My Dear Hamilton: A Novel of Eliza Schuyler Hamilton
Stephanie Dray
Dedication
Semper Fidelis
Note to the Reader
ALEXANDER HAMILTON LEFT us with more than seven thousand letters, essays, proposals, and other papers. Of his wife’s letters, only a handful remain. Whenever possible, for Hamilton and other historical figures, we quote directly from primary sources, which reflect the biases, prejudices, and political opinions of the time period.
However, because the language of the eighteenth century was so stilted and opaque, we have taken the liberty of correcting spelling, grammar, and otherwise editing, abridging, or modernizing the prose and terminology in the interest of clarity.
We have also adopted some conventions for the purposes of familiarity and simplicity. For example, we refer to the Haudenosaunee Confederacy as the Iroquois. And what Hamilton gave the snappy title Observations on Certain Documents Contained in No. V & VI of “The History of the United States for the Year 1796,” In Which the Charge of Speculation Against Alexander Hamilton, Late Secretary of the Treasury, is Fully Refuted. Written by Himself is referred to in this book simply as the Reynolds Pamphlet. For clarity in discussions of early national politics, we have largely used the terms federalists and antifederalists, and the political party names Federalists and Republicans to denote the two main political factions that dominated Hamilton’s life, despite the fact that Republicans, Democrats, Democratic-Republicans, and Jacobins were all largely synonymous at the time. （The latter we occasionally use, because the Hamiltons themselves did, to disparage their Republican opponents.） Finally, this novel’s portrayal is skewed by our protagonist’s biases. Whenever the historical record was in doubt, we have unabashedly, and occasionally uncritically, adopted the slant most favorable to the American revolutionaries, Eliza, and her family; it’s her story after all. For a more complete understanding of our choices and changes, please consult our Note from the Authors at the back of the book.
Epigraph
Though the natural weakness of her body hinders her from
doing what men can perform, she has a mind as valiant and
as active for the good of her country as the best of us.
—PLUTARCH
Prologue
Spring 1825
The Grange
Harlem, New York
THE PROMISE OF liberty is not written in blood or engraved in stone; it’s embroidered into the fabric of our nation. And so is Alexander Hamilton.
My husband. My hero. My betrayer.
Though Hamilton is more than twenty years dead now, his memory lingers where I stand in the garden of tulips, lilies, and hyacinths we once planted together. He is inescapable in even the smallest things. I cannot buy a pouch of seeds for this garden without money from the mint that he established. I cannot pass a newsboy on my walks through the city without seeing the paper he founded or without reflecting upon the freedoms for the press he helped guarantee. I cannot cast my gaze at the busy ships in the harbor without seeing the trade he assured, or the coast guard that he founded, or the industry and opportunities he provided for the people who now flock to our shores in search of freedom and a better future.
In short, there is not a breath in any American’s life that is not shaped in some way by Alexander Hamilton. Certainly not a breath in mine. His memory, which I must honor for the sake of our children if nothing else, is impossible for me to escape.
Though I confess I have tried.
In the secret seethings of my discontented heart, I’ve searched for a life that is my own. A life not consumed by the questions he left in his wake—riddles I will never solve about our marriage, our family, and the suffering to which he exposed us. I’ve searched for a meaning to my existence not swallowed up by Hamilton’s shadow. By his genius. By his greatness. By his folly.
And by his enemies.
For in the battle for history—a war for truth, fought against time—I am a veteran. I’ve been fighting that battle for decades, and perhaps never more ferociously than now, within myself, as I stare at the paper in my hand.
Squinting beneath my bonnet against the sunlight, I see a calling card, unremarkable but for the single name etched in the center with bold ink.
JAMES MONROE
At the sight of it, an unexpected pain stabs beneath my ribs, where my heart picks up its pace. My basket of purple hyacinths lies forgotten at my feet as I stand up, a little breathless. For the only thing more astonishing than the name itself is that the card is folded at the corner, indicating the former president personally delivered it, rather than sending a servant.