I, Eliza Hamilton. Susan Holloway Scott
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the first meeting I’d envisioned for my sister and Alexander, but when he called upon us later that evening, the general conversation proceeded much more smoothly, and without any French confusion, either. This could have been because my father was there as well, guiding matters with his usual forthright direction, or because both Alexander and Angelica had each resolved to do better. Whatever the case, by the evening’s end they seemed quite amiable toward each other, and yet I wanted to be sure. I could barely wait until the rest of my family retired so I could ask him in private before we said our farewells.
“Did you like my sister?” I asked at once. “I know she surprised you earlier by addressing you in French, but I hope you can forgive her that.”
He smiled. “Of course I can forgive her,” he said. “She caught me off guard, that was all.”
“But you do like her?” I asked again, more anxiously this time. We were standing outside the front door, on the worn old round millstone that served as the house’s front step.
“I do,” he said, though with a shade more reserve than I could have hoped. “She’s charming company. Is her husband not with her?”
“Not here, no,” I said. “Mr. Carter is a quiet gentleman, much occupied with his business. He also does not always see eye to eye with my father, and it is often better for all parties that she visits us without him.”
He nodded, his face thrown into sharp shadow by the small lantern that hung outside the door.
“Mr. Carter doesn’t see eye to eye with many men,” he said. “You know I find him agreeable, but in some circles his habit of selling supplies to whomever will pay the most makes him as much loved as a usurer.”
I sighed, for it could be difficult to defend Mr. Carter. “My sister says he does very well by the trade.”
“I’m sure he does,” Alexander said dryly. “He has that ability.”
I nodded again, wondering how I’d been cast in the unsavory role of apologist for my brother-in-law. “Angelica says Papa was more unhappy with Mr. Carter’s reasons for coming to New York on account of an unfortunate affair in London.”
“I heard it was a duel,” Alexander said. “With a member of Parliament. Not that I can fault him for that.”
“Hush,” I said softly, resting my palms lightly on his chest. I’d heard that rumor, too, but Angelica had brushed it aside with disdain when I’d asked her about it, so I doubted it was true. “I don’t wish to discuss him any further. What I want to know is whether or not you believe you can be friends with my sister.”
“Of course I can,” he said, now without his earlier hesitation. “Mrs. Carter is witty and amusing, with thoughts of her own and the intelligence to defend them. She is well-read for anyone, man or woman. I never thought to discuss Common Sense and Thomas Paine before your father’s hearth, especially not with a woman as handsome as your sister. It was quite remarkable.”
“So you do like her?” I asked, daring to hope. I had sat by in silence and listened (and marveled, too, at the cleverness of their arguments) as the two of them had sparred in words, and in the end I hadn’t been certain if Alexander had enjoyed the exchange or not. “Truly? It matters much to me that you do, Alexander, and that she likes you in return, almost as much as my parents’ approval.”
“I do,” he said. “She will make a most diverting sister-in-law.”
I wasn’t certain that diverting was the word I would have preferred.
“She has many excellent qualities,” I said earnestly. “You’ll soon see how loyal she can be. She made this long journey to Morristown for my sake, just to make certain you were worthy of me.”
He laughed, slipping his arms around my waist. “Ah, so here’s the truth, then. You’re more concerned with her verdict regarding me than mine of her.”
“Alexander, please,” I said. “Be serious.”
“Very well, then,” he said, making a show of composing his face into the picture of grim severity. “I liked your sister very much, and I look forward to learning more of her in the future. She’s very different from you.”
“She’s much wiser than I,” I said.
“She reads and studies more than you,” he said, “but that makes her bookish and intellectual, not wise. You, my dear Betsey, are wise in the ways that matter.”
I refused to believe he was serious. “She speaks French.”
“Yes, she does,” he said mildly. “But I’d wager a hundred dollars that she learned it not because French is the language of diplomacy and King Louis’s court, but because it’s also the language of flirtation and seduction.”
He’d seen so much more of the world than I, to know such things! I was glad he couldn’t see me blush, not only for myself, but for my sister.
“I don’t know what Angelica said to you today, but she didn’t mean it, not that—that way,” I said. “It’s simply her manner. She is accustomed to attention from everyone, gentlemen and ladies alike. She’s been that way since we were girls.”
“I understand that now,” he said, pulling me closer. “But it’s also proof that you’re the wiser sister.”
I shook my head, looking down at my hands on the blue woolen of his blue coat, the long rows of brass buttons winking dully in the moonlight.
“There’s more to wisdom than a library filled with books,” he said softly. “You’re gentle and kind and patient, Betsey, and filled with reason and sound judgment. You’re loyal and honorable, and you always consider others before yourself. Even when it’s your selfish sister.”
“She’s not selfish, Alexander,” I began, but how he tipped his head to one side proved that he was right.
“You would never leave our children behind, as she has done with hers,” he said. “Not when they’re so young, so fragile.”
“No,” I said wistfully, ashamed for Angelica’s sake.
“Nor would you ever speak as freely to Carter as she did today to me,” he said, leaning closer over me. “Not in French, or English, or any other language in creation.”
“She’s my sister,” I repeated helplessly, hoping that would be explanation enough.
I don’t believe he cared.
“Mon sage petit hibou,” he whispered, brushing his lips over mine.
Breathlessly I turned aside. “What did you just say?”
He smiled. “I called you my wise little owl.”
“An owl?” I wrinkled my nose, picturing the heavyset predatory owls who hunted mice in the barns at home. “I thought you said that French is the language of love.”
“It is,” he said, his voice low and dark as he pressed me back against the door to kiss me. “Je t’aime au-delà de tous les autres, ma belle, bien-aimée, ma Eliza.”
And without knowing a word, I understood.
* * *
As the days grew longer and warmer, the army—or what remained of it—began to return to life, like a great slumbering bear after a long winter. The soldiers drilled with more purpose, openly eager to challenge the enemy again. All of Jockey Hollow buzzed with rumors of when the camp would break for summer, and where the various regiments would be sent next to meet the British in battle. The next campaign could be a counter to the siege of Charleston to the south, through Virginia and Georgia. Each day brought more tales from Congress’s meetings in Philadelphia, from spies across the Hudson in New York, from letters from Georgia and Carolina. All carried stories of more British troops arriving, of more guns, more cannon, for the sole purpose of finally bringing an end to the war.
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