Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(73)

“Forgot!” Eliza said, real heat coming into her voice. “How could I forget something I was never told?”

Alex racked his brain. He was sure he had told Eliza about Earl’s stay. He had arranged for it nearly two weeks ago. But he couldn’t remember a specific conversation.

“But I mean, surely, I must have—”

“And as for Angelica and John, I know you received the letter, because I found it open on your desk in your study.”

“In my study? Were you snooping on me?”

“No, Alex, I wasn’t snooping. I was preparing the room to sleep my sister and her husband, since you had promised the other to Mr. Earl.”

“But there isn’t even a couch in there. Surely you’re not going to put them on the floor.”

“Of course I’m not going to put them on the floor. I borrowed a bedstead and mattress from our neighbors.”

“Borrowed a—from who? Whom?”

“Theodosia.”

“Theo—you mean Theodosia Burr?”

“Is there another on this block?”

Alex could barely believe his ears. “I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Oh, really, Mr. Hamilton? Well, I’m not sure I appreciate being saddled with a houseful of guests with no advance warning. But guess what? We’re going to make the best of it. You’re going to put this gold jacket on and join us on the sofa, and Mr. Earl’s going to paint a fabulous picture of us.”

“You’re going to have to wake him up first,” John said from the sofa.

Alex glanced over and saw that Earl had wandered to the dining room, where he pulled three chairs out from the table and laid himself across them. Wet snores bubbled out of his mouth, which was slick with spittle.

“Nope!” Eliza called. “Mr. Earl! Up!”

Earl ignored her, turning onto his stomach and burying his face in his hands.

Suddenly a faint crying came from up the stairs.

Angelica sat up as if a shot had gone off. Her wig went flying over the back of the sofa.

“The baby!” she said, her voice less panicked than automatic. She lurched up and headed for the stairs, her half-tied dress sagging around her waist, revealing the lace of her chemise.

John smiled at them wanly. “It looks like our party is over. I’ll, uh, just give Angie a hand.” And setting Eliza’s wig delicately on the sofa, he set off after his wife.

Alex waited till his brother-in-law was gone before turning back to Eliza. “My darling, I—”

“Don’t you ‘darling’ me, Alexander Hamilton.” Eliza’s tone was quiet but firm. The alcohol was gone from her voice, and Alex now wondered if it had been there in the first place.

“Eliza, please. I’m so sorry. I’ve been running in so many different directions lately. I—I must have lost track of things.”

“Well, I know one direction you haven’t been running in. To me.” And now a little hurt crept into her voice.

Alex felt his knees quiver. “It’s true. I’m so, so sorry.” He put his arms around her. “Let me make it up to you?” he said, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips.

Eliza let her lips linger on his. “Don’t think you can kiss your way out of this, Mr. Hamilton.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Alex said, kissing her again. “Mrs. Hamilton.”

Another kiss, and then he took her hand and turned for the stairs.

“What say we continue our fight in the morning?”

Eliza just shook her head at him. “I might find you irresistible, Mr. Hamilton,” she said. “But I believe you are overestimating your powers of persuasion.”

She headed up the stairs alone, leaving Alex’s jaw hanging open. From the dining room came the throaty rumble of Ralph Earl’s snores.





23





Salad Days


   The Hamilton Town House


    New York, New York


   March 1784


“Tell me again,” Eliza said.

“Lettuce,” Helena Morris said.

“Let us . . . ?” Angelica parroted in disbelief.

“Let us . . . eat lettuce,” Helen answered with a laugh.

Ralph Earl reached a hand forward and fingered the green leaves. “It certainly feels like lettuce,” he pronounced, to the obvious disbelief of the Schuyler sisters.

“That’s because it is,” Helena said. “Lettuce. L-E-T-T-U-C-E.”

“But it’s the twenty-seventh of March,” Eliza said. “How on earth can one have lettuce on March twenty-seventh? It’s like . . . it’s like a mule having babies.”

“Mules can’t have babies?” Ralph said. “Then how on earth do you get more mules?”

“A mule is a cross between a donkey and a horse,” Angelica said, fingering the lettuce nervously. “It does feel . . . like lettuce.”

“You’re making that up!” Earl scoffed. “Donkeys and horses—preposterous!”

“People!” Eliza clapped her hands. “Focus! We are trying to decide what this very lettuce-looking substance is that Helena has placed before us. My guess is that she wrinkled some paper up and then had Mr. Earl paint it green.”