“I’m a widow of a war hero,” I said, stoutly. “And more than that. General Hamilton might have made a fortune in private life, but he gave his best energies to his country.” And because I believed that Dolley, as a political wife, would understand, I added, “We both spent the better part of our lives in service to this nation, and what do I have to show for it?”
The expression of the president’s wife melted in unmistakable sympathy, but before she could reply, someone called to her.
A jowled woman who mimicked Dolley’s fashion sense, wearing a fur-lined cape and turban, charged our way. It was Margaret Bayard Smith, the not-so-secret author of her husband’s influential Washington newspaper, the Daily National Intelligencer.
“I shouldn’t neglect her,” Dolley said.
But before Dolley took her leave, I whispered, “Is my cause hopeless?”
“Not if you know the right ears to whisper into,” she said. “And, fortunately, I do.” Then, excusing herself, she left my side. And I didn’t blame her. I could easily imagine what mischief might be sown for the Madisons—and for myself—by a report that the wife of a Republican newspaperman had been snubbed in favor of Hamilton’s widow.
Relief stole over me, and hope, too—until I found myself staring across the room into the startled gray eyes of the man just recently appointed as secretary of state.
James Monroe.
Haltingly, Monroe made his way through the press of bodies to stand before me. “Mrs. General Hamilton,” he said, that infuriating dimple still upon the chin of his now thinner face as he awaited acknowledgment at our unexpected reunion.
But what could I possibly have to say to this man?
A decade had passed since I’d left Monroe searching for his conscience. And as best as I could tell, he’d never found it. He’d lost it to ambition. Not hollow ambition, like Burr’s—for that assassin never had a conscience to lose in the first place—but a weighty ambition, that grew heavier in the shadow of his fellow Virginians—Washington, Jefferson, and Madison. James Monroe hungered for the presidency and became even more of an embittered partisan when Jefferson promoted Madison, and not himself, as heir apparent.
What did you expect from a man like Jefferson? I wanted to say. You gave your friendship and loyalty to a man who didn’t cherish it.
Not as I once cherished it.
A thing I remembered with clarity when, as if unsteadied by my presence, Monroe dabbed sweat upon his upper lip with an embroidered kerchief. This kerchief was finer than the one he’d given me all those years ago. That one I’d kept as a talisman against insecurity and sadness when I first learned of my husband’s infidelity. And even after Alexander and I reconciled, I’d kept Monroe’s kerchief as a sentimental token of friendship. In truth, I’d quite forgotten it until this moment, because after our last confrontation over his role in the exposure of the Reynolds Affair, I’d not wished to remember Monroe at all.
But now here he was, waiting for me to say something polite, such as, “Why hello, Mr. Monroe. It’s been too long. I hope your family is well.”
I told myself it wouldn’t cost me very much to say it. In fact, it might help me. If James Monroe were to take up my banner, Congress might reinstate my husband’s benefits. After all, Monroe was a veteran and a favorite son amongst the rank-and-file Republicans. They might listen to him more than the president. And after having broken his word of honor to me as a gentleman, didn’t Monroe owe me a debt?
Perhaps that’s what I should say to him, I thought.
But in the end, I was a Schuyler as much as I was a Hamilton. And though words had been my husband’s weapon, silence had often been mine.
So I said nothing at all to James Monroe.
Instead, I gave him the cut direct—and turned to find my son.
“Alexander?” I called, making rare use of his full name.
“Yes, Mother?” Alex asked, rushing to my side.
I glanced back at Monroe and enjoyed the flinch of recognition that settled onto the Virginian’s face at seeing my boy, as if seeing a ghost.
“I think we’ve accomplished our purpose here,” I said, letting Alex escort me away.
And I vowed that I’d burn Monroe’s forgotten kerchief upon our return home.
It would take years before my husband’s benefits were finally, and quietly, reinstated. But I knew, without question, who I had to thank for it. Madison had been our friend. Madison had been our partner. And Madison was good to his word about my husband’s papers, too, sending copies for the biography.