As I gazed at my image, Alexander stole upon me to fasten my necklace. “Best of wives and best of women,” he whispered, kissing my nape below the graying-brown curls of my upswept hair. “As beautiful as the day we met. At a different ball, as I recall it . . .”
I turned in his arms and smoothed my hands over the lapels of his pinstriped silk taffeta dress coat. “And you, even more charming now. You were, after all, a little insufferable in those days.”
He laughed, leaning his forehead against mine. “How I love you and our precious children.” Oh, to still have this tender affection between us after all these years. There was a serenity about him as he held out his arm. “Come, let us join the revelry.”
And what a gay revelry it was!
The late-day air was perfect—warm without being hot, breezy and refreshing for strolls through our gardens. Wandering musicians delighted our guests, a special touch upon which Alexander had insisted. When the sun set, lanterns and flowers hung from the trees, creating a colorful, fragrant ballroom under the purple heavens.
All New York’s best society attended. John Trumbull, the silver-haired artist of the revolution, who’d once painted a life-size portrait of Alexander that now hung in our hall. Nicholas Fish and Robert Troup, fellow Federalists with whom Alexander had served in the New York Militia at the very beginnings of their careers. Nabby Adams Smith, daughter of President Adams, and her husband. And even William Short, one-time secretary to Thomas Jefferson when he’d been the American minister to France, who had himself become a diplomat.
We danced and imbibed until midnight, until Alexander and I were the only ones still dancing and the children had fallen asleep on a blanket at the edge of the lantern’s light. And the next morning we rode into town and attended services at Trinity Church where we gave thanks for it all—our lives, our friends, our family, and the Union itself. That evening found us out of doors again, having a family picnic under the trees in the grove. Lying in the grass surrounded by our children, my head against my husband’s side, our fingers interlocked, we stared up at the heavens until the stars shone.
I smiled at Alexander and thought this is what peace truly feels like. To be at ease with the ones I loved. For once. We’ve earned this. We’ve fought and clawed and survived to have this.
Drowsiness overtook me as Alexander told stories to our sons, who hung on their father’s every word, about how the gods placed constellations amongst the stars to honor the service of legendary mortals.
“What kind of honor is that?” Johnny asked, rapt despite the question.
“Oh, a very great honor,” Alexander said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “For they are memorialized for all time so that even here and now, I can tell you their stories.”
And then he pressed a kiss to my temple and spoke of the heavens just for me.
“‘Doubt thou the stars are fire,’” Alexander whispered Shakespeare against my hair. “‘Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.’”
Chapter Thirty-Five
July 11, 1804
Harlem
MAMA, SOMEONE’S AT the door!” Lysbet said, dancing in front of it while William sat on the floor, playing with a set of marbles.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” I said, giving my youngest daughter a smile. She looked so much like I imagined I must have at her age. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a smile that came to life anytime we ventured outside into the gardens or the grove of trees. I pulled open the door to find a man standing hat in hand, his head bent. “Yes? May I help you?”
“Mrs. Hamilton?” he asked, just barely meeting my eye. “Ma’am, I’ve . . . I’ve been asked to send for you. There’s been . . . well, you see . . . General Hamilton has need of you.” He gestured to the horses behind him. “I’ve brought a carriage.”
Despite the growing warmth of the day, ice tingled down my spine. “What’s happened?” I asked, keeping my voice even for the children.
The man couldn’t seem to meet my eyes. “The general isn’t well. He . . . has spasms.”
“His kidneys again?” Just when I thought Alexander was over his old ailment.
“I’ll wait in the carriage,” he said, hurrying down the steps.
In a matter of minutes, the four children and I were on our way. I took solace in knowing that the older boys had gone into the city with Alexander two mornings before when he’d departed on his weekly trip to his office. At eighteen and sixteen, Alex and James could look after him until I arrived.
The trip was faster than I expected, given that it was the middle of a fine Wednesday. That is, until we began to encounter small crowds of people on every street corner, abuzz over some news I couldn’t make out. And then I was distracted from that oddity when the driver turned the wrong way. “Sir! Driver! Where are you taking us?”
“Mr. Bayard’s house,” the man called in reply.
I didn’t have time to process that before I heard my name. From the crowd. Again and again. “Look, it’s Mrs. General Hamilton! His poor wife!”
A dark, hazy memory assaulted me. The crowds. The crowds in front of Angelica’s house when my son was shot dead. And my heart began to hammer. Then it all but stopped when the carriage slowed in the drive before Mr. Bayard’s grand mansion on the river, where another crowd parted like the Red Sea as the driver guided us through.
Wailing. The women were wailing. And gloom hung on every man’s face.
We’d barely come to a halt when I sprung from the carriage unassisted,
