And Angelica was my Delaware, always first to ratify.
Knowing just how large my sister’s donation had been, Kitty’s hands tightened on her purse strings. “You’re a brigand.”
“I think of myself as a foot soldier for the Lord.”
She pursed her lips. “Well, I suppose that if General Hamilton gets the war against France he wants, we’ll all have to adopt the martial spirit.”
General Hamilton. After four months, I was still adjusting to the idea, much less the unspoken, but very real, responsibilities of being a general’s wife. My mother. Lucy Knox. Martha Washington. These were my examples. And with those excellent ladies in mind, I said, “We’re already at war with France. An undeclared war, but a war nonetheless.”
Lacking any military experience of his own to draw upon, President Adams had called George Washington out of retirement. The old soldier, tired to his very bones, agreed to serve as a figurehead if Alexander was named his second in command, his inspector general.
And no one could deny Washington.
The Republican newspapers screeched against “Hamilton, the man who published a book to prove he was an adulterer.” But such objections seemed stale, if not quaint, when weighed against the threat of Napoleon Bonaparte. Matrons might clutch their pearls, and the Jeffersonians might spit, but in the end, the country still needed Alexander Hamilton.
Which meant that we were, again, ascendant.
Even the Livingstons knew it, which was why Kitty sighed with surrender, promising a large bank note for the charity. With that, she took her leave but not before muttering, “I still say you’re a brigand.”
“Brigands resort to pistols.” Aaron Burr doffed his cap as he splashed across the street to us. “Whereas you, Mrs. Hamilton, have somehow managed to loot the pockets of every New York notable with only the force of your will.”
New York was a much smaller place in those days, and we were always running into old friends and enemies on the street. Burr, in particular, was always out and about. He had never remarried after Theodosia’s death, and more often than not he had a trollop on his arm—two, if the mood struck him. He’d earned a reputation as a great seducer of women, and it was no wonder, since Burr still retained roguish good looks.
So much so that even I could scarcely deny him a smile. Nor did I want to when he took money from his pocket and pressed it into my hand. “For your widows and small children . . .”
“How generous,” I said, surprised.
“On the condition that you don’t record my name in your ledger.”
“It’s a respectable charity, sir, and entirely without partisan bent.”
“Yes, I’ve heard all about your widows.” By way of explanation, he added, “I spend a great deal of time lately on Slaughterhouse Street, raising mugs in the Bull’s Head Tavern with the immigrants your husband’s party is trying to chase out of the country.”
He was referring to the Alien and Sedition Acts, which authorized President Adams to deport any foreign-born resident deemed a danger to the peace. These were wartime measures. And given what I’d seen—riots, uprisings, and American cities nearly burned to the ground—regrettably necessary, I thought. Even though I worried it set a dangerous precedent.
But I said none of this to Aaron Burr. I merely adjusted my bonnet, upon which I proudly wore a black cockade that signaled my support of this Federalist administration.
Burr must’ve seen that I was suppressing an argument, because he gave a wicked grin. “I intend to make Hamilton regret these unconstitutional laws.”
It was Congress who passed these laws and the president who signed them; my husband was merely the general who would defend the nation. But affecting amusement, I said, “Unconstitutional? I don’t remember your having championed that document when my husband was helping to write it . . .”
Burr laughed. “Touché. It’s a miserable paper machine. I told your husband that as the commander of an army, he owes it to the country to demolish it.”
I withheld my gasp because his expression was so droll I couldn’t decide if he was toying with me or suggesting the overthrow of the government. Exasperated, I shook my head. “I won’t allow you to bait me further, sir. And I shall happily take your donation. But why should you desire to keep it a secret?”
“Because I mean it for charity and not social advancement.”
Did Burr suspect me of using good works to erase the taint of scandal? It was perfectly in keeping with the way his mind worked, so I supposed I couldn’t be angry about it. The truth was, despite Burr’s capacity to scandalize, needle, or otherwise irritate me, I couldn’t hate him. In truth, I even liked him. A little. As much as anyone could like a man whose sole fixed characteristic was that he had none. Perhaps it was because he’d kept his silence about my husband’s adultery. “Even if you insult me, I’m not too proud to take your money on behalf of children who are grateful for every scrap of bread.”