Alex and Eliza: A Love Story(70)
But the heart of the matter was simple. She didn’t want to marry Henry Livingston when she was desperately, helplessly, in love with someone else. Someone who, while he had wooed and whispered sweet nothings into her ear and had hinted at the depth of his feeling and affection, had never declared himself. Had never asked her aunt and uncle for permission to court her, and as Kitty had pointed out, he had never proposed or made his intentions clear.
His reputation preceded him. Alexander Hamilton was a tomcat and a flirt, and she had fallen for him anyway, but it didn’t make a difference, as he was nowhere near. He was gone, to the 3rd New Jersey Regiment, to battle and to glory, had left town without looking back once.
SUCH THOUGHTS AS these were flitting about her head when she heard a sound in the rear of the house, near the kitchen. One of the servants, she thought, sneaking in for a bite to eat now that the mistress is asleep. Or who knows, maybe it was Kitty and Peggy. But a moment later she heard a heavy clatter of crockery and, even through two closed doors, a pained curse followed by a self-mocking laughter.
Eliza placed her book down and took her lamp to the hall. Cool air swirled about her and she pulled her shawl over her bare shoulders and chest.
“Hello?” she called in a low voice, not wanting to wake anyone upstairs—if indeed they had not been awakened already.
The kitchen door swung open, and a man’s face appeared. It staggered unsteadily toward her, but only when it was a few feet away did the light reveal who the visitor was.
“Why, Colonel Livingston! What on earth are you doing here?” Besides being intoxicated, she added to herself.
Henry placed a sweaty hand on the wallpaper to steady himself.
“What? Eliza? Have I wandered into the wrong house in error? All these colonials look the same.” But even as he said that, a smile flickered across the edges of his mouth, and she knew he was pretending.
“I think you should not be here, Colonel. It is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, for one thing, and for another we have a long day tomorrow, and both of us could use some sleep to restore us from the excesses of our celebrations.”
“Celebrations, eh?” Henry slurred.
“We had some hot chocolate,” said Eliza.
“Chocolate! Of course. Eliza the sensible Schuyler. Plain dresses, no wigs, not even a bit of décolletage to give us something to look at.” And as he spoke, his free hand darted forward and swatted at Eliza’s shawl, dragging it roughly from her shoulders.
“What! I spoke too soon! Look at those, I had not realized you were so . . . blessed!”
Eliza knew she should be shocked, yet she felt an eerie calmness descend upon her. Henry’s actions were so far beyond the pale that condemning them was almost beside the point. What she needed to do was disarm him.
“It is quite chilly here in the hall. Let’s go into the parlor, where the fire still burns. I can make you some chocolate.”
Without waiting for answer, she turned and headed back into the parlor, fixing her shawl as she went.
“Chocolate? No, thanks,” Henry groused, falling onto the sofa where Kitty had held court less than an hour before.
“Miss Livingston was nice enough to bring several tins from her latest trip.”
“Kitty?” Henry’s head whipped back and forth, as if his sister might still be in the room. “She is overfond of European luxuries, that one. I tell you, Liza, if there’s one thing I’m looking forward to at the end of this war, it’s kicking out all the foreigners. All the Brits and Germans and especially the French, with their dandy men and frosted women. Give me good, solid, earthy American men and women, unpowdered, unwigged, and, hell, unwashed.”
Eliza winced inwardly at Henry’s profanity, but kept her face calm. She handed him his cup. Caught unawares, he started coughing, his cheeks reddened and his forehead sprouted drops of sweat.
“What is that?” he said when he could speak again.
“Chocolate, as I said,” Eliza said demurely, reaching out with the pot, which she had brought with her, to refill Henry’s cup. “It’s a little bitter, but warming.”
“This is terrible,” Henry panted, tossing back a second shot, which went down smoother than the first. “You women were drinking this?”
“Yes.”
“My God! I underestimated you. You must have the constitution of a goat.”
“I think it’s lovely,” Eliza said, even as she leaned forward with the pot once more. “More?”
“No!” he said, spilling half its contents on the chintz fabric of the sofa.
“Whoa, what happened?” His head lolled around his shoulders. “I feel as though we are in a dollhouse, and a little girl is shaking it in a tantrum.”
“The room feels quite still to me,” Eliza said. “Perhaps you ought to lie back and close your eyes.”
She took his cup and saucer from him and set it on a small table placed before the sofa; even as Henry allowed himself to fall against the back of the sofa so heavily that his hat, which he had not removed, fell off his head and disappeared behind the sofa. His eyes drooped and so did his jaw, while the fingers of his right hand pawed weakly at his cravat, yet could not seem to remember how to untie a knot.
Eliza sat very quietly, waiting for what she assumed would be the inevitable sound of snoring, at which point she would make her escape. And indeed one loud snort tore from Henry’s throat, but the sound seemed to startle him awake and he lurched from the sofa unsteadily, kicking the table before it and smashing it to splinters. The porcelain cup went flying, crashing loudly against the floorboards.