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June 1785
New York City
“British ship in the harbor!” Jenny cried, rapping excitedly on the bedroom door. And though such an utterance would have caused panic only a few years before, it was now, for me, a bringer of joy. One for which I’d been waiting for days. “It’s a big one, mistress.”
I was already dressed, my hair pinned. But I hadn’t fastened my earbobs or chosen a bonnet to match my dress, and in my excitement I didn’t bother with either. Instead, I flew down the stairs. “My sister’s here!”
Alexander, on a rare day home from court, was holding Philip in the air and making our darling boy laugh. “You can’t know if it’s Angelica’s ship—”
“Sisters know,” I insisted, rushing for the door.
“I’ll arrange for a coach,” Alexander called after me, but I didn’t wait. I didn’t wait for anything. Not even a parasol to guard against the summer sun. Instead, I took to the tree-lined sidewalk and ran the five blocks to the water and Burnett’s Key. As the brick streets gave way to planks and mud, I dodged horse droppings, wagons, barrels, and giant coils of rope, the unmistakable scent of the river filling my every breath.
I was sweating by the time I saw the ship moored to the dock, but I didn’t care because the three tall masts and rigging of that ship were as welcome a sight as any I’d ever seen.
“Angelica!” I cried, bouncing on my feet and waving when she appeared out of the disembarking throngs wearing a fashionable French straw hat with a striped ribbon and pink flowers in her hair.
“Betsy!” We fell into each other’s arms while servants scurried to collect her trunks and baggage and children. And we gazed upon each other with joy. She’d been gone nearly two years, and now I couldn’t get enough of her.
Alexander finally caught up with me and had nothing but warm smiles and affection for both Angelica and her husband, whose elusive disposition brightened considerably as Alex filled him in on all the latest goings-on about the city.
That night, at a raucous impromptu supper of cold ham with thick slices of bread and butter, we all crowded around my little table, laughing and drinking wine and singing together. And when I put my baby daughter, Angelica’s namesake, into my sister’s arms, I fell in love with both of them all over again.
In a fit of exuberance I said, “Hamilton says there’s a house for sale on Broadway. Mr. Carter, perhaps you could take it so we can all live closer together.”
I blamed the wine and my overflowing heart for such an indiscreet suggestion. It wasn’t proper for a woman to suggest to a man what he should buy or where he should settle his family. But we Schuyler sisters had always nudged up against the line of what was proper and been adored by our husbands for it, so I was startled at the reaction.
My brother-in-law scowled at me, and Angelica’s musical laugh cut off abruptly, giving way to a gloomy expression before she stared down at my new china.
“A house on Broadway is a good investment,” Alexander broke in, supporting my suggestion, as if he hadn’t noticed the change in mood, or perhaps because he did. “My affection for you both made me look forward to having you as neighbors.”
“We’re only here for a visit,” Mr. Carter explained. “We’ve taken a town house on Sackville Street in London where I intend to pursue a career in Parliament.”
“London?” I choked out, shocked to my foundation. My sister’s husband had made an outrageous profit in the war by equipping the Americans and the French, which could not have endeared him to his king. And even if that were not the case, there was the murky matter of what had caused him to flee England in the first place. “How . . . how can you expect to be welcomed there, Mr. Carter?” I asked, fighting against despair at the thought of losing Angelica again, and after I’d assumed her return to be permanent.
“Because Carter is only his nom de guerre,” my sister said, finally finding her voice. “Allow me to introduce my husband, Mr. John Barker Church . . .”
My mouth fell agape as Angelica explained in an unusually flat voice that her husband was actually from a prominent family, and though he’d fled England under pecuniary, romantic, and legal embarrassments, he’d returned to Europe to learn that a man he thought he had killed in a duel was still quite alive. And he was now emboldened to return to the family fold.
Ticking off the obstacles on her long fingers, Angelica said, “Jack is now respectably married, more than able to pay his creditors, and there are whispers that he’d be welcome in the Whig party.” Her words hung thick over the table, like a net dropped from a sprung trap in which we were all awkwardly caught.
Clearing his throat, Alexander tried to lighten the mood, raising a toast in honor of being able to live freely in this new world we’d created, and go by one’s own name. I suspected, because of his dealings as my brother-in-law’s agent, that he already knew his true identity. And though I held my tongue through the rest of the meal, I couldn’t quite recover.
“Did you know?” I asked that night, undressing before bed.
Alexander’s shoulders fell, answering me even before he took my hands into his. “Yes. I’m sorry I kept it from you. It was a condition of my employment as his agent.”
Even as unhappy as I was, I could hardly hold duty against him. “But he’s a gambler,” I said, allowing myself to be drawn against my husband’s chest. “Jack Carter—Church, I mean, gambled himself into debt, he gambled on the war, and now he’s gambling my sister’s future in
