5
Catherine Schuyler Is Never Wrong
Trinity Church and the Mercer Shop
New York, New York
June–July 1785
It had been in her dream. The letter from her mother—the letter that she had dreamed her mother sent her. The letter that had caused her to wake up with tears on her cheeks.
When she introduced Gus to Prudence Schlesinger, she saw Prudence’s eyes fill with an ineffable mixture of sadness for her lost child and joy at the beaming face looking up at her. Gus’s gaze held, on the one hand, absolutely no expectations, and on the other, complete trust. As Eliza looked between his face and Pru’s, the single line of cribbed, slightly blotchy script in her dream—for all her natural elegance, her mother’s handwriting looked like a five-year-old’s—popped into view:
It would please me greatly if you named your son after your father, General Philip Schuyler.
Just then, Eliza’s mouth dropped open in a gasp. Gus looked up at her as though she were about to pull a candy from her pocket. Pru stared at her with a confused, wondrous smile for a moment, and then her eyes fell to Gus’s face for a longer moment before she looked back up at Eliza and nodded.
Eliza knew the dream’s letter was telling the truth and explained the cause of her lethargy and morning sickness. She would have to plan a visit to the doctor to confirm this happy news posthaste of course. Besides, only Catherine Schuyler—even in a dream—would feel the need to remind her daughter of her father’s name and rank. Such was the matriarch’s formality, even with her own children. To outsiders, this formality might appear cold, but Eliza knew it was just her mother’s love of ritual and order—to her, the words General Philip Schuyler were filled with thirty years of marriage, with two houses they had built together and filled with eight living children and seven lost in infancy, with a Dutch heritage that came out in little words like schatje (“sweetheart”) and hartje (“my love”), an English spine that found form in a love of courtly etiquette, and an American soul that expressed itself in an uncompromising belief in liberty and individuality. And now, through the magic of dreams, she had delivered the most blessed news of all to Eliza:
She was going to have a child! A boy! Philip Hamilton.
Eliza took a moment to collect herself, then knelt down beside Gus.
“Gus,” she said, smoothing the boy’s hair away from his wide, unlined forehead. “Do you like Mrs. Schlesinger’s dress?”
“It’s violet,” Gus said. He stared at the dress for an instant, then reached out a hand to touch it tentatively. “It’s soft.”
Eliza nodded. “And do you like lambs? Mr. and Mrs. Schlesinger have a new lamb on their farm.”
“Oh yes!” Gus said. “I like lamb! It’s so tasty!”
Eliza chuckled, looking up at Prudence.
“How would you like to go and see the lamb on Mrs. Schlesinger’s farm after the service is over?”
Gus stared pensively at Pru’s face for a long moment, then turned back to Eliza with a doubting expression. “Will you be coming, Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Not directly after church, but I’ll be able to stop over later in the week if that’s all right?”
Gus pouted, but it was more a pout of consideration than consternation.
“Can you come Wednesday?” he said at last.
Eliza nodded. “I will come Wednesday right after luncheon. How’s that sound?”
Another pout as Gus mulled this plan. Then he nodded. “All right.”
Eliza kissed Gus on the forehead and told him to eat all his vegetables but especially the green ones, which would only be in season for a few more months, then transferred his hand from hers to Pru’s.
“I would tell you to take care of him,” Eliza said, “but I can see from your face that it is he who will be taking care of you.”
“He is a blessing,” Pru nodded. “But—”
Eliza was starting to go, but stopped. “Yes?”
Pru turned and indicated a girl sitting in their pew. She was sixteen or seventeen, with straight, straw-colored hair that had been pulled up into the soberest of buns. She held her hymnal in her hand, and one finger lightly chased the Chi-Rho embossed on the cover over and over.
“This is my cousin, my second actually, Emily. Emma, her family calls her. Or, rather, called her.”
Eliza’s hand had strayed to her stomach, and she stroked it as delicately as Emma was stroking the monogram of the Lord on the hymnal cover. It was as flat as it had ever been—well, almost—but still, she imagined it swelling beneath her with new life. She had known her condition all along, had felt it deep within her, but had been too worried about being wrong, too nervous to believe that her dearest wish had come true, to admit it to herself.
“Oh!” she said, suddenly realizing what Pru was saying. “She has lost her parents?”
Pru nodded. “Her mother went before the war, and her father this past winter, both from influenza. Emma has been living with us, but with the addition of a new child I’m afraid we will have neither the space nor the means to provide for both adequately—a farmer’s income isn’t quite that of a lawyer’s, I’m afraid. She is a sweet girl, quiet and well-behaved, an accomplished pianist, a lovely singer, and remarkably adept with a paintbrush. She is even”—Pru laughed lightly—“a skilled archeress. I have heard you speak of your lack of a lady’s maid, and I thought . . .” Her voice trailed off. “And perhaps when you have children of your own, she could serve as a . . .” Again her voice faded away.
