I smiled at the notion of adventure and of seeing William again. Because I realized that I was not only capable of the trip, but also interested—for the first time in so long.
But I’d come far enough.
Far enough, at least, to recover, as the French would say, my joie de vivre.
And I had Lafayette to thank for it all.
Just as at the start of the revolution, this Frenchman was the lucky talisman who opened the way to a better future. As much as I desired it, I didn’t need to see the wilds of the country to find my place in it. I already knew. I had my work to think of, and a city full of orphaned children who needed me.
“Bah,” he said, seeing that my mind was set. “While I am gone, at least agree you will think on all I’ve said. Hamilton’s story should be remembered. It should be told, and it should be written.”
“A biography has been tried,” I admitted, remembering how I was hampered before by Federalists and Republicans alike. How Reverend Mason’s efforts ultimately came to nothing. “But too many of Alexander’s letters are scattered and too many people do not want his story told.”
Lafayette’s eyes narrowed a moment. “His foes oppose you?”
I chuckled a little bitterly. “With respect to his papers, it’s his friends who have created the greatest obstacle.”
A few years earlier, just before he died, Nathaniel Pendleton confessed to stealing my husband’s drafts of the Farewell Address and conspiring with fellow Federalists to keep the papers “in trust and under seal,” which was simply gracious language for keeping them from me. But I’d learned of this at the depths of my fury at Hamilton and done nothing about it.
Now, in defense of myself, I said, “I am refused even simple requests to see his papers.”
“I think that I will not be refused. After all, you are the only person with the temerity to rebuff the Guest of the Nation.”
I laughed, but also felt an ember of hope. “I don’t rebuff you, General. It’s only that I don’t wish to give false hopes.”
“I have been reproached all my life for giving in too much to my hopeful disposition, but one would never try anything extraordinary if one despaired of success.”
“No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” I murmured, his words working their way into my heart.
“Then, my dear Mrs. Hamilton,” he said, leaning close, “no longer despair.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Spring 1825
Harlem
THE WINDOWLESS ATTIC didn’t make for a majestic courtroom. The only light to be had was from lanterns I hung from the wooden rafters. The only witnesses, the spiders. Perhaps that was best, since, pushing through the cobwebs of this place—and my memories—I alone would play judge and jury.
And as for Hamilton, well, he would represent himself. He’d been a magnificent lawyer in life. But in death, the words he wrote would have to stand for him without addition or deletion or the animation of his voice or expression.
And in seating myself before a trunk of letters—the personal ones, the painful ones—I prepared to review the evidence again. In the interest of justice, I told myself. Nothing more.
Because Lafayette was right. Alexander Hamilton deserved to be better remembered by his country. His story deserved to be written. But neither would happen unless I became his champion again, and I didn’t know if he deserved that from me.
Thus, I examined the first charge against him. Did my husband take my sister for his lover?
I’d so often heard him argue in court that I could well imagine what he’d say.
It hasn’t been proven!
What was the evidence, after all? There was no direct admission of guilt by either of them. Not in life nor in death. The most damning thing, in the end, hadn’t been the letters or tokens or gossip or befuddled utterances under the influence of laudanum. The most damning thing had been my husband’s accounting book, which proved he paid Angelica’s expenses and rented for her a mysterious apartment.
And yet, if I took that for proof of an affair, must I not also note that, except for that one visit, nothing like it ever appeared in his books before or after? If there’d been an affair—
If, Hamilton’s voice echoed in my mind with pointed reminder.
Yes, well, if my husband took my sister for a lover, the intimacy was most likely confined to that one visit when Angelica was estranged from Church. When Hamilton was drunk on power—drunk enough to fall into bed with Maria Reynolds and pay a blackmailer besides.
When he’d confessed that, I hadn’t asked him if there were other women.