One I shared with Alexander when he returned from his duties that night to our little room at the boardinghouse, his hair ice crusted and his cheeks raw from the wind. But not before I helped him remove his sodden cloak and draped it near the fireplace. “Can I get you something hot to eat or drink?”
He peered over his shoulder at me as he opened his satchel and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. “Your very presence warms me, my love. My travels kept me from finishing today’s correspondence, so I must attend that before I can sleep.”
“Of course.” Moving quietly about the small room, I readied for bed. The crackle of the fire and the fast scratches of Alexander’s quill were the only sounds in the dim room. Kneeling at the hearth, I added two logs to the blaze, then held out my hands to soak in the heat when, on a sigh, Alexander stamped a seal against the page and then set the letter aside.
“I saw something quite remarkable today,” I said, having waited impatiently for him to finish. “General Washington single-handedly put out a fire upon the shed at the headquarters.”
Alexander turned in his seat. “So I heard.”
“I saw him run to put the fire out. I didn’t even know he could run, he’s always so dignified.”
“It sounds as if this made quite an impression on you,” Alexander said after a long moment. Then he frowned and got up to pace, his expression suddenly stormy. “Perhaps you would hold me in such regard if I received an appointment or command befitting my talents.”
My stomach dropped. “Oh, but I admire you more than any other.” When he didn’t answer, I asked, “Have I said something to upset you?”
Alexander shook his head, rueful. “No. I’m sorry. It’s only that I’ve engaged in military service since the beginning of ’76. I began in the line and had I continued there, I’d be in a more advanced rank than I now am.”
“Of course,” I said, realizing the cause of his peevish agitation. Alexander worried over his future. Over our future.
He threw himself back into the chair. “And yet, here I sit, writing letters of introduction for John Laurens while I am yet again passed over.”
I felt a little nauseated for him. That an appointment he wanted went to his friend both soothed and salted the wound. “Alexander, you will receive a command—”
“When? Dammit Betsy, I have yet to once merit the confidence and esteem of the man you admire so much!” His raised voice echoed in the small space.
The quiet that followed was just as loud until I could no longer tolerate the space between us. Going to him, I rested my hands on his chest. I opened my mouth to tell him that of course he had the confidence and esteem of Washington. Why, the great man relied upon him more than any other. And hadn’t he heard Washington’s term of endearment at dinner?
But sensing Alexander didn’t want to be thought of as anyone’s boy—not even Washington’s—I looked into his fiery blue eyes and simply said, “I love you. I admire you in every way a woman can admire a man. More than any other man.”
I meant that sincerely. Though now, in the fullness of years, I realize that what I felt was only a fraction of all that I would feel for him. That the love I felt then was of a simple, unalloyed, untested kind. That like a captain navigating a new river, I didn’t know Hamilton yet.
Not the breadths nor depths of him.
Nor the rocks upon which we might run aground.
He softened as he gazed at me, and then he tenderly leaned his forehead against mine. “Forgive me, my angel. You don’t deserve my ire.”
“I will ease you however I can,” I said, realizing that this was one of the things Alexander needed from me as his wife, and something I could easily provide. Soft comforts against the hard realities of our war-torn world. An attentive ear. A warm touch. Kind, encouraging words.
Heat slipped into his eyes again, but not the heat of anger. “You always do,” he said, kissing me like he did all those nights of our honeymoon. “And now I think it is time for bed . . .”
*
MUTINY! MUTINY! MUTINY!
The shout carried to us from some crier in town, and my husband came fully awake, leaping from the bed to yank on breeches and boots while I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes. A moment later McHenry was pounding on the door, and my shirtless husband threw it open, perhaps forgetting entirely that I was in bedclothes, or in the room at all.
Fortunately, Mac seemed not to realize it either. “It’s the New Jersey Line,” he said, grimly.