They locked my mother up. I will never let it happen to Ana.
“I know what you’re thinking,” my sister said, taking my hand.
But I didn’t think she did. Alexander’s voice didn’t echo for her, as it did now for me.
But you aren’t here, Alexander, I thought. You aren’t here to take care of her or of any of us. You aren’t here or anywhere I can find you.
Angelica cleared her throat. “Private asylums can provide the appropriate environment. She’ll be offered exercise, work, education, religious instruction.”
I nodded, having read the work of Dr. Rush and others emphasizing humane treatment to those with disordered minds instead of restraint, exorcism, and punishment.
How had it come to this? With a shiver, I admitted, “She could have killed Little Phil today.”
“Yes. And she might succeed next time.”
Next time. As much as I wanted to deny it, I knew there would be a next time. “But . . . she wasn’t aware, she didn’t know. It’s not her fault,” I managed, a knot in my throat. “She was always such a sweet girl before. You remember, don’t you? She was—”
“I remember,” Angelica said. “And of course it’s not her fault. It’s not yours, either. Even if you kept watch over her every moment of every day, you couldn’t make her better. And your other children would suffer from your inattention. To say nothing of the burden on young Alex.”
My eldest surviving son had taken up the practice of law to help support the family and felt the burden keenly. To add another worry upon his still slender shoulders . . .
“You must make the only choice a loving mother can,” my sister concluded.
I swallowed hard. “How do I . . . ?”
Angelica pulled me into her embrace before I could sob. “Let me make the arrangements.”
And she did.
It was snowing when the doctor arrived a few mornings later to take my daughter to what Angelica assured me was a reputable private asylum about ten miles away, with bucolic views of forests, fields, and the East River. My sister had even arranged for Ana to have a new piano there—for Ana still played, singing the same songs—and only the songs—she’d sung before Philip died.
To my surprise, Ana was amenable to going, assuming the doctor was a coachman meant to take her to visit her grandfather, as she’d done so many times before. I gathered my coat to join them, but the doctor held up his hand. “Madam. We find it is less disturbing to the patients to avoid upsetting parting scenes with family.”
I froze at the threshold and gazed out at the carriage where my daughter already waited. “Oh,” I said, hollowly.
“You can visit,” he reassured me. “When she’s settled. Certainly, you’ll want to visit.”
“Yes,” I said. “As soon as possible.”
The doctor smiled and doffed his cap.
Meanwhile, I looked past him to my beautiful Ana, who would continue to age, but never grow old. My eyes saw her alive, but my heart felt like I was losing another child. I was losing another child. And heartbroken against relentless losses, I just stood there, numb against the cold, watching until I could no longer see my daughter’s retreating carriage.
*
March 1805
New York City
They wept for Aaron Burr.
The story made all the papers. Far from shunning a man indicted for murder in two states, Jefferson invited Burr to dine at the president’s mansion. But then perhaps sensing that Burr could be of no further use to him in his second term, Jefferson replaced him as vice president. Thus, in Burr’s farewell address on the floor of the Senate chamber, he stood in front of God and country and dared to speak of law and order and liberty, and the need of the Senate to protect the Constitution from the silent arts of corruption and the sacrilegious hands of the demagogue.
And, on their feet and applauding, the members of that body wept for the man who murdered my husband.
Of course, afterward Burr suffered almost instantaneous political exile. I have ever thought that was too kind a fate by far. But he was now on the run, and that would have to satisfy me.
For I had more pressing matters to attend. Namely, my conscience. Since giving over my eldest daughter to a doctor’s care, I couldn’t shake the guilt. Which was why—in what I think now was partly a desperate act of penance for having sent Ana away—I turned my attention back to the Society for the Protection of Poor Widows with Small Children.
Still working with Widow Graham, her daughter, Mrs. Joanna Bethune, and several other pious ladies, I rededicated myself to raising funds, reviewing eligibility requirements, and visiting the homes of candidates for our assistance to determine whether they met the criteria. Which sometimes meant taking the ferry across the East River to Blackwell’s Island, location of one of the city’s most notorious almshouses.