“Who will replace President Washington?” I asked as I took one of the facing seats, more than a little wary that my husband might feel compelled to put himself forward.
I’d sipped from the cup of glory and found the taste bitter. So I was grateful when he answered, “By seniority, John Adams is the heir apparent. But lacking Washington’s majesty, popularity, and wartime experience, Adams is no fit replacement. Personally, I have always thought his temper too high and . . . unhinged. Still, all reservations must give way to the great object of keeping Jefferson from the presidency.”
The Virginian had bided his time in retirement and become the leader of a genuine political party. They called themselves Republicans, a name that offensively implied the present government was comprised of monarchists. But we still called them Jacobins, since they seemed to have so much in common with the terrorists who controlled France.
They could not be allowed to come to power here. Still, I nearly shook with relief that my husband wouldn’t be the man to oppose them. “Let it be John Adams then,” I said. Alexander puffed out a snort of disgust, so I continued, “Washington’s retirement is the most eloquent answer any man could ever give to those who paint him a monarchist. Someone else must now take the helm. Alexander, if you have faith in a republic where no man is king, then let it be tried.”
Alexander took very little on faith. Certainly not this republic.
He’d never liked the ugly misshapen compromise that had come out of the Constitutional Convention, but no man had fought harder to bring forth a government from that parchment. And perhaps no man knew better how difficult it was to bring such a government into being, or how easily it could all collapse.
Sullenly, he said, “In any case, there is no persuading Washington against it. He’s always been slow to take his ground, but once decided, he cannot be shaken. And he’s determined to leave the presidency.”
I reached across his desk to him. “Then you mustn’t make it any more difficult for him by standing as an obstacle. Besides, John Adams was instrumental in bringing about our independence and has been the vice president all these years. That’s experience no one else has. He isn’t Washington, but no one is. And that doesn’t mean he can’t succeed.”
Alexander sighed and wound his fingers with mine. “Were you always such a wise woman?”
I sputtered. “Certainly not. I’ve had to become wiser to better fulfill the peculiar duties associated with being the wife of Alexander Hamilton.”
A spark of familiar mischief worked its way into his visage. “Very well, wife of Alexander Hamilton.” He tugged me around to him. “I shall now call upon you to perform one of those peculiar duties.”
Scandalized, I gasped. “Not in your office!”
“Oh, but I insist.” He stood and put me into his chair. I burned with curiosity, having no earthly idea what he might intend. Then my cheeks burned hotter when he withdrew some papers from the secret compartment of his desk and confided an entirely innocent purpose. “The president has asked me to help draft a Farewell Address.”
“Is there no one else capable?” I asked, wondering if Alexander might ever be left to enjoy retirement.
“Madison made an attempt,” he replied, unable to utter the name of his old friend without scorn. “He is, after all, the one who drafted Washington’s inaugural. But, as this is Washington’s last address, the president won’t allow the Republicans to put their stamp on it.” And Madison was a founding member of the new party that stood opposed to the Federalists in all things. Our one-time friend Monroe, too. Both of them Jefferson’s protegés. All of them now aligned in favor of a weak federal government and stronger states’ rights, the very things against which we’d fought for the past fifteen years.
So I understood then. The president’s very last address was a sacred duty.
My husband explained, “The president has asked me to take his own sentiments and ideas, and remove any egotism or partisan sentiments liable to bring criticism. To put all in a plain, simple style.” Alexander threw the papers onto the desk. “You see my difficulty.”
I chuckled because I did. I could think of no man less suited than my husband to write in a plain simple style, without partisan warmth or egotism. Alexander brought the thunder of rhetorical cannons, not the soft refrains of conciliatory prose.
But since he couldn’t refuse, I tried to bolster his spirits. “You wrote for Washington as his aide-de-camp. Surely you remember how. And if you don’t, consider it a stretch of your talents . . . You say Jemmy Madison drafted the inaugural. Well, if he had the first words, I know you’ll want to have the last.”
He laughed. “You saucy wench. This brings me to your part.” Alexander leaned forward so that his hands were on both arms of the chair, seductively caging me in. “My dear Eliza, you must be what Molière’s nurse was to him.”
“Who?” I asked, a little wary that this might turn into another story of some ancient.
Instead, he said, “Never mind. The point is that I must test my words against your good sense.”
My mouth went dry, for I didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified. Both, I decided, given what he was asking. “You cannot mean this seriously.”
“I trust no one else. I trust your understanding of people. Your goodness and impartial heart.”
“My heart is not even slightly impartial,” I said.
That made him smile. “But you’re fair-minded. How often have you argued with me over the malice I’ve ascribed to others when simpler explanations would do? I need you to argue with me now.”
He was serious. “Have you forgotten we are on our way to Pendleton’s dinner party?”
“I’ve forgotten it entirely,” he said, rising up
