Sharing Hamilton E-Book

Brian L. Porter

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Philadelphia, 1791. James and Maria Reynolds are flat broke. Well aware of the attraction between his wife and Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton, James hatches a plan to blackmail Alexander and get rich - and sends Maria to seduce him.

Meanwhile, the mysterious Dr. Severus Black befriends the Hamiltons and becomes a close confidant of Alexander's wife, Eliza. While Mrs. Hamilton grows fond of the handsome doctor, she also senses something different about the debonair young man.

Meanwhile, a vicious serial killer is stalking the city by night. As Hamilton's affair with Maria runs headlong towards personal and professional catastrophe, the constables of Philadelphia draw a net around the emerged killer of young serving girls.

But what connection could Dr. Black have with the murders, which a hundred years later would be mirrored in his own country... by none other than Jack the Ripper?

In 'Sharing Hamilton', historical romance author Diana Rubino and award-winning thriller writer Brian L. Porter uniquely blend the mystery and romance genres, based on the true story of the Hamilton affair with the added spice of a serial killer stalking the streets of USA's first capital city.

Leseprobe

Sharing Hamilton

The Reynolds Affair, The Nation’s First Sex Scandal

Diana Rubino and Brian L. Porter

Copyright (C) 2017 Diana Rubino and Brian L. Porter

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Victoria Cooper Art

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated to the memory of Enid Ann Porter, 1913 – 2004 Always in my thoughts

Introduction

Romance, deceit, blackmail, betrayal and murder are very much to the fore as historical novelist Diana Rubino and bestselling thriller author Brian L. Porter join forces to present a stunning fictional account of the U.S.A.'s first acknowledged sex-scandal, The Reynolds Affair. Ms. Rubino has taken the historical facts of the well-documented affair and added her own fictional twist, with Mr. Porter adding his unique touch, introducing a serial killer stalking the dark night-time streets of Philadelphia.

As Alexander Hamilton and Maria Reynolds conduct their nefarious relationship, behind closed doors, a supposed madman is on the streets attacking and killing the young innocent servants of the wealthy. British-born 'doctor of women's medicine,' Dr. Severus Black, newly arrived from Paris, quickly becomes a close confidante of Hamilton's wife Elizabeth, but could the debonair doctor also be hiding a closely guarded secret?

Together, U.S. award-winning author Diana Rubino and British award-winning author Brian L. Porter have created a tour de force that shouldn't be missed. Without further delay, we present, for your edification and entertainment, SHARING HAMILTON.

Chapter One

Maria Reynolds

Home of Congressman Jonathan Dayton, New York, December 20, 1790

Where is he? On tiptoe, craning my neck, I searched the crowded room for Alexander Hamilton. I never forgot our first meeting … our gazes locked…time stood still. Oh, for a glimpse of those violet eyes.

“Maria!”

I jumped. My husband's eyes blazed as h e draped my cloak over my shoulders. “We're leaving.” He steered me toward the door.

“James, what are you—” We dashed into the frosty evening to our fancy carriage—hired for tonight. I slid inside, shivering.

“Home, post haste,” he ordered the coachman and climbed in next to me.

I caught my breath. “James, what happened in there?”

He cleared his throat, his jaw grinding. It chilled me more than the cold seat seeping through my skirts. “We're leaving town and not coming back. When we get home, start packing.”

Fear clutched my heart. “What have you done now? Cease your nattering and tell me what happened,” I demanded, past politeness. “Why must we flee this time?” My voice rose to a desperate shriek.

He drew a deep breath but still wouldn't look me in the eye. “Jon and I were discussing our business venture—”

“Which business venture? Keeping track of your schemes makes my head spin.” I flattened my palms to my throbbing temples.

“The land parcels in Ohio. Our words got heated. I questioned his honesty in handling my half of the investment.” His voice faltered. “Before I could blink, he challenged me to a duel.”

I fell back against the cushion as if struck.

“I have no intention of dueling him,” he declared. “Ah'm too young to die on a field of honor. Hence, we are leaving town.”

“James, you—” I wished I could spew forth 'coward' or 'weasel' but I never spoke to my husband in this manner. “You cannot run from a challenge. He will find you, surely.”

“Not if we reach the Pine Barrens of New Jersey by tomorrow nightfall. We have three days to abscond,” he mumbled, gazing through the window. “I need return this vehicle, purchase a cheap one and a decent draft horse—”

I interrupted, “And do you plan for us to hide in the Pine Barrens indefinitely?”

His shoulders relaxed and he tugged at his lace collar. The rise and fall of his chest slowed as he settled into the seat. “Of course not.” He shook his head. “We're going to Philadelphia.”

“By God, that is over two hundred miles away!” My fingers curled into fists.

“And a fine place to thrive, as say all the folk I know there.” He turned to face me. “My crony Sam Bass discovered abundant opportunity for advancement. Charles Olton reported the class barriers are not so high. There's hope of hurdling them.” He waved a hand as if this move were across the road. “Hence, I shall flourish there.” He returned his gaze to the darkness outside.

I leant forward and grasped his sleeve. “And Jon won't find you hurdling over all these class barriers?” I challenged.

He glanced my way, brow cocked. “He'll not follow me there. He'll die in the bed he was birthed in. But for us, we shall explore the new frontier. Then mayhap later on, we kin move west.”

He'd plotted all this between shirking on a duel and dashing into this carriage. Exasperation planted a fiery ball in my stomach. Although we'd moved four times in three years, for economic reasons—nonpayment of rent, joblessness—never had we fled two hundred miles. Fighting my anguish, I wondered … hmm, this move could add a spark to my life.

