“So soon?” I asked, not wishing to lose him again to his books and papers. “You’ve worked so hard. Too hard . . .”
“You both work too hard,” Angelica said, grasping my hand in her soft, manicured, bejeweled fingers, as if horrified to find mine rough, dry, and reddened from scrubbing linens, sewing clothes, and keeping house alongside Jenny. “My dear Hamilton, my servants will prepare dinner for all of us. I’m going to take care of you, my darlings. You shall have a holiday when home. I insist that you dine with me tonight.”
“Oh, please, Alexander.” I wanted nothing more than to be around the same table with the two people whose company I loved best in the world.
But my husband sighed with regret. “I’m afraid I’m to dine with some gentlemen at Fraunces Tavern.”
“Invite them here,” Angelica said, and a look of panic flittered over the faces of the servants who’d just emerged, half seasick, from the bowels of an oceangoing ship, and were not even settled into a new home in a new city. I couldn’t think how they might be ready to entertain on a moment’s notice. But that didn’t stop my sister from making the offer.
Nor did it discourage Alexander. “How can I resist my two brunette charmers?” With that, he kissed me, then grabbed his coat and embraced the children, making the older ones promise to behave while he was gone.
“Invite whoever you like!” Angelica called after him when he made for the door. “The poor baron and his dog are always in need of a good meal. And what about the Burrs? They’re wonderfully droll.”
“Not Burr,” Alexander said sharply, just before bounding out.
As we watched him disappear with the crowd on the street, I explained, “He’s vexed with Colonel Burr for throwing in with the antifederalists and accepting a job from Governor Clinton.” Clinton, the man whose minions called my husband Tom Shit.
Angelica leaned closer, keen for gossip. “And that’s cause enough to prevent him from dining with the man?”
Only someone who hadn’t lived through the recent hostilities could be surprised by this. “Not always. Sometimes I persuade him to turn the other cheek for the sake of my friendship with Theodosia, but I fear it a lost cause . . .”
“Well, even so, you’re recompensed to have a husband so handsome and of such merit and abilities. A husband who—” Her voice caught, and she bit her lip. “A husband who plainly loves you.”
Tears sprung to her eyes. Tears. And my heart nearly stopped in my chest because I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen Angelica cry before. Not even when we were children, lest rivals for leadership over our troop of Blues think they had the advantage.
“Oh, Angelica, why are you crying?”
“Because I’m so happy for you, of course.” She dabbed at her eyes with a perfumed kerchief. Then, as if she couldn’t bear for me to see her this way, she retreated to the parlor. I followed, still alarmed, even though I ought to have been minding my children, whose shoes were clopping on the polished wooden floor as they ran circles around the empty dining room. And when we were alone, she confessed, “My husband doesn’t love me.”
I was sure I’d misheard. Everyone loved Angelica. “That can’t be true.”
“It is,” she said, with a miserable shake of her head. “Church admits it.”
My mouth dropped open. “Your husband could never be so cruel. He must’ve been drunk. Half out of his mind.”
“He was drunk,” Angelica replied softly. “But I fear that only made it easier to tell the truth. That he loved me once, but not any longer.”
In numb shock, I murmured, “Is there—is there—”
“A woman?” she asked, with a bitter laugh. “Look hard enough and there’s always a woman. But he’s not in love with someone else. That, I could understand. That would make sense. But no. There are only three things my husband loves now. Money, gambling, and the politics of the British Parliament.”
I could scarcely credit this. We hadn’t approved of Church to start with, but we’d all become affectionately attached to him. Even Mama, who’d once called him a macaroni. “I’m sure he loves you and the children, Angelica, no matter what he says.”
“Jack loves our little brood,” Angelica admitted, sheepishly, as if she’d wronged him. “I shouldn’t have implied otherwise. His children delight him. But I inspire him to feel nothing.”
A little sob escaped her, and her red watery eyes met mine. “Have I lost my beauty? My wit? Tell me, Betsy—what has changed about me that could make me so unlovable?”
The bleeding anguish in her gaze revealed a wound as plain as I’d seen in any hospital and pity overtook me. My dazzling sister—who’d always been confident and strong and triumphant—had somehow been carved up and diminished by the man she married. And I was furious. Setting my jaw, I told her the plain truth. “You are more charming and beautiful than you’ve ever been.”
Her smile was fleeting. “What a Schuyler you are. Always loyal. I don’t feel beautiful. Or charming. Or even welcome in my husband’s home.” She said the next more emphatically. “Of course, England was never my home. Perhaps by pleading to return to America . . . maybe that’s what did it. I’ve been so homesick that I let my own misery drive away my husband’s love. Do you know—I—well, you’ll think me terribly wicked . . .”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes, as if afraid to tell me more. And I became even more distressed. “Wicked?”
“Our friends in Europe are more broad-minded about love than we are here. They taught me how to take vengeance on a neglectful husband. When I met our American ambassador to France, the widowed Mr. Jefferson, and he took a fancy to me . . . I encouraged him.”
For a moment, I was so scandalized I lost all power of speech.
Seeing my expression, my sister quickly added, “Oh, it was only a flirtation. I’m not one of Mr. Jefferson’s lovers. But I hoped by
