Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(85)
“Thank you, Simon. Now, head downstairs and wash up. We may need you to play footman if Mr. Stuyvesant refuses to release Andrew from his side. And make sure your mother feeds you. You look like you burned off ten pounds this week, and you were a skinny lad to start with.”
Simon ran off, quickly replaced by a figure in yellow and pink. It took Eliza a moment to recognize Ralph Earl, whose wig looked like something from the court of Louis XIV and whose coating of powder was if anything thicker than her own. But even more startling than his European visage was his suit. Eliza remembered Alex’s stories of Baron von Steuben, the German general who constantly surrounded himself with a bevy of handsome young men and dressed in suits made from jacquards and toiles more suited to upholster the furniture in a courtesan’s receiving room than a gentleman’s torso. The yellow of Earl’s suit was not quite as gaudy as Alex had described Baron von Steuben’s attire, but only just. It outshone the buttery wallpaper they had chosen for the middle room, and was made rather more garish by the pink embroidery. Well, not garish really, but decidedly feminine. With her raven tresses, Peggy would have looked fabulous in a gown made of such material, but Earl looked a little like a French count who had run out of money, and was now having suits made from the remnants of his wife’s curtains. She wondered that she had ever found him attractive.
“A brilliant party, Eliza. You have gone from being the most sought-after guest in New York society to the most celebrated hostess in a single evening. Brava!”
Eliza immediately felt guilty for making fun of Mr. Earl’s appearance in her head. He even sounded more sober than usual, though a wineglass was, as always, clutched in his hand.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Earl. I cannot take all the credit. Helena Morris really did introduce us to the right people, and of course everyone wants to say they’re friends with Mr. Hamilton, General Washington’s right-hand man.”
“Where is the hero of Yorktown?” Ralph asked, his voice so smooth that Eliza couldn’t tell if he were joking or not.
“I assume his duties kept him late at the—” She was going to say “at the courthouse,” but could not bring herself to lie. “At the office,” she said, a little lamely.
“A brilliant man’s work is never done,” Earl answered, his voice once again so supercilious that it was impossible to guess his intent. “You should rejoice in his success, but resign yourself to evenings such as this. Neither commerce nor politics cares for the plight of the lonely wife, but you still control his social life.”
“Oh, I should hope not. Mine is more than I can handle. But speaking of brilliant men. I do hope it’s okay that I’ve pointed you out as the painter of my portrait. Everyone is asking, and I should think you will leave tonight with rather a few commissions.”
And pay your legal bills, she couldn’t resist adding mentally. Or at least find a home of your own.
“Indeed.” He lifted the flap on a bulging pocket, which was full of calling cards. “I have gone from debtors’ prison to portraitist of the rich and famous in the space of a week. I will be busy from now through the turn of the century.”
“Well then, bravo to you, too.” Eliza clinked her glass with his and took a sip even as Earl drained his in one gulp. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find Angelica and make sure Philly—er, baby Philip—is taken to bed.”
She found her sister in the middle parlor.
“Do you need me to summon the maid to put the baby to bed?” she asked.
Angelica pointed. “I think you will have a hard time tearing him away from his new best friend.”
Eliza turned to see that, true to Angelica’s prediction, Pieter Stuyvesant was bouncing the laughing boy on his (fleshy) knee while a group of onlookers cheered them on.
“Oh, dear. We should commission Mr. Earl to do a sketch. No one will ever believe us without proof.”
“This sight alone would have made for a memorable party. But truly, Sister, you have thrown John and me a remarkable sending-off. I only wish—”
She broke off.
“What is it, Angie? What can I get you?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I was just going to say that I only wish the family was complete. For your sake,” she said meaningfully, letting Eliza know that she had noticed Alex’s absence and felt for her.
“I am learning,” Eliza said now, “that much of marriage is time spent apart. I think of all those times Papa was away, at war, or at Saratoga on the farm. It is the norm.”
Angelica took her sister’s arm tenderly. “But, my darling, I hope you are not too lonely.”
“What? No!” Eliza said, feeling disloyal. “Alex and I do have our social life. I suppose I had assumed once we were married we would have more time for just the two of us. I did not realize marriage was actually so inconvenient for . . . intimacy.”
“I do not think it is marriage as much as it is adulthood.” Angelica laughed ruefully. “I must say, there are days when I do miss being sixteen without a care in the world. Not that I’d go back.”
“Oh, heavens no. The spots, for one thing.”
“As if you ever had spots,” Angelica teased. “You have always had a flawless complexion, whereas once a month I gain half a stone and have to cover myself with a veil!”