I didn't realize until late that night what that spark was.

Philadelphia, the Nation's Capital…

…the new Treasury Secretary, Alexander Hamilton, lived there.

Eliza Hamilton

Mon., December 20, 1790

I preened like a fairy princess draped in my new crimson gown of brocade adorned with Brussels lace and pointed bodice. Specks of powder dusted my rolled hairpiece, my cheeks rouged like cherries on alabaster. My flash fawney, a string of pearls and earbobs, completed the ensemble. Posing at the looking glass, I twirled. The skirt whooshed as it swirled round me. After spending all day chasing tots, I became a debutante again.

I looked forward to this holiday soirée at the home of Jon Dayton, one of Alex's friends from the Congress. Our coach pulled up to his door as a man and woman dashed into the coach in front of us, far grander than ours. The man looked like James Reynolds. Is that his wife or one of his doxies? I wondered as it rumbled away.

A servant ushered us into Dayton's parlour. As we mingled, the delightful strains of a string quartet floated through the air. “There he is.” I gestured to Alex as I spotted Jon wandering the room alone. Hunched over, he puffed on a cheroot.

“There you are, my good man.” Alex halted the congressman.

Jon gave us a shaky smile. “Good eve, Alex, Eliza.” He bowed first to Alex, then to me.

“You appear distraught.” My husband placed a hand on Jon's shoulder in almost motherly concern.

Jon's darting eyes and fidgety hands warned me. Uh-oh, something is amiss. He took a deep breath, wiping sweat from his brow. “Sorry. My mind is elsewhere. I must tell you, as my most trusted friends—” He released a sigh. “I've challenged a man to a duel.”

I lifted my fan to hide my gaping mouth. “Saints above, Jon, who?” Alex asked him.

“J—Jimmy Reynolds,” he stuttered getting the name out, as if he could not believe it himself.

“Reynolds?” Alex shook his head. “I just saw him leave. Why, you're closer than most brothers. What brought this on?”

“You know Jimmy and his Scots temper—sorry, no offense—we entered an argument, it grew hostile, and we're to meet at the Weehawken riverbank Friday next. Alex, I must ask you—will you be my second?”

Raw panic shook me. Dear God, why couldn't Jon ask Aaron Burr? He was everybody's second. I glanced about but didn't see Burr among the guests. “Alex—” I clutched my husband's sleeve, tracing finger marks in the velvet. “I want you nowhere near that dreadful place.”

“I shall be honored, Jon.” He faced me, his eyes stating, silence, little wife. Anger drew my lips tight.

After Jon excused himself, I turned to Alex. “Oh, poor Maria. I wish I could console her.” I still seethed with anger at my husband, but at least he wouldn't be the one dueling. “She's a bright girl from a respectable family Why did she settle for the likes of James Reynolds?”

“Who knows what attracts one to another?” He shook his head. “Since James lost his bid for the Continental Congress, he's been branded a loser in our circles. Let's hope he loses the duel, too.”

Maria

Phila., Wednesday, August 3, 1791

“Hell's bells, Maria, ye think I'm made o'gold?” James thundered as I entered our parlour laden with packages: a bottle of Madeira, a satin bonnet to match my new pelisse, and kid gloves, having left my old pair at the White Rose Coffeehouse.

“These are hardly extravagances. After all, you boasted you made three hundred dollars last month.” I relished reliving the moment when he showered coins and notes all over our bed, foretelling how I was “coming into money.”

I dumped the packages onto our new Rococo settee. “Do you want your wife looking like a slattern?” I flicked his gold watch fob, which he'd bought because “Hugh Dugan has a new one.”

“Nay, but you ain't Mrs. James Monroe, either, so dinna try puttin' on airs like her.”

“Mrs. Monroe couldn't get a rise out of you if you downed three scores of oysters. She's frigid—so I hear.” I smirked, slapping his thigh with my new gloves.

“At least she reads all the books she owns. Did you ever read any of these flub-dubs?” He swiped at my row of leather-bound books, knocking Volume I of Shakespeare to the floor.

“Of course I've read them. Twicet and thricet.” I picked up my well-worn Bard tome and replaced it on the shelf. “I read the Bard's plays over and over. But I never discuss England with strangers. Too dangerous these days.”

“You know more about Macbeth than about me,” James scoffed. He stood the new Madeira bottle on our table and uncorked it with the screw he wore on his key chain.

“All you read are those tittle-tattle sheets,” I accused, and rightly. He paraded his brotherhood with the scandal mongering Thom Callender, whose weekly tabloid tarnished many a sterling reputation, from senators down to their stable boys.

“Aye, and mayhap our names will appear in them someday.” He poured wine into his pewter tankard he'd named Douglas. Hard-swilling males named their tankards and their members. James bestowed “Canute the Great” upon his member—but I hadn't the heart to tell him it was less than accurate.

“I keep our private life private. So don't blabber to Callender about what a tigress I am,” I teased as he poured me a goblet of wine.

“Nay, I shan't. But ah'm glad you brought it up. Sit down, Maria, we need to talk.” He clasped my fingers and walked me to one of our matching Chippendale chairs—his last splurge from a profitable venture—and pushed down on my shoulders till I sat.

“Brought what up? Talk about what?” I trembled. I never knew from one day to the next what—or who—James would bring home.

“Have you more 'golden geese'? I hope so. We can use some more plate and furniture.” We moved “up” thrice since settling here. We now dwelt in a three-story brick townhome on Pine Street with one outbuilding. We always rented. “Or can we finally buy a house of our own?” I fixed my gaze upon my husband of seven years. Our passion and lust matured into love and devotion, but the desire lingered on.

