Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(84)
Eliza had stationed Angelica in the front room so that it did not seem as if she were fishing for compliments, but even in the middle parlor and dining room she could hear the oohs and aahs. Fortunately, she had gone for a formal maquillage, her face regally serene with its dusting of silvery-white powder, complemented by the simplest red lip and dark mascara. Beneath it, though, she was blushing like mad.
No one comes to party for the decorations, however. They come for the food. And Rowena hadn’t let Eliza down. She’d worked every last one of her connections to track down the most succulent cuts of beef, pork, lamb, turkey, and duck. The table was as laden with meat as a Parisian charcuterie, sausages and schnitzels, racks and rib eyes, stews and aspics, and, presiding over them all, a massive joint of smoked bear—yes, bear!—mounted on a spit, from which a footman carved wafer-thin slices with a knife the size of a small sword. The meat itself was a little bland in Rowena’s opinion (Eliza herself refused to try it), but the wow factor was off the charts. A half-dozen sauces and jellies accompanied the meats, from a brown onion gravy so rich that you wanted to eat it like soup to a horseradish sour cream so spicy it made your eyes water. Last year’s gourds and tubers were still the only vegetables to be had—roasted squashes in colors ranging from pale yellow to intense orange, along with roasted and riced potatoes and a tart applesauce redolent of cinnamon and nutmeg. If Eliza was being honest with herself, though, she had to admit that the star of the banquet table was Jane Beekman’s lettuce. At one point, she actually saw eighty-four-year-old John Van Schaick elbow Ralph Earl out of the way to snatch up the last few leaves in the bowl.
“I’m old, young man,” he said, only half joking. “If I don’t eat this, I may die.”
“Never fear,” Eliza said. “There are a dozen more heads downstairs. Of lettuce,” she said, when Van Schaick looked at her blankly. “Heads. Of. Lettuce.”
The presence of an éminence grise like John Van Schaick—a man whose house on Cohoes Island had once served as the capital of New York State—along with at least four dozen other guests, was a testament to Simon’s wherewithal as much as to the growing appeal of the host and hostess. Rowena’s son had (happily) shucked his footman’s uniform for rougher garb, hopped atop a hired horse, and ridden a good two hundred miles over the last week, delivering invitations from one end of Manhattan Island to the other, and beyond. He had been as far north as Morrisania and Van Cortlandt Manor, stopping at Inclenberg to call on the Murrays and Mount Pleasant to invite the Beekmans.
Thank heavens, the Rutherfurds were still in town—a journey across the Hudson to the western border of New Jersey would have taken at least another three days. But everyone who was anyone had accepted, and they’d all shown up as well. From John and Helena Rutherfurd to James and Jane Beekman, from Lindley Murray and Gouverneur Morris to John and Sarah Jay, from William and Elizabeth Bayard to Philip and Pierre Van Cortlandt, along with more Duanes, Reades, Veseys, Brevoorts, Pecks, Wyckoffs, Van Dusens, and of course Van Rensselaers and Livingstons than you could shake a stick at.
Even old Pieter Stuyvesant had deigned to come. He had used his cane to beat himself a path to the big yellow sofa, his heavy wooden leg threatening to crack the floorboards, and seated himself squarely in the middle of the cushions, telling one of the two hired footmen serving drinks that he was to attend to him and him alone. For the first hour, everyone was too intimidated to sit beside him, until at last, Angelica dropped down next to him, nearly smothering the old man with her skirts, and then, to Eliza’s horror (and delight), plopping baby Philip in his lap—and leaving him there.
“You! Are! Terrible!” Eliza whispered as Angelica swept over to her.
“Just you watch,” Angelica said. “Philly can soften the heart of the meanest, most miserly Dutchman in Old or New Netherland. Within five minutes, ol’ Peg Leg Pete will be bouncing him on his knee.”
“On the good knee, I hope,” Eliza said. “Else poor Philly is going to have bruises on his bum!”
Yes, everything was perfect. Except Alex wasn’t here.
It was a cruel twist of fate that Mrs. Childress’s trial had been moved up, but even so, the court almost always adjourned by five, and never stayed in session past six. And yet, it was half seven and still no sign of him. Eliza had even sent Simon to the court at seven to see what was going on, but he returned to report that the building was all locked up, and he had seen no sign of Alex anywhere.
“Was there any news of the trial itself? Surely there must have been a guard around to ask.”
Could it be over already? she asked herself. Alex had told her of his litany of witnesses. He couldn’t possibly have run through them so quickly, could he? And if the trial was over, did Alex win or lose? She prayed that he won something, because the party had used up every last penny of credit the Hamilton and Schuyler names could fetch. Once the leftovers were gone, they would be existing on air until some cash came in.
“I did ask one man in uniform for news of Mrs. Childress’s trial, but he just said I was a little young to be chasing after widows and laughed me away. I even stopped in at the Burrs’ house, pretending to be looking for work, but the servant told me the master hadn’t returned and the missus didn’t hire boys under eighteen.”
Eliza shook her head in consternation—then quickly stilled it to keep her towering wig from shaking too much. Here they were with yet another dinner party, and Alex late again! It was clear she was but a low priority on his busy schedule. But if she gave in to her consternation, she would start screaming. In as calm a voice as she could muster, she said: