So I was surprised when Mac murmured, “It’s actually the Federalists that are your trouble.”
Startled, I set down my teacup before I dropped it. “The Federalists?”
Mac rubbed his sore knee, seemingly unable to meet my eyes. “There are those who still blame Hamilton for our party’s collapse. We’ve lost three presidential elections in a row.”
“And how precisely could that be my husband’s fault? Even his reach does not extend beyond the grave.”
“It does,” Mac explained. “They blame Hamilton for revealing that John Adams is a bit of a madman. They think he cost us the presidency. Then he gave it to Jefferson. Nearly all of the party leaders fear that so long as the Federalists are associated with your husband, we can never win another election, so they won’t take up your cause. They’d rather be the party of George Washington and they fear you’re going to spoil it for them.”
I took up my teacup again, with disdain. “By reminding the world that Hamilton existed?”
He shook his head. “The rumor in Federalist circles is that you’re trying to revive your husband’s legacy at Washington’s expense.”
That was preposterous. And deeply offensive. “A malicious lie! How could I do such a thing even if it were my aim?”
“It’s said that you intend to claim, in your husband’s forthcoming biography, that Hamilton wrote Washington’s Farewell Address.”
“He did write it. With the president’s notes, of course. How could that possibly put Washington in a bad light? You were an aide-de-camp, too. Did the letters you wrote for the man take away from his greatness?”
Mac raised his hands. “It’s not me you have to convince.”
I knew that. Mac had not only scoured his attic for Hamilton’s papers but ridden—or at least rolled—into battle with me here in Washington City. And yet, we hadn’t found even one congressman in either party brave enough to bring my cause to the floor.
Having listened, with seething disgust, to all McHenry reported to us, my eldest son had heard enough. “Mother,” Alex said, running a hand through his reddish hair. “We are not to have satisfaction here. Let’s go home.”
Perhaps he had the right of it. And yet, I couldn’t convince myself to surrender. The Republicans had killed Alexander Hamilton and the Federalists wanted to bury him. And now, it seemed, I’d have to fight them all, like the politician my husband had helped me become. “Well, if reviving Alexander Hamilton is bad for Federalists at the ballot box, perhaps I might find at least one Republican willing to help me.”
When I explained my plan, Mac laughed like a leprechaun. “My dear lady, you combine the innocence of the dove with the wisdom of a serpent.”
* * *
“YOU’RE CERTAIN?” MY son asked, as if we were to enter a lion’s den instead of the whitewashed, neoclassical building with ionic pillars that was the President’s Mansion.
I’d been so long in exile from public life that three inaugurations had taken place here without my having witnessed them. And the palms of my hands began to sweat.
You’re Alexander Hamilton’s wife, I reminded myself. I was the widow of the man who created this government. I wouldn’t allow them to make me feel as if I didn’t belong. So I girded my loins to sally forth like a vagabond knight-errant, trusting in Providence for my success. “I’m certain.”
Together, Alex and I alighted the stairs amongst Republican ladies in fashionable high-waisted white gowns, and well-dressed gentlemen with gold-buttoned tailcoats, diamond-encrusted watch fobs, and ivory-tipped walking sticks.
Whereas I, the wife of the so-called High Pontiff of Federalism, wore only a simple black evening gown.
And yet, my resentments at their hypocrisy softened the moment I set eyes upon Dolley Madison—not seated upon a dais where guests might deliberate over how deeply to bow—but in the midst of the sunny, yellow-damasked parlor, mingling with the crowd.
I hadn’t been intimate with Dolley in more than fifteen years, but it still amused me to recall the day she confided that her passionate and honey-tongued beau was none other than James Madison. Now, in pearl necklace, earrings, and bracelets, with feather-plumed turban, she looked more like a queen than a Quaker.
And she was almost pressed to death by people wanting a word with her. Dolley had been midconversation when our eyes met, and she broke into an astonished smile that somehow made me instantly glad I’d come. Abandoning her other guests, she rushed to me, taking both my gloved hands. “We’re honored by your visit, Mrs. General Hamilton!”
At the sound of my name, all eyes swiveled to us under the brightly blazing bronze Argand lamps. And I lifted my chin. “Thank you for welcoming me to your levee, Lady Madison.”
I attempted a curtsy, but Dolley held fast to my hands, refusing to allow it. “We call them drawing rooms, now,” she corrected gently. “And Lady Madison? Goodness. Let there be no formality between friends.”
She said this, of course, to distinguish herself from Martha Washington and Abigail Adams—the supposedly monarchical Federalist ladies who preceded her. But she’d also called me a friend, putting so much emphasis on the word that no one could miss it. “Just who is this handsome young man?”
Surprised at the warmth in her gaze, I nodded to Alex, who stood as stiffly at my side as a sentinel on parade. But before I could introduce my son, I caught sight of the president.
Oh, how the man had aged!
Poor Jemmy Madison had become a withered little apple-john, and cut a figure quite at odds with the supposed majesty of the presidency. But if I was startled by Madison’s appearance, he seemed even more startled at my son’s. Madison had, upon a single glance, abandoned all the important gentlemen in the room, to stare at my fair and freckled son, as if mesmerized by a face he hadn’t seen in years.
At the
