“Well said, Mrs. Hamilton.” Jefferson gave an extraordinarily sunny smile that filled me with pride.
I was, in fact, so swept up in Jefferson’s idealism and charm, that I understood how Madison could be enthralled by the force of that man’s character and charisma. Though I didn’t know it then, that force, which made Jefferson so effective as the voice of our revolution, and so rousing as a politician and the father of a political party, was something, like love, quite beyond reason.
Like the earth’s own poles, Jefferson and my husband had the power to both repel and attract, and I realize now that Madison was trapped between them, pulled to Jefferson as much, or maybe even more, by that force of charisma as by any alignment of their ideals.
But at the time, I only knew that I wanted these men to remember all they had in common, and I lifted my glass in abandonment of all etiquette. “To the revolution, to independence, and the Constitution. And to the men at this table, all of whom made them possible.”
At that, Madison seemed to soften, giving me a private little nod as he joined in the toast. Alexander seemed more cordial, too. “And to the women as well,” he said, generously. The good feelings that finally surrounded us persuaded me to henceforth adopt a policy for the dinners that took place at my table: no man’s politics should be held against him, and all were welcome.
Conversation flowed with more ease after that, and when Hamilton saw Madison and Jefferson out, he made an invitation of his own. “Gentlemen, let’s do this again. Just the three of us. I have some thoughts on the matter of a national capital. Perhaps we can reach a compromise . . .”
Chapter Twenty-One
November 1790
Philadelphia
OVER A SECOND, private dinner of just the three of them, they’d struck a bargain.
A grand compromise.
Madison yielded, agreeing to get my husband the votes he needed for his financial plan. And on the heels of his victory, Alexander brimmed with excitement, swooping little James into his arms to spin him around. But I was too much the daughter of a Dutchman to think such a victory would come without a price. “And what do the Virginians want in exchange?”
Alexander was suddenly, decidedly less giddy. “I agreed to use my influence to move the capital city from New York to the wilderness of the Potomac.”
Already imagining the uproar it would cause amongst our New York friends, I tried to reconcile myself to the news. “It will take time to build a new city. Surely, in the meantime, we’ll remain here?”
Hamilton shook his head, more than a little frustrated at the outcome. His enemies had whispered that the capital city was to be called Hamiltonopolis, so he’d been forced to give New York up even as a temporary home for the government, lest he appear to be self-interested. “All of us—the congressmen, the senators, the cabinet officers and their wives—are to pack up and migrate to Philadelphia.”
I didn’t relish upending our life on Wall Street, but there was nothing for it but to close up the house, pack up the children, and sell the chickens.
But that autumn, with the move entirely in my command, I was inconsolable.
Not to leave New York—but because our faithful Jenny fell prey to yellow fever.
It’d started as a fever and some aches, and though she insisted she felt better, I sent her back to the Pastures for a rest and a visit with her mother. She never made it there. She died on the sloop, it was reported to me, bleeding from the mouth, nose, and eyes, screaming in pain. And I grieved as much that she had died alone, without me to tend her, as I would have for a member of my family. Which made me deeply ashamed.
For I had not treated her with the love and respect someone ought to treat family. Instead, I’d told myself polite lies to disguise the fact that I’d “borrowed” Jenny. I’d taken her away from her mother at the Pastures and I’d taken her labor and kindness as if I had a right to them.
Jenny had been a servant, yes. Why say it politely, even if it was the custom? She was a slave. She’d been my children’s nursemaid, and they loved her. She’d also been my helpmate, and I considered her a friend. I should have told her that. No, I should have treated her like a friend. I should have treated her like a person, with the same God-given rights as any other.
I should have seen to her freedom. And now it was too late.
Papa had joined the New York Manumission Society; he wasn’t insensible to the injustice of slavery. He meant to do away with it at the Pastures as soon as he could afford to. But even if Papa wouldn’t have released Jenny from bondage, I should have paid her a wage.
In guilt and grief over her death, I wanted nothing more to do with slavery.
Now I vowed never to own, rent, or borrow another human being.
That wasn’t enough, of course. Not enough to wipe away the stain on my soul or the everyday injustices of the institution. But I kept true to my vow.
I’d been born and raised on a plantation; my happiness had been built on the subjugation of others. My past was tainted with it, no matter what excuses I made for myself. But I could change. The country could change. So I put slavery—and New York—behind me in the hopes of bringing about a government that would help guarantee that all men, and perhaps all women, would
