Is this why he thought we could afford a new and bigger house?
All at once, my husband said my name with another groan. “Betsy. My God, what have I done?” With that, he sank to his knees, pressing his cheek against my belly in supplication, and I felt heartsick. What had he done? To see my husband—my strong, proud husband, who could face bayonets and cannon fire—on his knees before me was too much.
Not knowing what else to do, I stroked his hair.
And then, to my horror, he wept. “I’m sorry, so sorry . . .”
“Oh, no, Alexander.” Tears pricking at my eyes in a panic, I insisted, “You didn’t betray your country. You couldn’t.”
“I didn’t betray my country.” He made fists of my sleeping gown as he rasped, “I betrayed you.”
It all came out then, in a pleading, impassioned confession. As if he were arguing before judge and jury. But I heard it as if through a tunnel, as if I’d floated away and watched us from a distance. A woman had come to our door more than a year ago with a tale of woe, abandoned by an abusive husband and left in a strange city with her little daughter. A story tailor-made to appeal to my husband’s sensibilities. My husband—the bastard of just such an abandoned woman. My husband, the special patron of orphaned children.
Suddenly, the woman sent to our door made much more sense . . .
“It was a trap,” he explained, his eyes imploring me. “My enemies must’ve known I would feel pity for her circumstances. This woman, this Maria Reynolds, she pleaded for money, just enough to return to her Livingston relations in New York.”
The Livingstons. Kitty’s family was somehow a part of this?
“I took her for a respectable lady,” Alexander continued. “At least, until I delivered the money to her at her house, where she led me to her bedroom and—”
“Oh God,” I murmured, a wave of nausea washing over me. How had it taken me this long to understand what he was confessing?
Adultery. He was confessing adultery.
Sweet, saintly, stupid Betsy.
Look hard enough and there’s always a woman, my sister had said. And I’d dismissed it, smugly refusing to believe anything or anyone could ever come between us. Now, Hamilton looked up with tears in his eyes. “My darling, please—”
“Oh God,” I said again, jerking away from the grip of his hands.
Hands that I’d supposed to have touched only me since we’d wed.
His hands, his lips, his . . .
He clutched me like a drowning man, still explaining. “Mr. Reynolds discovered his wife’s infidelity and threatened to tell you if I didn’t pay him.”
He kept talking and talking now. But I could scarcely hear a word because my mind whirled in a tornado of questions and confusion.
Was Maria Reynolds beautiful? Even Angelica agreed that Alexander appreciated beautiful art, beautiful furniture, beautiful music. My husband had an eye for beauty in everything. Oh God, was that Mrs. Reynolds who’d been at our door just now?
“Betsy, you must believe me,” Hamilton pleaded. “It was done by design to tempt me.”
He wanted some answer of me. Some reply. But I was too much in a daze. Too lost in a barrage of brutal imaginings.
Did he kiss the back of her neck, the way he kissed mine? Did she smell of sweet perfume or a lustful feminine musk instead of milk and sweat and motherhood like me?
Hamilton finally rose and pressed his forehead to mine. “You must say something, my angel. If only to condemn me for the sinner I am. You must say something.”
But I said nothing at all. Because words were his weapon; silence was mine. And he couldn’t win an argument if I didn’t start one.
Instead, in agony, I slipped from his grasp and seemed to float up the stairs, light and insubstantial, as if I meant nothing to anyone. Not even myself. I’d been the woman Alexander Hamilton chose to love and was, therefore, of consequence in the world.
What was I now?
Inconsequential.
If this story was true. If it was real and not some nightmare. I couldn’t shake myself awake, but perhaps if I went back to sleep . . .
And so I scooped our newborn baby into my arms, and crawled back into bed. But then, I got back up and turned the key in the lock to keep my husband out.
*
“BETSY.” KNOCKING FOLLOWED. “Please open the door.”
The humility in my husband’s voice—a voice that was never humble—told me it was no dream or nightmare. And in any case, I hadn’t slept. For that matter, neither had he. He’d been calling quietly for several hours now. And I’d been pretending not to hear. I couldn’t bear to see him.