“Then please broach it softly with him. In the meantime, I’ll take Hamilton’s papers with me to the Grange.”
Church scowled. “Surely you realize you cannot return to the Grange.”
I realized no such thing. “Why not?”
“You have limited means without Hamilton’s income. It’s impossible for you to be at the Grange without horses, which you can ill afford. Besides, their expense would pay for your house rent here in town. In fact, the Grange might be let . . .”
I blinked, having never considered the possibility of renting the house my husband had been so proud to build for us. Imagining strangers there was too much, on top of everything else . . .
But now I realized that the decision wasn’t mine—it was yet another thing the executors might decide for me. Women had never been granted the right to vote in New York. We couldn’t hold office and were barred from certain occupations. Our ability to manage property and legal matters was circumscribed. So I should have expected that my fate might be entrusted to my brother-in-law.
Certainly John Barker Church had always been indulgent with Angelica; she was as free as any woman I knew under laws that still made a husband his wife’s master. But I hadn’t married him and chafed at the idea Alexander should’ve left me even remotely under his power.
Church, the man whose accursed pistols had killed both my son and my husband.
My sister must have sensed my fury and resentment, because she gave her husband a sharp glance. “We didn’t think you’d wish to take the boys out of school in the city, Eliza. You can, of course, leave them with us if you prefer to live at the Grange.”
It was a generous offer, but Alexander and I had determined that our children should never be without at least one parent’s care. And did I not owe it to the memory of my beloved husband to keep his children together?
Church cleared his throat. “You might as well know, Hamilton painted a rather more rosy picture of the value of his assets than warranted.”
I flinched, half in disbelief. “My husband was the architect of this nation’s economy. You cannot expect me to believe—”
“He was careful with the nation’s money, but not his own,” Angelica replied, and given her expression, I realized that my sister wished to tell me this even less than I wanted to hear it.
“I don’t understand,” I said, wanting to see the proof for myself.
Church cleared his throat again. “I estimate the debt to be somewhere in the nature of fifty thousand dollars.”
It was so staggering a sum, I lost all power of speech. Even if Hamilton had lived, it would have taken years of hard work and frugality to ever repay it.
“You needn’t be frightened,” Church quickly added, affecting a smile that attempted reassurance and warmth. “Your father and I will see to your day-to-day needs, of course. And, if need be, the Grange can eventually be sold.” Now it felt as if the world fell out beneath me completely. A cry of anguish escaped me before Church hastened to say, “But you won’t lose it. After the auction, you’ll be able to buy the Grange back at half its price.”
I took in a ragged breath torn between gratitude and confusion about the house. “You’re suggesting some financial trick.” Perhaps something that might lose me every last penny.
“It’s a political trick,” my sister explained. “It seems there are people for whom your husband’s indebtedness is more embarrassing than it could ever be for you.”
It took me a moment to guess her meaning. Then I understood. Federalists. It would hurt the party at the ballot box if it were to be publicly known that Alexander Hamilton, their founder—the man of American financial wizardry—had died in debt.
We’d already lost one presidential election to Thomas Jefferson. The party couldn’t risk losing another, so the Federalists would pay a great deal to keep Alexander Hamilton’s children from being turned out of house and home. And I found that more reassuring than I ought to have. “They intend to make me a loan?”
“A gift, actually,” Church explained. “A number of prominent men will establish a trust fund on condition of secrecy. It’s to be kept even from the children.”
I didn’t like secrets. I’d been hurt by secrets. But I had no interest whatsoever in giving the public another excuse to dishonor my husband’s memory. So Alexander’s indebtedness was a secret I could easily keep. My uneasiness came in the realization of how dependent I was now upon the mercies of others. My brother-in-law. The executors. The Federalists.
And even my sons . . .
* * *
“YOU LOOK DASHING,” I said, helping my eighteen-year-old Alex tie his cravat and turn up the corners of his starched white collar. “Your father would be so proud of you today.”
Alex forced a smile past the grief for his father that cast its shadow over this occasion. “Dashing, but not a dandy?” he asked, buttoning his neatly tailored blue coat, but eyeing the plainer black one hanging on his wardrobe.
“No, my sweet boy, not a dandy.” Like me, Alex was born unburdened with the expectations of an eldest but never pampered like the youngest. Whereas our Philip had been darkly handsome and rakish, young Alex was fair and freckled and gallant. And because he didn’t have his father here to take pride in him on this day, I must lavish praise upon him for the both of us. “To think, Alexander Hamilton’s namesake is graduating from Columbia College. Despite all your father’s many accomplishments, even he didn’t do that . . .”
“Only because of the revolution,” Alex replied, then took a deep breath, as if he needed to steel himself against the world as bravely as his father had done before him. “And he was given an honorary degree later, wasn’t he?”
I smiled softly, realizing how aware Alex was of