“Of course,” Eliza heard herself saying, before she could think too long on it or worry about what Alex would say. “We may well have need of her before too long.”
A moment later she was walking back to her pew, Emma following meekly behind.
Eliza shook her head in wonder at her own audacity. But the revelation from her dream had filled her with such compassion for all of humankind that there was no way she could have said no. And there was something about Emma. An air of gentle, studious seriousness. Exactly the kind of qualities one wanted in a governess. Even so, her impulsiveness shocked her.
What have I done?
ELIZA HAD EXPECTED Alex to tell her that she would have to send Emma back, like a lame horse or a bolt of silk that’s been gnawed by moths, but to her surprise he all but embraced the quiet girl on the street outside Saint Paul’s after services were over and they finally had a chance to talk.
“It’s fate,” he said, beaming. “Now that you are pregnant—oh my heavens—you are pregnant, I didn’t dream you said this, did I?”
“I am pregnant,” Eliza said, only half believing it herself. “I need to see the doctor, but I am quite sure.” She ran through the math in her head. Her courses were normally as regular as clockwork, but she could not remember it coming the last two months. For a woman who was practically obsessed with having a child, it was a stunning oversight. But her eyes had been on the far end of the experience—the child itself—and the whole carrying-it-in-her-womb phase remained rather tentative in her imagination.
“Well then, I mean obviously, you’ll be taking to your bed and you must have someone to attend to you, to bring you food and build your fire and of course to do your shopping—”
Eliza burst out laughing. “Good heavens, husband, I’m pregnant, I haven’t been run over by a carriage. My confinement is still months away!”
“Of course, of course,” Alex stammered, eyes gleaming with a mixture of fear and exultation. “But still. I insist that you take it easy. This is your first child, after all. We do not know how your physiog—I mean physiolo—I mean—oh gracious—how you will react! Some women find it quite onerous, I, uh, have heard tell.”
“I could do without the nausea,” Eliza admitted, “and I have been quite tired of late. But we have far too much going on for me to simply retreat into my chamber like a cloistered nun. Especially with John here, and Drayton to train, and now Emma—my goodness, it’s as though we have a whole new house!”
She nodded at her brother, who had slipped his arm through Emma’s as they walked down Broadway toward Wall Street. Emma was nodding shyly at something John was saying, her bonnet pulled low over her forehead, while John was gesturing grandly with his free arm, as if he had grown up in New York and was now sharing the sights of his hometown with a new arrival. Eliza was struck by how natural the pairing seemed. The shy, serious girl; the gregarious, brash boy. They fit together like a pair of puzzle pieces.
“Look at that! The two have made friends already!” said Eliza.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Alex frown.
“Alexander Hamilton!” She lowered her voice. “The Schlesingers are not as blessed as we are, but they are still gentlefolk. I hope you don’t think Emma is beneath my brother’s station!”
A snort burst from Alex’s lips. “In truth, dear wife, no thought could be further from my mind.”
Something in Alex’s tone rubbed Eliza the wrong way. “What are you talking about?”
“It is probably just the excesses of youth,” he said in a guarded voice, “but I can’t help but notice that since his arrival here, your brother has been wont to play the roué.”
Eliza didn’t know if she was more shocked or amused. Johnny! A lady’s man! It seemed only yesterday that he had been in short pants!
“Good heavens, Alex, he’s only been here for several days. That seems an awfully short time in which to establish himself as a roué!”
Alex patted his wife’s arm in apology. “Of course, I do not mean to say he has completely given himself over to debauchery or that his reputation is ruined. It is just that he seems to have developed some rather, ah, epicurean tastes.”
“Epicurean! Roué! One needs a dictionary just to keep up with your insults of my family! If you mean to say that my brother is indulging in too much rich food and wine, just say so.”
“Well, that is what ‘epicurean’ means.”
“Oh! So in addition to your brother-in-law being an epicurean, your wife is a philistine!” she said jokingly. Well, mostly jokingly.
“Eliza, darling, please, I didn’t mean to—”
“I know you didn’t, because if you did you would be sleeping in the guest room tonight—or, rather, on the couch, since the guest room is now Emma’s!” Eliza pinched his arm playfully. (Well, mostly playfully.) “My brother, like all eldest sons, but especially those with a trio of older sisters, was certainly always a bit of a coddled child, and it will take him some time to realize that the world will not attend to his every whim as indulgently as did his father and mother and sisters.”