He'd been an apprentice and journeyman goldsmith until the Revolution, but he hadn't the capital nor the patience to rise to master. He made a gold chamber pot for his most famous client, Thomas “all men are created equal” Jefferson, and his reputation grew from there. But goldsmithing wasn't enough for James. He lived by his wits and one scheme after another. He groomed and dressed as a dandy, but when he opened his mouth, he made it obvious he hailed from a Glasgow slum.

I harbored mixed feelings about it—I admired his shrewdness, yet he courted disaster, speculating in land deals and currency. With my urging, he ran for the Continental Congress but lost to his friend Dayton. No hard feelings. James didn't want the job. Too much traveling. As I gazed at his muscular figure 'neath his tight britches, a familiar surge of desire warmed me. With his swarthy good looks and persuasive charm, he made a fitting match for politics.

With his political run over, he served a brief sentence for counterfeiting. He posted bail, but our landlord evicted us. I stayed by his side as we trawled the streets of New York in the dead of winter, scrounging for lodgings.

“No golden geese this time, my pet. Not yet, anyways.” He took a sip.

Disappointment crushed me. “I fear this announcement more than all your other schemes. What is it?” I gulped the fruity wine, hoping to be tipsy for this.

He scraped his chair back and sat, fingering his watch. Whenever he fiddled with his watch or rings from Ben Franklin's estate auction, I knew something vexed him.

“Maria…” His eyes pierced mine. My heart sank farther. “We were well on our way to being gentry till this morn. I lost it all on a land deal.” His eyes dropped. “For the now, we stand on the line between hard up and impoverished.”

My ire heated me head to toe. “What about the two thousand you invested?” I struggled to steady my voice. “The shares in the Bank of the United States?” Alexander Hamilton created the bank earlier this year, although James didn't like the Treasury Secretary. He called him a snob to his face. “How could you be so irresponsible?” I grabbed the nearest object, a brass candlestick, but he snatched it away afore I could fling it.

“It looked like a sure thing…but ah'll make more.” Another of his promises. “Til then, we're one hunk of bread, these wine bottles, and a dram of whisky from malnourishment. And five days from eviction. The rent comes due Monday.”

I shook with fear. “There you go, pulling it out from under us, as you do time and time again! When will you learn, James?” I had some coin hidden. But after that—what? Too distraught to even look at him, I swept away tears of exasperation with my clenched fist.

“Money slips through your fingers like shucked oysters.” My voice shook. My entire body shook. “I know not how much more of this I can take. What's next, the almshouse?”

As he stroked my cheek, my rage yielded to pity. He'd become poor in an endless quest to be rich. “No, we'll never resort to the almshouse. Before we met, I lived in a stable whilst seeking work, too proud to apply to the almshouse as a pauper.”

I released a deep breath. “Oh, James, I love you so, but I feel trapped, with nowhere to go but up and down with you.” Desperate for a solution, I began spewing forth ideas about what I could do: “I can take in laundry. Or work as a cook. Or a whitewasher. Or a soap maker.” I paced the floorboards, wringing my hands. Then a much better source of income struck me. “I can give violin instruction to those toffynoses in the court end of town!”

He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Bah to all that. Listen. I know a brilliant way to make money—a lot more money—in a shorter time than ever before. And it involves Alexander Hamilton, Mr. Treasury himself.”

At the sound of his name, I heated up. That recurring memory made me tingle all over: the first time I'd met Mr. Hamilton, his violet eyes nestled on my décolletage, his russet hair glinted in the candlelight, his lips kissed my hand—my heart surged just thinking about it.

“What about Al—him?”

“I dinna know the chap intimately, but I do know his weakness: beautiful women. Adams once said 'Hamilton's ambitions have their source in a superabundance of secretions he could not find whores enough to draw off.' ” He clucked, as if in disapproval. “Tis not idle gossip. If a curmudgeon like Adams knows about it, tis true. Secondly—” He refilled Douglas to the rim. “Hamilton recently got embroiled in a payoff scheme, being seen with a trull. He favors paying hush money, rather than harm his reputation. Hence—we can chip away at that weak spot and wear it down farther.”

I shook my head. “Already I do not like this. Underneath the bad metaphors, you are saying you can bilk Al—Secretary Hamilton out of some money.”

“Tis not bilking, dear wife. He shall git something much more valuable in return.”

I paused. “I'm afraid to ask, but … such as?”

He cracked a smile and winked. “You.”

Chapter Two

Eliza

“Indeed my Dear Betsey you do not write to me often enough. I ought at least to hear from you by every post and yer last letter is as old as the middle of Sept. I have written you twice since my return from Hartford.” – Early Love Letter from Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler

Albany, NY, Fryday, August 12, 1791

Tis ever so hot and I am heavy with child. Thursday last, Alex insisted the children and I retreat to Albany. Hence the six of us came, with two maidservants and a nurse. I took ill in the carriage and used Philip's lap as a pillow. He's ever so manly at nine and a half. Albany is equally hot, though a breeze stirs here under the willow tree.

I miss Alex and wrote him thrice already. Whilst courting, he wrote frequent letters, but mine were rare. I had no confidence with my grammar to pen a clever letter. I convinced Angelica to write him in my stead. The most educated of us girls, she attended the nation's finest girls' school. Her first letter to Alex and his immediate reply blossomed into a regular correspondence, which they continue to this day. Tis obvious she is smitten with him. Her letters to him resemble that of an ardent lover rather than a married woman to her brother-in-law. As the most beautiful of us three, she eloped first, claiming to love John Church. But I am the lucky one who won—and kept—the gold. I swell with pride as women swoon over Alex. Yet he always shuns them. Tis his nature to labor on his financial programs and law practice rather than chase coquettes.

