It was another gift, this one from Angelica, whose husband was capable of obtaining the most current fashions from overseas without having to pay an unpatriotic tax on it. She held a rope of my dark hair at my nape with one hand. “It’s only that Betsy’s throat is bare, without anything shiny to draw the eye or entice a man to nibble.”
There was no use in pretending to be scandalized by my sister, who’d always said such things. But still, I felt obliged to remark, “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“Au contraire, you impossible girl,” Angelica said. “Must I extol to you the pleasures of the marriage bed to keep you from becoming a spinster?” She fastened upon my neck a number of necklaces, all of which seemed too ostentatious for words, and I refused everything but a simple black ribbon. “I suppose that will have to do,” she said.
Then we were off in the sleigh!
Despite the scant offerings of eatables and drinkables, it was, as General Washington promised, a proper winter ball inside a little tavern turned military storehouse on the green, its windows etched with frost. The second floor was positively transformed, illuminated by the warm glow of at least a hundred candles on crossbeams. And amidst the notes of flute, violin, and harpsichord, mingled a motley assemblage of about sixty gentlemen and officers.
Our Americans in buff and blue, Prussian adventurers like Baron von Steuben with medals glittering on their chests, and French officers in perfectly tailored coats with gold braids at the shoulders. And, to Kitty’s great satisfaction, not a single lobsterback in sight.
“You forgot your fan,” Angelica scolded me.
“It’s too cold for a fan,” I said, which made both my companions laugh.
“Oh Betsy,” Kitty said, her green eyes glittering with worldly amusement. “This is what comes of socializing only with boys of the Blues in Albany. Without a fan, how are you to convey a message like stay away or come hither?”
A little vexed at her superior tone—at both of them fussing at me—I replied, “Why I suppose I would just say the words.”
Angelica’s eyes widened with delight. “Betsy has learned to bite!”
As there were only sixteen ladies in attendance, every male gaze in the room turned our way, and Angelica gave the slow wave of her fan that said, I am married.
Not that it discouraged them.
Kitty’s daring gown with bold red-and-white stripes ought to have made her the belle of the ball. But it was my sister, in pink silk and cream-fringed trim, who reigned over the dance hall, and we attended her like faithful handmaidens. Good thing, too, because her natural comfort in formal social outings allowed her to artfully plead thirst as a way to steer us away from the crowd of men who descended.
In the breathing space at the punch bowl, Angelica motioned with her chin toward her knot of admirers in tight buff breeches and decidedly smart dress uniforms, and I recognized a few of them from headquarters as Washington’s closest aides. “They’ll claim to be starved for female attention,” she said. “But I assure you, there’s been such a parade of debutantes come to camp to land a husband that they have learned to tumble from haystacks with the dairymaids straight into the arms of gentlemen’s daughters.”
As she took up a crystal glass of rum punch, Kitty said, “You must mean Colonel Hamilton.”
My sister’s lips quirked up at the corner. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear.”
Moving with crisp military bearing, his reddish-brown hair pulled smartly back in a black ribbon, an officer I assumed must be Hamilton made straight for us, and Kitty pleaded, “My dear Schuyler sisters, rescue me.”
“Is he a rake?” I asked, wondering why she should need rescue.
“Oh, he’s naughty good fun and an excellent officer,” Kitty replied, swiftly finishing her punch as Hamilton’s heeled shoes closed the distance. “But he’s been trying to seduce me since his school days when my father let him stay with us. And he’s so relentless I fear I may foolishly give in.”
Angelica arched a mischievous brow. “Would it really be so foolish?”
“Quite,” Kitty hurriedly replied. “His soldiers call him the Little Lion, but he’s more of a ginger tomcat. He wrote me that victory will remove the obstacles in the way of matrimony, but I doubt I’m the only lady to whom he has pleaded but the war . . .”
A moment later, Hamilton was before us with a gallant bow, his eyes twinkling with mischief. And when he spoke, it was with the slightest accent—one I couldn’t place. “Ladies, unless my eyes deceive me, I find myself in the presence of unearthly creatures.” With that, he reached to kiss my sister’s hand, and she allowed it. “The Divine Mrs. Carter. You are a vision, as always. Will your husband join us this evening?”
My sister’s dark eyes flashed with regal acknowledgment, her head tilting in just the right way to make her jewels sparkle. “I’m afraid Mr. Carter is away on some business for the army.”
“I regret to hear it,” Hamilton replied in a way that made it seem he did not regret it at all. “We shall do our best to compensate for his absence.”
Hamilton then reached for Kitty’s gloved hand, and a spark seemed to pass between them. “Miss Livingston, my very own Game Goddess.”
“By what right do you claim me, sir?” Kitty asked.
“By right of long familiarity and friendship. You’ve little idea the fright I was thrown into when hearing of you and your sisters having to fend off the British at Liberty Hall with nothing but your wits.”
“You make it sound as if we were unarmed.” Kitty smirked with lips that formed a perfect cupid’s bow. “I take offense.”
He smiled, and I did, too, enjoying their banter. “I would never wish to imply such a thing, Miss Livingston. Only a fool underestimates the petticoat patriots amongst us. And who knows better than I do that your wits are extremely sharp and cutting?”
They both laughed, but I realized something