She glanced again at John and Emma, who had reached the edge of the boardwalk. John offered Emma his hand as she stepped onto the street. She smiled shyly and accepted it gratefully. Again Eliza was struck by how easily and naturally they seemed to go together, and a wild idea filled her mind.
“Perhaps that is why Emma was sent to us,” she ventured. “Perhaps John will never have to endure living without a woman’s care. He can go straight from his mother’s house to his wife’s.”
“His wife’s!” Alex exclaimed. “Now who’s being premature! Do you even know her last name?”
Eliza blushed, acknowledging the rashness of her matchmaking.
“Tatchall,” she said. “Or, no, Trask. All right, perhaps I am anticipating. They say that being with child can excite a woman’s constitution in that way.”
Alex pulled up short at the words with child. He turned to face Eliza and took both of her hands in his. “You’re sure, my darling?”
She nodded tremulously. “If my calculations are correct, our son will be born in November.”
“A son!” Alex exclaimed. “You are certain?”
“My mother told me in a dream. Catherine Schuyler is never wrong about these things.”
“Oh, Eliza, you are remarkable! I am so happy!” he exclaimed, wrapping her in his arms.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK was filled with one shopping expedition after another as Eliza, usually with Emma’s help, though sometimes with Rowena’s or Drayton’s, stocked the house with all the things it needed for its new occupants. The two years the Hamiltons had lived in New York were the city’s first since its liberation from seven years of British rule, and it had changed dramatically in that time. When Alex and Eliza first moved in, two out of three storefronts sat empty, and the stores that had managed to remain open were awash with goods that had been seized from or abandoned by the fleeing British, who had themselves seized most of their booty when they took the city in 1776.
The city had basically been one big thrift store, with the contents of entire houses up for sale, usually for pennies on the pound. The cash-strapped young couple had furnished a good portion of their first house this way, but such bargain shopping was a thing of the past. New York was a boomtown now, the financial center of the country, and the major trading port of the northern states, quickly relegating Philadelphia and Boston to the status of satellite cities. The flood of new arrivals made it a seller’s paradise. The overstuffed secondhand stores had transformed into elegant specialty establishments, with this one offering furniture, that one china, the next silver and pewter. Certainly the variety had increased and the quality, too. But so had the prices, as Eliza was discovering. She was fingering a swatch of exquisitely embroidered silk that John had brought to her in the same mercer’s shop where she and Alex had bought their first set of china. It was her brother’s hope that it could be transformed into a bed sham and curtains for his bedroom.
“Alex would have me tried for treason if I purchased this,” Eliza said. “It’s seven pounds fifty! That’s more than we paid for the bed!”
“Well, we can replace the bed later,” John teased. “For now we’ll just drape it in ten yards of this.”
“Ten yards!” Eliza said, pretending to swoon. “My God, John! Father has extravagant tastes, but you put him to shame. Where on earth did you develop such a fondness for luxury?”
“What do you mean, where? In my parents’ house, surrounded by my parents’ riches. Their décor may be more sober than my own taste, but don’t let the subdued hues fool you: Father’s and Mother’s tastes are anything but cheap. It costs a lot of money to look that drably sumptuous.”
“Yes, but Father and Mother have their own income, whereas you are a ward of your middle sister, who, unlike her older and younger siblings, did not have the foresight to marry a business tycoon like John Church or the heir to the largest fortune in the North like Stephen Van Rensselaer.”
“Yes, you married the genius,” John teased. “A genius at everything but making money.”
Eliza bristled at any criticism of her love. “Alex’s earnings are more than respectable, thank you very much. But we are a young family, and still establishing ourselves. The outlay is considerable.”
“Well, I can’t think of anything that would establish you more than this silk,” John cooed.
Eliza let her hand trail across the sumptuous fabric one more time, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, John, I have to say no. We are not shopping for your bedroom today. We’re shopping for the nursery.”
“Bah, babies!” John spat, though his eyes were twinkling. “I need a second robe for school, and not one made from scratchy wool carded from some mangy ten-year-old ewe. Don’t worry,” he added, as he headed over to a pile of sumptuous inky black worsted that gleamed nearly as much as silk, “I’ll pay for it out of my allowance.”
Eliza shook her head at her brother. Though she loved him dearly, not least because he was the namesake of a dear little child that had died shortly after his first birthday—the third Schuyler infant to die in a row—she was starting to wonder if Alex’s assessment of him after church last Sunday wasn’t grounded in reality. In the past week, John had been out every night till long after she and Alex had fallen asleep. He ate in seedy inns and alehouses, and Rowena had reported that half his handkerchiefs were indelibly stained with lip paint. Even worse, though classes had begun, she had yet to see him crack a book or put pen to paper.
