I should feel honored.
Instead, I’m incensed that James Monroe has darkened my doorstep. And before I can stop myself, my voice drops low, as it always does when I’m angry. “What has that man come to see me for?”
“Couldn’t say,” my housekeeper murmurs, straightening her apron. “But he’s waiting for you in the parlor.”
It’s not the protocol for a gentleman to present a card and wait, except when presuming upon familiar acquaintance. And though Monroe definitely is a familiar acquaintance—and more than an acquaintance besides—he has no right to presume upon our old intimacy. No right at all. Not after everything that has passed between us. Especially not when he’s caught me out in the yard, in my gardening gloves and black workaday bombazine frock.
He should not expect, even under the best of circumstances, that I would receive a man of his rank and stature on a moment’s notice. But then James Monroe has always been wilier than anyone gives him credit for, and I imagine that he’s counting on the element of surprise to work to his advantage.
“Doubtless he’s come to pay his respects to you,” the housekeeper says.
And I give the most indelicate snort of my life, because I think it more likely Monroe has come to collect my surrender. For years now, to promote his so-called Era of Good Feelings, a popular President Monroe cut a swath through cities and towns, using his southern drawl and amiable manner to smother every last vestige of dissent. And charmed, no doubt, by that infernal dimple in his chin, everyone has genuflected.
Everyone but me.
Which is why I suppose he cannot retire in complete victory until he can boast of having been reconciled with the wife of Alexander Hamilton. But there are no good feelings here. And even though I’m not completely reconciled with Hamilton myself, I have no wish to become Monroe’s final triumph.
As I clutch the card, much perturbed, the housekeeper prompts me. “Ma’am, you wouldn’t want to leave the gentleman waiting.”
Oh, but I do want to. I’d happily leave Monroe standing on the stoop of the house Alexander Hamilton built until the Virginian is bent with age and crumbling to dust. But Monroe has already invaded my parlor so I must deal with him. And I must deal with him myself. To do otherwise would be to discount a lifetime of lessons from my father, a general who taught me that when faced with the specter of defeat, one must meet it swiftly and with as much dignity as possible. So I remove my garden gloves, scoop up my basket of hyacinths, and say, quite grandly, “I will see him.”
After that, I don’t so much walk into the Federal-style yellow house as march into battle. I find Monroe in the old, faded parlor, sitting on a dark sofa I embroidered to hide where it has become threadbare. The gentleman rises to his feet to greet me, his familiar expression grave, hat clutched in now aged hands.
And from ten paces, I take the measure of him.
Six feet tall, square-shouldered, and rawboned as ever, Monroe is wearing antiquated black velvet knee breeches, long since gone out of fashion, which leads me to imagine the silver in his hair is powder from a bygone era. A showman when it comes to reputation, Monroe must be pleased, I think, to count himself in that pantheon of presidents my countrymen now venerate.
Washington, the father of the country. Adams, the mastermind of independence. Jefferson, the voice of the revolution. Madison, the father of the Constitution.
And Monroe, the last of the founders.
Or so they say. But if Monroe must be counted as the last, then by my reasoning, my husband was the first. For not one of these men would have ever become president without Alexander Hamilton, the architect of our very government.
Yet Monroe doesn’t even glance at the portrait of my husband that hangs where the piano used to be—long since sold off to keep a roof over my children’s heads.
Perhaps I cannot blame Monroe for avoiding the eyes of Hamilton’s portrait. After all, even for me, the likeness still churns up a noxious stew of resentment, guilt, and loss. And I am not the only person in this world who loved the man and hated him, too.
So I nod to Monroe.
I should invite him to sit. I should serve tea. A thousand niceties are dictated by social grace when a president—even a former president—comes to call. But I observe none of them.
Instead, I wordlessly wait for him to deliver the first volley.
Finally, with a formal bow, Monroe drawls, “Mrs. General Hamilton.”
Why does it suddenly bother me to be addressed this way? It’s the title by which I’ve been known for almost thirty years. A title in which I’ve taken pride. A title some would say has opened as many doors as it has slammed shut. But somehow, hearing myself addressed as Mrs. General Hamilton by James Monroe feels as I’m being forced by him, for a second time, to loyally claim Hamilton as my own.