I, Eliza Hamilton. Susan Holloway Scott
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in January, shortly before I’d arrived. Alexander hadn’t mentioned it, and I hadn’t known enough to inquire for more details, or at least I hadn’t known enough until now. “How she found fault with the army and its officers?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t trouble him with it,” Papa said. “I suspect that was Mrs. Arnold’s own disappointment speaking, not any reflection of her husband’s opinions. But I leave it all to your own judgment, Eliza. You may say what you please to Hamilton when you meet him next. He knows I will be returning you to Morristown tomorrow, yes?”
I nodded, Peggy and Benedict Arnold forgotten in an instant. I’d my own problems to resolve, and I took a deep breath, my fingers anxiously pleating the damask napkin in my lap.
“I’d hoped that by now you would have given Alexander and me your consent,” I said, wishing my voice wasn’t shaking with emotion. “It’s been three weeks since he wrote to you.”
Now it was Papa’s turn to look uncomfortable. He helped himself to a slice of toasted bread from the silver rack on the table and placed it precisely in the center of his plate.
“You already know I hold Colonel Hamilton in high esteem for a young gentleman,” he said, still looking down at the toast. “He has impressed me with his initiative, courage, and resourcefulness, all important qualities for a man to possess before I would entrust him with your future welfare.”
My hope rose to giddy heights. “Then you will grant us your permission?”
“I have granted nothing as yet, daughter,” he said with maddening patience. He took his time buttering the toast, making certain the yellow butter went exactly to the crusts on four sides, and no farther. “I would prefer that the colonel had a suitable income to support a family, but I also believe he will rectify that deficit by his own talents as soon as the war is done. So long as he loves you and you love him—”
“Oh, I do, Papa!” I exclaimed. I was too anxious to eat, and I waved away the dish of shirred eggs that the servant began to place before me. “And I am sure, very sure, that he feels the same love for me.”
Papa studied me for a long moment, the silver butter knife still in his hand.
“I have never seen this—this enthusiasm in you, Eliza,” he said. “You have always been a thoughtful child, even cautious, and this fervor is unlike you.”
“But it is like me, Papa, or the woman I have become,” I said. I felt as if he was raising unnecessary obstacles, and I couldn’t understand why. “I am still your daughter, your Elizabeth, but I long to be Colonel Hamilton’s wife as well. If I have changed, it is love, his love, that has changed me. I dare to hope that the change is for the better, too.”
If he agreed, he didn’t say. Instead he dropped a large, glistening spoonful of strawberry jam into the center of the well-buttered toast, again avoiding my gaze.
“I suppose this is how every father must feel when confronted with a beloved daughter’s marriage,” he said gruffly. “I cannot imagine our home without you in it, Eliza. You’re our shining light, our cheerful Christian soul. Your mother depends upon you so much to help with the household and other children that I can’t fathom how she will cope without you. I knew the day would come that you would leave us, but now that it has, it seems entirely too soon.”
“Oh, Papa,” I said softly. I hadn’t expected this from him, not at all. “I won’t be leaving forever. You know I’ll be back, and often.”
He smiled down at the jam, not at me. Finally he raised the toast from the plate and bit into the crust, chewing it deliberately before he replied.
“When you do return to our house,” he said, “you will be as Mrs. Hamilton.”
“I shall always be your daughter.” I rested my hand upon his arm. “That will never change, not in this life or the next.”
He grunted as he finished the toast, no real answer, yet one I understood. He’d been devastated when Angelica had eloped, and I guessed he was feeling a degree of the same sense of loss with my pending betrothal to Alexander. But I was twenty-two. I was ready to be wife and a mother as well as a daughter. I’d found a gentleman I loved beyond all others, and it was time we married and began a home of our own.
“Please, Papa,” I pleaded softly. “Won’t you give your consent? Won’t you write to Alexander?”
Self-consciously he patted my hand on his arm, and I felt sure that at last he’d agree.
But he didn’t. Instead he withdrew his arm from my hand, pushed his chair back from the table, and rose.
“You know I am in communication about Colonel Hamilton’s proposal with your mother, Eliza,” he said. “When she has made her final decision, then I shall write to him. But not before. Not before.”
I knew better than to argue, though tears of disappointment clouded my eyes as I kissed Papa’s cheek before he left for the day. Afterward I retreated to my room, and continued the letter to Alexander that I’d begun earlier. I wrote slowly, carefully, determined to give him no hint of my own misery.
My father praises your virtues daily, and speaks of the day when I shall return to Albany as Mrs. Hamilton. I whisper it, too, as often as I dare, to help make it a reality. I pray each night to be yours forever, my dear Alexander, my love, my love.
I stared down at the words as the ink dried and lost its glossy wetness, then ran my fingertip across them. I didn’t belong in Philadelphia any longer. It was time I returned to Morristown, and to Alexander.
My dear Alexander, my love, my love . . .
CHAPTER 6
My father did not write his fateful letter to Alexander until April. Though I shall never know for certain, I believe that it was my mother who finally pushed him to write, and if it had been left to Papa, I would still to this day be a spinster waiting for his blessing, he’d become that loath to part with me.
The contents of the letter were simple enough—that he and my mother had accepted Alexander’s offer to me of marriage—but my life, and Alexander’s, were changed forever. With the weather and the roads improving, my mother made the journey from Albany to Morristown, and took up residence in the house Papa had rented. I was pleased that they wished to know Alexander better, and I was equally pleased that he in turn wished to know them as well. Having no family of his own, he was eager to become part of mine, and as often as he could be spared from headquarters he came to our little house. With his usual charm, quick wit, and perspicacity, Alexander discussed military matters with Papa and household economies with Mamma, and won them both so thoroughly that they became as happy to see him at our door as I was.
Best of all was the glowing happiness that came with being betrothed to Alexander. My parents insisted on us marrying at our home in Albany, and we all hoped that Alexander would be able to procure leave to do so before the summer campaigns began. Our joy in one another was boundless, and whenever we were together, we planned and plotted our shared future together as husband and wife, and dreamed of the children we would have and the house where we’d live.
But the unhappy truth was that we had increasingly less time to spend in each other’s company. It was not from lack of interest, of course, but on account of Alexander’s duties. By now he had become for all purposes the general’s chief of staff, and was as indispensable as any single officer in the army could be. I do not believe there was anyone that His Excellency trusted more. As can be imagined, I was thoroughly proud of Alexander, but his role meant that he was constantly either at the general’s side, or away executing a mission or order on his behalf.
Privately I thought the general took advantage of Alexander’s great energy and ability to subsist on little sleep. Whenever he’d steal away a few moments to call upon me, he often looked weary, with circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes, and I thought he’d grown thinner, too, which he could ill afford. He could become preoccupied, his gaze turning blank in the middle of