“Dance?” I asked, a little flustered.
“You do not dance?”
“I do, of course.”
“Then please, dance with me. As Miss Livingston is perverse enough to pretend she finds that French officer more appealing tonight, I am in need of diversion.”
It was not the most flattering offer to dance I’d ever received, but the young aide-de-camp scarcely waited for my assent before leading me to the floor where pairs of heeled and buckled shoes spun upon the whorled knots of the rough-hewn pine floor. And as Hamilton led me through the formal steps and bows, his fingers grasped mine just a fraction more tightly than they ought to have.
I wished that didn’t intrigue me, because I had the strong notion it was intended for Kitty’s notice, not mine. Hamilton was a decidedly handsome man. One who seemed to know precisely what he was about. And despite the gossip about his tumbling dairymaids, he was, with me, a proper gentleman.
As the center of attention, General Washington made an imposing presence—having executed so perfect a minuet that when it concluded the crowd felt moved to applaud.
After which, Hamilton asked, “Wherever did you learn to dance so well, Miss Schuyler?”
I told him about our New Netherland children’s troops and the dances in our hall. “Angelica led the Blues—but my little brothers were sorted into the Greens. I’m afraid it remains a rivalry in our family to this day.”
“You paint a picture of a happy family.” A wistfulness crept into Hamilton’s expression. “A happy childhood.”
Glancing at my sister across the room, surrounded by a bevy of men vying for her attention, I said, “Very happy.”
I didn’t expect this to evoke sadness behind his eyes.
“Have you had refreshments, yet, Miss Schuyler? You must be parched.” With that, he led me back to the punch table. It was the polite way of marooning a lady before going in search of better quarry, so I was surprised when he not only lingered, but also filled cups for us both and guided us to a set of chairs. “Dare I hope that you’ve come to Morristown for a reunion with a certain friend of mine?”
I blinked. “If you know the Marquis de Lafayette, I should like to see him again.”
“Know him? I consider him as a brother.” Hamilton’s smile turned wry as he sat beside me. “Good thing, though, that the marquis is away on a mission to France or I would lose another charming lady to a Frenchman’s allure. Is there, perhaps, some other friend of mine you pine to see?”
While a viola and a violin sang brightly over the din, I took a swallow of punch, not fathoming the direction of his question. “Are you matchmaking, sir?”
“Perhaps.”
That was the other polite way of marooning a lady to go in search of better quarry, but I wouldn’t mind if it meant a reunion with an old friend. One whose letters I’d waited upon in vain. “Well, I hoped to see Major Monroe, but I haven’t spotted him.”
Hamilton’s auburn eyebrows raised with what appeared to be sobering surprise. “James Monroe? Well, no doubt my friend Monroe would blush and stammer his way through countless snowdrifts to pay court to you, but I’m afraid he’s gone.”
The word struck me hard, like a blow. “Gone?”
The previous winter in Valley Forge had been disastrous for the American army, many perishing of disease and exposure. That Monroe might have died there or upon a battlefield filled me with sorrow that I hadn’t asked after him sooner.
“My dear lady, I don’t mean to say that Monroe is dead. No. I only mean that after four years of fighting this interminable and wearying war, my circle of boon companions is scattered. Lafayette to France, Monroe to Virginia, John Laurens to Philadelphia . . .”
I exhaled with relief, and it wasn’t lost upon me that Hamilton was keenly aware of the number of years he’d been at war. If it seemed to me that this war might never end, how must it have seemed to the men doing the fighting? So as Hamilton reached for a bit of bread, I asked, “Does it help with the weariness to remember what you wrote at the start? The sentiment my sister recited was beautiful.”
“You are too kind,” Hamilton said, with facile glibness. “But all sentiments are beautiful when spoken by a beauty.”
I didn’t believe that. I also had the impression that he expected me to say something witty or clever or flirtatious. But all I managed was, “I found the sentiment beautiful on its own merit. An inspiring reminder of the righteousness of our cause and the good we’re trying to accomplish in this world.”