It sounded as if Hamilton admired the boy’s hubris.
And it made me remember that he had, at least three times in our acquaintance, alluded to easy acceptance, if not a wish, for death. He’d done so first at the ball. Then in our walk home from the hospital. Then again in his note about this fabled bastard boy who died trying to prove himself. And now he was again comparing himself to that boy.
Which was what gave me the strength that propriety didn’t to withdraw from his arms. “Colonel Hamilton,” I said, forcing him to look at me. “Alexander . . .”
He blew out a long breath, then appeared as if he was considering an apology.
Before he could manage one, I laced my fingers with his and hastened to say, “I am too much a general’s daughter not to understand that a soldier’s courage is found in overcoming his fear of death.” I swallowed, mustering my own courage to broach this, for I was keenly aware that in giving my heart to a soldier during wartime, I might lose it—and him—at any moment. Especially since I’d already heard tales of how Washington’s aides seemed to try to outdo one another in brash acts of battlefield bravery. Perhaps Hamilton was no different, in this respect, than Tilghman or McHenry or even their idolized, nearly mythical, John Laurens, about whom they never ceased to boast. “But—but surely you know there are other paths to glory besides death.”
A little spark of surprise lit behind his eyes. And I hoped . . . what exactly? That he would stop saying such things? That he would stop feeling them? That he would promise to never act on them? Or maybe, instead, that he would unburden himself to me, so that he never entertained any imaginings of the glory of death ever again?
But he only seemed to retreat a little behind a facade, affecting an insouciant smile and a careless tone. “Not many other paths, it would seem, since General Washington pleads I am too indispensable to do anything but write his letters.”
My sister’s words returned to me then, and I said, “With the right connections, there would be no limit to your future.” Fighting the blush against what I implied, I hastened to add, “You’re so witty and well read, and you speak French, and you understand finance, and you’re curious about seemingly every idea and philosophy. You remind me very much of . . .” I trailed off there, in embarrassment.
His eyebrow rose in question. “Major André?”
I blinked. “Pardon me?”
“John André,” Hamilton said. “I suppose he was a lieutenant when you knew him. Sometimes we must treat with the enemy. And when we do, you’ve occasionally been the toast of the table.”
It’d been some time since I’d given any thought to that British officer, but I flushed to know he remembered me kindly. And to sense that Hamilton felt some jealousy. “Oh,” I said, a little flustered. “I am—I mean, I was—very fond of Major André and flattered to think he, or any of his officers, toast me. And he was—or is—a very accomplished gentleman. But, no, that’s not who I was going to name.”
“No?” Hamilton asked. “Some other beau then?” I shook my head in denial, but he continued on. “I shall be cross if you compare me to my good friend Monroe, who speaks French well enough, but has a much slower wit.”
To see the insecurity hidden behind Hamilton’s words hurt my heart, for he had all but obliterated every thought of any man before him. And so I rushed to tell him the plain truth. “I was going to say you remind me of my sister. And please trust me when I say that is one of the highest compliments I could offer. If Angelica were a man, she would—”
“You’ve no need to convince me of Mrs. Carter’s merits,” Hamilton said with a reassuring smile. “Charm and courage run in your family, from the paterfamilias to all his children. I am an admirer of your father, already, as you know.”
“As am I, for he is both a soldier and a statesman.”
“A statesman,” Hamilton said, and I could not tell if he took me seriously or not. “You think there is glory enough in that?”
“I do,” I replied.
I wish now that I’d said more.
I wish I’d said that he need not prove himself to me or to the world. I think I didn’t say it because I was young and foolish and quite out of my depth when it came to the demons that haunted the man I loved. But I sometimes fear that I didn’t say it because I didn’t believe it.
And that he knew.
After the door closed that night, and I went up to bed, Angelica asked, “How desperately do you want him?”
I’d not given voice to the depth of my feelings for Hamilton yet, not to anyone. But if anyone would understand, my sister would, and I wished most deeply for Angelica to approve. “I think I fathom now what you said that night.”
She wound her fingers with mine. “What night?”
“When you eloped,” I whispered. “Love is a thing beyond reason.”
“Oh, my sweet sister. Yes, it is.” She pulled me into a hug and peppered me with a million questions about all that had happened between us, finally concluding with, “He’s a hardworking man, Betsy. You know I’m fond of him. But he’s also an ambitious one. Could you be satisfied with a man who is always striving for more?”
I gave careful thought to her question, but I didn’t consider ambition a fault. After what Hamilton and I had discussed earlier in the evening, I took some solace in his ambition, for I believed that in pursuing it, he’d find the glory he so seemed to want without having to share Phaethon’s fate. And everything I knew of what Alexander Hamilton had overcome and achieved, I
