That if Hamilton was thought to be corrupted, the system he built would collapse.
Alas, I couldn’t say that he was wrong.
Now, spent of his confessions, my husband eased himself back upon the bed and nestled our baby boy in his arms. Stroking Johnny’s peach-fuzz head, Hamilton whispered, “I know I’ve done wrong, Betsy. Even if you forgive me, I cannot forgive myself for risking that our children be thought the descendants of a thief who stole from the country he was entrusted to defend. I have only ever wished to give my sons an honorable name in which to take pride . . .”
An honorable name. It’s all my husband ever wanted. And when his father hadn’t given it to him, he made one for himself out of nothing but sweat and courage.
Now that name belonged to our children. And should our children suffer for their father’s sins?
Though I should be weeping, in that moment I was too numb to fall to pieces. For a long moment, my head was a maelstrom of confusion. But then, clarity stole through. “You cannot rely on your blackmailer to keep quiet. Better to summon the investigators, tell them the truth, and throw yourself upon their mercy, as gentlemen, to keep your private failings in confidence.”
“Summon them here?” Hamilton’s eyes flew open. “With you and the children . . .”
I nodded, swallowing over fury and pain. “Invite them into our home. Let them see me and your little ones. Remind them who will pay the price for wagging tongues.”
As if apprehending what I’d have to endure, he groaned. “I couldn’t ask you to do this for me.”
“Good thing, because I would not do it for you.”
I would do it for my children.
It was, after all, the only wise, politic choice.
And Alexander Hamilton had, at long last, made me a politician.
Chapter Twenty-Three
REYNOLDS. REYNOLDS. REYNOLDS.
As I kneaded dough, I couldn’t get the name out of my head, sure I could place it. Maria Reynolds was a harlot, my husband insisted. A woman whose husband prostituted her. A woman beneath my contempt. I imagined her as a dainty sparrow of a thing. The kind who might flutter about, as if with a broken wing in need of tending. Ought I do the same when the investigators came to my house?
I was broken in earnest. Heartbroken. And perhaps, if I showed that heartbreak, it would evoke sympathy. Or perhaps it would subject me to their laughter.
James Monroe would never laugh at me, I thought. In loyalty to my husband, I’d never attempted to untangle or name my feelings for Monroe or his for me—but I’d always believed our connection to be deeper and more complicated than friendship. Monroe was the first man to stir romantic feelings in my breast—a man with whom I felt a kinship in wanderlust and passion for the cause.
He would have never broken my heart. Nor would have Tench Tilghman, for that matter. If I’d made a match with either of them—good soldiers, solid gentlemen with respectable upbringings and a concern for morality—I wouldn’t be suffering this now.
But I’d chosen Alexander Hamilton.
A fact I reminded myself of as I methodically scraped the loaf of sugar for a confection I couldn’t taste, for the world had become devoid of flavor. I could scarcely see color, which made it a trial to choose what to wear. If I wore something dark and plain, would the investigators feel sorrier for me? Or perhaps I should wear my gauzy white dress, the one that left less of my body to the imagination, so they’d think my husband a fool for betraying me.
I was never a beauty. It was only that, until a few days ago, Alexander had made me feel like one. Now I felt like nothing.
That night the investigators came to my house, just as I’d suggested. Two legislators I knew by name only, a treasury official, and James Monroe. While my girls played by the fireplace with their new toys—brought by Sinterklaas in burlap sacks days before—I welcomed the men into the house with a plate of rye-flour pepernoot cookies, fragrant with cinnamon, anise, and clove.
“Compliments of the season,” Monroe drawled, with a very formal bow that seemed somehow at odds with his brown hunting boots and the black tricorn beaver felt hat that was swiftly going out of style. Meanwhile, my boys ran about like rowdies, led by a laughing, taunting ten-year-old Philip, pelting one another with extra pepernoot they’d stolen from the kitchen, which was not strictly the custom. But I was too weary to take a firm hand with them, especially when I had grown men to manage.
“Coffee?” I asked Monroe, forcing a smile.
“What else?” Monroe chuckled softly, as if a little abashed to be upon this errand. And as if, perhaps, he thought I didn’t know why he’d come. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mrs. Monroe sends her warm regards.”