After ten years of marriage, I am still his bride. If one examines the Schuylers, one will see that some of us married “down,” that is, for love. I fell in love with Alex the minute I set my eyes upon his. I hounded Papa to introduce us. At first he refused—“Hamilton is a cad!”

“Not true,” I'd corrected Papa, “But so what he courts Kitty and Susan Livingston at the same time?”

Then Papa directly quoted John Adams: “He's the bastard brat of a Scots pedlar who left his mother.”

“True enough, Papa,” I conceded. “His father didn't marry his mother and abandoned them, but is that Alex's fault?”

“He is a foreigner,” he further accused.

“Wrong there, Papa,” I informed him. “He was born on Nevis and grew up on St. Croix, but now he's as American as President Washington.”

“He may have Negro blood.”

“Entirely not true!” I protested. “His bloodline is of Scottish nobility, strewn with royal titles including viscounts, barons and dukes.”

Then came more reasons—Alex's elitism, believing the aristocracy should rule. Why would Papa object to that? We came from tough pioneer stock, but had a mansion in Albany, a summer estate in Saratoga, silver, carriages and servants. My father was a Continental Congressman, a Major General of the Continental Army, and a U.S. Senator.

That led to his most important concern of all— “He is marrying you for money and advancement.”

Alas, I could not disprove this. “But even if that were true,” I defended Alex, “he still loves me.

I was so in love with Alex, I'd live in a garret with him. I sought him out behind my father's back. Our destinies met at my Aunt Gertrude's soirée in Morristown. We met in secret, our rendezvous thrilling and forbidden. I climbed out the same window both my sisters had eloped from, just for a stolen hour with Alex.

But he entered Papa's good graces the night he refused to hide any longer. He strode into the drawing room, greeted Papa with all the charm and bearing of the lieutenant he was, and asked for my hand in marriage. Papa gushed, “Why, yes, Secretary Hamilton, I would be honored to have you as a son-in-law.” I think Papa was just relieved I wouldn't leap out the window to elope. Then Alex turned to me and with a flourish, took from his waistcoat pocket a small box. Opening it, I gasped. Two entwined gold bands glinted up at me. Through tears of joy, I read the sentiments engraved on each ring:

Alexander and Eliza.

Coupled for eternity.

“Oh, yes, Alex.” I clutched the harpsichord to steady myself. “Nothing—or nobody—will ever come between us.”

But many things—and many bodies—have come between us.

This summer President Washington is keeping Alex busy running the Treasury Department, the Customs, and starting up the Bank of United States. Far too complicated for me, he modeled it after the Bank of England to create credit. I did understand that Thomas Jefferson considered it unconstitutional. He and Alex always rowed over it.

Alex was the son Washington never had, and Alex told me that the president held harmony in his “official family” highly.

From what Alex explained to me, he envisioned a central bank for the new nation, instead of separate ones for each colony, with so many different kinds of money. After Alex's enemies tried to stop its creation, Congress chartered the bank this year. Alex headquartered it near our Philadelphia home, and it sold 25,000 shares in the initial offering. I remember him telling me the bank would have $10 million when they all sold. I almost fainted. I didn't think there was $10 million in the whole world! But he invested what we had, assuring me “we're sitting on a gold mine.”

The Bank of the United States soared in popularity, shares in high demand. We may be sitting on a gold mine, but I still have to dig deep to pay the bills.

Alex is also beginning the third of his great state papers, his Report on Manufactures. I don't understand it all, but gentleman farmers such as Jefferson oppose it. Alex wants to secure our independence by manufacturing, disallowing imported goods, and encouraging inventions. Personally, I agree with Jefferson on this—I believe this would greatly decrease the number of farmers and landowners. But what do I know?

If Alex is not busy enough, his “pastime” is battling Jefferson in the press, attacking him in scathing articles under the pseudonym “H. Bent” for “Hell Bent.” He also maintains his law practice. All this leaves scant time for socializing—and for us.

At that moment I decided to go home for an unexpected visit. Ah, will he be surprised!

She must be young, handsome (I lay most stress upon a good shape) sensible (a little learning will do), well bred (but she must have an aversion to the word ton), chaste and tender (I am enthusiast in my notions of fidelity and fondness), of some good nature, a great deal of generosity (she must neither love money nor scolding, for I dislike a termagant and an economist). She must believe in God and hate a saint. But as to fortune, the larger stock of that the better. - Alexander Hamilton on finding a wife, 1779.

Maria

I sat stunned. My mouth gaped wide enough for hornets to nest. The wine soured in my stomach. I dared not ask James to repeat his words. “This is the most preposterous scheme you've ever hatched. It even tops your last invention.” That was a microscope he claimed magnified a louse to twelve feet long. Many gullible souls paid three shillings for this spectacle, netting James a tidy sum.

“First, you'll invite Hamilton here for a tryst,” he continued as if deciding where to play marbles, “and when you've rendered him helpless under yur feminine spell, preferably with his britches round his ankles, I burst in and demand compensation for eclipsing my wife's honor. That will net us a few hundred. I shall request a hundred up front, and knowing his generous nature, he'll up it to two hundred.”

A shiver rattled my bones. “James, this outlandish plot is naught short of prostitution! I refuse to seduce a man I hardly know.”

