From the first day I returned, I joined him in his small study in the back of the house, curled in the armchair near the fire with my sewing. After nearly ten years of listening to my husband’s financial opinions and theories, I was likely as knowledgeable as the gentlemen who sat in Congress, and perhaps more so than some of the more obstinate ones. These conversations between Alexander and me had become a vitally important part of our marriage, another kind of partnership, and I realized their absence had contributed to my unhappiness last autumn.
By the time the report was done and printed into a pamphlet, it was fifty-one pages and tens of thousands of words in length. The night before it was to be read aloud to the House of Representatives, Alexander could not sleep, tossing so restlessly beside me that I could not sleep, either, which was perhaps his intention all along.
“They will find a thousand things to fault, Betsey,” he said with gloomy resignation once he realized I was awake. “I know it. Half of them won’t have the patience to comprehend my arguments, and the others have already made up their minds before they’ve heard a word.”
“Your arguments are logical and concise,” I said, “and your solutions are wise and necessary, as any man of intelligence will understand.”
“But that’s the true problem, isn’t it?” he said irritably. “Much of Congress appears to consist of half-wits and pea-brains, unable to figure their own reckonings in a tavern, let alone a nation’s budget.”
“I know few gentlemen are as clever as you,” I said, resting my palm on his chest, “but if you wish them to accept your recommendations, a little humility would not be amiss.”
“A mountain of humility wouldn’t help,” he said, and groaned. “It will be like the old Congress all over again. They won’t approve it because they’ve already decided they won’t, from sheer perversity.”
“Do not be so pessimistic, Alexander,” I urged gently. “Congress nominated you to find a solution, and you have. They will criticize, and they will debate. That’s why they’re here. But your solution will be a weighty meal for them to swallow whole. Let them take small bites, and decide that way if it’s to their taste.”
He groaned again. “So long as they don’t vomit the entire meal back upon my shoes.”
“Even if they do, you must vow not to take offense.” Lightly I tapped his chest, a kind of wifely remonstration. “Try not to take their criticisms to heart, Alexander. It is the report they will be attacking, not you.”
He didn’t answer, but rolled to his side to face me, shoving his hair back from his face.
“You will come tomorrow, when the report is read aloud?” he asked, betraying his anxiety. “You’ll be there in the galleries?”
“You know I shall,” I promised. Women were permitted to sit in the galleries of Federal Hall to observe Congress. I hadn’t attended before, but I’d heard from other ladies that depending on the day and the debate, Congress could be as dull as yesterday’s dishwater with senators asleep in their chairs, or as raucous as a bare-knuckles fight between sailors, with shouting and disorder. I prayed that the reception to Alexander’s labors would fall somewhere between the two, and for him, I’d climb to the gallery to watch.
“I cannot stay the entire day on account of the children,” I continued, “but I’ll be there when it begins.”
“I’ll find you.” He smiled, and lightly touched his fingers to my cheek. “And make certain you pray for me, my love. Given how surly the men from Virginia and the Carolinas have already been toward me, a bit of divine support would be most welcome.”
I did pray for him—though I did not go so far as to wish ill upon the senators from Virginia and the Carolinas—and the next day I made my way up the narrow stairs to the gallery. I sat with several other ladies, wives of congressmen whom I’d met at Lady Washington’s receptions, and just as a small flock of hens will draw together against a hazard, we formed a sufficient bastion of respectability to keep away the coarser men who’d also come upstairs to watch.
Because as secretary Alexander was a member of the executive branch of the government, he was not permitted to present his paper directly to the House, although he was seated to one side. He must have been watching the gallery, for as soon as I was settled, he looked directly toward me, and smiled.
I think that must have been the only time he smiled in Federal Hall that day, or many after that. I remained through the lengthy reading, and returned at my husband’s request to hear the debates that began a week later. From them, one fact became abundantly clear: that while my husband had been occupied with the herculean task of devising this financial plan, he had also made a good many enemies.
I had suspected as much. Alexander could be charming and engaging one moment, and then with a blunt, unthinking word or two, permanently destroy all the previous good will. Honesty was both his blessing and his curse.
But to listen to endless attacks not only upon my husband’s plans, but his allegiances to the country, and even his patriotism—he was several times accused of being an English sympathizer!—was more than anyone, especially he, could swallow with grace. It was difficult enough for me, sitting straight-backed in the gallery while those around me turned to look at me, eager to see how I’d respond. I didn’t give them either the satisfaction or the tattle, but it wasn’t easy.
Some of my husband’s attackers were to be expected, men whose states had always aligned against the Federalists, but there were others who shocked me with their vehemence, the first of these being James Madison from Virginia. I’d always considered Mr. Madison, one of Alexander’s fellow authors of The Federalist, to be among his staunchest allies, until he, too, attacked the report, calling it a betrayal of the ideals of the Revolution, and a great deal more besides. Agreeing with Mr. Madison was the other senator from Virginia, Colonel James Monroe.
The new senator was already known in New York society, for several years before he’d married a lady from our city, Miss Elizabeth Kortright. Tall and reserved in his speech, Colonel Monroe seemed content to let Mr. Madison make the most salient arguments, and then he would agree. Unfortunately, this meant that the colonel, too, like Mr. Madison, publicly agreed to disagree with my husband and scorn his report, much to Alexander’s dismay.
Yet as wounded as Alexander was by the debates, he somehow managed to hold himself back from the fray, and let his supporters defend the report. For my part, I ceased attending the debates after the first three days.
“I know you wished me to go so that I might tell you what is said, Alexander,” I said warmly when I told him my decision. “But as your loyal wife, I cannot sit there any longer and listen to those simpletons attack your beautiful report. I suppose that makes me a poor sort of Christian, unable to turn the other cheek, but I simply cannot bear it any longer.”
He laughed, and somehow found the forbearance not to toss my own cautionary words to him back at me.
“My poor put-upon Betsey,” he teased. “I warned you how vexing our country’s congressmen can be.”