Alex and Eliza: A Love Story(75)

“Let us write Mama and Papa, then,” Eliza decided. “It will take at least a week before we hear back from them, but we can say my condition has taken a turn for the worse. It is a lie, but a white lie, and I shall do penance for it later.”

The letter to the Schuylers was duly sent, along with a second, surreptitious note that Eliza slipped to the footman when he went to post the first. The second note was to Alex, but to her dismay, Loewes brought it back with him upon his return.

“I am told that Colonel Hamilton has not been seen since the night of his return from Amboy,” the footman said, tactfully not referring to the parties that had ended in such disaster. “General Washington is said to be furious. The spring campaigns are about to get underway, and Colonel Hamilton’s absence is a great handicap to their organizational abilities.”

“What?” Elisa said fearfully. “Has no one any idea where Colonel Hamilton has gone?”

“None, I’m afraid, but if you like, Miss Schuyler, I can continue to make inquiries.”

“Please do,” Eliza begged. “But do be discreet. I do not want to compound an already scandalous situation by dragging him into it.”

Loewes was gone much of the rest of that day and the next, and at least he was able to return with some positive news. Colonel Hamilton had been seen at the coach station in the wee hours of Wednesday morning, where he had requisitioned one of the mail horses. Last seen he was galloping north.

“North?” Eliza repeated. “But he knows no one in the north. Such friends as he has in North America—Colonel Laurens and General Lafayette and a few others—are all in the south.”

“The clerk on duty said that Colonel Hamilton gave no hint as to his destination, but he did ask where he could change horses, and the clerk told him that the next stop on the Albany Post Road was at Boone-Towne.”

Albany? Could it be . . . ? Was Alex going to see . . . her parents?

But Loewes was still speaking.

“That said, Miss Schuyler, the clerk informed me that Colonel Hamilton never made an appearance at the Boone-Towne station, so it is entirely possible that he asked his question only to throw any pursuers off his trail.”

Eliza didn’t know what to think. Nor did she have much time to consider it, for the following day—a Monday—she had a rather unexpected visitor: Governor William Livingston himself.

The governor appeared in the late morning. He came on his own, on foot, and from the way he halloed at the people who passed him by on the street, you would have thought he was merely taking his morning constitutional, or even campaigning for reappointment.

But once the maid had shown him into the parlor, and Aunt Gertrude and Eliza had joined him, his countenance immediately turned sour.

“Mrs. Cochran,” he said, addressing Aunt Gertrude, though his condemning gaze rested upon Eliza, “this siege has gone on almost as long as the British occupation of New York. It is time to surrender.”

“Surrender, you say?” Aunt Gertrude repeated in an incredulous voice. “And is this how you would have your son commence his married life—with a bride he first attempted to defile, and then coerce into marriage? I wonder that you are not ashamed even to make such a request aloud.”

“Mrs. Cochran,” Governor Livingston said in a tight voice, “out of respect of your and your niece’s femininity, I will not respond to such charges as I normally would. But I must insist that you do not slander my son’s name even in such limited circles as these. He has his reputation to think about, after all. What occurred was regrettable, but it was a moment of youthful indiscretion, complicated by the pressures of war and the debilitation of alcohol. You cannot think this behavior representative of my son’s character, let alone my family’s.”

“I cannot think anything else,” Aunt Gertrude said, speaking on behalf of Eliza. “Such behavior cannot be seen as exceptional, but as the true measure of a man’s character.”

“This is my son you are speaking of, Mrs. Cochran,” Governor Livingston said coldly. “I would ask that you consider your remarks.”

Aunt Gertrude was unbowed. “And I would ask that you consider yours. You have raised a scoundrel, sir, and all of Morristown knows it. He moved seven injured men from their beds in the infirmary for the sake of throwing himself a party. To a house whose reputation I cannot bring myself to utter in the presence of my niece! It is a miracle none of them died.”

“But none of them did die, and neither was Miss Schuyler harmed on the night in question. Let my son do the chivalrous thing and marry your niece, despite her own rather base attempts to slander his reputation.”

Aunt Gertrude guffawed.

“I must say, Governor Livingston, I’m rather shocked you would invoke chivalry now, when it was so sorely lacking from your son’s heart and actions several days ago. And as for reputation, the drunkard, rascal, and bounder whom you call a son is more than capable of staining his honor without the assistance of a couple of feeble ladies.”

Governor Livingston’s face turned beet red. “I have heard quite enough,” he said, barely able to control his voice. “Miss Schuyler will present herself at my house on Thursday afternoon, exactly one week after the originally scheduled date, where she will marry my son in the presence of his family and of such of hers as are in Morristown, and that is my final dictate.”