At least he agreed to let me give a supper in their honor. We invited their friends from New York and from the war, and a few more of our own as well, to make a large and merry company. Such a sizable gathering taxed my little household, but I borrowed a few other servants and a few more chairs, contrived appropriately fancy dishes for the table, and spent indulgently on the wines.
As was always the case with Angelica, I felt as if a brilliant, fiery star had once again come streaking into my world. After two years in Paris with Parisian mantua-makers and milliners at her disposal and an indulgent, wealthy husband to pay her bills, she’d become even more beautiful, more fashionable, more elegant.
She swept into our house dressed in a gown of rustling purple silk taffeta, edged with pale green pleated trim, and her extravagantly full skirts flicked around her as she walked. Her hair was frizzled into a huge puff around her face with long beribboned curls down the back, and dusted with the palest of lavender powder. In her ears, she wore enormous gold hoops with pearl drops, and around her throat was a necklace of more pearls mingled with garnets.
She had the seat of honor beside Alexander, with Mr. Church sitting beside me. Angelica swiftly put my husband (and every other gentleman) under her spell, regaling us all with titillating gossip of the French court as the pearl earrings bobbed against her cheeks. She’d also become good friends with the prominent Americans in Paris, including Benjamin Franklin, the first American envoy, as well as the second, Thomas Jefferson, and had amusing tales of them, too. Of course Alexander relished every word, encouraging her by speaking French and applauding her wit.
If Angelica had been born to other parents, I believe she could have earned her living on the stage, because she possessed a rare ability to make everyone in the room watch her, and be entertained by her wit, extravagance, and beauty. As had so often been the case in our lives, I could only sit in near-silent awe of her, and marvel that I’d such a glorious lady for a sister.
It wasn’t until she and I and our children were once again at The Pastures that I’d opportunity to converse with her more intimately. With the children left in the house with servants, we went walking together in the gardens early one morning, when the day was still cool and the dew glittered on the grass and dampened the hems of our linen petticoats. Here Angelica was simply my sister, without the constant desire to be the cynosure of society.
“I’m with child again,” she said when we were far enough from the house to be outside of anyone’s hearing. She said it as an unremarkable announcement, a matter of fact, with neither joy nor sadness in it. “That’s part of the reason John wishes to return to England so soon, that the child be born there.”
“Is he pleased?” I asked tentatively. Alexander had greeted both my pregnancies with great pleasure, but Mr. Church was much more reserved by nature, and besides, Angelica had already given him two boys and two girls.
“He will be if it’s another boy,” she said, looking straight ahead. “He prefers the boys. He sees them as having more use in life, and more purpose.”
I thought at once of my own little Angelica, and how Alexander adored her like a miniature goddess. How sad that Mr. Church didn’t feel the same devotion for his daughters!
“Perhaps you can return here next summer, and stay longer,” I said. “Consider how much our children would enjoy it.”
But she only shook her head, twisting a loose strand of hair back beneath the brim of her straw hat.
“I’ve not told this yet to Mamma or Papa,” she said, “and I’m not sure I will, for it will only hurt them. I don’t know when, if ever, we shall return here. John desires us to live entirely in England. He has already purchased a home for us in Mayfair, in London, and is seeking a second house in the country so that he might stand as a member to Parliament.”
“Oh, Angelica,” I said softly, trying to think only of her, and not of how I was in essence losing my older sister. “Perhaps in time he will relent.”
“Once John determines his mind, he never alters from it,” she said. “But I shall adapt. I did in Paris, and I’ll do so again in London. You’d be thoroughly amused, Eliza, to see the ease with which your New York–bred sister can conquer society abroad.”
But she didn’t sound amused herself. “All those parties,” I said, “and the clever gentlemen who follow you about—you made it sound so diverting.”
“What else would you have me say, Eliza?” she said with an unhappy shrug. “When I first met John, this was the life I told him I wanted. He hasn’t forgotten, and he’s given me everything I wished. But now—now I would trade it all for my summers back here in Albany.”
“I’d like that, too,” I said wistfully, but she only shrugged again, this time as if to shrug aside my sympathy.
“But you, Eliza—how you bask in the warmth of your husband’s love,” she said, deliberately moving the conversation from her life to mine. “I vow your Hamilton grows more sleek and handsome by the year. Life in New York must agree with you both admirably.”
“It does,” I said, and with a certain pride, too. “Alexander is content with the challenges of his profession, and he’s devoted to our children. Once you warned me of his ambitions, but after the frustrations of Congress, he seems to be cured of public life except for observation at a distance.”
“That’s a credit to you, Eliza,” she said. “To see you together, there’s no doubt that he loves you even more today than when you were wed.”
I blushed with pleasure at this truth. Children and marriage had ripened our love, and I considered myself the most blessed of wives to have Alexander as my husband.
“Yes, Hamilton loves you well,” she continued, “and after witnessing his regard for you myself, I hesitate to speak further. But for your own good, you should know what is being whispered.”
My blush deepened, but not with pleasure. “There is nothing to whisper, Angelica. Alexander possesses much charm, and unlike many other gentlemen, he is perfectly at ease in the company of ladies. I would much rather have a husband who retains the air of a young gallant, than one who has become a dour curmudgeon before his time.”
Yes, I meant Mr. Church, which was most unkind of me to say, but Angelica took no notice.
“Perhaps I have been too long in Paris,” she began, “where even shopkeepers keep mistresses, and a faithful husband is the rarest of all creatures. When Hamilton is spoken of—as he often is—it is largely to praise his intelligence and his wisdom. Yet there is also quieter talk of how he is perhaps too fond of the company of ladies, his manner a shade too flirtatious, even lickerish, for a gentleman of his stature and accomplishment.”
I stopped, too shocked to walk farther. “My husband has many enemies, Angelica,” I said, my voice shaking, “and there are those who will say and write any kind of slander to harm him. But that my own sister would dare repeat these calumnies to me—”
She turned to face me, her expression solemn. “It’s better that you hear it from me than from another, isn’t it?”