But I’d chosen Alexander Hamilton.
A fact I reminded myself of as I methodically scraped the loaf of sugar for a confection I couldn’t taste, for the world had become devoid of flavor. I could scarcely see color, which made it a trial to choose what to wear. If I wore something dark and plain, would the investigators feel sorrier for me? Or perhaps I should wear my gauzy white dress, the one that left less of my body to the imagination, so they’d think my husband a fool for betraying me.
I was never a beauty. It was only that, until a few days ago, Alexander had made me feel like one. Now I felt like nothing.
That night the investigators came to my house, just as I’d suggested. Two legislators I knew by name only, a treasury official, and James Monroe. While my girls played by the fireplace with their new toys—brought by Sinterklaas in burlap sacks days before—I welcomed the men into the house with a plate of rye-flour pepernoot cookies, fragrant with cinnamon, anise, and clove.
“Compliments of the season,” Monroe drawled, with a very formal bow that seemed somehow at odds with his brown hunting boots and the black tricorn beaver felt hat that was swiftly going out of style. Meanwhile, my boys ran about like rowdies, led by a laughing, taunting ten-year-old Philip, pelting one another with extra pepernoot they’d stolen from the kitchen, which was not strictly the custom. But I was too weary to take a firm hand with them, especially when I had grown men to manage.
“Coffee?” I asked Monroe, forcing a smile.
“What else?” Monroe chuckled softly, as if a little abashed to be upon this errand. And as if, perhaps, he thought I didn’t know why he’d come. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mrs. Monroe sends her warm regards.”
“And I return mine. I hope to see your wife and your darling little daughter at a holiday tea after church this Sunday.” Monroe’s smile warmed so I added, “We’ve come such a long way from an army campfire, haven’t we, Senator Monroe?”
“Indeed we have. How young, hopeful, and idealistic we were . . .”
“I am still hopeful,” I said, filling his cup to the brim just as bitterness filled me up inside.
Once I’d finished serving refreshments, Alexander stood, ready to furnish all the information they could require to acquit him of a crime—receipts of his blackmail payments, I assumed—so I retired from the room and kept the children quiet upstairs.
It was quiet downstairs, too. Maddeningly so. I didn’t know what to make of it, especially when the men remained closeted together much longer than I thought necessary. Indeed, the interview seemed to go on and on until I grew weary watching the hands on our grandfather clock move.
When, at last, I heard the scrape of chair legs on wood—the sound of a meeting reaching its end—I hastened downstairs again. Alexander should have seen the men off. But I’d persuaded him that I should be the one to do it. And so I forced myself to say a kindly and proper farewell.
Given what my husband had just told them, I wasn’t surprised that the investigators whom I didn’t know well couldn’t meet my eyes. But James Monroe’s face burned scarlet at the sight of me and he lingered in the doorway long after the others departed, a sheaf of papers under his arm.
With a shake of his head, he began to stammer. “I—Mrs. Hamilton—Betsy . . .”
It’d been a long time since he used my name with that soft southern drawl. The intimacy of it seemed somehow improper. But the sound of it carried genuine sympathy. Oh, why had I feared the men’s laughter instead of their pity? Pity was worse. Far worse. Especially from him.
Though I wanted to flee, I somehow made myself stand there and say, “I trust you’re satisfied with my husband’s innocence on the charge of corruption?”
Monroe’s color deepened, if that was possible, at the word innocence. In fact, he cast such a bloody-minded look in the direction of the study that I feared it’d all gone badly. “Secretary Hamilton has provided me with exculpatory documentation and we will not make any report to the president at this time. I believe your husband will acknowledge that our conduct toward him has been fair and liberal—and that he could not complain of it.”
Oh, Alexander would complain of it. But he should be grateful for Monroe, who actually cared whether or not he complained. And I could see that Monroe cared very much.
“Mrs. Hamilton, please believe that I wish you every happiness.”
Monroe had flushed at the word innocence, but I now blanched at the word happiness. He noticed and all pretense fell away. Either I was no good at pretense, or he knew me well enough to realize that I was aware of my husband’s infidelity.
“You are a kind, lovely, and charming woman and you deserve much better than—”
“Pray don’t say another word,” I whispered, wilting with humiliation. Why did I think I could do this? Why did I think I was strong enough? To my horror, tears welled before I could blink them away. “I should plead for your discretion as a gentleman on behalf of my husband, but in truth, I beg of you, for myself—”
“Dear God, to see you cry,” Monroe said, setting down the papers and reaching inside his sleeve for an embroidered kerchief, which he offered me at once. “Insofar as is in keeping with my duty, the papers will remain sealed. As will my lips, for your sake. You have my word of honor.”
His kerchief smelled faintly of tobacco and pine and I let out a tiny sob into it full of relief and sorrow. It would be better if no one knew what Hamilton had done. No one. Not my friends. Not my parents. Not even Angelica, for such things could never be entrusted to a letter across the ocean. So the only person to whom I could
