“Oh, Alexander,” I said, going to his side and realizing he always kept something of himself hidden from everyone. Even in the grips of yellow fever, thinking he was soon to die, he’d been unable to reveal himself completely.
He was not the sort of man to accept pity, not the sort of man to give himself over to a woman, but I wrapped my arms around him anyway. “Let me hold you together, now. Let us both hold each other together from now on.”
Alexander took a great shuddering breath. “What would you have me do? I should let them call me a coward, let them accuse me, there in the street, of treason, of stealing from the treasury with the connivance of Britain. Is that what you want me to do?”
“I want you to remember that you’re a father, and that you promised never to leave me alone or desperate again.”
He was quiet a long time, but then he nodded. “And a promise must never be broken.”
In the end, one man was persuaded to deny casting aspersions on my husband’s manhood. The other was persuaded to issue a lukewarm apology. My husband was persuaded to say that he was satisfied.
And I was persuaded I would never again hear another word about duels.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
October 1795
New York City
THE SCRAP OF paper in my husband’s coat pocket smelled of French lavender. And upon it, in a very fine feminine hand, was written a street address. Just days ago, Alexander warned that Maria Reynolds had returned to New York. He didn’t want me to be dismayed if our paths should cross. But now I was left to wonder how he knew of her return, and if this was her address.
I should ask him, I thought. Or perhaps I should throw this scrap of paper in the fire. To investigate would be beneath my dignity. I shouldn’t elevate my suspicions by crossing town to learn who resided at this address.
But in the end, that’s just what I did, because I couldn’t live with myself if I was, again, a trusting fool. Dressed in my finest gown, I climbed the crumbling steps, took hold of the knocker, and rapped firmly on the door, bracing for the pain. If this was the residence of my husband’s mistress, I didn’t know what I’d say or do. I only knew that I must know.
The door opened. And the sight of him—the shock of it—nearly stopped my heart.
It wasn’t my husband but a stranger. And yet, I knew that face. The length of it. The nobility of his form. That ridiculous martial pose. “Bonjour,” he said as ruddy autumn leaves swirled at my feet. “You’re here to see Monsieur La Colombe?”
Under no circumstances would I pay call to a gentleman’s home by myself, in the middle of the day, as if in assignation. So I ignored his question in favor of my own. “Who might you be?”
Perhaps it was the directness of my scrutiny that made the youth’s eyes dart away. I could see now that he was a boy. Perhaps sixteen. Seventeen. No more than that.
“A servant,” he said.
What a dreadful liar. Because his voice convinced me that my eyes were not playing me false—that I knew who this was. “I am Mrs. Alexander Hamilton,” I said at once.
Upon hearing my name, the panicked boy motioned me swiftly into the house. “Venez vite. Come in, s’il vous plaît!” Only when the door closed did he give a courtly bow, with a flourish that again reminded me of his father. “Pardon, madame. Forgive the ruse. My name is Georges Washington Louis Gilbert du—”
“Motier,” I finished for him, sudden affection gripping me. “Yes. I knew your father. And you will have trouble convincing anyone that you’re a servant, for you are every inch Lafayette’s son.”
His smile filled with pride, but also confusion. “Colonel Hamilton sent you?”
“No, I’m afraid our meeting is quite a surprise to me.” And a relief, as well. For the secret my husband was keeping, I realized now, had nothing to do with that woman. “How have you come to be in New York?”
“My mother sent me. She was spared from the guillotine, thanks to Ambassador Monroe.”
President Washington had sent Monroe to be our minister to France, and my husband insisted he was bungling the job. But James Monroe had accomplished this, for which I was deeply grateful. “Is she here? Is your mother free?”
The boy shook his head. “Maman insisted upon joining my father in his prison cell, to shame his captors or share his fate. But she made me go,” Georges said, eyes welling with guilt-ridden tears. “I did not want to leave them behind, but she said I could save their lives. I am to go for help. To the American president himself.”
I nodded, quickly. “We must get you to Philadelphia.”
“Colonel Hamilton says it is not yet possible.”
Not yet possible? I couldn’t imagine what intrigue my husband was about. Or why Lafayette’s son was posing as a servant. But my heart broke at the boy’s obvious terror. “Then you must come home with me.”
Young Georges shook his head. “It is not safe.”
I didn’t care. I’d protested my husband threatening to brawl in the streets over a matter of a treaty. But if risks must be taken, then they must be taken for the son of a man we both loved. “I insist,” I said, pained to see how thin Georges was, and appalled at the shabby brown coat in which he’d been clothed. I’d have to find him new breeches and an embroidered coat. Something fitting. “I’ll make you a fine meal.”
Though hunger lurked in his eyes, he fretted, “But my tutor and our host—”
“They’re both welcome,” I said. With that I took Georges home straightaway in my carriage, though the boy insisted upon using the servants’ door in the back.
He
