Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(71)
“An inn?” Eliza said, as if Angelica had just announced that she would sleep under a bridge. “This is not how our parents raised us. To turn guests over to strangers. I would sooner sleep in an inn myself than send my eldest sister to one.”
She continued pacing, then pulled up short and turned for the door.
“Eliza?” Angelica said. “Where are you going?”
Eliza barely slowed, feeling that if she stopped to explain herself she wouldn’t be able to go through with her plan. “I will be back shortly. I have an idea!” she announced with more sureness than she felt. She shook her head at Ralph, who appeared to have fallen asleep in his chair. “And please, keep him out of the honey wine. One drooler is enough,” she said, pointing at baby Philip. “Oh, the baby! I never kissed the baby!” And she ran over and planted a wet one on each of his cheeks, put on a wrap, then hurried out the door.
It was but a few minutes’ walk to 3 Wall Street, an elegant town house that stood almost in the shade of City Hall on the corner of Broad Street. Eliza mounted the stone steps and, after catching a breath, rapped the brass knocker firmly. A servant opened the door and showed her into the parlor, where a moment later a handsome man about Alex’s age joined her.
“Why, Mrs. Hamilton, what a pleasant surprise.”
Eliza shook his hand cordially.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Burr. I’ve come to ask a favor.”
22
Burning the Candle at Both Ends
Hamilton Law Office
New York, New York
March 1784
Alex didn’t realize how late it was until his lamp sputtered out and he was plunged into darkness. One minute his pen was scratching across a sheet of paper, the next he was engulfed in inky blackness, with only the faint smell of smoke letting him know that he hadn’t been whisked out of this world completely. Still, he was so disoriented that he found himself frozen in his chair, half afraid to move, as if a gap might have opened up in the floor, ready to swallow him up.
I have been working too hard, he said to himself. I need a good night’s sleep.
At length, he reached for his desk drawer, pulled it open, and rooted around inside until his fingers brushed against a box of spills. He was lucky to light it from the fireplace, then used its light to find the candlestick that sat on one of his bookshelves. He lit it, and a thin glow filled the center of the room, though the corners of the small room remained steeped in darkness. He opened another drawer reflexively and pulled out a bottle of lamp oil, reached for the empty lamp, then paused. He retrieved his watch from his pocket and squinted at the tiny hands.
Could it really be 11:08 p.m.? The last time he remembered looking at his watch it was just after 6:00. He thought of Eliza, all alone at home. She would be asleep by the time he got there. She never said anything, of course, his stalwart angel, but he knew she missed him, and he did miss her. So much.
A survey of his desktop told him his watch wasn’t lying. Stacks of paper were everywhere, inches high. He must have answered a hundred letters today. One prince, three ambassadors, two governors, five lieutenant governors, and fourteen congressmen numbered among his correspondents, along with dozens of current and former servicemen and twice their number of bankers and lawyers. Some of the notes were only a few lines long, but others ran to three or four tightly scrawled pages. Everything from condolence letters to tariff negotiations to banking proposals, the bulk of it ancillary to his legal work, but necessary if he was to secure the kind of well-connected, well-heeled clients he wanted in the long term. Necessary, too, if his point of view was to be heard in the formation of the new government, and the new country.
But the workload was taking its toll. This morning as he combed his hair he noticed his brush was littered with broken strands, and the dark circles under his eyes looked as if Ralph Earl had painted them on. But most unnerving were the effects on memory. He would get so focused on whatever was in front of him that he would forget about everything else. Even now, as he packed up his office, he found himself nagged by the feeling that he was neglecting something important. Something to do with Eliza, which made it even worse.
Eliza . . .
As he stepped out into the chilly evening, his mind filled with a picture of his wife. After a frenetic winter season of party after party, in which the young couple had found themselves embraced by both the best families and the most powerful politicians and businessmen in New York, life had quieted down, at least on the social front. But even as their party calendar emptied, Alex’s workload grew. His first court dates for the Childress case came and went, largely procedural affairs, although Aaron Burr made it clear that the state would show no quarter. Given Caroline’s precarious financial state, Alex had thought it might be best, for her sake, to try for a settlement. If he were to push the case to trial, he could set a legal precedent that would score a victory for all of his former loyalist clients—sixteen now and counting—in one fell swoop. But a trial could take months, even years to secure, given the backed-up state of Governor Clinton’s courts. Indeed, Burr, sensing the plaintiff’s desperation, had already begun filing delays in an attempt to bleed her dry. It was a clear stalling tactic, but just because it was obvious didn’t mean it wouldn’t work. The law was very open-minded that way. It didn’t care if your strategy was sophisticated or sloppy. It only cared about results.