“I’m not sure if I could be happy with him,” I admitted. But happiness seemed too flimsy a thing to reach for. I might have found happiness with a less complicated man—a polite and dutiful man like Tench Tilghman. Instead, I was drawn to Hamilton, who challenged me to be so much more than a fine-tempered girl. And the person he brought out in me—I wasn’t sure I could be happy again without.
* * *
Answer to the Inquiry Why I Sighed
Before no mortal ever knew
A love like mine so tender, true,
Completely wretched—you away,
And but half blessed e’en while you stay.
If present love, obstacles face
Deny you to my fond embrace
No joy unmixed my bosom warms
But when my angel’s in my arms.
—SONNET BY ALEXANDER HAMILTON FOR ELIZABETH SCHUYLER
Plink. Plink. Plink.
The sound of pebbles hitting glass scarcely cut through my dreamless nighttime reverie as I read a sonnet Alexander wrote me. It was all, everything, happening so fast. And I couldn’t quite believe it was happening to me.
My sister shook me, holding a candle aloft. “Betsy, your suitor is at the window.”
“But it’s the middle of the night,” I whispered, and though I ought to have been delighted to see him again, my breath caught with worry, remembering the expression on Alexander’s face just before he’d left my uncle’s house that evening, some dark cloud before his eyes. Surely it was nothing, for I had proof of his love in my hands.
Kitty groaned and covered her face with a pillow. “Oh, fasten a robe and go down to that prowling tomcat or he’ll never go away!”
I said, “But Aunt Gertrude will hear—”
“For pity’s sake, you’re hopeless,” Angelica said. “Have I let her discover you holding hands and kissing before? The baby and I will go down with you. If Aunt Gertrude hears us, I’ll tell her the little one was fussing.”
It sounded unforgivably duplicitous, but it was precisely the sort of mischief at which Angelica excelled. And because I could still feel the brush of Hamilton’s hands upon my skin, and because my lips were still sweet with his kisses, I was powerless to resist either of them.
In slippered feet, Angelica and I both stole down the stairs. Quietly, I unlatched the back door to find Hamilton there, his eyes bright as he slipped inside the house. “Ladies—”
“The keeping room,” Angelica whispered, nudging us to where the silver and valuables were kept and servants were not permitted. Then, with my baby niece in her arms, Angelica posted herself as guard, closing us in alone in the darkness with but a single candle.
“Is something the matter?” I whispered to Hamilton in the dim light.
“Yes,” he said, quite gravely, a tremor in his voice. “I have something to say, and if it waits another moment, I shall lose my nerve.”
I’d never seen him afraid before. Angry, dutiful, officious, charming, reckless, smug, cynical. All those things. But never afraid until now. “The story I told you before. The one about my parents. There is another version.”
“Another version?” How could there be more than one?
He took my hands in his, gently stroking his thumbs over my knuckles, then bringing them to his mouth to kiss. “There is a version of the story I have entrusted to no one else but my dear friend Laurens. But I cannot bear to deceive you.”
I should have given that casual admission more thought. That there was someone Hamilton trusted. Someone he had trusted more than me. A man I’d never met. A man of whom he spoke worshipfully. And Hamilton was not a man to worship. But all I knew then was that he was speaking of deception. That he was making me afraid now, too. And I’d always believed bad news should be delivered quickly. “Please tell me.”
“I let you believe my illegitimacy was a mere wrinkle in the law. What I didn’t say was that my mother was jailed for multiple adulteries. Suspected of worse. Held captive in a dank, dark cell, half-starved for months. And when she died, she was denied even the right to pass on property to her whore-children.”
I will never forget the way in which he uttered the word whore-children, as if hissing from a brand pressed to his skin. And it made me grasp his hands tighter, tears in my eyes. “Oh, Alexander . . .”
He swallowed. “I don’t even know if the man who I called Father is my father.”
I swallowed, too, meeting his eyes so that he would know that I meant what I said. “I understand. And I hold you blameless. None of it is your doing.”
Manfully, he squared his shoulders. “That is kind of you to say. But in courting you, I’ve shot quite above my station. I can only plead love in defense of myself.”
Emotion lodged a knot in my throat. He loved me. His sonnet had confessed as much, but to hear it from his mouth, to see it in his eyes . . .
He continued, “My feelings for you make me restless and discontent with everything that used to please me and I began to imagine the world might be different. But I’m a man of hard realities. If this must end things between us I will harbor no ill will.”
So, this was why he’d looked so tortured before he left earlier tonight. He thought it might be our last night together. And now his hands actually trembled in mine.
I reached for his cheek, and touched it, tenderly. “Alexander, this makes no difference to me.”
“It has made all the difference to my life. It’s bad enough people think I am—”
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks because I love you. I love your mind, the variety of your knowledge, your playful wit, and the excellence of your heart. I love you for reasons that defy any explanation at all.”
Angelica had been right. Love was a thing beyond
