I smiled and said how wonderful it was, though this was not the sort of news that excited me. And as he sat, I took in the pristine spines of books sprawled across the table to find a series of what appeared to be philosophical texts on government and economy. Price’s Observations on the Nature of Civil Liberty, in two volumes. Hume’s Political Discourses. Postlethwayt’s The Universal Dictionary of Trade and Commerce. Beawes’s Lex Mercatoria Rediviva.
Given this reading material, I was happy to leave him to it!
But when I returned a short time later, I found that he’d discarded his coat and loosened his cravat. Ink dotted his fingers and smudged his cheek, and his hair had the appearance of having been blown by the wind from the way he raked his hands through it when deep in thought.
“What are you working on so feverishly?”
“A letter of congratulations to Mr. Morris,” he said, working with an intensity I’d never seen in another—not even my father. His focus unwavering, his quill scratched fast against the page. It was strangely enthralling to watch. Utterly appealing.
I blinked at the stack of thick leather tomes and what looked to be at least ten pages of writing. “A very long note of congratulations, I should say . . .”
“Well, I’m also sending him my thoughts on the topic of establishing our economy,” Hamilton said with the same nonchalance with which another might talk about the weather or the price of tea. “Betsy, if we win this war, we turn to the great project of building a nation where none has yet existed. Rarely does mankind have such an opportunity, nor such a burden. We must get it right.”
Clearly Hamilton believed he knew how to get it right.
And I listened as he told me all he’d learned of world finance when, at the age of fourteen, he’d worked as a clerk at an export and import company in St. Croix, trading sugar, timber, cattle, and even slaves. I hadn’t realized he had such a passion for finance—or really, that anyone could have such a passion for it. Truthfully, it was a passion I didn’t share. But I listened in rapt attention because it was one of the few times Alexander ever spoke about his childhood, and the hard lessons it impressed upon him.
Lessons he was very keen to impart to his new country.
Even then, as a starry-eyed newlywed, I feared there might be some manner of hubris in a lieutenant colonel with no expertise in finance other than his own experience as a fourteen-year-old clerk condescending to write the new superintendent of finance an economic manifesto. But at the time, having mostly witnessed the soldier in Hamilton, I was also much intrigued by the scholar. More importantly, his enthusiasm for the project of building a nation—for thinking ahead—helped give me much-needed courage that we would win this war.
And with a little hubris of my own, I asked, “Is there . . . something I can do to help?” He’d already refused a bowl of fish stew for dinner, as if he couldn’t take even a moment away from his pen in exchange for a spoon. And now he was rubbing with one hand at the back of his neck, as if it pained him. When he glanced at me quizzically, I suggested, very tentatively, “I see that you’re copying your notes and calculations. Maybe I could do the copying for you.”
“You want to write for me,” he said, arching a brow. “Like a clerk?”
“I should rather be your long-suffering and extremely loyal aide-de-camp,” I replied.
He smirked at my impudence. “Your simmering disapproval of my decision to leave the general is duly noted.” I started to object, but he held up a hand. “That was not a point subtly made, my love. And I intend to thoroughly punish you for it by accepting your offer.”
I felt a little thrill of excitement. When I’d thought of being his partner, I never imagined being so directly involved in his work. To be a patriot in heart and sentiment, but also in deed and ink. “Just tell me what to do.”
Before long, I had a stack of pages in front of me. While Alexander wolfed down his dinner and worked out more calculations, I copied his notes for hours, concentrating on penmanship, until my eyes glazed over from recording lengthy discussions of generating revenue, paying for the military, currency depreciation, foreign credit, and instituting a national bank. But his long complicated calculations made me think of Papa’s love of equations, and I smiled at the comparison.
When I had written my twelfth full page, I set down the quill but found that my hand had cramped in a curled position. I laughed as I rubbed at my palm and fingers. “How do you do it?”
Hamilton’s brow furrowed. “Do what?”
“Write so much. Some days the only time you’re not writing is when you’re asleep. Why, I’ve even seen you writing while saddled upon a horse. Yet, after just a few hours at the task, my hand feels as though I’ve suddenly developed rheumatism.”
He frowned and made as if to set aside his work. “I’m sorry, love. You don’t have to continue.”
“No, please,” I said, smiling. “I want to help. I only mean to convey my admiration, Alexander. You are remarkable, truly.”
Slowly, he settled back into his chair. “Remarkable? How?”
“Oh, Mr. Hamilton, what I’d known of you pales in comparison to what I’ve learned this night. Why . . . I begin to think you’re a genius. And I say this as the daughter of a man who has always delighted in calculations and equations and theory and philosophy. I may not
