Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(81)
“Let’s hear it for sisterhood!” Angelica said, making a fist. “But is it what you want to do, Eliza?” This last question came after yet another stop, at a distillery to procure some stout whiskey. Mrs. Childress had given them all the ale they could drink, but you couldn’t have a party with just beer and honey wine. “Don’t you want to start a family?”
“I would love it but we have not yet been blessed,” said Eliza. “When we moved here, I thought it would happen immediately, yet with everything else that’s has been going on—finding new friends and work and just learning how to live on our own—I have to say that I am a little relieved that we have not had a child added to the mix. It might be too much. But still . . . ,” she added, her voice fading off wistfully.
“It will happen,” said Angelica with a sympathetic squeeze. “Families are like rain showers. They always come in time, but they are not exactly a goal, if you see what I mean, any more than eating and sleeping are. They are just a part of life.”
Eliza nodded, trying to stop the full feeling in her throat. She was glad to have her sister by her side to understand her pain so acutely. She took a moment to recover, then pulled up in front of a window through which could be seen an exquisite bolt of lace.
“For now, all I want to do is buy that tablecloth,” she said, pushing open the door. “So I can throw my sister the best bon voyage party New York has ever seen!”
26
Closing Arguments
New York State Supreme Court
New York, New York
April 1784
Burr’s strategy over the next three days seemed to be to wear everyone down. He did so by calling a veritable parade of witnesses, all of whom said more or less the same thing: that Caroline Childress had operated a bustling alehouse on Water Street all through the occupation, serving any British soldier or sympathizer who came in. Alex didn’t know why this should be any more damning than the simple fact that Mrs. Childress, like her deceased husband, had herself been a loyalist, until he heard the increasing murmurs from the gallery. Burr’s witnesses made Ruston’s Ale House sound like a raucous establishment. Not improper, per se, but it seemed as if Mrs. Childress had partied through the war. Alex was able to counter the latter claim by getting Burr’s witnesses to admit that Mrs. Childress was in fact rarely if ever in the bar room, being usually occupied with managing inventory and production and staff, and when she did appear, she was dressed soberly in honor of her fallen husband. Still, the impression was that she was creating a festive space for the redcoats who had seized Manhattan. With each successive witness, the murmurings grew louder, till eventually they approached outright jeers. But even worse than this was the fact that Judge Smithson did not silence them, but only shook his head in tight-lipped anger at the account of the festivities.
Alex knew he had to go on the counteroffensive. After Burr’s twelfth witness, a scruffy-looking man of about thirty named Robert Frye, had delivered his clearly rehearsed account, Alex was awarded cross-examination. He had eschewed any questions for Burr’s previous witnesses, but this time he all but leapt from his chair.
“Mr. Frye,” he said as he strode across the room. “You seem to be very well acquainted with the goings-on in Mrs. Childress’s alehouse. Is that because you are a neighbor of hers?”
“Why no, sir,” Frye said. “I live on a small farm just north of the city.”
“Ah. So your accounts are hearsay then?”
Alex knew this wasn’t the case, but he had an idea how Frye would respond. The farmer struck him as a proud man, and he didn’t disappoint Alex.
“What I said I seen with my own eyes!” he said huffily, turning to the judge and nodding at him. “I don’t make up stories, and I don’t pass on gossip, Your Honor!”
Alex dug the knife in deeper.
“So I take it you are a loyalist then?”
“Your Honor, please,” Burr said, standing up. “Mr. Hamilton’s question would seem to have no point other than to insult the good name of Mr. Frye.”
“If it please, Your Honor, I do have a point in mind,” Alex rejoindered.
Judge Smithson frowned at him. “Get there quickly, counsel.” He turned to Frye. “You may answer Mr. Hamilton’s question.”
Frye had been squirming in his seat with his desire to speak.
“I am absolutely one hundred percent not a loyalist, sir, and I resent the implication! I am a patriot through and through.”
“Very good, sir,” Alex responded with feigned deference. “I myself served in the Continental army with General Washington, as did my estimable colleague Mr. Burr. Well, he did not work with General Washington, but he did serve somewhere.” Alex paused as a few snickers ran through the room. “But may I ask, Mr. Frye, why you as a patriot drank in a loyalist bar?”
“I never said Ruston’s was a loyalist bar. Why, there were lots of us patriots who drank there!”
“More patriots than loyalists, would you say?” Alex asked in an innocent voice.
“I should say so. I don’t suppose we’d have felt comfortable otherwise.” Frye’s voice had lost some of its certainty, and he turned to Burr’s desk. Alex moved quickly to interpose himself between the witness and his lawyer. At last, his robes proved good for something. He was as wide as jib sail, and completely concealed the squirming lawyer from his nervous witness.