaign, of adventures during the long march and through the last encampment. He recounted stories he knew would entertain me: how the patriotic ladies in Philadelphia had put thirteen candles in their houses’ windows when the army had marched past, and how he’d been the only officer who hadn’t become seasick when they’d sailed down the chop of Chesapeake Bay to Annapolis.
I heard how he’d been reunited with his dearest friends from earlier in the war, John Laurens, the Marquis de Lafayette, and Nicholas Fish, and how they had triumphed together. I watched how, for the benefit of my younger brothers, he thrillingly re-created his men’s attack and capture of Redoubt 10 (a British stronghold fiercely defended by about seventy enemy soldiers), using their old toy soldiers and with his knees beneath the coverlet to represent the redoubt.
The stories I had to share were far less exciting, mostly news and regards from friends like Kitty Livingston and Lady Washington. I was able to tell him, however, of meeting his old acquaintance Mr. Burr.
“Burr is in Albany?” he asked with surprise. He was propped against the pillows and comfortably clad in a shirt and flannel dressing gown. His hair was untied and tousled around his shoulders, his face had lost its hollowed look, and his coloring was much improved, though the scattering of new freckles—I called them his Virginia freckles—remained. In short, to me my husband was altogether handsome, perhaps the most handsome gentleman in all the state. If I hadn’t been so close to my time and he still under doctor’s orders to avoid excitement, I would have climbed into bed with him and loved him as a devoted wife should.
Instead I merely nodded and rethreaded my needle, trying to concentrate instead on Colonel Burr. “He is here to study the law, and hopes to obtain his license to practice. He called upon Papa with a letter of introduction from General McDougall.”
“Burr to study the law,” he said, musing. “Before the war, he’d determined upon theology to become a minister like his father, and his father’s father before him. I could have guessed even then that he’d give that up in favor of more stimulating career. What else could it be besides the law?”
“Perhaps you two shall study together,” I suggested. “He seemed an intelligent gentleman, and well-spoken.”
“Oh, he is that,” he said drily. “He’s a well-bred, impatient rascal, accustomed to having his own way.”
“He also confessed to having serious attentions toward a lady,” I said. “I wondered if it was anyone I know here in Albany.”
Alexander laughed. “Oh, my dearest innocent angel,” he said. “You truly have not heard of this lady, not from Angelica or any of your other female spies? The scandal is widely known.”
“No, I have not,” I said, disappointed that my news was so behindhand. “Who is she, Alexander?”
“She is a lady from New Jersey named Mrs. Theodosia Prevost,” he said. “She is said to be well-spoken, generous, and learned, with a gift for French, much like your sister herself. That’s all to her praise, and not where the scandal lies, however. Rather, not only is she said to be a good decade older than Burr, but she is also married to a British officer.”
“Oh, goodness,” I said, genuinely startled, and reminded again of how much more worldly Alexander was than I. “That’s very wicked of them. Not only because she is an—an adulteress, but also because her sympathies must be with the enemy. No wonder he did not last as an aide-de-camp in His Excellency’s Family.”
“You did hear Burr’s particulars, didn’t you?” he teased. “He wasn’t conducting his little intrigue with the officer’s wife whilst he was with the general, or yes, he would have received a goodly sermon from the great man on the honorable demeanor expected of the army’s officers. But I suspect it was more that Burr hasn’t the temperament for the general’s foibles.”
“Perhaps not,” I agreed, remembering how Colonel Burr had admitted much the same thing himself.
“No, indeed,” he said, yawning expansively. “But then, he may not have the temperament for mine, either.”
From this I still wasn’t sure whether he enjoyed the company of the scandalous Colonel Burr or not. Like many gentlemen, Alexander often seemed to reserve his best insults for his closest friends. But we spoke no more of Colonel Burr, not then or anytime soon after, and he and his intrigue were soon put from my mind.