Of course, that was no mark of distinction in our family. In fact, elopement was an epidemic in Papa’s household. Our little sister Cornelia ran off with a beau a few years prior, and now our little Caty—the very baby sister Peggy had rescued from the tomahawk-wielding loyalists—was threatening to do the same.
“I’ve always set the trends,” Angelica said, sniffling into her kerchief. “My dear Eliza, you were the only one unfashionable enough to do everything properly.”
“Poor Papa,” I replied. “He has only one unmarried daughter left, and I predict she’ll run off with her beau the first chance she gets.”
Balancing her teacup, Angelica whispered, “Poor us if it’s in Schuyler blood. Given her gaggle of suitors, Church is forced to keep his eye on our eldest daughter every moment. Meanwhile, I scowl disapprovingly at every penniless Jacobin who looks her way.”
“Are there any Federalist boys left?” I asked, for my husband’s political party had crumbled in the wake of the election, and what they considered to be Alexander’s unpardonable role in helping Jefferson win. “Or are only yours and mine still standing?”
“Well, I dare say there will soon be more little Federalists. Given the scandalous behavior of the girls at the last dance I attended, there’s not a young lady in New York who wouldn’t run away with your Philip or mine.”
The realization that my son was old enough to marry—and to sire children—was still somehow astonishing. Almost as astonishing as hearing Angelica speak about anyone else’s scandalous behavior. “How did we become the disapproving matrons, clucking our tongues at the edges of a dance hall?”
“Advancing age.” Angelica scowled. “It’s an appalling condition.”
I smiled over the rim of my teacup. “I don’t feel so very advanced in age.”
“Because you won a vicious game of pall-mall? Well, you’ve always had remarkable stamina, but—”
“I’m soon to add another little one to the family,” I said, splaying my fingers lightly over my bodice with excitement.
“Another!” Angelica cried in equal parts delight and dismay. “It’s the turn of the century. Have neither you nor Hamilton discovered French letters?”
I smirked. “Well, you know how Hamilton distrusts all things French . . .”
My sister quite nearly howled. “You Jezebel.”
“Oh, hush,” I said because I didn’t want her lady friends to overhear. So I leaned forward to confide, “If it’s a girl, we’ll name her after Peggy . . .”
“Peggy,” Angelica said, her eyes misting with emotion. “How lovely.” Together we melted over that sweet notion, only to be interrupted by a commotion at the door.
The wife of my husband’s law partner, Mrs. Pendleton, had arrived, apparently uninvited, without a coat or hat. She appeared in some disarray, insisting that she must see Angelica straightaway. As we rose to greet her, Mrs. Pendleton literally trembled. “Mrs. Church, there is some manner of pandemonium at your house. You had better come quick. A young man has been shot and carried there and a doctor called for. I fear—I fear . . .”
My heart leaped to my throat, because I knew just what she feared—that my sister’s boy had been shot. Angelica obviously feared it, too, clutching at my hand and trying to remain upright. As Kitty swiftly gathered up our hats and handbags for us, I urged my sister to calm.
I had, after all, treated many men in the war who survived gunshot wounds. Then I hurried my very pale and shaking sister to her house, where carriages blocked the drive. It seemed as if half the city’s doctors crowded the entryway—with, to my surprise, my nephew, apparently unharmed.
Angelica flew to him. “Oh, you infernal boy. I feared you’d taken part in an affair of honor!”
“No,” Flip said, ashen as he looked my way. “It’s my cousin.”
In that moment, someone steadied me; I think it was my brother-in-law, murmuring some explanation. But the only thing I understood was that it wasn’t my sister’s boy who’d been shot.
It was mine.
*
HOW DID I make my way to the gilded guest room in which my eldest son writhed? I don’t recall. My only fixed memory is crashing through the door to find Philip, his pale neck spattered in a veil of his own vivid red blood.
Alexander was there already, holding our son’s shoulders as Philip convulsed with pain. Though my husband tried to warn me away with a shake of his head, I cried my son’s name as I rushed to tend him, pressing frantic kisses upon his hand.