I could almost hear his wheels grinding. His eyes fixed on a knot in the table's wood. His foot tapped a beat on the floorboard. “Git him to return for another bit o'honey,” he thought out loud, ignoring my refusal, “and I shall request a larger sum, in exchange for my silence. We'll collect thousands from the upstanding secretary! And he'd never breathe a word of it to his cronies, 'specially that knobdobber Burr. With a wife and six pups, Hamilton's reputation and entire career would come crashing down.” He slapped his palm on the table, rattling the silver tea service. “We'll milk him dry!”

“We? Do you intend to seduce him as well? No, James, this is not going to happen.” I held up my hands, shaking my head, teeth clenched.

“Look, Maria, you are my wife, and you will do as I say. Now go fetch some o' that coin you got layin' round—” He waved his hand airily. “And buy yurself some perfume or rouge or—whatever it is you ladies smear on to lure us out of our senses. And fetch us some supper as well.”

I shot him my sourest scowl. “Did you not hear a word I said? I shan't seduce Alexander Hamilton!” The thought of it made my palms sweat. I wiped them on my skirt.

“Maria, there are worse men than he. He's cleanly. He has all his teeth. Tis not like ah'm foisting you upon John Adams.”

“No matter who it is, this is naught short of pimping me,” I declared.

He splayed his fingers. “I thought you'd be pleased I think highly enough of you to choose someone of his caliber. I've seen men fob their wives off to the lowliest curs, for much less than Hamilton is capable of providing.”

I narrowed my eyes and stood my ground. “Nay, James, I shan't do it. And I cannot remain your wife if you think so little of me, my body, our vows, as to sell me.” Not granting him a last word, I grabbed the Chaucer book containing my hoarded stash and leapt up the steps to pack a bag.

I had to leave him.

I stuffed my carpet bag to bursting with a dress and undergarments. I dashed down the stairs and swept past him.

He glanced at me, fingers circled round his tankard. “Ah, gonna fetch supper? Git me half a capon and a pickled egg.”

“Fetch your own supper,” I called over my shoulder. “I am leaving you. I shall send for the remainder of my possessions. Unless you sell them first.”

I threw the door open. He shouted, “Come back here, Maria!”

“Take your pickled eggs and stuff them wide end first!” I slammed the door behind me. My rapid steps broke into a run. Before turning the corner, I peered over my shoulder. He hadn't followed. I heaved a relieved sigh. Catching my breath, I asked myself: Where to now?

I knew of many boardinghouses in Southwark, an area occupied by the lower sort. It was all I could afford. Scurrying south, I prayed for a vacant room. Else it was sleep on the street. My money would not last but a few days. I cooked up a few ways to stave off starvation.

The first boardinghouse was full. Dejected, I dragged myself farther down Christian Street. Two more landlords turned me away. I trudged east toward the river. Trembling in fear, I approached Hell Town, packed with bawdy taverns and “disorderly houses.” But with nowhere else to go, I headed in that direction. Mayhap Mary Norris had room in her lodging house on Drinker's Alley, one block south of “Three Jolly Irishmen,” Philadelphia's toughest tavern.

I approached the shabby wood-framed row house and knocked. The door squealed on its rusty hinges as it swung open. There stood a splatter-aproned Mrs. Norris puffing on a pipe.

“Why, Miss—eh—” She scratched her head under her mob cap as she looked me up and down as if to say she knew me, but not from where.

“I'm not a Miss. I'm Mrs. Reynolds. I need a room for a few days.” Please don't ask why, I silently begged, and mercifully, she did not.

“All I've got's the garret room, luv. Two dolls fifty cents in advance, and one doll fifty a day.”

More than I could afford, but either that or the street. I opened my purse and handed her the money. I climbed three flights of stairs to the sweltering back room, threw the window open to the sultry night and collapsed on the rickety cot.

Chapter Three

Eliza

“May I only be as successful in pleasing you, and may you be as happy as I shall ever wish to make you!” – Love Letter from Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler

Feminine instinct told me that Alex suffered terrible loneliness without me. In my third letter this week, I expressed my desire to come home, to alleviate his tension. “My angel,” he replied two weeks later, “Let me know beforehand your determination that I may meet you at New York.”

How sweet of my darling Alex, interrupting his work to journey to New York and travel home together. But I shan't have it.

I shall make the journey alone and surprise him! I shall arrive at our house in the dead of night, tiptoe up the steps and into our bedroom, where my beloved sleeps, whisper words of love, my lips upon his.

That night at dinner, I told the family, “I plan to surprise Alex in Philadelphia, then I'll return to finish the summer in clean air and your familial affection.”

They all stared, stricken, as if I'd told them I planned to paddle a canoe across the ocean.

“But, Mother, your journey here was so difficult,” Philip reminded me, the caretaker, wise beyond his years. His mathematical calculations looked Greek to me.

“I shall be fine.” I dismissed the harrowing two-hundred-thirty mile journey, relishing the moment I'd touch my husband's lips with mine, and the bliss that would follow. “He needs me, I know it in my heart,” I added, to assure myself that it was no whim. “I know what he is thinking, and especially what he's feeling. Our love transcends great distances.”

“Then,” said Papa, “I must insist that you at least consult with Dr. Black before embarking on such a journey. If he assures us all is well and you are strong enough to undertake such a trial, then you may go with our blessing.”

