Sharing Hamilton

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeEliza

“May I only be as successful in pleasing you, and may you be as happy as I shall ever wish to make you!” – Love Letter from Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler

Feminine instinct told me that Alex suffered terrible loneliness without me. In my third letter this week, I expressed my desire to come home, to alleviate his tension. “My angel,” he replied two weeks later, “Let me know beforehand your determination that I may meet you at New York.”

How sweet of my darling Alex, interrupting his work to journey to New York and travel home together. But I shan't have it.

I shall make the journey alone and surprise him! I shall arrive at our house in the dead of night, tiptoe up the steps and into our bedroom, where my beloved sleeps, whisper words of love, my lips upon his.

That night at dinner, I told the family, “I plan to surprise Alex in Philadelphia, then I'll return to finish the summer in clean air and your familial affection.”

They all stared, stricken, as if I'd told them I planned to paddle a canoe across the ocean.

“But, Mother, your journey here was so difficult,” Philip reminded me, the caretaker, wise beyond his years. His mathematical calculations looked Greek to me.

“I shall be fine.” I dismissed the harrowing two-hundred-thirty mile journey, relishing the moment I'd touch my husband's lips with mine, and the bliss that would follow. “He needs me, I know it in my heart,” I added, to assure myself that it was no whim. “I know what he is thinking, and especially what he's feeling. Our love transcends great distances.”

“Then,” said Papa, “I must insist that you at least consult with Dr. Black before embarking on such a journey. If he assures us all is well and you are strong enough to undertake such a trial, then you may go with our blessing.”

Ah, the mention of that name evoked tingly sensations inside me. I'd first encountered Dr. Severus Black at one of Alex's soirées to raise funds for his political crony Jon Dayton. By the doors to the garden, a gaggle of adoring females, young and old, surrounded the handsome figure. How he sensed my interest I do not know, but when I blinked, his cobalt blue eyes seemed to burn into mine. Even from that distance, his eyes stood out. With his gaze fixed on me, he excused himself from his harem of admirers. He strode straight up to me and halted within embracing distance.

“Mrs. Hamilton, our hostess, I presume?” His deep voice greeted me with resonance…and a sensuous English accent.

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” My knees wobbled.

“Forgive me.” He bent slightly forward and took my hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it as a gentlemen should. “Dr. Severus Black at your service. Your husband intended to introduce us, but it appears I have beaten him to the pleasure.”

He towered over me, his hair and his clothes black, his boots polished to a mirror-like finish. But much as he smiled when speaking, that smile somehow failed to touch his eyes, which bored into me, as though reaching through to my soul. I failed to suppress an involuntary shiver.

He noticed it. “Are you cold, madam?”

“No, no, just a sudden chill from the open window, I think.” I shivered and sweated at the same time.

My husband appeared as if by magic, full of apology. “Ah, you two have met, I see. I'm sorry for not being here to introduce you to my wife, Severus, but I see I now have no need.”

The next few minutes passed in a blur as Alex informed me that Dr. Black was newly arrived from England, via Paris, France of all places. “He's a specialist in 'women's matters', Alex went on, then added, “Doctor, I wish you to examine Mrs. Hamilton to ensure all is well with her state of health.”

Stunned as if stung, I said, “Alex, I'm in no need of a physician right now.”

But as I was clearly great with child, our third, the doctor assured me, “Mrs. Hamilton, I shall care for you far better than any American physician, if you'll give me the chance. Our training in England is far more intense than what the quacks get here.” Once again that smile curved his lips, but his eyes stayed as steely as if he'd witnessed a murder.

Of course Alex's wishes prevailed. The following week I attended the first of a number of pre-natal consultations with the well-trained doctor.

As I approached my confinement, Dr. Black behaved with impeccable propriety towards me, yet I felt a certain antipathy towards him. Why, I couldn't say, and made it my business to keep our appointments as short as possible. I didn't linger for small talk or scrutiny of my other body parts. But those eyes—they amazed and enthralled me. I couldn't stop myself from peering into them at each appointment. This always elicited a smile that never reached his eyes.

Returning to the here and now, I realized I had little choice but to accede to Papa's request. “Very well, I'll send for Dr. Black.”

He arrived within the week, and thankfully, in a short examination, pronounced me fit to travel. “Shall we travel back to New York City together?” The doctor gestured at his fancy coach and matched grays gracing Papa's gravel drive.

I refused. “Oh, no, Dr. Black. I'm not sure when I'm departing. And you need return to your practice.” I showed him the door. A three-day journey alone with him? I trembled at the thought.

Why I experienced these feelings when in close proximity to the doctor I couldn't say, for he always treated me with courtesy and respect. Still, as his coach's wheels crunched over the drive and clattered into the distance, I released a sigh of relief. I downed the sleeping draft he'd left for me and slept like the dead.

At daybreak, servants loaded my trunks onto the carriage. I kissed my children goodbye—for now. Papa helped me into the carriage and handed me a basket of provisions.

In three days I'd be locked in my husband's arms.

I'd never surprised Alex before, with anything. Even when expecting our babies, he seemed to know before I did. So this would be the greatest surprise I'd ever bestow upon him.

Maria

In three days, I still hadn't found work. I offered violin instruction to rich families. But looking as disheveled as I did, and with no violin in hand, the matrons looked down their imperial noses at me. I gave up.

I then went to Mary Allen's shop which I patronized weekly. But she had nothing. I slunk away, burning with shame and humiliation. I begged storekeepers—and I do emphasize begged—for employment. Alas, no one else had any use for a shop girl, clothes washer, potato digger, maid or latrine scrubber.

After three days with no prospects, I held up my purse and shook it. The few remaining coins clinked. After tomorrow, I would be out on the street.

