Sharing Hamilton

Chapter Two

Chapter TwoEliza

“Indeed my Dear Betsey you do not write to me often enough. I ought at least to hear from you by every post and yer last letter is as old as the middle of Sept. I have written you twice since my return from Hartford.” – Early Love Letter from Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler

Albany, NY, Fryday, August 12, 1791

Tis ever so hot and I am heavy with child. Thursday last, Alex insisted the children and I retreat to Albany. Hence the six of us came, with two maidservants and a nurse. I took ill in the carriage and used Philip's lap as a pillow. He's ever so manly at nine and a half. Albany is equally hot, though a breeze stirs here under the willow tree.

I miss Alex and wrote him thrice already. Whilst courting, he wrote frequent letters, but mine were rare. I had no confidence with my grammar to pen a clever letter. I convinced Angelica to write him in my stead. The most educated of us girls, she attended the nation's finest girls' school. Her first letter to Alex and his immediate reply blossomed into a regular correspondence, which they continue to this day. Tis obvious she is smitten with him. Her letters to him resemble that of an ardent lover rather than a married woman to her brother-in-law. As the most beautiful of us three, she eloped first, claiming to love John Church. But I am the lucky one who won—and kept—the gold. I swell with pride as women swoon over Alex. Yet he always shuns them. Tis his nature to labor on his financial programs and law practice rather than chase coquettes.

After ten years of marriage, I am still his bride. If one examines the Schuylers, one will see that some of us married “down,” that is, for love. I fell in love with Alex the minute I set my eyes upon his. I hounded Papa to introduce us. At first he refused—“Hamilton is a cad!”

“Not true,” I'd corrected Papa, “But so what he courts Kitty and Susan Livingston at the same time?”

Then Papa directly quoted John Adams: “He's the bastard brat of a Scots pedlar who left his mother.”

“True enough, Papa,” I conceded. “His father didn't marry his mother and abandoned them, but is that Alex's fault?”

“He is a foreigner,” he further accused.

“Wrong there, Papa,” I informed him. “He was born on Nevis and grew up on St. Croix, but now he's as American as President Washington.”

“He may have n***o blood.”

“Entirely not true!” I protested. “His bloodline is of Scottish nobility, strewn with royal titles including viscounts, barons and dukes.”

Then came more reasons—Alex's elitism, believing the aristocracy should rule. Why would Papa object to that? We came from tough pioneer stock, but had a mansion in Albany, a summer estate in Saratoga, silver, carriages and servants. My father was a Continental Congressman, a Major General of the Continental Army, and a U.S. Senator.

That led to his most important concern of all— “He is marrying you for money and advancement.”

Alas, I could not disprove this. “But even if that were true,” I defended Alex, “he still loves me.

I was so in love with Alex, I'd live in a garret with him. I sought him out behind my father's back. Our destinies met at my Aunt Gertrude's soirée in Morristown. We met in secret, our rendezvous thrilling and f*******n. I climbed out the same window both my sisters had eloped from, just for a stolen hour with Alex.

But he entered Papa's good graces the night he refused to hide any longer. He strode into the drawing room, greeted Papa with all the charm and bearing of the lieutenant he was, and asked for my hand in marriage. Papa gushed, “Why, yes, Secretary Hamilton, I would be honored to have you as a son-in-law.” I think Papa was just relieved I wouldn't leap out the window to elope. Then Alex turned to me and with a flourish, took from his waistcoat pocket a small box. Opening it, I gasped. Two entwined gold bands glinted up at me. Through tears of joy, I read the sentiments engraved on each ring:

Alexander and Eliza.

Coupled for eternity.

“Oh, yes, Alex.” I clutched the harpsichord to steady myself. “Nothing—or nobody—will ever come between us.”

But many things—and many bodies—have come between us.

This summer President Washington is keeping Alex busy running the Treasury Department, the Customs, and starting up the Bank of United States. Far too complicated for me, he modeled it after the Bank of England to create credit. I did understand that Thomas Jefferson considered it unconstitutional. He and Alex always rowed over it.

Alex was the son Washington never had, and Alex told me that the president held harmony in his “official family” highly.

From what Alex explained to me, he envisioned a central bank for the new nation, instead of separate ones for each colony, with so many different kinds of money. After Alex's enemies tried to stop its creation, Congress chartered the bank this year. Alex headquartered it near our Philadelphia home, and it sold 25,000 shares in the initial offering. I remember him telling me the bank would have $10 million when they all sold. I almost fainted. I didn't think there was $10 million in the whole world! But he invested what we had, assuring me “we're sitting on a gold mine.”

The Bank of the United States soared in popularity, shares in high demand. We may be sitting on a gold mine, but I still have to dig deep to pay the bills.

Alex is also beginning the third of his great state papers, his Report on Manufactures. I don't understand it all, but gentleman farmers such as Jefferson oppose it. Alex wants to secure our independence by manufacturing, disallowing imported goods, and encouraging inventions. Personally, I agree with Jefferson on this—I believe this would greatly decrease the number of farmers and landowners. But what do I know?

If Alex is not busy enough, his “pastime” is battling Jefferson in the press, attacking him in scathing articles under the pseudonym “H. Bent” for “Hell Bent.” He also maintains his law practice. All this leaves scant time for socializing—and for us.