Ah, the mention of that name evoked tingly sensations inside me. I'd first encountered Dr. Severus Black at one of Alex's soirées to raise funds for his political crony Jon Dayton. By the doors to the garden, a gaggle of adoring females, young and old, surrounded the handsome figure. How he sensed my interest I do not know, but when I blinked, his cobalt blue eyes seemed to burn into mine. Even from that distance, his eyes stood out. With his gaze fixed on me, he excused himself from his harem of admirers. He strode straight up to me and halted within embracing distance.

“Mrs. Hamilton, our hostess, I presume?” His deep voice greeted me with resonance…and a sensuous English accent.

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” My knees wobbled.

“Forgive me.” He bent slightly forward and took my hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it as a gentlemen should. “Dr. Severus Black at your service. Your husband intended to introduce us, but it appears I have beaten him to the pleasure.”

He towered over me, his hair and his clothes black, his boots polished to a mirror-like finish. But much as he smiled when speaking, that smile somehow failed to touch his eyes, which bored into me, as though reaching through to my soul. I failed to suppress an involuntary shiver.

He noticed it. “Are you cold, madam?”

“No, no, just a sudden chill from the open window, I think.” I shivered and sweated at the same time.

My husband appeared as if by magic, full of apology. “Ah, you two have met, I see. I'm sorry for not being here to introduce you to my wife, Severus, but I see I now have no need.”

The next few minutes passed in a blur as Alex informed me that Dr. Black was newly arrived from England, via Paris, France of all places. “He's a specialist in 'women's matters', Alex went on, then added, “Doctor, I wish you to examine Mrs. Hamilton to ensure all is well with her state of health.”

Stunned as if stung, I said, “Alex, I'm in no need of a physician right now.”

But as I was clearly great with child, our third, the doctor assured me, “Mrs. Hamilton, I shall care for you far better than any American physician, if you'll give me the chance. Our training in England is far more intense than what the quacks get here.” Once again that smile curved his lips, but his eyes stayed as steely as if he'd witnessed a murder.

Of course Alex's wishes prevailed. The following week I attended the first of a number of pre-natal consultations with the well-trained doctor.

As I approached my confinement, Dr. Black behaved with impeccable propriety towards me, yet I felt a certain antipathy towards him. Why, I couldn't say, and made it my business to keep our appointments as short as possible. I didn't linger for small talk or scrutiny of my other body parts. But those eyes—they amazed and enthralled me. I couldn't stop myself from peering into them at each appointment. This always elicited a smile that never reached his eyes.

Returning to the here and now, I realized I had little choice but to accede to Papa's request. “Very well, I'll send for Dr. Black.”

He arrived within the week, and thankfully, in a short examination, pronounced me fit to travel. “Shall we travel back to New York City together?” The doctor gestured at his fancy coach and matched grays gracing Papa's gravel drive.

I refused. “Oh, no, Dr. Black. I'm not sure when I'm departing. And you need return to your practice.” I showed him the door. A three-day journey alone with him? I trembled at the thought.

Why I experienced these feelings when in close proximity to the doctor I couldn't say, for he always treated me with courtesy and respect. Still, as his coach's wheels crunched over the drive and clattered into the distance, I released a sigh of relief. I downed the sleeping draft he'd left for me and slept like the dead.

At daybreak, servants loaded my trunks onto the carriage. I kissed my children goodbye—for now. Papa helped me into the carriage and handed me a basket of provisions.

In three days I'd be locked in my husband's arms.

I'd never surprised Alex before, with anything. Even when expecting our babies, he seemed to know before I did. So this would be the greatest surprise I'd ever bestow upon him.

Maria

In three days, I still hadn't found work. I offered violin instruction to rich families. But looking as disheveled as I did, and with no violin in hand, the matrons looked down their imperial noses at me. I gave up.

I then went to Mary Allen's shop which I patronized weekly. But she had nothing. I slunk away, burning with shame and humiliation. I begged storekeepers—and I do emphasize begged—for employment. Alas, no one else had any use for a shop girl, clothes washer, potato digger, maid or latrine scrubber.

After three days with no prospects, I held up my purse and shook it. The few remaining coins clinked. After tomorrow, I would be out on the street.

Oh, if only I'd banked some of that money James had given me instead of frittering it away on flub-dubs. I'd followed every step of Alexander's creation of the First Bank as it appeared in the newspapers, and so admired his fiscal genius. Now, instead of being one of his bank's first depositors, I wandered the streets destitute.

That eve, I lay on the thin mattress in the stuffy garret room and closed my eyes. A vision of Alexander entered my mind and I grew warm inside. I let my mind journey to the first night we met: January of 1786, at Aaron Burr's home. Aaron had asked me to bring my violin and perform. I willingly accepted.

The group gathered round me in a whoosh of rustling taffeta and fluttering fans.

I looked up to see Alexander, his gaze fixed on mine. As he smiled, a hot surge ripped through me. The chandelier candles heated my skin like the blazing sun. Returning his smile, I forced my eyes off him, nestled the violin under my chin and gave a lively performance of Mozart's Turkish March. I finished to a burst of applause and cheering.

Still aware of him watching me, his eyes slipping to my décolletage, I dipped a curtsey. “You play as exquisitely as you look.” He caressed my violin like a beloved pet. Then he clasped his fingers round mine, raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. “I want to hear more from your violin, but much more from you, Maria.”

His nearness enthralled me. I knew he was a flirter. But I was a married lady. And he a married man. With wads of children.

The reverie over, I opened my eyes to my shabby surroundings and oppressive confinement.

Knowing what I must do, I pushed myself off the cot, dashed down the stairs, out the door and to the nearest stationer's. I purchased a paquet of elegant writing paper, with barely enough coin left for breakfast.