Oh, if only I'd banked some of that money James had given me instead of frittering it away on flub-dubs. I'd followed every step of Alexander's creation of the First Bank as it appeared in the newspapers, and so admired his fiscal genius. Now, instead of being one of his bank's first depositors, I wandered the streets destitute.

That eve, I lay on the thin mattress in the stuffy garret room and closed my eyes. A vision of Alexander entered my mind and I grew warm inside. I let my mind journey to the first night we met: January of 1786, at Aaron Burr's home. Aaron had asked me to bring my violin and perform. I willingly accepted.

The group gathered round me in a whoosh of rustling taffeta and fluttering fans.

I looked up to see Alexander, his gaze fixed on mine. As he smiled, a hot surge ripped through me. The chandelier candles heated my skin like the blazing sun. Returning his smile, I forced my eyes off him, nestled the violin under my chin and gave a lively performance of Mozart's Turkish March. I finished to a burst of applause and cheering.

Still aware of him watching me, his eyes slipping to my décolletage, I dipped a curtsey. “You play as exquisitely as you look.” He caressed my violin like a beloved pet. Then he clasped his fingers round mine, raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. “I want to hear more from your violin, but much more from you, Maria.”

His nearness enthralled me. I knew he was a flirter. But I was a married lady. And he a married man. With wads of children.

The reverie over, I opened my eyes to my shabby surroundings and oppressive confinement.

Knowing what I must do, I pushed myself off the cot, dashed down the stairs, out the door and to the nearest stationer's. I purchased a paquet of elegant writing paper, with barely enough coin left for breakfast.

Returning to the house, I borrowed a pen and ink from Mrs. Norris's desk and composed the most important, and I admit, pitiful letter I'd ever written.

Desperate, hungry and bereft of dignity, I begged Alexander Hamilton to help me.

I put nib to paper and with great care, penned my woeful entreaty to the Treasury Secretary. My trembling hand spattered drops of ink across the page. So he would not regard me a common beggar, I wrote: I am the sister of Colonel Lewis DuBois, who led the Fifth New York Regiment during the Revolution. He is now brigadier general of the Dutchess County militia. My sister Susannah is married to distinguished attorney Gilbert Livingston of the powerful New York Livingston family. My husband James has treated me cruelly, leaving me for another woman. alone and destitute, I embellished. I need immediate assistance and appeal to your sense of generosity to come to my aid.

I recited the missive aloud, blotted the paper and addressed the envelope to Secretary A. Hamilton as personal and confidential. I had the post deliver it to his residence, a walk I could have made myself, but heaven forbid he should espy me on his doorstep.

Next morn, I gave the last of my coin to a scrap of a boy in rags on the street. With no money for breakfast, I found a stale hunk of bread on the kitchen cutting board and choked it down with ale from a cracked jug.

By suppertime my stomach clenched from hunger. I offered to do Mrs. Norris's laundry and beat her rugs in exchange for a meal.

I spent the following morn pressed against the window, waiting for the post carriage to rumble down the street. My empty stomach growled. Aside from some stale coffee and a hard roll, not a morsel remained in the kitchen. “Come on, postman, come on!” I twisted my hankie, tapped my feet on the threadbare rug. Finally, the old carriage ambled up to the house. I burst out the door, swiping the post from the old man's hands before he even alighted. “Ta, my good man!”

I strode back inside, stumbling on cobblestones, rifling through the letters with trembling fingers. Naught from Mr. Hamilton. I let out a heavy sigh. Did he even get the letter?

Pacing the corridor, I shook my head in despair, my heart heavy, for I'd prayed he would at least reply, or offer to visit with a small loan. Even a rejection would have been welcome, rather than this waiting, wondering, longing.

Frightful images haunted me—begging in the streets, weak with hunger, crouching all night in alleys. Placing my hand over my racing heart, I knew what I must do. I needed go see him in person. I pictured the ladies about town staring me down, murmuring “harlot.” But my hunger and desperation drove me. I now believed Alexander Hamilton was part of my destiny.

I rehearsed my speech before the hall looking glass. “We met at Colonel Burr's soirée, do you remember that?” I shook my head. “My husband James has treated me cruelly—he deserted me and I am destitute—” No, too self-pitying. “I am alone and appeal to your sense of generosity…”

I memorized my plea.

By eight that eve, a breeze whispered in the twilight. I washed in the courtyard's communal basin with water from the public pump and a sliver of lye soap from the kitchen. I washed my hair and pinned it up with no powder, for I hadn't any. Having no shawl, I draped a fringed throw from a chair about my shoulders. Shoring up my courage, I began the walk to his house, too nervous to take a coach even if I had the coin. Walking helped calm my pounding heart and my rapid breaths. Leaving the stench of the open sewers and grunting hogs behind, I entered an elegant neighborhood. I passed stately brick Georgian-style houses. Rows of buttonwood, willow and poplar trees lined the pebble-paved streets. Yet I trembled as I walked.

Everyone round town knew that Mrs. Hamilton and the children summered in Albany. But as the Mrs. carried her sixth child, could Alexander spare any funds for a poor woman he barely knew?

A Paul Revere lantern glowed in an upstairs window of 79 South Street. The downstairs windows gaped open, lace curtains fluttering in the breeze. I knocked on the door. Footsteps grew louder. I held my breath. The latch rattled. The door opened. Knowing I'd see Alexander's violet eyes brought a dreamy smile to my lips. I squared my shoulders and raised my hand to be kissed. The door opened—and revealed what I'd never expected. I stumbled back, stunned.

“Yes? Oh, good evening, Mrs. Reynolds.”

There stood Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton.