“No, no, of course that is not—” His color deepening, he interrupted himself to ask, “What men? Name these men who have pressed affections on my wife and I shall call them out!”
“Call them out?” I laughed, darkly. “You, prostrate with your own crimes, shall call for a duel of honor?”
Our voices awakened the baby, who gave a stretch and halfhearted cry before settling again.
My husband was too clever a man not to realize his blunder but was too hot-tempered to retract. Instead, he took me by the arms and gave me a little shake. “Let us reach an understanding, you and I. You would never betray me, Betsy. It isn’t in you. But I would forgive you if you did. Do you understand? I’d forgive you anything, so long as you loved me. For love is the power that binds us. That, and our children, and the life we have together.”
I’d forgive you anything, so long as you loved me.
He’d turned upon me the full blaze of his extraordinary blue eyes. The heat of his body. The power of his charisma and an appeal to our love, and yet, I whispered, “I don’t believe you.”
His grip tightened. “You do believe me. I’ve caused you pain, but I love you. Deep in your heart, you know it’s true.”
What did that matter? My heart, after all, had proved to be an untrustworthy instrument. The only thing I could rely upon was my head and cold, hard reason. And so I asked, “What price did you pay? You said you paid the man. How much?”
He swallowed hard and stared a long moment. “Just over a thousand dollars.”
Nearly a third of his income in any given year. A sum so shocking that I pushed his hands away. “Please tell me, at the very least, it was your own money,” I bit out.
“God. Of course. I couldn’t bear for you to find out, Betsy. Would a man who did not love you pay so much?”
He meant this to be a branch for me to cling to while I drowned in humiliation. I grasped at it, only for my sanity. “Well, now I know. So, they have nothing more to hold over you.”
He blanched. “They do. That’s why he was at the door last night. Reynolds has been released from jail, but if I don’t get him clear of the fraud charges, he’ll tell a story to the investigators. I cannot do what he wishes, but I will meet with him this morning and persuade him to keep quiet anyway.”
Now we come to the real reason for this confession, I thought. He’s been forced to it.
For there was, indeed, something Hamilton dreaded more than my discovery of his infidelity, and that was an end to his administration. He believed that in these early years of the American experiment, faith in him was the same as faith in the government he served.
That if Hamilton was thought to be corrupted, the system he built would collapse.
Alas, I couldn’t say that he was wrong.
Now, spent of his confessions, my husband eased himself back upon the bed and nestled our baby boy in his arms. Stroking Johnny’s peach-fuzz head, Hamilton whispered, “I know I’ve done wrong, Betsy. Even if you forgive me, I cannot forgive myself for risking that our children be thought the descendants of a thief who stole from the country he was entrusted to defend. I have only ever wished to give my sons an honorable name in which to take pride . . .”
An honorable name. It’s all my husband ever wanted. And when his father hadn’t given it to him, he made one for himself out of nothing but sweat and courage.
Now that name belonged to our children. And should our children suffer for their father’s sins?
Though I should be weeping, in that moment I was too numb to fall to pieces. For a long moment, my head was a maelstrom of confusion. But then, clarity stole through. “You cannot rely on your blackmailer to keep quiet. Better to summon the investigators, tell them the truth, and throw yourself upon their mercy, as gentlemen, to keep your private failings in confidence.”
“Summon them here?” Hamilton’s eyes flew open. “With you and the children . . .”
I nodded, swallowing over fury and pain. “Invite them into our home. Let them see me and your little ones. Remind them who will pay the price for wagging tongues.”
As if apprehending what I’d have to endure, he groaned. “I couldn’t ask you to do this for me.”
“Good thing, because I would not do it for you.”
I would do it for my children.
It was, after all, the only wise, politic choice.
And Alexander Hamilton had, at long last, made me a politician.
Chapter Twenty-Three
REYNOLDS. REYNOLDS. REYNOLDS.
As I kneaded dough, I couldn’t get the name out of my head, sure I could place it. Maria Reynolds was a harlot, my husband insisted. A woman whose husband prostituted her. A woman beneath my contempt. I imagined her as a dainty sparrow of a thing. The kind who might flutter about, as if with a broken wing in need of tending. Ought I do the same when the investigators came to my house?
I was broken in earnest. Heartbroken. And perhaps, if I showed that heartbreak, it would evoke sympathy. Or perhaps it would subject me to their laughter.
James Monroe would never laugh at me, I thought. In loyalty to my husband, I’d never attempted to untangle or name my feelings for Monroe or his for me—but I’d always believed our connection to be deeper and more complicated than friendship. Monroe was the first man to stir romantic feelings in my breast—a man with whom I felt a kinship in wanderlust and passion for the cause.
He would have never broken my heart. Nor would have Tench Tilghman, for that matter. If I’d made a match with either of them—good soldiers, solid gentlemen with respectable upbringings and a concern for
