Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(46)

We’ll be fine, she told herself.

They walked for a few minutes, discussing this or that detail of the household, when their conversation was cut short by the staccato of a single drum beating out a military cadence.

“What on earth?” Alex said, involuntarily snapping to attention.

Before Eliza could hazard a guess, the drummer came into view around the corner of Broad Street, followed by a great throng of men in Continental military uniform. The men wore sabers but were otherwise unarmed, and there was nothing urgent in their demeanor. Indeed, they seemed slightly somber. Still, Alex asked incredulously: “Have the British returned?”

“I think not,” Eliza said softly. She nodded at the rear of the column.

A large gray horse came into view, and on it sat the imposing figure of General George Washington. His cheeks were florid, as if he had just come from a warm room and had not yet accommodated himself to the chill December day. A sheepish but proud smile was on his sealed lips, and when Alex turned to Eliza, he saw a similar expression on her face.

“What is this?” he demanded.

Eliza shrugged. “It would seem that General Washington’s troops are seeing him off to his boat,” she said in a light tone.

Alex scoffed, and Eliza couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed, or both.

“It would seem that you knew he would be passing down ‘the Broadway.’”

“How on earth would I know something like that?” Eliza said, meeting Alex’s gaze with a flat expression, though her eyes were merry. “I am merely a lawyer’s wife, after all.”

“Didn’t you say something about a ladies’ spy network?”

“I’m sure I said nothing about spies,” Eliza protested. “Still, someone might have mentioned something about a formal farewell . . .” She shrugged. “I do not recall.”

By now, the procession was upon them. Eliza recognized at least half a dozen faces from Alex’s time in General Washington’s office, but her husband’s attention remained focused on the great man himself. Washington did not wave at the people who came out of houses and shops to see him, but his face turned back and forth, and he acknowledged his admirers with regal nods.

Only when his eyes met Alex’s did a ripple of recognition overtake his expression. He remained impassive, but Eliza could have sworn she saw an eyebrow twitch. Then, finally, one more nod, just a little bigger than the ones he had offered to his anonymous fans.

Eliza turned to Alex. His face was as stony as General Washington’s, but two spots of color had come up on his cheeks, and she didn’t think it was the sea breeze. He neither moved nor spoke until the small procession—twenty men, perhaps thirty—had passed, and then he took Eliza’s arm and they turned for home, still without speaking.

The silence stretched until they were on their own steps, when Eliza could bear it no longer.

“You are not angry with me?” she implored. “I thought it important for you to see each other. If your time with General Washington has shaped everything that is to come for us, it is equally true that General Washington’s fate was immeasurably enriched by his association with you, and I wanted him to see that.”

Alex took a deep breath before answering. “I am not angry,” he said finally, and then, as if he heard the cold formality of his tone, he leaned forward and kissed Eliza on the tip of her nose. “I could never be angry with you, my love. But that part of my life is over. I am your man now, not General Washington’s.”





14





Paperwork


   The Hamilton Town House


    New York, New York


   January 1784


It wasn’t until Eliza had to run a household on her own that she realized how much she took for granted at the Pastures. As it was, Rowena was serving as cook, charwoman, and lady’s maid until they were in a position to hire a full staff. Meanwhile, young Simon tried to fill in for the rest. The delay was partly based on a shortage of available servants in the recently liberated city, partly on a shortage of funds. Alex’s law practice in Albany had been busy but not exactly lucrative, with many of his clients paying him in kind—smoked hams, canned fruit, and even the occasional live poultry—rather than in cash. Most of what they had to hand had been spent in securing a fine house in the “right” part of town, which both agreed was necessary if they were going to make a good impression in their new city. Everything else was happening on credit, which the Schuyler name, and Alex’s wartime fame, helped secure.

“By the by, how is Rowena working out?” Alex asked on their second Monday in the city as they made their way to the hallway together after breakfast. He was headed out to the office, paper-stuffed satchel in hand.

His voice was careful. While they were both sympathetic to the loyalists’ circumstances, it was quite another thing to have one in such close proximity as a servant in their home. Eliza had been wary of hiring the woman, a widow in her early forties whose husband had perished in the war—fighting for the British. Unlike many other loyalists, however—including her former employers—Rowena had not abandoned New York after the British surrender. She openly admitted that she preferred being part of the world’s mightiest empire, but England itself was a country she had never visited and had no desire to live in.