“And I return mine. I hope to see your wife and your darling little daughter at a holiday tea after church this Sunday.” Monroe’s smile warmed so I added, “We’ve come such a long way from an army campfire, haven’t we, Senator Monroe?”
“Indeed we have. How young, hopeful, and idealistic we were . . .”
“I am still hopeful,” I said, filling his cup to the brim just as bitterness filled me up inside.
Once I’d finished serving refreshments, Alexander stood, ready to furnish all the information they could require to acquit him of a crime—receipts of his blackmail payments, I assumed—so I retired from the room and kept the children quiet upstairs.
It was quiet downstairs, too. Maddeningly so. I didn’t know what to make of it, especially when the men remained closeted together much longer than I thought necessary. Indeed, the interview seemed to go on and on until I grew weary watching the hands on our grandfather clock move.
When, at last, I heard the scrape of chair legs on wood—the sound of a meeting reaching its end—I hastened downstairs again. Alexander should have seen the men off. But I’d persuaded him that I should be the one to do it. And so I forced myself to say a kindly and proper farewell.
Given what my husband had just told them, I wasn’t surprised that the investigators whom I didn’t know well couldn’t meet my eyes. But James Monroe’s face burned scarlet at the sight of me and he lingered in the doorway long after the others departed, a sheaf of papers under his arm.
With a shake of his head, he began to stammer. “I—Mrs. Hamilton—Betsy . . .”
It’d been a long time since he used my name with that soft southern drawl. The intimacy of it seemed somehow improper. But the sound of it carried genuine sympathy. Oh, why had I feared the men’s laughter instead of their pity? Pity was worse. Far worse. Especially from him.
Though I wanted to flee, I somehow made myself stand there and say, “I trust you’re satisfied with my husband’s innocence on the charge of corruption?”
Monroe’s color deepened, if that was possible, at the word innocence. In fact, he cast such a bloody-minded look in the direction of the study that I feared it’d all gone badly. “Secretary Hamilton has provided me with exculpatory documentation and we will not make any report to the president at this time. I believe your husband will acknowledge that our conduct toward him has been fair and liberal—and that he could not complain of it.”
Oh, Alexander would complain of it. But he should be grateful for Monroe, who actually cared whether or not he complained. And I could see that Monroe cared very much.
“Mrs. Hamilton, please believe that I wish you every happiness.”
Monroe had flushed at the word innocence, but I now blanched at the word happiness. He noticed and all pretense fell away. Either I was no good at pretense, or he knew me well enough to realize that I was aware of my husband’s infidelity.
“You are a kind, lovely, and charming woman and you deserve much better than—”
“Pray don’t say another word,” I whispered, wilting with humiliation. Why did I think I could do this? Why did I think I was strong enough? To my horror, tears welled before I could blink them away. “I should plead for your discretion as a gentleman on behalf of my husband, but in truth, I beg of you, for myself—”
“Dear God, to see you cry,” Monroe said, setting down the papers and reaching inside his sleeve for an embroidered kerchief, which he offered me at once. “Insofar as is in keeping with my duty, the papers will remain sealed. As will my lips, for your sake. You have my word of honor.”
His kerchief smelled faintly of tobacco and pine and I let out a tiny sob into it full of relief and sorrow. It would be better if no one knew what Hamilton had done. No one. Not my friends. Not my parents. Not even Angelica, for such things could never be entrusted to a letter across the ocean. So the only person to whom I could confide was James Monroe.
“The tears will pass,” I said, trying for bravery. “It’s only the lingering shame.”
“Not your shame,” Monroe said, his fists tightening, as if he meant to turn, march back into my husband’s study, and beat him.
“Nevertheless, I don’t know how I can bear it.”
Monroe didn’t have to be told how society looked upon a wife who wasn’t enough to satisfy her husband.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
As these words battered my insides, I felt undone. Quite low. Indescribably miserable.