“Oh, Angelica, why are you crying?”
“Because I’m so happy for you, of course.” She dabbed at her eyes with a perfumed kerchief. Then, as if she couldn’t bear for me to see her this way, she retreated to the parlor. I followed, still alarmed, even though I ought to have been minding my children, whose shoes were clopping on the polished wooden floor as they ran circles around the empty dining room. And when we were alone, she confessed, “My husband doesn’t love me.”
I was sure I’d misheard. Everyone loved Angelica. “That can’t be true.”
“It is,” she said, with a miserable shake of her head. “Church admits it.”
My mouth dropped open. “Your husband could never be so cruel. He must’ve been drunk. Half out of his mind.”
“He was drunk,” Angelica replied softly. “But I fear that only made it easier to tell the truth. That he loved me once, but not any longer.”
In numb shock, I murmured, “Is there—is there—”
“A woman?” she asked, with a bitter laugh. “Look hard enough and there’s always a woman. But he’s not in love with someone else. That, I could understand. That would make sense. But no. There are only three things my husband loves now. Money, gambling, and the politics of the British Parliament.”
I could scarcely credit this. We hadn’t approved of Church to start with, but we’d all become affectionately attached to him. Even Mama, who’d once called him a macaroni. “I’m sure he loves you and the children, Angelica, no matter what he says.”
“Jack loves our little brood,” Angelica admitted, sheepishly, as if she’d wronged him. “I shouldn’t have implied otherwise. His children delight him. But I inspire him to feel nothing.”
A little sob escaped her, and her red watery eyes met mine. “Have I lost my beauty? My wit? Tell me, Betsy—what has changed about me that could make me so unlovable?”
The bleeding anguish in her gaze revealed a wound as plain as I’d seen in any hospital and pity overtook me. My dazzling sister—who’d always been confident and strong and triumphant—had somehow been carved up and diminished by the man she married. And I was furious. Setting my jaw, I told her the plain truth. “You are more charming and beautiful than you’ve ever been.”
Her smile was fleeting. “What a Schuyler you are. Always loyal. I don’t feel beautiful. Or charming. Or even welcome in my husband’s home.” She said the next more emphatically. “Of course, England was never my home. Perhaps by pleading to return to America . . . maybe that’s what did it. I’ve been so homesick that I let my own misery drive away my husband’s love. Do you know—I—well, you’ll think me terribly wicked . . .”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes, as if afraid to tell me more. And I became even more distressed. “Wicked?”
“Our friends in Europe are more broad-minded about love than we are here. They taught me how to take vengeance on a neglectful husband. When I met our American ambassador to France, the widowed Mr. Jefferson, and he took a fancy to me . . . I encouraged him.”
For a moment, I was so scandalized I lost all power of speech.
Seeing my expression, my sister quickly added, “Oh, it was only a flirtation. I’m not one of Mr. Jefferson’s lovers. But I hoped by encouraging such a tall, stately, important gentleman that my own husband might . . . well, that Church might feel jealousy.”
“Oh, Angelica.” I breathed, bringing my hands to my face.
Absently, she ran her fingers through the dust on the windowsill. “Unfortunately, Church scarcely even noticed.”
“You should count yourself lucky your husband doesn’t think you guilty of adultery!”
“He wouldn’t care if I were guilty of adultery.” She sighed, as if that were the worst part. “I know this because at a card party someone jested that the Prince of Wales might choose me for a new mistress, and do you know what my husband said?” Swallowing, I hesitated to ask, for such jests caused duels. “Church quipped that it might help him, politically. And that the next time he was losing a game of cards with the prince, he’d add me to the wager.”
“No!” I cried, horrified.
Obviously humiliated, a teary Angelica rushed to add, “Church was very drunk when he said that. He apologized. Begged a thousand pardons. I shouldn’t have told you. I just—I feel so ugly and unwanted and lonely. Even in a crowd, I’m so alone.”