Vulnerable in every way.
And so I was grateful when, with exquisite chivalry, Monroe drew my hand to his lips for a gentlemanly kiss. “The girl I met in Albany who could gamely drink some poison concoction without complaint, play a ruthless game of backgammon, and set off into the wilds in a sleigh—that girl could bear anything.”
“That girl is long gone.”
“She’s still here,” Monroe said, offering a tender smile and pressing my hand, for just a moment, to his heart. “Where she will always reside. My dear friend, I’ve held on to those memories, and I urge you to hold on to them, too.”
My breath evened at the unexpected intimacy, at the strong pulse beneath my palm, at the knowledge that there were paths in my life I had not taken and the glimmer of hope that even if I couldn’t see past my own sadness now, there might still be new paths to discover. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Monroe nodded, gravely. “Your husband is the luckiest of men, and I hope, at long last, he realizes it.” He didn’t need to give me that one small bit of flattery; perhaps he shouldn’t have. But it was a mercy, and it gave me the strength to dry my tears. When I was composed again, I found a plate for him, covered in a white linen napkin. “Pastries for Mrs. Monroe.”
He smiled when our fingers brushed lightly as he took the plate. “Perhaps we can all share them together in more sociable circumstances.”
Alas, there would never be more sociable circumstances for us. Not ever again.
*
April 1793
Philadelphia
Vive la République!
While I made my way through the crowds, church bells rang, cannons blasted, and Philadelphians sang in honor of the French, who had outlawed the monarchy, beheaded their king, and now found themselves at war with Great Britain.
In spite of our old treaty with France, President Washington had declared American neutrality in this war, but everywhere I went, my countrymen took up the cry of our old allies.
Vive la République!
On this day, the celebration was for the arrival of a frigate the French had taken from the British. Upon her coming into sight, thousands and thousands of the yeomanry of the city crowded the wharves and, when the British colors appeared reversed, the French flying above them, people burst into peals of exultation.
But I wasn’t in this squalid part of Philadelphia to celebrate.
I’d come for a less dignified reason, one that wisdom should have cautioned me against. In the aftermath of my husband’s betrayal, I’d spent a dark miserable winter on my knees in prayer. Now springtime had stolen upon me, insulting me with its showy, colorful, perfumed glory.
And I had to see her.
I had to see Maria Reynolds.
Men stray, my sister Angelica would’ve told me. I could hear her words as if she were standing beside me, warning me to leave off this nonsense. It’s in their nature. You’re making too much of it. Your husband still loves you, and you’re lucky to have him!
Certainly, since Hamilton’s midnight confession, he’d been solicitous, sharing in the care of the children, staying home at night, and sheepishly turning down meetings with colleagues in deference, he said, to his growing and hitherto too much neglected family.
But in recent weeks, more confessions had spilled from his lips. It was not, as he’d first intimated, just one night with this woman. For nearly a year he’d gone to her bed, and I, the trusting fool, had never suspected. And when I demanded to know why he’d not simply told me everything all at once, he said, “I thought you might take easier to a thing if it was gradually broken to you, my angel.”
Which left me to wonder what other painful revelations remained.
I knew my husband regretted this woman. I also knew most wives overlooked infidelity. Only a select few divorced. But in New York State, adultery was the only grounds upon which a woman could seek a divorce. And I will not say I didn’t flirt with the thought at night, in our now very cold bed.
But to what end? It wouldn’t undo the pain. And who would I be if I wasn’t Alexander Hamilton’s wife? Weeping into the kerchief Monroe had pressed into my hand while offering comfort and strength, I felt as much a stranger to myself as Hamilton was now to me. I scarcely spoke to my husband, beyond that which was necessary for the children’s sake. And I felt too exhausted to care for my own dignity. The need to see Maria Reynolds became a compulsion—perhaps as powerful as the one that led my husband to her in the first place.
Which was how, after a few discreet inquiries, I found myself at the corner, near the public square, staring up at Maria’s window in the house she shared with men it would be too kind to characterize as genteel boarders. Her curtains had been thrown back, allowing me to watch her brush her long hair. Fair hair. Would it have been better if she’d been a brunette?