“See for yourself,” Lysbet said, stepping aside to reveal two distinguished-looking gentlemen. One, a middle-aged Frenchman.
The other, the last living general of the revolutionary war . . .
I rushed to my feet, and the familiar sight of him filled my eyes with tears.
Though I’d never seen the Marquis de Lafayette out of uniform before, he was instantly recognizable to me as a hero of a bygone age. And as my friend. Stouter than I remembered, and bent with age and whatever torments he’d suffered all those years he was held in a dungeon during the French Revolution, but still the slope of that forehead and that patrician nose were unmistakable.
“Madame Hamilton,” Lafayette said, making a formal bow with cane and top hat in hand.
“General Lafayette,” I whispered, rounding the desk. And that’s when I realized the taller man at his side was his son. “Georges?”
Georges smiled and stepped forward swiftly to kiss my cheeks. “How it fills my heart to see you again. I’ve never forgotten what you did for me all those years ago, when I was in hiding.” He ducked his chin, as if he couldn’t say more without being unmanned.
On instinct, my hands went to his cheeks as if he were still a boy. But in truth, his hair was shot through with silver, and I couldn’t help but think that my Philip would’ve been about his age now, if he’d lived.
Perhaps Lafayette was thinking this, too, because the general spoke to me in consolation for my losses and I returned mine for his. And finally remembering the rest of my manners, I presented my Lysbet, who tittered like such a flibbertigibbet, one might think she’d never met a general before.
But, of course, Lafayette was no mere general. The entire country was poised to give him a hero’s welcome with toasts and spectacles in honor of the forthcoming fiftieth anniversary of the revolution. It was said that in all America there wasn’t a heart that didn’t beat with joy and gratitude at the sound of Lafayette’s name.
Certainly my heart did.
Already the city of New York had greeted him with booming cannons due a conquering hero. Which was quite possibly why Lysbet nearly swooned when Lafayette kissed her hand.
“Mademoiselle Hamilton,” he said to my daughter, his world-weary, haggard eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile. “You must not be shy. Your father was more than friend to me, he was a brother. We were both very young when our friendship formed in days of peril and glory, but it suffered no diminution from time. So you must think of yourself as family to me.”
The enormity of this statement, if only for what it meant to Lysbet, melted my heart.
“And you, madame,” he said, turning to me. “You are my sister, and were before you ever met your husband, oui?”
It was a touching sentiment. One that recalled to me long-ago days in Albany. And though I had brothers of my own, by blood and marriage, I couldn’t help but return it. “I remember, and feel the same.”
So it shamed me when he nodded and said, “I worried for your health when I did not see you at the welcoming parade. Georges told me no esteemed woman of sense would jostle with a New York crowd in this heat. Mon Dieu, this heat.” Lafayette dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “But I could not be satisfied of your well-being until I set eyes upon you, myself. As I wished to learn more about your charity work, I tracked you down here.”
I flushed at the shabby state of my crowded little office, with its decades-old desk and sagging bookshelves, but even more so because I hadn’t been invited to the official celebrations by the Republicans who now held power in government. Given how shamelessly they claimed the mantle of patriotism all for themselves, my presence would have been an inconvenient reminder to everyone of my husband. Or perhaps they’d simply forgotten me as they’d forgotten him.
But Lafayette hadn’t forgotten.
And I feared I’d given offense. But before I could offer words that might make up for my absence, Lafayette shook his head. “I hope you do not think to apologize. Especially since I wish to impose upon you for something,” he said, a sly twinkle in his eye.
“By all means,” I said, gesturing at the chair. “Shall we sit?” I was pained to see him leaning so heavily on his cane as he lowered himself into the rickety seat. “Lysbet, perhaps our guests would enjoy some lemonade?”
The men exclaimed their thanks, stirring my daughter from where she still stood, riveted at the door. “Oh, right away.”
“I’ll help you,” Georges said, like the good, dutiful boy he’d always been.
“What can I do for you?” I asked Lafayette, aware of the flurry of people suddenly finding reason to pass my office door. The matron of the orphanage, checking the lock on the kitchen larder. Our cook, grabbing a broom from the hall closet. A little girl, not at school because she was sick, peeking down from the stairs.
Lafayette winked at the child, and she scampered away with a delighted giggle. “I am called to America by President Monroe to witness the immense improvements and the prosperity of these happy United States, so I can report back to the world that they reflect the light of a far superior political civilization.”
Though almost everyone who met Monroe in his younger days had dismissed him for a lackwit, I’d been right about him in at least one respect. There was always, always, more to James Monroe than met the eye. And he’d proven, as president, to be more of a master of national propaganda than any of his predecessors. He’d somehow persuaded the nation that the War of 1812 had been a glorious victory instead of a humiliating stalemate. And now, to drum up support for his new doctrine of superiority in the hemisphere, he presented himself as the last founder of our country.
If he
