The newspapers joined in, accusing Burr of all manner of disgraceful debauchery—consorting with prostitutes and other men’s wives, seducing fine ladies and enslaved women alike, fathering bastards, and even hosting a Negro ball to court the free black vote. Alexander was not responsible for the calumny thrown Burr’s way, but many suspected him of it—and they were entertained.
But the newspapers were in earnest with their blood sport.
Our son Alex had seldom shown interest in politics—that had been his older brother’s fiefdom. Alex was now nearing college graduation, and because he had a head for numbers like his grandfather, we wished to place him in a countinghouse to be a merchant. He already had an offer to work in Boston after his graduation, which pleased my mother’s pride. But now his brow furrowed. “The papers are trying to goad Father and Colonel Burr to fight.”
I took the papers from him. “Worry not. Your father is too wise now to be lured into such a trap.”
*
May 1804
Harlem
Burr lost the governorship by a great majority, which gave my husband satisfaction. He’d worried that he was washed up, helpless, and without any influence in the country he helped found. This victory proved otherwise, for Hamilton’s campaigning had ensured Burr’s defeat.
To celebrate, we took our children to the now raucous Pinkster festival in the city, where we mingled amongst our black citizens with a measure of gratification that though more must be done to achieve the freedom of all, every child born in New York was now born free.
We also hosted a dinner party for Jér?me Bonaparte, a nineteen-year-old naval officer of middling rank who currently stood in defiance of his conquering brother, Napoleon.
Against the wishes of the French dictator, Jér?me had married an American girl, Elizabeth Patterson, the Belle of Baltimore as some called her. And presented with the opportunity to make mischief for the French tyrant by befriending his willful younger brother, Alexander was delighted, laughing and conversing in French, and telling stories of the Marquis de Lafayette that kept young Bonaparte rapt. Hamilton toasted old friends and new with a case of Papa’s fine Madeira we’d had shipped from Albany for the occasion. And being the gracious and solicitous host who greeted every guest by name, he recalled with each one a fond memory of how they’d met or some battle they’d fought.
Watching Alexander entertain, I took my first deep, easy breath in as long as I could remember. Was that happiness that had finally crept back after the losses of recent years?
As the season turned and the weather warmed, I was struck by a new mildness in my dear Hamilton and was sure that he felt it, too. A peacefulness, even. Our victory over Burr had imparted to Alexander an eased mind and a lightened heart. Why, at the annual Fourth of July celebration of the Society of the Cincinnati, my nearly fifty-year-old husband led the men in singing old songs while standing atop a table!
But spending time with other sons of the revolution, recalling all that they’d sacrificed and all that we’d won, had always had a salutary effect upon him. Which was why, when he proposed that we host a lavish ball at the Grange and produced a guest list of over seventy people, I could only find myself delighted.
“I promised you a ball, my darling girl,” he said. “And a promise must never be broken.”
Excited by the prospect of such a grand affair—much grander than any entertainment we’d hosted before—I didn’t mind the work involved, even with two-year-old Phil, four-year-old Lysbet, and six-year-old William underfoot. Happily, in that, Ana was a help, directing them in making garlands of silk ribbon, rosebuds, marigolds, and day lilies snipped fresh from our gardens. Ana might not remember what year it was or which of her relations dwelt in this world or the next, but she was still my beloved daughter, and she had a sweet, attentive way with the little ones. Meanwhile, having taken their height from their grandfather, our tall Alex, James, and Johnny strung the garlands between the house and the trees, and carried chairs out of doors because their father wished this ball to be alfresco in the French fête champêtre style.
The help of my darlings, and a French servant Angelica sent for the occasion, freed me to see to the menu with the assistance of our inestimable Mr. Genti, whose cooking using the produce of our garden always brought the highest praise. I anticipated raspberry tarts and fresh strawberry jam shortbread cookies, and the children wished to make their father a cherry pie, so I made sure Mr. Genti included it on the menu.
My gown for the occasion was an oyster-colored silk satin, with an embroidered bodice and hem in a leaf design and a beaded overskirt, an extravagant purchase Alexander insisted upon.