Returning to the house, I borrowed a pen and ink from Mrs. Norris's desk and composed the most important, and I admit, pitiful letter I'd ever written.

Desperate, hungry and bereft of dignity, I begged Alexander Hamilton to help me.

I put nib to paper and with great care, penned my woeful entreaty to the Treasury Secretary. My trembling hand spattered drops of ink across the page. So he would not regard me a common beggar, I wrote: I am the sister of Colonel Lewis DuBois, who led the Fifth New York Regiment during the Revolution. He is now brigadier general of the Dutchess County militia. My sister Susannah is married to distinguished attorney Gilbert Livingston of the powerful New York Livingston family. My husband James has treated me cruelly, leaving me for another woman. alone and destitute, I embellished. I need immediate assistance and appeal to your sense of generosity to come to my aid.

I recited the missive aloud, blotted the paper and addressed the envelope to Secretary A. Hamilton as personal and confidential. I had the post deliver it to his residence, a walk I could have made myself, but heaven forbid he should espy me on his doorstep.

Next morn, I gave the last of my coin to a scrap of a boy in rags on the street. With no money for breakfast, I found a stale hunk of bread on the kitchen cutting board and choked it down with ale from a cracked jug.

By suppertime my stomach clenched from hunger. I offered to do Mrs. Norris's laundry and beat her rugs in exchange for a meal.

I spent the following morn pressed against the window, waiting for the post carriage to rumble down the street. My empty stomach growled. Aside from some stale coffee and a hard roll, not a morsel remained in the kitchen. “Come on, postman, come on!” I twisted my hankie, tapped my feet on the threadbare rug. Finally, the old carriage ambled up to the house. I burst out the door, swiping the post from the old man's hands before he even alighted. “Ta, my good man!”

I strode back inside, stumbling on cobblestones, rifling through the letters with trembling fingers. Naught from Mr. Hamilton. I let out a heavy sigh. Did he even get the letter?

Pacing the corridor, I shook my head in despair, my heart heavy, for I'd prayed he would at least reply, or offer to visit with a small loan. Even a rejection would have been welcome, rather than this waiting, wondering, longing.

Frightful images haunted me—begging in the streets, weak with hunger, crouching all night in alleys. Placing my hand over my racing heart, I knew what I must do. I needed go see him in person. I pictured the ladies about town staring me down, murmuring “harlot.” But my hunger and desperation drove me. I now believed Alexander Hamilton was part of my destiny.

I rehearsed my speech before the hall looking glass. “We met at Colonel Burr's soirée, do you remember that?” I shook my head. “My husband James has treated me cruelly—he deserted me and I am destitute—” No, too self-pitying. “I am alone and appeal to your sense of generosity…”

I memorized my plea.

By eight that eve, a breeze whispered in the twilight. I washed in the courtyard's communal basin with water from the public pump and a sliver of lye soap from the kitchen. I washed my hair and pinned it up with no powder, for I hadn't any. Having no shawl, I draped a fringed throw from a chair about my shoulders. Shoring up my courage, I began the walk to his house, too nervous to take a coach even if I had the coin. Walking helped calm my pounding heart and my rapid breaths. Leaving the stench of the open sewers and grunting hogs behind, I entered an elegant neighborhood. I passed stately brick Georgian-style houses. Rows of buttonwood, willow and poplar trees lined the pebble-paved streets. Yet I trembled as I walked.

Everyone round town knew that Mrs. Hamilton and the children summered in Albany. But as the Mrs. carried her sixth child, could Alexander spare any funds for a poor woman he barely knew?

A Paul Revere lantern glowed in an upstairs window of 79 South Street. The downstairs windows gaped open, lace curtains fluttering in the breeze. I knocked on the door. Footsteps grew louder. I held my breath. The latch rattled. The door opened. Knowing I'd see Alexander's violet eyes brought a dreamy smile to my lips. I squared my shoulders and raised my hand to be kissed. The door opened—and revealed what I'd never expected. I stumbled back, stunned.

“Yes? Oh, good evening, Mrs. Reynolds.”

There stood Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton.

Chapter Four

“M—M—Mrs. Hamilton—” I'd been so expecting Alexander, I stammered out her name, as nothing else could come out. I gulped.

She rescued me—in a way. “Please, do come in.” She held the door open. I entered, my tongue so dry, it stuck to the roof of my mouth. “What can we do for you?”

“I—that is, my husband—” My eyes darted round the entry hall and up the stairs. The house sat in dark silence, the only light from a candle she held in a brass holder. I wondered if she'd been asleep. Shadows of fatigue surrounded her eyes. Her belly protruded. “I hope I didn't disturb your rest. My husband wanted me to speak with Mr. Hamilton about—about investing in some land out west—he's busy, so he sent me. But if now is a bad time—” Looking into the eyes of Alexander's pregnant wife, I no longer considered this a rational idea. But at least I'd conjured up a halfway believable excuse. Relief flooded me.

“Mr. Hamilton is not at home at the moment but should return shortly. Would you care to wait?” She glanced at the doorway to her left.

“Uh—no,” I stammered, my legs so weak, I nearly collapsed. No, I couldn't face him now. Not with his wife at home! “No, I can have James call—would tomorrow be convenient?” I backed out, my hands groping behind me for the door. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

“Certainly. I shall tell my husband to expect yours.” She smiled so sincerely, it crushed me.

Out of curiosity more than an attempt to be cordial, I asked, “Do you plan to visit your family in Albany this summer?” After all, the papers said she was already there.

“I was, but returned for a short visit. I could not bear being apart from my husband. Something told me to come home to him.” She tapped the side of her head. “Tis a woman feeling. Do you know, in your heart, when your husband needs you?”

