I, Eliza Hamilton. Susan Holloway Scott

      

      I, ELIZA HAMILTON

      SUSAN HOLLOWAY SCOTT

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

      All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

      Table of Contents

      Title Page Copyright Page PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 EPILOGUE AFTERWORD ACKNOWLEDGMENTS DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2017 by Susan Holloway Scott

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.

      ISBN: 978-1-4967-1252-3

      First Kensington Trade Paperback Edition: October 2017

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1253-0

      ISBN-10: 1-4967-1253-6

      First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2017

      PROLOGUE

      New York City, New York

      August 1804

      You know who I am.

      As much as I would wish it otherwise, I cannot ignore the attention, not now. The sudden rush of interest and recognition as I step from my carriage, the bows and curtseys that quickly give way to the whispered explanations and curious stares with no respect for my mourning or the veil I hoped would keep the keenness of my suffering to myself.

      Nor does it matter that I have my youngest children with me, Little Phil on one side and Betsey on the other, both clinging tightly to my hands and skirts. How can I guard my babies when strangers crowd so close? How can I defend them from those who would steal away not only our home, but also the sweet legacy of their father’s love? What can I do, when I am all they have left in this world?

      Yet I will be brave and strong for the sake of my children. Our children. That is what my husband would have wanted, and what I must do to honor his love. I must give no credence to the lies and calumnies his enemies continue to spread against him, and do my best to combat their slanders. I haven’t faltered before, and I won’t now, no matter how sorely tested I might be.

      Love is not easy with a man chosen by Fate for greatness. My Alexander was such a one, a man so bold and brilliant that all others dulled in his company, just as the brightest comet that shoots across the night sky will make the other stars fade meekly in its trail. Yet he was so much more than what the world saw. I knew the rare kindness and gentleness he gave to those he cherished most, and the heartfelt tenderness that I miss more sorely than any words can describe.

      I was not born as clever as my sister Angelica, nor so beautiful as my sister Peggy. I don’t possess the gentle serenity that graced my friend Lady Washington, the regal elegance of Mrs. Jay, or the hospitable ease in company of Mrs. Madison. Yet I maintain I am the most blessed among women, because I alone had the love of my dear husband. He was mine, and I was his, and even through death our love will bind us forever together.

      But that is what you don’t know of me, isn’t it? Not the scandals and the lies and the rumors, but the truth—not only of my Alexander, but of me, Eliza Schuyler Hamilton.

      CHAPTER 1

      The Pastures

      Albany, Province of New York

      November 1777

      I was twenty years of age when I met Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton.

      To be truthful, at first I found little that was memorable regarding him that evening. Because our country was mired in war and my father was a major general of the Continental Army, our house was frequently overrun with young officers, and I was hard-pressed to recall one from another.

      But no: I shouldn’t say that about Colonel Hamilton. He did immediately distinguish himself from the others, though not necessarily for reasons he might have wished.

      Before he arrived, my family and our guests were gathered in the front parlor, as was our custom before we dined at The Pastures, our home here in Albany. Evening came early in November, and the candles were already lit, their glow soft against the yellow wool flock-papered walls. Papa was standing before the fireplace, where the heat of the fire would ease the perpetual ache of old wounds and gout in his knees for all that he was only forty-four, while my mother sat in the mahogany armchair beside him, her silk skirts spread gracefully around her as she greeted their guests. My younger sister Peggy and I stood waiting near one of the windows, dressed for evening with silk flowers in our hair and prepared to be charming and agreeable. We knew our roles with company. Our parents were proud of their reputation for hospitality, and Peggy and I were