At that moment I decided to go home for an unexpected visit. Ah, will he be surprised!

She must be young, handsome (I lay most stress upon a good shape) sensible (a little learning will do), well bred (but she must have an aversion to the word ton), chaste and tender (I am enthusiast in my notions of fidelity and fondness), of some good nature, a great deal of generosity (she must neither love money nor scolding, for I dislike a termagant and an economist). She must believe in God and hate a saint. But as to fortune, the larger stock of that the better. - Alexander Hamilton on finding a wife, 1779.

Maria

I sat stunned. My mouth gaped wide enough for hornets to nest. The wine soured in my stomach. I dared not ask James to repeat his words. “This is the most preposterous scheme you've ever hatched. It even tops your last invention.” That was a microscope he claimed magnified a louse to twelve feet long. Many gullible souls paid three shillings for this spectacle, netting James a tidy sum.

“First, you'll invite Hamilton here for a tryst,” he continued as if deciding where to play marbles, “and when you've rendered him helpless under yur feminine spell, preferably with his britches round his ankles, I burst in and demand compensation for eclipsing my wife's honor. That will net us a few hundred. I shall request a hundred up front, and knowing his generous nature, he'll up it to two hundred.”

A shiver rattled my bones. “James, this outlandish plot is naught short of p**********n! I refuse to seduce a man I hardly know.”

I could almost hear his wheels grinding. His eyes fixed on a knot in the table's wood. His foot tapped a beat on the floorboard. “Git him to return for another bit o'honey,” he thought out loud, ignoring my refusal, “and I shall request a larger sum, in exchange for my silence. We'll collect thousands from the upstanding secretary! And he'd never breathe a word of it to his cronies, 'specially that knobdobber Burr. With a wife and six pups, Hamilton's reputation and entire career would come crashing down.” He slapped his palm on the table, rattling the silver tea service. “We'll milk him dry!”

“We? Do you intend to seduce him as well? No, James, this is not going to happen.” I held up my hands, shaking my head, teeth clenched.

“Look, Maria, you are my wife, and you will do as I say. Now go fetch some o' that coin you got layin' round—” He waved his hand airily. “And buy yurself some perfume or rouge or—whatever it is you ladies smear on to lure us out of our senses. And fetch us some supper as well.”

I shot him my sourest scowl. “Did you not hear a word I said? I shan't seduce Alexander Hamilton!” The thought of it made my palms sweat. I wiped them on my skirt.

“Maria, there are worse men than he. He's cleanly. He has all his teeth. Tis not like ah'm foisting you upon John Adams.”

“No matter who it is, this is naught short of pimping me,” I declared.

He splayed his fingers. “I thought you'd be pleased I think highly enough of you to choose someone of his caliber. I've seen men fob their wives off to the lowliest curs, for much less than Hamilton is capable of providing.”

I narrowed my eyes and stood my ground. “Nay, James, I shan't do it. And I cannot remain your wife if you think so little of me, my body, our vows, as to sell me.” Not granting him a last word, I grabbed the Chaucer book containing my hoarded stash and leapt up the steps to pack a bag.

I had to leave him.

I stuffed my carpet bag to bursting with a dress and undergarments. I dashed down the stairs and swept past him.

He glanced at me, fingers circled round his tankard. “Ah, gonna fetch supper? Git me half a capon and a pickled egg.”

“Fetch your own supper,” I called over my shoulder. “I am leaving you. I shall send for the remainder of my possessions. Unless you sell them first.”

I threw the door open. He shouted, “Come back here, Maria!”

“Take your pickled eggs and stuff them wide end first!” I slammed the door behind me. My rapid steps broke into a run. Before turning the corner, I peered over my shoulder. He hadn't followed. I heaved a relieved sigh. Catching my breath, I asked myself: Where to now?

I knew of many boardinghouses in Southwark, an area occupied by the lower sort. It was all I could afford. Scurrying south, I prayed for a vacant room. Else it was sleep on the street. My money would not last but a few days. I cooked up a few ways to stave off starvation.

The first boardinghouse was full. Dejected, I dragged myself farther down Christian Street. Two more landlords turned me away. I trudged east toward the river. Trembling in fear, I approached Hell Town, packed with bawdy taverns and “disorderly houses.” But with nowhere else to go, I headed in that direction. Mayhap Mary Norris had room in her lodging house on Drinker's Alley, one block south of “Three Jolly Irishmen,” Philadelphia's toughest tavern.

I approached the shabby wood-framed row house and knocked. The door squealed on its rusty hinges as it swung open. There stood a splatter-aproned Mrs. Norris puffing on a pipe.

“Why, Miss—eh—” She scratched her head under her mob cap as she looked me up and down as if to say she knew me, but not from where.

“I'm not a Miss. I'm Mrs. Reynolds. I need a room for a few days.” Please don't ask why, I silently begged, and mercifully, she did not.

“All I've got's the garret room, luv. Two dolls fifty cents in advance, and one doll fifty a day.”

More than I could afford, but either that or the street. I opened my purse and handed her the money. I climbed three flights of stairs to the sweltering back room, threw the window open to the sultry night and collapsed on the rickety cot.