Alex and Eliza: A Love Story(9)
Colonel Hamilton! Eliza’s heart fluttered beneath her corset. Could it really be? She strained for a glimpse of her father’s companion but could see nothing beyond the powdered top of his head.
“I applaud you for having the courage to deliver news of my court-martial in person, rather than simply sending a letter. Nevertheless, I find your decision to visit on the night of my wife’s ball a little convenient.”
Court-martial! The phrase exploded in Eliza’s head like a cannon striking a buttress. Her father? It couldn’t be!
“Convenient, sir?” Colonel Hamilton said in a confused tone.
General Schuyler did not explain, although Eliza knew her father meant to cast aspersions toward the young soldier’s social aspirations for arriving at the Pastures on the night of an exclusive ball.
Her father sighed. “Still, you are a guest and, so I am told, a gentleman, and if I can surrender my own bedroom to General Burgoyne and his retinue for a month, I can certainly entertain a lackey of the Continental Congress for an evening. I would advise you not to stay too late, however. With so many of our men away at the war, the roads at night are not entirely safe.”
There was a hint of accusation in her father’s voice in the way he said “so many of our men away at the war,” but Eliza was still shocked by his use of the term court-martial. Could it be that her distinguished, honorable, irreproachable father was really going to be called before a military tribunal? It didn’t seem possible.
The top of Colonel Hamilton’s head bent forward in a respectful nod. “Of course, sir,” he said in an apologetic tone. “But, that is . . .”
“Yes, Colonel?” Her father had turned from Colonel Hamilton to gaze at his guests in the grand first-floor hall. Clearly, he was done with this unwanted visitor.
“Yes, sir. It’s just that, you see, the army didn’t arrange for an inn for me, and I myself am unfamiliar with Albany. I was rather hoping I could spend the night—”
“Here?” A chuckle burbled in General Schuyler’s voice. “Well, that is a pretty situation, isn’t it? I’m sorry to say”—in fact, he didn’t sound sorry at all—“we’re sleeping two to a bedroom as it is, and there’s no way we could accommodate you in the house.” He shrugged. “I’ll see if Rodger can find you something in the barn.”
He turned then and strode toward the front hall. Eliza quickly stepped back to avoid being seen, but as she did, one of her slippers brushed against the banister spindle and an embroidered bead popped off, bouncing onto the floor below.
The powdered head turned and tilted upward. A lean face, impossibly young, looked up at hers. It was a sharp face, with a wolf’s sly intelligence. Long, straight nose, bright blue eyes. The most uncanny feature, however, had to be the eyebrows. For some reason, Eliza had always thought Alexander Hamilton would be dark-haired, but he was in fact a ginger and one who seemed to have a perpetual look of mischief on his face, even now, after he had just had his own head served to him on a platter. The rumors were right: Alexander Hamilton was terribly handsome.
Having been seen, she drew herself erect, then made her way down the stairs as regally as she could. With each step, Colonel Hamilton’s face grew as red as his eyebrows, as he realized that she was a Schuyler daughter and that she’d overheard his exchange with her father.
“Colonel Hamilton,” she said, without looking him in the eye, and swept past him into the party.
5
Tomcat and Canary?
Schuyler Ballroom
Albany, New York
November 1777
After his rough treatment by General Schuyler at the back door of the mansion, and the dazzling apparition of the Schuyler daughter floating down the stairs, Alex skulked in the rear foyer for a few minutes so that it wouldn’t appear as if he were following her. He wondered who she was—was it Angelica, whom Kitty had said was the boldest of the daughters? Or Peggy, the prettiest? Or could it be Eliza herself, of whom Kitty had so often spoken? Whoever it was, the look she had given him cut him deeper than anything the general had said.
That wasn’t his only trouble at the moment. He didn’t usually affect a wig, but he’d put one on this morning. Not for the meeting with General Schuyler, but in anticipation of the ball tonight, news of which had been all over Albany since he arrived three days earlier. He had fiddled with the pins for ten minutes before giving up, and had spent the entire day with the distinct impression that his hair was on crooked. Plus it itched. Unfortunately, it was impossible to get a finger beneath the thick layer of hair without sending the hairpiece even more askew. But if he didn’t scratch his head soon he was going to end up ripping the thing off and pulling his own hair out of his head.
He looked around for a mirror but didn’t see one, so he squinted into a pane of the back door. He’d managed to worm his fingers under the wig without dislodging it too much, but just as he started to scratch, the door swung open and a servant’s face appeared where Alex’s reflection had been. Alex recognized him as Rodger, the general’s valet, who had attended him in his office.
“Oh, ah, excuse me,” Alex said sheepishly, jerking his hands from his head and feeling the wig grow even more crooked.
Rodger was perhaps thirty years old, a slim, regal man whose confident bearing suggested he was well aware how dependent his master was on him and not afraid to exploit his power. He smirked now, either at the thought of a young man asking his pardon or, more likely, at the mess that was at the top of Alex’s head. “Allow me, sir.”