Alex and Eliza: A Love Story(73)

Shadows thrashed about behind the drawn curtains, as if some sort of melee were taking place within.

“Could it be the maids, cleaning up the party? Modern girls, you know,” Stephen said. “Anything we can do, they have to do better, just to prove they can—”

He was cut off by the sound of a crash from within.

“That is no party!” Alex said, rushing forward. He vaulted the picket fence and ran to the front door, Stephen hard on his heels. His fingers clutched at the front doorknob, but it was locked.

“Stop!” a familiar female voice called out from within, clearly in distress.

“Eliza!” Alex yelled. He shook the door, but it refused to open.

“Let’s try the back,” Stephen said. “Peggy said the servants—”

But Alex was already running around to the rear of the house. He stumbled through some bush and nearly fell, but soon enough made it around, where he found the rear entrance hanging open. He dashed through, Stephen right behind him. In the kitchen beyond the floor was a treacherous field of broken crockery.

“My God!” he said to Stephen. “It looks as if a raiding party has broken in!”

They ran into the hall, where the sounds of feminine agitation could be heard more clearly, and from there into the parlor, where he was shocked to see Eliza thrown back on the sofa, while over her stood—

“Colonel Livingston?” she said. “Someone is here.”

Henry turned around with a snarl on his face. “Get out of here, Hamilton. She’s not your concern anymore.”

Alex was upon him in an instant. Henry tried to gather himself, but Alex hit the taller man with a hard jab to the jaw before Henry could he even raise his fist. He spun wildly and crashed to the floor.

Alex leapt on him. “You miserable cur,” he yelled, rolling him over and pummeling the splotched face with blow after blow.

“Alex, stop!” Eliza called behind him. “You’ll kill him!”

He felt hands on his shoulders. It was Stephen, pulling him back. It was all he could do not to throw the boy off him. Henry made no move to get up now, but merely curled himself into a ball, hiding his face and moaning like a piglet separated from its mother.

“He deserves to be killed,” Alex said now. “In fact—” He gathered a breath. “Henry Livingston, I challenge you to a duel in defense of the honor of your wife!”

“My wife?” Livingston barked a laugh. “Not quite yet!”

Alex turned to Eliza, his heart in his throat. “Is it true?” he asked hoarsely.

“Is what true?” she asked, mystified and shaken.

He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he had to know for sure before his agitation got the best of him. “What he just said. You are not yet married. You are still Miss Schuyler, then?”

“Pardon?” Eliza said. “Of course I am. Why would you . . . ?”

“That damn Weston,” Alex said. “He was so drunk that he told me you had eloped.”

“No, that was Angelica.”

“I thought so, but he repeated it, so—”

“I always thought Corporal Weston a bit dim,” said Eliza.

Alex shook his head angrily. “Never mind. You will never have to marry him now. I will kill him before sunrise.” He turned back to Henry and kicked him with a muddy boot. “Get up, Livingston, and meet your fate.”

“Alex, no!” Eliza said, and he thrilled to hear his name spoken by her so intimately. “He didn’t know what he was doing . . .”

Eliza didn’t believe her own words, but she was desperate to defuse the situation, lest more violence ensue.

“That scoundrel knew exactly what he was doing. And he must be made to pay for it.”

“She’s right,” Stephen said. “You cannot challenge him when he is in this condition. It is not honorable. If you did shoot him, you would be tried for murder.”

“But I want to kill him!” Alex yelled. “I want to see him bleed to death before my eyes.”

“As do I,” Stephen said, looking at Alex with great sympathy. “But you will have to wait till he is himself again. Anything else is beneath your dignity.”

“I care not a whit for my dignity,” Alex said, but he knew Stephen was right.

“It doesn’t matter,” Eliza said. “I could never marry him now.”

“You think he will release you from your engagement? You do not know these Livingstons as I do,” said Alex. “If Henry released you, he would be admitting wrongdoing. And his father would never let him do that. William Livingston would rather have a dead son than a son with a cloud hanging over his head.”

“But what if he doesn’t die?” Eliza said. “What if you died? He is a soldier, too. He can shoot, too. What if he kills you? I can bear him getting away with this attack, but your death—that I couldn’t bear. Please, Alex.”

Alex looked down at her, and suddenly, she was in his arms. He didn’t know if she had moved or he did. It was all he ever wanted, all he ever dreamed. She was not yet married. She was—she could still be—his.

He turned to Stephen. “Throw Livingston out on his face. If he tries to get back in, stab him.”