It made me queasy to realize that I knew of all my sister’s marital troubles, and yet she knew nothing of mine. It hadn’t been safe to confide it in a letter, but to keep it from her now felt almost like a betrayal of the bond we shared. On the other hand, to tell her would seem a betrayal of the man I loved.
And what did it matter, now that it was all in the past?
“A fountain!” Angelica cried as we walked out into her new garden. “You and Hamilton know me so well. You couldn’t have chosen a better house for me, Bets—forgive me, Eliza,” she said with a smile, observing me. I’d written her long ago about my decision to go by the new nickname, but we’d been so long separated that this was the first time she’d seen me in person since I’d made the change. “Old habits . . .”
“You may call me whatever you like as long as you are here,” I said.
“I am here. And now that we are such close neighbors, I foresee you and I spending much time here together, presuming . . .”
When she trailed off, I prompted, “Presuming?”
She looked to the sky. “Presuming, of course, that the Jacobins don’t burn it all down.”
A wreath of smoky haze had enveloped the city for months, the remainder of a series of devastating fires that had been set in protest of the election of John Adams to the presidency. Not even the fact that Jefferson, having received the second most number of votes in the election, was now vice president seemed to stem the tide of discontent. The culprit had never been caught, but the stench of the ashes remained.
And like everyone else, Angelica had a definite opinion about who was to blame. “How could you let Hamilton quit the government when the spirit of Jacobinism threatens the political and moral world with a complete overthrow? He’s needed there more than ever.”
It had been the loss of our baby that convinced him to leave government, which she knew from my letters. Still, I felt the need to say, “He said the change was necessary and agreeable.”
Angelica sighed. “The country has lost one of her best friends, and you, my dear Eliza, are the only person to whom this change can be either necessary or agreeable. Yes, I am decidedly inclined to believe that it was your influence.”
So what if it was? Angelica had charmed all of Europe and understood more about politics and philosophy than I did, but she didn’t understand all that had happened here, in our marriage and our country. I loved my sister, but I was no longer the young girl who deferred to her every opinion. Especially since she and Church still kept slaves, whilst my husband was finally free to devote more time to abolishing slavery. “No one’s done more for this government than Alexander Hamilton. And he’s done enough.”
She blinked, then finally nodded. “Of course.”
Wanting to smooth things over, I smiled. “Besides, as we now both benefit from his increased attention, you’ll soon see it’s altogether agreeable.”
She laughed. “That so good a wife, so tender a mother, should be so bad a patriot is wonderful!”
So bad a patriot.
Her tone was teasing, but she’d somehow hit upon a guilty nerve. Was I so selfish for wanting my husband to belong more to me than to an ungrateful public? Was it wrong to enjoy the fruits of all our labor, the domestic pleasures of picnics with our children and long walks together on kissing bridges and dinner at our own table without expecting a horde of guests?
Perhaps sensing my inner turmoil, my sister sat at the edge of her fountain to say, “I suppose it’s for the better. Now that Papa is back in the Senate, he wouldn’t like to be outshone by his son-in-law.”
We both smiled, knowing how much pleasure it gave Papa to have been reelected, nearly unanimously. He’d bided his time and Burr, sensing the change of political fortune on the wind, had resigned his seat rather than lose it. My family counted that a good thing, but I remembered what Burr had said at Vauxhall Gardens.
Retirement is very fashionable these days amongst men who wish to be president . . .
Angelica went on, “Besides, it’s better that you have Hamilton to look over you in your condition.” I half-wished to remind her that our own mother had children well into her forties, and I was only thirty-nine. But my sister had centered directly on another of my most keen anxieties, as was her way.
I feared miscarrying another child and I said so.
“This time you’ll have me here with you, my dearest,” she promised. “I shall watch over you with such overbearing insistence, you’ll think I’ve turned into Mama!”