I, Eliza Hamilton. Susan Holloway Scott
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we were also a home suffering beneath a cloud of disgrace. Although my father had served his country and his men with courage and efficiency, his political enemies in Congress had plotted against him, and after the fall of Fort Ticonderoga this past summer—a blow to the cause that even he could not have avoided—he had been removed from his command of the Northern Department. Papa had requested a court-martial to clear his name, but his request thus far had been ignored, and the fact that his replacement, General Horatio Gates, had employed Papa’s forces and tactics to defeat the British at Saratoga had been especially bitter for Papa. He had considered his career for the Continental Army to be done, and he’d given up wearing his uniform. Although he spoke little of it to us, we understood the depths of his disappointment, and as a family we defended his reputation however we could.
Little wonder, then, that Peggy and I met the arrival of the aide-de-camp from the army’s commander-in-chief with wariness, if not open suspicion. Was he bringing further humiliation to our poor father? Was he the bearer of more ill news from the army, more disgrace to tarnish our family’s name?
Colonel Hamilton himself did little to dispel our suspicions. When his name was called by one of our footmen, he remained standing alone in the room’s arched doorway for a moment too long, appraising the room and all of us in it, before striding forward to present himself to my parents. It was rude, that pause, especially to my father, still his superior in rank, and it clearly appeared to be born of a surfeit of confidence and perhaps an arrogant desire to be noticed. As unmannerly as such a gambit might be, however, it was also effective.
“Look at that cocky fellow!” Peggy said to me from behind her spread fan, adding a shocked little hiss for emphasis. “You know who he is, don’t you?”
“Colonel Alexander Hamilton,” I said, letting contempt curl through my pronunciation. He wore the elegant blue uniform of an artilleryman, with buff facings, brass buttons, and buckskin breeches, yet it fit him ill, the wool coat hanging loosely about his frame, the cuffs threadbare, and the green sash of an aide-de-camp slung across his chest like an afterthought. No wonder, really: he was slight for a soldier, slender and boyish, with a wind-burned face and reddish-gold hair.
“I cannot fathom why he is here,” Peggy said. “Aside from the fact, of course, that Papa invited him to join us, but then Papa invites everyone. They already met together this afternoon. What could Colonel Hamilton possibly have left to say? One would think a gentleman officer would have declined such an invitation under the circumstances, simply to be respectful.”
I sniffed with disdain. “I doubt Colonel Hamilton has considered respect.”
Peggy nodded, her gold earbobs swinging against her cheeks. “But Papa is smiling at him, and so is Mamma.”
It was true. Our parents were conversing with the young colonel as if he were the most honored of guests. On the other hand, appearances could be deceiving where Papa was concerned. Our father was so much a Christian gentleman that if he chanced to step upon a den of copperheads in the forest, he’d bow and beg their pardon for having disturbed their rest with his boot.
“You can’t deny that the colonel’s a favorite of General Washington,” Peggy continued, clearly persuading herself as much as she was me of the colonel’s character. “Perhaps he’s brought good news from His Excellency, not bad. Papa said Colonel Hamilton has come to Albany on an important military errand, which must be a great honor for a gentleman of his years.”
“And how many years has the colonel seen?” I asked wryly. “Fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Hush,” Peggy scolded. “Colonel Hamilton is twenty. Nor does he have a wife, which you know is why Mamma is now greeting him so warmly.”
That went without saying. Although Peggy and I had always been expected to wed gentlemen from among the wealthy Dutch New York families much like our own, the war had changed everything. The times had become so unpredictable and unsettled that no one was marrying anyone (except, of course, my older sister, Angelica, who had impetuously eloped with an Englishman the year before). All the gentlemen from Albany who ordinarily would have considered courting Peggy or me had joined the army instead, and thus Mamma wasn’t above widening her nets for our matrimonial sakes. Twenty in an unmarried woman was a great deal older than twenty in a bachelor, and Mamma made sure that presentable young officers were always welcome at our house.
Including, it appeared, Colonel Hamilton. I cautiously continued my own appraisal, still unwilling to abandon my earlier grudge against him. I supposed he was considered handsome, with regular features and a manly jaw. But he also possessed a longish nose that he held raised like an eager hound sniffing the air for a scent, and so intense a gaze that he was almost scowling as he listened to my father. Yet he was listening, respectfully, and not attempting to force his own opinions on Papa the way so many other young officers did. That was in his favor; perhaps he had brought Papa good news, and reluctantly my opinion of him rose a fraction.
“Papa said Colonel Hamilton was attending King’s College before the war interrupted his studies,” Peggy was saying. “He must be vastly clever. I wonder what his prospects might be.”
While I knew Peggy meant his prospects for inherited property and wealth (considerations we’d always been taught to value), I could only think instead of the colonel’s prospects for survival in the army, and the war. I’d already seen too many gentlemen march away to battle and not return, and from unhappy experience I’d learned not so much to harden my heart, as to guard it against sorrow and loss. Given his size and stature, I doubted Colonel Hamilton’s prospects in this way were very promising at all.
Yet even as these gloomy thoughts filled my head, the colonel bowed and turned away from my parents. His gaze met mine, and held it. He bowed in acknowledgment. At once my face grew hot—what lady wishes to be caught boldly staring at a gentleman?—yet like a deer trapped frozen in a lantern’s light, nothing could induce me to look away. His eyes were an unexpected blue, as bright as the summer sky, and at once bold and enticing, with more than a bit of sly humor besides.
And it was that humor that finally released me, too, for as soon as I saw the smile that began to play across his lips, I suddenly was able to shake myself free of his spell. I was no longer captivated; I was mortified. I’d already been shamed, but I needn’t be laughed at as well, and swiftly I looked away before he’d find further amusement at my expense.
Flustered, I wanted nothing to do with the colonel now. To my relief, one of my mother’s friends came sailing toward me on waves of taffeta and indignation, and for once I gratefully gave myself over to listening to her complaints about how the cobbles in the street before her house had made her carriage late.
At dinner, too, I was mercifully spared. We were short of ladies that night, and at the table I was surrounded by older gentlemen and gloomy talk of the war. Colonel Hamilton, however, had been granted the choicest chair beside my father, and whenever I dared glance their way, the two seemed thoroughly fascinated with each other’s opinions. I wasn’t exactly jealous, but I did wonder what they discussed, and how much more interesting their conversation must be than those around me.
After dinner the party returned to the sitting room, where I played several pieces on the fortepiano and Peggy and I sang together, as we always did. Polite applause followed our performance, and as I rose from the bench, I knew the evening was mercifully nearly done. Soon carriages would be sent for and our guests would say their farewells, including Colonel Hamilton. Soon he would be gone, and with luck I’d never see him again.
But tonight luck was with him, not me. I’d scarcely stood from the fortepiano’s bench when he appeared beside me.
“I must thank you for the pleasure of your songs, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, bowing in a way that neatly blocked my escape. “You rival Calliope herself.”
I busied myself with the sheet music to hide my discomfort. “You are too kind in your praise, Colonel Hamilton, too kind indeed.”
He had appeared small when he’d stood next to my father, but here beside me I had to raise my gaze to meet his. Now his smile seemed warm and genuine, and without the mockery I’d