Poor Colonel Tilghman left wearing a stunned expression that must have mirrored my own. My mind raced for a solution. So much hung in the balance—for us personally and for the cause. Could it all be undone by my husband’s pride?
“Alexander,” I said, cupping his cheek in my hand as I carefully chose my words. “Of course, you didn’t deserve the general’s shortness. But he recognizes his error. Surely you can forgive—”
“It’s more than that.” As if trying to reassure me that he wasn’t simply caught in a fit of temper, he pressed a kiss to my palm and grasped my hand in his. “I never wished to be an aide-de-camp. I never wished to depend entirely upon any one person for my future. I had refused to serve in this capacity to two other generals for just this reason. But I got swept up in the enthusiasm of the war and an idea of Washington’s character and accepted his invitation.”
I understood this. But now seemed hardly the time to change course.
Before I could say as much, Alexander rushed to add, “Washington has always professed more friendship for me than I felt for him. You’ve seen how he calls me ‘my boy.’ I need to stand upon a footing of military confidence rather than of private attachment. So today has been a long time in coming.”
Queasiness overcame me, for this stand seemed utter folly. Was there any other young patriot in the country who wouldn’t trip over himself to win Washington’s fatherly affection? And yet my husband apparently resented it as much as if it was offered by the father who’d abandoned him. Not knowing whether to feel sympathy or exasperation, I only managed a soft, “Oh, Alexander . . .”
He shook his head again. “Worry not, dear Betsy. I will reenter into the artillery. Or perhaps a command in the infantry will offer itself. Either way, a command would leave me the winter to prosecute the study of the law in preparation for my future career in life. Either will leave me in a better position than if I stay in service in the general’s family.”
I still couldn’t believe that my husband meant to abandon his crucial place in the war effort as Washington’s most trusted aide. Not with the war at a turning point. And yet, Alexander immediately set quill to paper to inform my father and a few close confidants of his breach with Washington—the sharing of which might well embarrass our commander, making their parting irrevocable.
I tried to imagine Papa’s reaction, an endeavor that made my headache worsen. What would he think of his new son-in-law who, having achieved the security of our family reputation and fortune, nearly immediately, and in a moment of pique, insulted and abandoned George Washington?
There must be some way to fix this. So, despite the sharpening soreness in my throat, and the agony of facing Martha Washington when our husbands were now at odds, I went to headquarters with Alexander the next day, working with her as I always did and sitting in quiet observation. Hoping some opportunity might arise for me to smooth over this rift.
True to his word, Alexander conducted himself that day as if nothing untoward had occurred. But Mrs. Washington knew better. Sitting beside me in the farmhouse’s parlor as we wrote letters requesting funds for the soldiers, she spoke quietly, never lifting her gaze from the parchment. “Have you had the opportunity to meet the woman in camp they’re calling Captain Molly?”
Mrs. Washington was referring to the wife of a cannoneer who, during the Battle of Monmouth, had been bringing pitchers of water to the soldiers when her husband fell. To avenge him, “Captain Molly” took his place at the cannon with admirable courage and service. I’d seen the stout, red-haired, freckle-faced young woman in camp. But I’d never spoken to her. “I’m afraid we’re not acquainted. Should we be?”
Martha’s lips pinched for a moment. “It’s just that she puts me in mind of something. If our independence is to be won, our husbands must be willing to put themselves in harm’s way. But achieving independence also relies on the support of our women . . . in whatever manner best supports the cause.”
My quill paused, and I looked up at this wise lady from whom I’d already learned so much. “In whatever manner?” I asked, willing her to say more.
Her brown eyes clear, her graying hair framing her round face under the plain mobcap, she said, “Even great men require advisers, and we have our husbands’ ears. Sometimes we encourage, sometimes we challenge, and sometimes we manage . . .”
I couldn’t imagine how a man like Alexander might be managed, but perhaps she could. I returned my quill to the ink pot and sat back in my chair. “How?”
She smiled, shaking away the sand we used to dry the ink. Then she poured a circle of wax upon the page to seal it. “If I could tell you that, perhaps the war would already be done.”
I suspected she had somehow managed General Washington into offering an apology. And now it was up to me to get Alexander to accept it. But I felt ill-equipped for the task. Martha Washington was, in my mind, the ideal of a true woman. More amiable and diplomatic than my own beloved mother. Martha had, for more than twenty years, worn around her finger a plain wedding band that symbolized her devotion to—and perhaps her influence over—her husband. Whereas I was a newlywed and still learning how to influence mine.
Foundering as if in a canoe without a paddle while I did it.
And the one person who seemed as frustrated as I felt was Lafayette.
That afternoon when taking lunch to the back room where my husband labored over the general’s correspondence, I overheard the Frenchman cry, “Mon Dieu, the feud I started by accident! My dear Hamilton, how I wish I hadn’t stopped you to talk when the general needed you. I make all the apologies.”
“No one blames you,
