A Republican bank.
Burr had used him.
It’d been a masterful and malevolent joke, sly and well executed at the very time my husband was occupied in everything from designing military uniforms from sash to buttonhole, to recommending a military academy at West Point. Otherwise, Hamilton would never have been distracted enough to let Burr slip something past him.
Seldom did anyone outsmart Alexander Hamilton.
But Burr had done just that, in a most public and humiliating way.
Alexander had privately fumed, but Church accused Burr of corruption, which brought about a duel between the men, where my brother-in-law proved himself such an expert marksman that he shot a button off Burr’s coat—a feat that much impressed my sons, but not my sister.
Hearing Church boast now about how he could have killed a man, Angelica set her cup down so hard that I feared it would crack, and strong black tea sloshed over both sides. For she, like the rest of us, had learned of her husband’s duel only after the fact. And the fright of having so nearly been made a widow, in complete ignorance, still set her nerves on edge.
“What if you had killed him, Jack?” Angelica asked.
No one in our family seemed poised to answer that question—least of all my unrepentant brother-in-law. And over our teacups, Peggy and I exchanged a look, both of us knowing from childhood experience not to tangle with Angelica when she was in this mood. But as my newborn daughter mewled like a kitten in her cradle, I was emboldened to remind everyone of our blessings. “Let’s just give thanks to God that no one was hurt. Not to mention that we’re all together to enjoy a respite in this beautiful countryside.”
“A respite that would’ve been even more enjoyable if you’d named your new daughter Margaret,” Peggy piped up, both changing the subject and professing jealousy that we’d named our first daughter after Angelica but none after her.
“I’m afraid I favor the name Elizabeth,” Alexander replied with a wink. “But perhaps the next one . . .”
“The next one! And to think I once feared Betsy would be a spinster. You’re like rabbits, you two,” Peggy accused, quite heedless of the agonized cringes this elicited from my sons and the chorus of snickers from their cousins. Especially Angelica’s twenty-one-year-old Flip and Peggy’s eleven-year-old Steven—where they stood, still admiring Church’s pistols in the open portmanteau.
Reaching to pat my husband’s knee, I said, “Since the gentlemen of the family have been so fixated on guns, perhaps you might take the boys into the woods and bring us some ducks for supper.”
Alexander looked as if he wished to protest but called for his new hunting dog, an overeager spaniel that answered to the name Old Peggy. That’s when my Philip joked to his aunt, “You have a Hamiltonian namesake after all.”
Peggy gave an indignant sputter that sounded quite like the curly-haired mongrel—eliciting howls of laughter from all of us. “My nephew is a rogue,” Peggy said, affectionately ruffling Philip’s dark hair. “Be gone with you to fetch our supper.”
Then Alexander marched off into the forests of Harlem with a fowling piece in hand, my brothers-in-law and our boys all trooping behind.
“Do you see how Church swaggers about like a daring boy of eighteen?” Angelica hissed when they’d gone.
To soothe her, I said, “You were once charmed by Church’s daring.”
“That was before I loved him,” Angelica replied, taking me quite by surprise. “When we eloped, that was just the seedling of love. It’s taken years of careful tending, pruning, and cultivation to come to full flower. Though, if Church had gotten himself killed in a childish duel, I should doubt the whole enterprise of love altogether!”
Peggy dramatically rolled her eyes. “Oh, how would it have looked if he’d refused Burr’s challenge? It’s the way men defend their personal honor.”
Angelica seethed. “It’s never personal with Burr. Tell her, Eliza.”
“It’s true,” I said, in the familiar role of mediator between them. As improbable as it sounded, Burr was, and had always been, wryly amused with life, taking it all for a game.
“Burr only cares about his political reputation,” Angelica said. “Now, thanks to my husband, that sly self-seeker can boast that he didn’t flinch when a bullet came close enough to wing a button off his coat. He’ll tell that story every chance he gets while campaigning for Jefferson in the upcoming presidential election. And mark me a fool if Burr doesn’t win the vice presidency for himself.”