But I said none of this to Aaron Burr. I merely adjusted my bonnet, upon which I proudly wore a black cockade that signaled my support of this Federalist administration.
Burr must’ve seen that I was suppressing an argument, because he gave a wicked grin. “I intend to make Hamilton regret these unconstitutional laws.”
It was Congress who passed these laws and the president who signed them; my husband was merely the general who would defend the nation. But affecting amusement, I said, “Unconstitutional? I don’t remember your having championed that document when my husband was helping to write it . . .”
Burr laughed. “Touché. It’s a miserable paper machine. I told your husband that as the commander of an army, he owes it to the country to demolish it.”
I withheld my gasp because his expression was so droll I couldn’t decide if he was toying with me or suggesting the overthrow of the government. Exasperated, I shook my head. “I won’t allow you to bait me further, sir. And I shall happily take your donation. But why should you desire to keep it a secret?”
“Because I mean it for charity and not social advancement.”
Did Burr suspect me of using good works to erase the taint of scandal? It was perfectly in keeping with the way his mind worked, so I supposed I couldn’t be angry about it. The truth was, despite Burr’s capacity to scandalize, needle, or otherwise irritate me, I couldn’t hate him. In truth, I even liked him. A little. As much as anyone could like a man whose sole fixed characteristic was that he had none. Perhaps it was because he’d kept his silence about my husband’s adultery. “Even if you insult me, I’m not too proud to take your money on behalf of children who are grateful for every scrap of bread.”
“I mean no insult whatsoever. Though, if I did, I suppose I should fear being clasped in irons or sued into penury, under the new Federalist Reign of Terror.”
At that, my jaw dropped. “It’s your Republicans who aspire to guillotines. You might be glad of the new laws if you’d been persecuted so relentlessly by the newspaper as I—”
“Say no more,” Burr replied wryly, holding up a hand in surrender. “I’ve taken endless amusement watching the way you’ve spent the past year and a half hectoring the buttoned-up society ladies who had the temerity to shun you. I admire it. Hamilton has, in you, a very well-matched wife. As I intend to tell him at this evening’s meeting of the Manumission Society.”
I softened to hear this reminder of his antislavery work. Especially as our political parties seemed often now on the verge of civil war; just last year, two congressmen had come to blows with cane and fire-iron tongs on the floor of the House of Representatives. It was heartening to remember that there were men like Burr in the opposing camp who could still find common cause on great moral issues. And it made me forgive his taunts, because it seemed he did, in fact, have some moral scruples. “My husband seems quite hopeful that New York will soon eliminate the practice of slavery. Do you share his optimism?”
Burr’s smile was enigmatic. “I suspect it would go better to first eliminate slavery a little closer to home. At least, it would spare your husband some embarrassment.”
“We keep no slaves,” I said, with perhaps more pride than I ought to have, given that more than half the members of the society did own slaves, including my father.
“As will be discussed at tonight’s meeting, your husband is the purchaser of record for a slave the Manumission Society is seeking to help gain her freedom.”
I shook my head, dismissively. “I’m sure there’s been some mistake. We have no slaves.”
“But your sister does,” Burr replied.
* * *
ENSCONCED AMONGST HER perfumes and cosmetic pots in her toilette, Angelica admired her reflection in an ivory-handled mirror. “Did Kitty wave the white flag?”
“She promised a bank note,” I replied, cooing a bit over my sister’s ten-month-old baby in his ornate walnut bassinet, the child being ample proof that whatever had broken between my sister and her husband had indeed been mended.
Angelica waved away a little yawn. “I’d forgotten how exhausting a baby can be, even if you give them over to a nursemaid.”
As gently as one could possibly suggest such a thing, I ventured, “Perhaps if you hosted fewer parties . . .”
“But Church lives for parties. He’s rich and has no place in politics, so he has little to do and time hangs heavy on his hands.”
I couldn’t imagine having little to do. Indolence wasn’t in our Dutch blood. And I sensed Angelica was annoyed by it, too. But I hadn’t come to criticize either of them. I’d come to ask, nay, to demand, “You must let Sarah go free.”
My sister startled. “Sarah?”
“Your lady’s maid,” I replied, stiffly. “I am informed today that Alexander purchased her for you.”
“Oh, yes,” Angelica said, as if only vaguely recalling it. “When I knew we were returning to America, I asked Hamilton to ensure I’d have a servant when I disembarked the ship, and he did me that favor.”
My husband never purchased slaves for our household. Yet his entanglement with my slave-owning family had put him in difficult positions, and pushed him to compromise his moral stance more than once. It did not sit well with me that he might have done this, for me, in order to make my sister more apt to stay in New York—which he knew would make me happy. “You must emancipate her. She’s gone to the Manumission Society for help. They mean to argue her cause publicly.”
A sense of indignation leaped to my sister’s wounded expression
