“Not when it’s lies!”
“Even the worst lies often have a breath of truth to them,” she said. “What you dismiss as gallantry might be perceived as more by others. I consider him as another brother, and yet think of how openly he flirts even with me.”
I didn’t want to consider it, any more than I wanted this to be one of my final conversations with my sister before she sailed.
“Alexander means nothing by it, Angelica, I am sure,” I insisted. “How could he, sitting at the same table as Mr. Church and me?”
“My dearest Eliza,” she said gently. “I don’t wish the rumors to be so. I love both you and Hamilton too well for that. Tell me the tales aren’t true, that you’ve never had reason to doubt him, and I’ll believe you.”
“None of it is true, Angelica,” I said vehemently. “Alexander is my husband before God, and the father of my children. I love him and I trust him and I honor him, and I will not hear anyone, not even you, say otherwise.”
“Then you won’t hear further upon the subject from me,” she said, looking down and away from me. “Forgive me, Eliza, if what I’ve said has hurt you, for that was never my wish. But be aware, as every wife should be. Hamilton is a charming, handsome gentleman, and the more successful he becomes, the more other women will take notice. Be aware, my dear. Just . . . be aware.”
CHAPTER 15
New York City, New York
February 1786
I sat closely beside Alexander in the gig as he drove, a blanket over our laps and my hands deep inside my muff. As was usual along the city streets, our progress was slow on account of the wagons, horses, cattle, and people that all crowded along the thoroughfares at a much slower pace than Alexander wished. We likely would have traveled just as fast if we’d walked, but Alexander wouldn’t hear of it, insisting that I should be coddled. I was six months pregnant with another child, and although this would be our third, my husband still treated me with the same care, tenderness, and a bit of wondering awe that he’d shown me before Philip was born.
I glanced at him now as he concentrated on driving. I’d always loved his face in profile, the strong, sharp lines of his nose and chin balanced by the seductively sweet curve of his mouth. He was twenty-nine now, and although he lamented that his youth was done, to me he’d only grown more handsome with time. I wasn’t alone in this conviction, either. Even now, I saw how other women we passed on the street would pause to gaze upon my husband in admiration, and I was thoroughly proud to call him mine.
This wasn’t new, of course. He’d always been the kind of handsome gentleman who drew female eyes to him. But as much as I was loath to admit it, I was more conscious of this kind of admiration after Angelica had remarked upon it last summer. She’d cautioned me to be more aware and I had, though by doing so I’d felt low and mean, as if I were distrusting Alexander, or worse, countering my marriage vows.
My only solace had been that, to my eyes, Angelica’s worries had been exaggerated. Perhaps she truly had been too long in Paris, observing French manners. Oh, there were plenty of New York women—and not a few ladies—who openly flattered and flirted with him, even in my presence. In turn he was polite and solicitous, and charming because to be so was in his very nature, but I never once witnessed him encouraging any of them, or stepping across the line of genteel gallantry. Further, every day he reminded me again of his love for me in a hundred small ways, so many that I was sure I was the only one with a claim to his heart. Wasn’t this third child, conceived of love and ardor, proof enough?
“Here we are, Betsey,” he said, interrupting my pleasant thoughts, and reminding me of the errand upon which we were engaged.
Being married to Alexander meant my life took many curious turns, but I had never before entered the city’s gaol, nor, as a lady, had I ever intended to. The gaol was in fact our destination this morning, a grimly forbidding building that was more a fortress of brick with few windows, and those crossed with iron bars against escape.
I held closely to my husband’s arm as he helped me from the gig, and together we climbed the stone steps that led inside. Beneath my heavy cloak, I was dressed more for an afternoon call than for visiting a gaol, but Alexander had assured me that my attire was exactly right: a cream-colored silk Italian gown with a pink silk sash and an embroidered gauze kerchief. I’d had my hair fashionably curled and frizzed in a style that Angelica likened to that worn by the Queen of France, and my head was fully powdered even at this early hour. I’d balked at wearing jewels to a gaol, even though Alexander encouraged me to do so, and in their stead I wore a slender black ribbon tied loosely around my throat as my only ornament.
“I don’t want you to be frightened, dearest,” Alexander said as we waited in the gaoler’s parlor. “Recall that Mr. Earl is a debtor, not a common criminal.”
“I’ll admit to being uncertain, Alexander, but not frightened,” I said, “But even you must grant that this is most unusual.”
“It is,” he admitted. “But it’s a small act of great generosity that will help Mr. Earl resolve his present difficult plight.”
“I don’t deny the benefit to Mr. Earl,” I said, “and after having gone first, I’ll happily sing his praises to the other ladies in town, as you suggest. It’s just that I’ve never sat for my likeness before.”
This was true. Despite my parents’ wealth and position, they hadn’t placed importance upon portraits or paintings in general, especially when artists were so rare and charged a premium for their service. Mamma and Papa themselves had only sat for a single portrait apiece, and those many years before.
But this was an unusual circumstance. Although an accomplished painter who had been trained by masters in London, Mr. Earl was sadly given to drink, and had fallen into such debt that he had been committed to gaol until he could meet the demands of his creditors. Through Alexander’s efforts, and assistance from the Society for the Relief of Distressed Debtors, Mr. Earl had been provided with paints and canvases with the hope that he could earn his way to freedom through portraits. Mine would be the first.
It was typical of the many charities my husband did for others. He recalled from his own miserable childhood the rare beneficences that others had shown toward him, and as a result he never turned away anyone in true need. Yet he also always acted quietly, without fanfare, and from pure kindness and self-satisfaction.