CHAPTER 2

      Morristown, New Jersey

      January 1780

      I think every family must have a habitual matchmaker—a sister, aunt, or grandmother (for of course matchmakers are by nature female) who devotes her every waking minute to contriving the perfect pairings for those she loves best.

      In our family, the title belonged to my aunt Gertrude Cochran, my father’s sister. She was herself happily wed to an amiable and well-respected physician, Dr. John Cochran, who was currently serving not only as the personal physician to General Washington, but also as Surgeon General of the Middle Department, as appointed by Congress. In her way, my aunt was serving, too, traveling with her husband wherever the army might take them. Most recently they had settled in to winter headquarters in the town of Morristown, in New Jersey, not far from the city of New York.

      From my aunt’s letters, this was not nearly as odious—or arduous—as one might think. While my mother had shuddered and feared that Aunt Gertrude must be huddled against the winter winds in some mean tent, in truth she and Dr. Cochran had been granted a pleasant house with every convenience for their use. They were situated not far from His Excellency’s headquarters, and were often invited there to dine and share in other entertainments. I’d several friends who were already in Morristown, too, ladies who were staying with relations and happily being courted by at least a half dozen gentlemen. It all sounded quite merry, and my aunt wrote long letters describing assemblies, suppers, and musicales, all attended by gallant young officers.

      If her letters were contrived to make me envy her situation, they achieved that goal. Over the last months, the major conflicts of the war had shifted from the northern states to the south, and while this brought more security for my family, it also meant there were fewer and fewer visitors both to our house and to Albany. Last April, my father had finally been exonerated of any wrongdoing in the court-martial he’d requested, but even so, he’d resigned his commission, left the army, and once again taken his place as a delegate to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia. No longer did officers, gallant or otherwise, come to call at our house, and Peggy and I both chafed at the lack of gentlemanly company. When Aunt Gertrude wrote to invite me in December to visit her in Morristown, I nearly leapt at the offer.

      In perfect fairness, I must add that there was one more enticement to my aunt’s invitation. Among the dozens of officers she’d mentioned in her letter, one name had stood out as sharply as if it had been doubly inked: Colonel Alexander Hamilton. Whether because of my prayers on his behalf, God’s grace, or the colonel’s own innate good fortune, he was not only still alive, but prospering as a trusted member of General Washington’s staff—the General’s Family, as it was called—in Morristown.

      During the two years since the colonel had called at our house, there had been no further words shared between us other than the ones I have described here. We’d exchanged no letters, nor sent messages through others. I knew better than to behave so boldly, and besides, I was sure he’d far more demanding things to do for the sake of the army and the war. He’d become a hero of numerous battles, decorated and lauded for his bravery, daring, and resourcefulness under fire. And yet as soon as Colonel Hamilton had learned of my aunt’s connection to me, he’d asked at once for her to relay his regards, and his fond memories of our only meeting.

      She’d done so in her very next letter to me, and had in all the letters that followed. Further, she’d added so much praise for the colonel—his wit, his courage, his handsome face and form—that I’d blushed at her audacity. Aunt Gertrude was not only a habitual matchmaker; she was a brazen one, too.

      I was flattered. I was intrigued. I’ll admit to nothing more, even now. I was by nature more practical than many ladies, and I didn’t believe in the kind of instantaneous love that poets praised. I had liked Colonel Hamilton, and I’d thought often of him, and yes, I’d kept him in my prayers each night for the past two years. Apparently, he had liked me, too, at least well enough to confess it to my aunt. Now, in Morristown, he and I could discover where that affinity might lead us.

      To my great surprise, my parents were nearly as eager as I for me to join my aunt—so eager that I suspected Aunt Gertrude had shared her schemes for me and Colonel Hamilton with them as well. The favorable impression that my father had first formed of the colonel had continued to grow with reports of his diplomacy and intelligence from General Washington himself, reports that balanced the more frivolous praises from my aunt. The colonel had become the general’s most skilled aide, and his most trusted as well. Whatever my parents’ reasoning, they agreed that I should go, and when Papa departed Albany to return to Philadelphia soon after Twelfth Night, I traveled south in his company, with the plan that I would be left off in Morristown.

      Although none of us realized it then, that winter would be the worst in memory, with bitter cold and numerous storms that froze rivers and harbors solid and buried roads thick in snow and ice. Our journey was slow and arduous, by sledge and by sleigh. Although the campaigns of both armies had ceased for the winter season, the country was still at war, and Papa took care that our driver followed only the safest (if indirect) routes through territory held by the Continental forces.

      There was another reason to be cautious. Although my father had resigned his commission, he remained a close friend and advisor to General Washington as well as a member of Congress. The British knew this, and there’d been sufficient rumors of a possible kidnapping that we were granted a military escort for our journey.

      Not a day passed that our progress wasn’t hampered by fresh snow or ice, yet still we pressed onward. As a soldier, Papa was accustomed to this kind of hardship, and lost himself in reading letters and dispatches from the other members of Congress as if he were home at his own desk. I was woefully not as stalwart, no matter my resolve. Fresh coals in my foot warmer turned cold beneath my skirts within an hour, and even bundled beneath heavy fur throws, my fingers and toes were often numb with the cold. It wasn’t possible to divert myself with needlework or reading; all I could do was concentrate on keeping warm.

      In the midst of my misery, I thought often of how Colonel Hamilton had made this journey in five days during October. Now, in January, it took Papa and me nearly three weeks to cover the same distance.

      We finally arrived in Morristown late in the afternoon on the first of February. The weak winter sun was low and rosy in the sky, making long shadows across the snow. I sat up straight and looked about me as the weary horses slowly pulled our sleigh through the small town, eager for a glimpse of the exciting encampment that Aunt Gertrude had promised.

      I didn’t see it. Instead Morristown had a weary, pinched look, and none of the bustle and purpose that I’d expected. The snow in the streets was dirty and trodden, and the few soldiers we passed were hurrying hunched and bent against the cold. To my surprise, there were no women or children abroad at all. Although the houses were agreeable, some had their shutters closed