Almost in spite of himself, Alexander asked, “You think the treaty will pass?”
“Perhaps,” Burr said. “But I can’t vote for it. Not if I want to remain a senator. It’s too unpopular.”
Sensing a coming debate, I said, “Gentlemen, I beg you not to spoil the evening.”
Reluctantly, they obliged me, and a lovely time was had by all. Philip, Ana, Fanny, and Theodosia—all four of them close in age—shared ice cream upon a blanket and stared up in marvel at the fireworks overhead. And nestled against Alexander’s side, I felt happy as I hadn’t felt in years.
Which was why, I think, I was so vexed the next evening to find Alexander pacing in the airy entryway of our rented town house on Broadway. “There’s a French flag flying atop the Tontine Coffeehouse.”
“A French flag over the Tontine?” I asked, in mock outrage. “Well then. Henceforth, we shall take our coffee elsewhere . . .” Which would be a trial, since I loved the Tontine.
Alexander, however, was not to be mollified. “A French flag hoisted blocks from my door! Next, I suppose, it will fly over the city instead of our Stars and Stripes.”
“I’m sure it is only a protest against Great Britain. If we must choose a side in the European war, the people would choose our first ally. France.”
“We mustn’t choose any side,” Alexander said, wearing a hole in the floor by the window. “It’s not our war. Even if it was, we can’t win another war. We can’t afford it. And war would prevent the Tontine from selling their coffee, the fools.”
Giving him a peck upon the cheek, I said, “Fortunately, it’s no longer your worry.”
We had plans for the theater, after all, and it was time to dress. Now that he’d returned to private practice, we could afford new clothes, and I was eager to see him in his new double-breasted white waistcoat and dark breeches, worn loosely as was now the fashion. But he continued to pace like an angry lion. “To see the character of our government sported with tortures my heart.”
“I know, my love,” I said, patiently guiding him toward the stairs.
He took two steps before stopping again. “Am I more of an American than those who drew their first breath on American ground? How can everyone else view this so calmly?”
As someone who drew first breath upon American ground, I defended myself. “I don’t view it calmly, but you cannot keep writing treatises for the president as if you were still in the cabinet.” He scowled, but since our marriage was now on a more equal footing, I dared to scowl back. “Oh, did you think you fooled me into believing the scribbling you’ve been doing late at night was for some legal case?”
For a moment, his eyes blazed with indignation, as if he meant to deny it. Then his bravado gave out. “You think I’m a fool—a romantic Don Quixote tilting at windmills.”
“I think you’ve already accomplished everything you set out to do.” It was not flattery. He’d fought and won a war and built a federal government. He’d created a coast guard, a national bank, and invented a scheme of taxation that held the states together. He’d founded a political party, smashed a rebellion, and put in motion a financial system that was providing prosperity for nearly everyone. In short, Alexander Hamilton was a greater man than the country deserved, and I wasn’t enough of a patriot to willingly give him back.
Especially not when I saw what my countrymen were doing to poor John Jay.
There was not a street corner one could pass without hearing some raving Jacobin denouncing the man for his controversial treaty, which antifederalists feared prioritized closer economic and political ties with the British monarchy over support for French republicanism and therefore repudiated American values. Damn John Jay. Damn everyone that won’t damn John Jay. Damn everyone that won’t put up lights in the windows and sit up all night damning John Jay.
After the treaty was signed, Jay was—as he told us himself—burned in effigy in so many cities that he could’ve traveled the country at night with nothing to guide him but the light of his own flaming form. My poor cousin Sarah Livingston Jay had reason to fear leaving the house. And this could’ve been our fate, I knew. My husband had narrowly missed being sent to negotiate in Jay’s place, had already resisted an attempt to make him a chief justice, and was daily forced to dismiss rumors that he should throw in to be the next president of the United States.
So, I was unspeakably grateful that my husband no longer held any office. And yet, he was still giving speeches. Which was how, while I sat trying to mend a pair of Philip’s shoes he’d outgrown, my now nearly fourteen-year-old son came to ask, “Can I go watch Father speak in favor of the Jay Treaty?”