I, Eliza Hamilton. Susan Holloway Scott

we could be discovered by another of our household, and we both understood that this bold display of emotion would have tested my aunt’s new tolerance. We didn’t care. He kissed me more deeply, his hand sliding along my leg beneath my tumbled petticoat as if by accident, until he’d reached the back of my bare knee above the ribbon of my garter. There he settled his palm quite happily, nor did I protest this impulsive caress; far from it. I’d already discovered how much I enjoyed the feverish pleasure Alexander’s touch could inspire, and risking the discovery by others only made the enjoyment more thrilling. I’ll admit that this was not the demeanor of a lady as I had been taught, and I had never granted such freedom to any other gentleman. But with Alexander, these freedoms, these kisses stolen and freely given, these small, teasing games were all part—an exciting part—of loving him.

      “My own Alexander,” I whispered breathlessly, my face close to his. “If you wish it, I’ll wed you now, tomorrow, however and wherever you choose. We needn’t wait for my parents at all.”

      “Oh, Eliza,” he said ruefully, smoothing my hair back from my face. “Nothing would bring me more joy than to hold you in my arms as my wife. But as much as I long for that day, I won’t ask you to make that sacrifice. You’re Eliza Schuyler, and you deserve a proper wedding, surrounded by your family, and I wouldn’t rob you of that.”

      Reluctantly I nodded, realizing how foolish I’d been to suggest such a giddy plan. Another elopement would break my poor mother’s heart, and I wouldn’t wish Alexander to be forced to face my father’s wrath. The rashness of an unexpected marriage could even compromise his position in the army; His Excellency expected his officers—especially one as trusted as Alexander—to behave with measured decorum, and not to run off with a general’s daughter.

      “Perhaps it is for the best that we wait, but I wish it could be otherwise,” I said wistfully. Still perched on his lap, I smoothed his neck cloth and straightened the collar of his coat with would-be-wifely concern. “There is so much that is unsettled in our lives because of the war, that if we could only be wed . . .”

      I let the words drift off, because they didn’t really need to be said. I’m sure he understood as well as I. The war was a constant pall over all of us, with no guarantees of what might happen next. When the army broke camp in the spring, all the wives and families of the officers from Lady Washington downward would return to their homes, and the men would head to battle. Alexander complained of being desk-bound as an aide-de-camp, but once the fighting resumed, he would be in as much danger as any other soldier. The reasons for waiting to marry were undeniable, yet still I feared that I could lose him before he’d ever truly been mine.

      “In time, my angel, in time,” he said softly. “I’ll go to Amboy, and you shall remain here to welcome your father. We’ll both have our orders, won’t we? I’ll be thick in tedious negotiations with the British, while you’ll be persuading your father of the wisdom of our match.”

      I tried to smile. “You’ve told me yourself that the negotiations aren’t so very arduous, and how in the evenings you’ll be expected to dine every night with the British officers as if they were your boon companions.”

      “That is true,” he admitted. “The British like nothing more than to drink themselves into a stupor every night. I will endure it, of course, if it means I can bring even one more of our men back to our side. You know that Congress is responsible for paying the keep of our own men in British hands, and God only knows how much of our payment ever reaches the poor wretches. To have as many of them returned to their regiments before the spring would be a benefit to everyone.”

      “They couldn’t ask for a better champion.” It didn’t feel appropriate to discuss prisoners of war whilst sitting on his lap, and I eased from his knee, intending to return to my own chair.

      But before I’d turned away, he’d caught me gently by the wrist.

      “Eliza,” he said softly, in the voice that was deep and low and meant only for me. “Know that I will always be your champion first, above all others.”

      I nodded, and all my earlier disappointment melted away. As I smiled down at him, unexpected tears stung my eyes, and I hurriedly dashed them away with the heel of my hand.

      “Don’t weep, my love,” he said, half teasing and half not. “My sorry self isn’t worth your tears.”

      “But you are.” My voice squeaked with emotion. “I’m crying because you make me so happy.”

      “Ah, then, tears of joy.” He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, lingering over the saltiness of my tears. “I vow to make those the only kind you’ll ever shed, Eliza, at least on my account. The sweetest tears of joy, and no others.”

      I smiled, even as fresh tears slid down my cheeks. Such a beautiful promise to make, such a perfect vow from him.

      How I wish it was one he’d been able to keep.

      * * *

      Soon after Alexander left with a small party for Amboy, a town on the Raritan Bay that overlooked Staten Island, and that served as the way station and ferry stop for travelers between New York and Philadelphia. It had also become something of an informal meeting point for the two armies, with our forces occupying Philadelphia and the British still holding New York. This was why Alexander had gone there to negotiate the mutual exchange of various prisoners from both sides.

      Amboy was not far from Morristown, perhaps forty miles, but on account of the roads being rutted with ice, Alexander and his party required three long days to make their destination. I know this because he wrote to me as soon as he arrived, sending his love and informing me of his safe arrival.

      I was, of course, delighted to receive his letter, and all the others that followed, for if I thought he’d written often to me when we were both together in Morristown, now, with a county between us, he seemed to have doubled his daily words.

      He recounted the details of the negotiations, the officers he met and liked and the ones he didn’t, what he ate and what he drank, and any sundry scraps of gossip from New York involving acquaintances of my family’s. Forgetting (or choosing to forget) how far-reaching the Schuylers were in New York, he was simultaneously baffled and irritated by how my sisters Angelica and Peggy as well as I were mentioned in the nightly toasts of British officers. He also devoted much ink and paper to how thoroughly he missed me, and how much he longed to be with me again, and many small, private intimacies and endearments besides. No gentleman wrote a more devoted love letter than my Alexander, and no love letters were treasured more completely than I did his.

      The only drawback to his literary devotion came with my replies. I couldn’t keep up with him, leastways not at the pace which he desired. I had never been facile with a pen in my hand, nor did inspiration come easily to me, the way it did to him. My spelling could be various and my hand lacked grace, and too often in the time it took me to capture an anecdote or sentiment upon the page, the words would fly clear away from my possession like a bull through an open gate, never to be recaptured. These lines which you read here, in all their clumsiness, are sufficient proof of how much I labored over my missives to him. Whereas his letters could cover sheet after sheet, mine were seldom more than a single page in length, and every word hard-fought at that.

      It didn’t help matters that Papa arrived at his new lodgings in Morristown soon after Alexander had left. I bid thanks and farewell to my aunt and uncle and the crowded house of the Campfields, Rose packed up my trunks and belongings, and we shifted to the house my father had taken for the next few months. Yet I’d scarcely settled there before Papa announced that, as a treat, I was to accompany him back to Philadelphia, where he continued to hold his seat in Congress.

      With the worst of the winter’s snows and ice behind us, our journey to Philadelphia was uneventful. When I’d been younger, New York had always been the city that we’d travel down the Hudson River to visit, but being patriots, we had not returned there since the British had seized control of the main island in the fall of 1776. Although some of Philadelphia’s citizens with Tory sentiments had fled, it was now the largest of our country’s cities with wide streets, grand homes,