Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(66)
It was the line of the evening, and it made the rounds of society parties in that mysterious way news travels, always arriving at whatever drawing room or dining table the Hamiltons found themselves at. For Alex, it was something of a relief not to have yet another gray-wigged, gray-shouldered matron or half-drunk dry goods merchant sporting a military-cut suit that had never seen combat say, “Are you the Alexander Hamilton who served with General Washington?” and then press him for story after story about the American savior. Now it was, “Oh, are you the Eliza Hamilton who stole the stage from Helena Morris at her own party? I’ve heard so much about you.”
Eliza, confident but fundamentally shy, now found herself at the center of social groupings rather than on the fringes, and though she managed to hold on to her modesty, she also embraced her new role as a “woman of society,” as she termed it, smirking a little as she said it, as though the term were somehow improper.
“People used to say that I married you for your name and money,” Alex jokingly grumbled one night as they made their way wearily home after yet another late-night party. “Now they say that I married you for your beauty and charm. I can only wonder what on earth they think I bring to the union.”
Eliza couldn’t resist teasing him. “You are very good at holding doors and umbrellas, and in a pinch you can lace a corset, too. A girl could do worse.”
Alex made her pay for that quip all night long.
20
Weeping Widows
Ruston’s Ale House
New York, New York
February 1784
As busy as their social lives were, Alex wasn’t on his way to a party a few nights later. Instead he was en route to his star client’s home. Ruston’s Ale House occupied the first floor of a three-story building, rather like Samuel Fraunces’s Queen’s Head Tavern just a few blocks away on the corner of Pearl and Broad. The second floor was taken up by rooms to let, some of which housed guests who stayed for months at a time, while others were rented out on a night-by-night basis. The third floor of the spacious building was given over to an apartment for Mrs. Childress and her two children. Alex passed through the bustling inn quickly. By now the barmaids recognized him and, after requesting that a pint of stout be sent upstairs—it was a cold evening after all, and he needed something that would stick to his bones—Alex quickly ascended the two flights. The staircase was quite narrow and abutted the building’s main chimney, so it was quite warm as well, and by the time Alex reached the closed door, he was rather flushed. He pulled the chain and heard the tinkle of a bell from within the apartment.
After some moments Mrs. Childress answered the door herself. She had long since let go of her domestic servants, and ran the ale house and inn on a skeleton staff. The inn itself was still quite busy, but the interest on the loan she had taken to purchase the Baxter Street building that had been seized from her, as well as the distillery equipment therein, ate up all her profits.
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, her pale face lighting up, “I did not expect you until tomorrow. Do please come in.”
She stepped aside and Alex entered the spacious foyer. The Childresses’ building occupied a corner lot, with rows of windows down two sides, and received as much light as the late February afternoon could offer.
Mrs. Childress led him into the parlor, a large room fronted by three tall windows framed by heavy draperies in a bronze-and-blue damask. She indicated a tufted sofa and took her place on an elegant, if well-used, Windsor chair to one side. She wasn’t wearing one of her all-black mourning gowns today, but a midnight-blue dress with a black ribbon sewn so elegantly into the sleeve that it might have been mistaken for decoration.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Childress,” he said. “I did not realize you were having a private day.”
“Oh, your visits are never a disturbance, Mr. Hamilton.”
Alex wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a touch of color appear on Mrs. Childress’s cheeks. He apologized for the time once again; it was after four and the sun was setting, and only one lamp was lit in the room.
A knock sounded at the door, which opened immediately, letting in a barmaid who carried a pitcher in one hand, two glasses in another. “Some stout for Mr. Hamilton,” she said, setting it down on the table. “I took the liberty of bringing two glasses.”
“Thank you, Sally. Would you like a bite to eat, Mr. Hamilton? The cook made a Yankee pudding today that will warm you through the coldest snowstorm.”
“Well . . .” Alex meant to dine at home with Eliza, but Yankee pudding wasn’t in Rowena’s repertoire.
“Please bring a plate up for Mr. Hamilton,” Caroline directed. “And some of those scones as well.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid hurried out.
“May I?” Alex indicated the pitcher of ale.
She nodded, her eyes shining with plaintive yearning. It was as if the only thing she had left to offer were her hospitality, and she were desperate that it be sufficient.
I suppose I must seem like her last chance, Alex thought to himself. Then again, I suppose I am her last chance.
“In fact, I have come here about court.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Childress sipped at her stout as delicately as if it were a glass of tea. “Has there been movement?” She said the word tentatively. It was a term she had picked up from Alex.