No, mine did not. A pang rippled through me. But I nodded.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I'm sorry I disturbed you.” I pulled the door closed—and ran smack into Alexander.

Stunned, I leapt back, my hands fluttering.

Mrs. Hamilton said, “Mrs. Reynolds came to see you, Alex, on behalf of James.”

He nodded. “Ah, yes, James. How can I be of assistance, Mrs. Reynolds?” His calm tone soothed me. I caught my breath—almost. The sight of him melted me.

“Well, he—” If I was tongue-tied with his wife, I was dumbfounded now. “James asked me—”

Sensing my discomfort, he clasped my elbow and led me back into the hall. “Betsey, give me a minute with Mrs. Reynolds.”

“As you wish, sir,” she obeyed, bobbed a curtsey, turned and vanished. I was surprised she didn't back out.

Alexander and I stood almost eye to eye, which unnerved me even more. His hand still held my elbow as he led me into a parlour. He gestured to an overstuffed sofa as he pushed up his sleeves. “Saints alive, I am hot.” He pushed a side window open.

You're hot, all right! I bit back the words as I sweltered, gazing at him.

He sat across from me in a wing chair, our knees nearly touching. “How may I help you?”

I tried to remember what I'd written in my letters, but only fragments came to me. Knowing I'd be out of here within minutes, I tried to regain calmness. I recited word for word, “Mr. Hamilton, I am from Dutchess County. My husband James treated me cruelly and left me for another woman. I am in so dire a condition that I have not the means to return to New York. I appeal to your humanity. Will you, sir, assist a woman in despair?”

He nodded even before I finished speaking. “Your situation is interesting, Mrs. Reynolds. I am disposed to help you. Unfortunately, tis not convenient at the moment to provide any assistance. I have no money readily available. Could I send some money to you at your place of residence?”

Drowning in relief, I released a deep breath. Thank God this mortifying episode was nearly over. “Why, of course. I'd be ever so grateful.”

Then, with a smile, he said what I'd been dreading and longing for at the same time. “I shall deliver a bank note personally later this evening.”

I stood too quickly. Without a decent meal in days, I lost my footing and grabbed the sofa. My head spun. He clutched my arms, steadying me. “Shall I fetch you a glass of water? Or wine?”

“No, I am fine, I'll be on my way—” I escaped his grasp and darted for the door. “Thank you again, sir, and I'll expect your visit. I currently reside at Number Two Drinker's Alley, between Second and Front Streets.” I omitted any reference to its proximity to the Three Jolly Irishmen. I was sure even he knew it sat dangerously close to Hell Town. “Good evening, sir.”

I gulped sweet air and fled down the street as if chased. He's coming to visit later tonight! Pondering James's nefarious scheme, I shuddered. Flirtatious as Alexander was, I now understood the meaning of his overture that first night we'd met. Offering him my body made me quail with shame, yet enraptured me. Now, the enraptured part blossomed.

What will happen tonight? I wondered. I harbored a strong premonition that tonight my life would change forever.

Chapter Five

Eliza

“You will laugh at me for consulting you about such a trifle; but I want to know, whether you would prefer my receiving the nuptial benediction in my uniform or in a different habit. It will be just as you please; so consult your whim and what you think most consistent with propriety. If you mean to follow our plan of being secretly married, the scruple ought to appear entirely your own and you should begin to give hints of it.” – Love Letter from Alexander Hamilton

to Elizabeth Schuyler

Alex dismissed me. I obeyed and went to bed. Poor Mrs. Reynolds. Her husband's shady dealings plunged them into financial ruin. But I hoped Alex would have the sense to keep his money in his britches and not hand it over to that cad. Alex wasn't one to gamble on land speculation anyway. His Scottish background prevailed when it came to finances, as frugal with our funds as with the country's.

“The debt of the United States is the price of liberty,” he told everyone who visited. No matter where the topic started, it always ended with the debt. “A centralized government needs to be created,” he told me time and again, determined to be the one to create it.

But now I agonized for Alex, working so hard, too tired to relish our short visit. My plans to surprise him in bed vanished when I'd entered the house late Wednesday last and found him laboring over a stack of papers in his study. He'd turned to look at me and gaped as if I were a ghost. When I assured him it was I, alive and well, he swept me into his arms and carried me to our bed. But he didn't join me. “I'm buried under work,” he explained away as he returned to his study.

He paid me fleeting visits to our bed during the course of the day, and at night fell into his place next to me, snoring within the minute. Hardly a romantic interlude!

A few eves later, the stairs creaked as he approached. He opened the bedroom door and peeked in. “Betsey?”

“Yes?” I struggled to sit up, hoping we could have perhaps an hour together, to kiss and hug, if naught else. “Come to me, let us spend the rest of the evening together.”

“I cannot, I must go to Mrs. Reynolds. She needs my assistance.” He turned to leave.

My jaw dropped. “Wait! At this hour? Can she not survive till morning?”

“She's desperate. James left her for another woman. I need to deliver her a bank note to hold her over.” He held up the note as if to prove the visit wasn't frivolous.

I fell back down onto the pillow. “She'd told me it was to discuss a land deal of her husband's, but it seems she was too embarrassed to tell me the real reason. Of course, go to her. I shall be fine. I have Winifred if I need anything.”

“I shan't be long.” He quit the room so fast, I got not another glimpse of him. I lay on my side, cradling my belly, my ears perked for his return. But I fell asleep, did not wake till morn, and he was already gone.

Dr. Severus Black