He continued to dabble in writing essays, and published again as Phocion. Always aware of the importance of education (for education had been key to his own self-betterment), he first helped create and then served upon the Board of Regents, supervising all matters pertaining to teaching and education within the state. He also was a trustee of the university he’d attended when he first came to New York, now renamed Columbia College, and likewise assisted the institution in their recovery from the war. He had agreed to serve as the business agent for Angelica’s husband whilst they were abroad, no easy task given the purposeful complexity of Mr. Church’s affairs.
Perhaps most notably, he was deeply involved in the founding of the first bank in the city, the Bank of New York on Pearl Street. For guidance he turned to his old ally Robert Morris, who had helped found the first bank in the country in Philadelphia, the Bank of North America, and to Mr. Church, who was one of the Philadelphia bank’s primary investors. Following their advice, Alexander then drew together the first supporters and investors from amongst New York’s most influential gentlemen, and wrote the new bank’s charter as well. For Alexander, the Bank of New York wasn’t simply another business venture, but a way to put many of his long-standing theories on finance to work. He also saw the bank as a way to bring more capital into New York to help rebuild the still-struggling city after the war.
As busy as he was, he still found time to devote to Philip, whom he considered the most perfect child in all Creation, and to me. While I might have wished to have more time with Alexander to myself, I understood how important—no, how essential—it was for his happiness to be of as much use as possible.
And we were happy those first early years in New York. Alexander would make lighthearted jests about his “lucrative practice,” as if such a thing were ripe for ridicule. The truth was that he was successful, and though neither of us were spendthrifts, we could now indulge in things that made our lives more agreeable. Gradually the rooms in our house acquired handsome furnishings, paintings, and looking glasses. We often had friends and acquaintances to dine, and dine well. The wedding gifts—the porcelain plates and teacups, the silver candlesticks and platters—that we’d received years before finally were unpacked and put to use. We kept a smart gig and horses for traveling about town and making calls. Alexander patronized both a French tailor and a French hairdresser, and the rituals of both, conducted in the French language, pleased him no end.
Another change in our household since coming to New York was the employment of servants. This had been a determined decision on which Alexander and I had firmly agreed, but not an uncomplicated one.
At The Pastures, nearly all of the servants, in the fields, the stables, and the house, were Negros owned by my father. Since girlhood, I had accepted this as children do, but as I’d grown older it had never made me easy of conscience. I read of slavery in the Bible, but as a Christian woman the notion of owning another person as property was troubling, and difficult for my conscience to accept. Though my parents were benevolent owners, I’d still witnessed the heartbreaking agony of families being separated and children sold to different owners. Even Papa was not above this, for the slaves he used at his Saratoga mills were so skilled at their trade that he had, on occasion, sold one or two men to other landowners at a profit whilst retaining their wives.
For Alexander, experience had made slavery even more of an anathema to him. His earliest employment in the Caribbean had involved him directly in the odious trade of slavery, with all its humiliation, pain, and misery. After the war, he’d found it impossible to reconcile the freedom promised by the Declaration of Independence and the enslavement that continued for so many of the population. He became one of the earliest members of the New York Society for Promoting the Manumission of Slaves, and unlike many of the other members (who still retained their own slaves, even while calling for an end to the practice), our household practiced what he espoused.
When Alexander and I had first been wed, Mamma had continued to make a loan to us of Rose, who had attended me for many years. When we had set up our housekeeping in New York, Mamma had again offered us the use of Rose, but I’d told Mamma that I wished Rose to be given her freedom first, so that I might pay her honorable wages. Mamma had been shocked, and refused outright, claiming that Rose was much too valuable. As much as this saddened me—for I remained very fond of Rose—I’d held firm, and left her behind at The Pastures.
Instead I’d hired two young women as maidservants in Albany who’d been eager to come to New York: Greetje, who also looked after Philip, and Johanna, who could also help me dress for evening. Later in the year, we also took on a cook, Mrs. Parker, who, though younger than I, was skilled in every manner of cookery both plain and fancy. She’d been widowed during the war, and had found it difficult supporting herself and her children. I considered myself fortunate to have found her, and being a mother myself, happily gave her leave to have her young daughters in the kitchen with her whilst she worked.
But the most noteworthy addition to our family came in September, with the birth of our first daughter, Angelica. Unlike Philip, whose arrival had been preceded by my constant fear for Alexander’s safety, Angelica was born during a more peaceful time in my life, and perhaps because of that, my travail was far easier. Alexander still fretted over me as my time had approached, and at his insistence I was attended by the esteemed Dr. Samuel Bard, General Washington’s personal physician. I missed the familiar, womanly comfort of the midwives in Albany and even more I missed having my mother at my side, too. Still, perhaps because of the more learned skills of the male physicians who delivered the rest of my children, all my babies survived not only their infancies, but their childhoods as well, a blessing few mothers can claim.
“I did predict a daughter,” Alexander said, cradling our tiny new girl in his arms as soon as he was admitted again into my presence. “Though I’d no notion she’d be as beautiful as this.”
I smiled wearily, delighting in the sight of them together. Thanks to Philip, my husband had become very adept at holding babies, a skill most men never did acquire, nor wished to. But Alexander loved his children the same way he did most everything, with fierce concentration and all his heart besides. To watch him with our daughter lying in the crook of his arm, her long linen gown trailing over his sleeve and his face bent low over hers, was to me the sweetest sight imaginable.
“I believe she already has your dimpled chin,” he said. “A winsome feature for a girl.”
“Philip has it, too,” I said. “It’s a Van Rensselaer chin, from my mother.”
“It’s a Hamilton chin now,” he said proudly, slowly walking back and forth. He was not only confident holding babies, but he’d the knack for calming them, too, by making them feel protected and secure. He’d once told me he’d no memory of ever feeling safe as a young child, which had touched me no end. I suppose it also explained how he knew instinctively what a baby most longed for.
“Philip won’t be happy,” he continued. “He did have his heart set upon a brother.”