Alex and Eliza: A Love Story(29)
Absent without leave because of me? That note that Peterson wrote must have been a doozy, that had to be all it was. Eliza could not meet her aunt’s gaze. She reached for her cup, but it was drained dry. She was about to ring the bell for more when her aunt’s hand settled over hers.
“Eliza, I must ask. Have you and Colonel Hamilton met before?”
Eliza wasn’t sure how to answer that question. An affirmation seemed so inadequate to the spirit of the inquiry. But to say anything more risked a conversation that she knew not how to broach, let alone conduct.
“He was a guest at an assembly my mother threw more than two years ago. Our encounter was . . . trifling,” she said, even as her mind flitted to the knowledge that he had kept a handkerchief with her scent on his person for over two years.
Aunt Gertrude laughed. “Your uncle and I met one week before our wedding. Your grandparents were, I think, more despondent about the possibility of marrying me off than I was myself; they’d promised Dr. Cochran a handsome dowry if he would have me. It was not a romantic match, is what I am trying to say.”
Aunt Gertrude took a moment to rearrange the cameo on her blouse. “Ah. But it was an apt union, my dear, and one that has only deepened in respect and regard as the years have passed. Nevertheless, I know love—not least from the example of my brother and your mother, whose passion—”
Eliza sputtered. “Passion! My mother? Are we discussing the same Mrs. Schuyler?”
“Be gentle, dear. Please do not think that the forty-seven-year-old matron busily raising eight children is the full representation of your mother’s life. She was young once and lovely, too—just like you.”
Eliza pursed her lips together and shook her head in doubt.
“But that is not my point,” said Aunt Gertrude, speaking before Eliza could throw her off her game. “My point is, I know a swain when I see one. Colonel Hamilton is clearly smitten with you. And though he is handsome and intelligent—indeed, brilliant—perhaps even bound up in the very future of our young nation . . .” Here Aunt Gertrude’s shoulders slumped. “But I sense you find his suit unwelcome somehow?”
Eliza’s esteem for a woman who had forged such a singular role for herself—despite the expectations and constrictions of her gender was such that she could not lie to her. Nor could she bring herself to speak the truth, not least because she was not sure what the truth was. With facts, she was comfortable. Give Eliza Schuyler yards of fabric or pounds of mutton, and she could tell you exactly the yield of breeches or stew. But emotions were not the stuff of stitchery or recipes. She believed it was impossible to know what they would make until all the elements were right before her eyes.
“Unwelcome and quite impossible,” said Eliza stiffly. “And I doubt the veracity of his interest. I am sorry, Aunt. Colonel Hamilton is quite the catch, but he is not the fish for me.”
Her aunt regarded her in silence for a moment before turning back to her sewing. For a long moment there was nothing in the room besides the crackling of the fire and the rasp of thick thread pulled through coarse, sturdy cloth.
Then, almost under her breath, her aunt said, “Do not sell yourself short, Niece. You are the quarry and Colonel Hamilton the hunter, and I daresay if he cannot catch you, then he doesn’t deserve to claim you as his prize.”
12
Bold Moves
Ford Mansion: Continental Army Headquarters
Morristown, New Jersey
February 1780
Alex stared uncomprehendingly at the sheet of paper before him. Though he recognized his own hand, he had to remind himself to whom he’d just written. As the only member of General Washington’s staff who was fluent in French, Alex frequently wrote as many as twenty letters a day to French military commanders and the noblemen who paid for them.
The boulder Alex had to get around was General Washington’s famously terse directions. His Excellency, as Alex referred to the commander in chief with equal parts admiration and filial mockery, might say, “Tell La Bochambreaux to move his troops to Charlotte” or “Ask the Duke of Normandy for another 5,000 francs for the Georgia campaign.” Then leave it up to Alex to transform a half-dozen words into full pages of discours diplomatique, complete with flattery, appeals to one’s better nature, compliments to one’s children, wives, and mistresses, and cleverly veiled threats. No small task.
Though Benjamin Franklin was the official ambassador to France, credited with bringing the French into the war on the American side, it was Alex’s attentive and delicate correspondence that kept them in it. Despite the snail’s pace of the conflict and the absence of any immediate benefit to the French, the humiliation of the British was a goal the French needed little encouragement to embrace.
Alex looked down at the letter again to remind himself who would receive it. Ah! John Laurens—a lieutenant colonel in the Continental army currently serving in his home state of South Carolina. He was also Alex’s best friend.
“My dear Laurens,” he read, looking up guiltily to see if anyone could read over his shoulder.
The missive had begun formally enough with the latest military news, but halfway through his letter he veered off into personal matters. He had told Laurens about the handkerchief incident the years prior. Alex wanted to pursue the matter immediately, but John persuaded him to wait until General Schuyler’s trial was over, as Eliza would undoubtedly refuse any advances made by the man who was persecuting her father.