As a girl who had been denied a formal education, she found it hard to believe anyone could take the privilege of college so cavalierly. If he weren’t so damned charming, she would have liked to give him a good swift kick and tell him to get his act together. But as it was, she was more than a little concerned, though she had confidence he would settle down once the novelty of being out of his parents’ house wore off.
Just then Emma came up to her. “Perhaps this will do, Mrs. Hamilton?” she said, proffering a bolt of white fabric.
Eliza smiled at her new ward and took the fabric from her. It was so soft that she had to lay it against her cheek. “Oh, this is lovely. Baby will feel as though he’s being swaddled in ermine.”
“It needs a little lace at the border, but Cousin Schlesinger says I have a fair hand for the work,” Emma said.
“A fair hand!” Eliza scoffed. “Somewhere in Europe there’s a cloister full of nuns who are seething with jealousy at the delicacy and intricacy of your lace! It is remarkable!”
Emma smiled meekly, although the word meekly is redundant, as the girl did everything with the utmost humility. “My mother taught me when I was little,” she said quietly. “She supplemented my father’s income with lacework and embroidery for the ladies of New Haven.”
The girl’s face clouded over at the mention of her parents, as it always did. Though her father had been gone a year and more and her mother for a full decade, it was clear she still felt their loss acutely.
“I have no doubt she would be extraordinarily proud to see how her lessons have taken,” Eliza said. “I hope I can pick up a few pointers from you. Your lace is as delicate as snowflakes, while my own tends to look rather . . . melted.”
“I’m sure it is as beautiful as you are, Mrs. Hamilton. Shall I have the mercer cut ten yards of this?”
“Better make it fifteen,” Eliza said. “The fabric is so lovely we’ll do sheets and bunting for the bassinet as well.”
“Oh, how grand! I have an idea for an embroidery border for the bassinet. It will require some indigo yarn?”
“Buy as much as you think you’ll need,” Eliza said, and Emma hurried off.
If John had been a source of consternation to Eliza, Emma had been an unexpected comfort. Eliza didn’t think she’d ever met a girl as unaffectedly grateful as Pru Schlesinger’s unfortunate cousin. As Eliza soon learned, Emma had lost her mother at the tender age of seven. Earlier that year, her elder brother had died of consumption and the same flu that swept away her mother also took her younger sister with it. There had been one more sibling, a brother just two years old when his mother was taken, a sickly child who every year seemed on the verge of death until finally he was taken home when he was nine.
But the hardest burden of all was the girl’s father. Dennis Trask had, according to Pru, been overly fond of drink and the sort of louche activities that are known to accompany that vice: gambling, loose women, and, apparently, violence, which sometimes found its victims in those nearest to him—and least able to fight back. Pru had written to Eliza in “strictest confidence,” saying that she did not like to tell tales about the departed, but that it was in Emma’s best interest that Eliza understand her background, so that she might avoid causing the girl unnecessary pain by asking the sorts of questions that one might normally ask about a lost loved one. And despite her father’s many failings, Emma had indeed loved him. She had devoted her life to caring for him and her younger brother, and almost took their deaths as a failing on her part.
“All this by way of saying,” Pru had wound up her letter, “that as Emma reaches marrying age, I hope that you will help her exercise caution in the suitors she entertains. The girl’s greatest virtue—her empathy—is also her greatest fault, for she seems driven to save those who would not save themselves. After seeing her childhood stolen by my wayward brother, my one wish is that my niece be partnered with a steady man—one who will care for her, as a man should—rather than a selfish one, who would demand, shall we say, undue succor from his helpmeet.”
Eliza had taken Pru’s letter almost as a challenge. After all, why shouldn’t she help her new maid to find an appropriate husband? Eliza’s circle brought her into contact with the upper crust of New York society. Emma was a poor girl, but comely, and the Trask name, coupled as it was to the Schlesingers’, was still solid. Dennis had raised his family in the relative obscurity of Concord, Massachusetts, so word of his degradation had not reached New York City, and Prudence was such a solid member of society that it could only add to Emma’s attractiveness as a prospect. Eliza knew of hundreds of second or third sons from well-off families who would gladly accept a poor daughter-in-law of good breeding and better habits.
She glanced over and saw Emma pull a bolt of dark cloth from John’s hands and replace it with another from the shelf. John’s face lit up; clearly Emma had given him a fabric of superior quality to the one he had picked out, too.
“And it even costs less!” she heard her brother exclaim. “Miss Trask, you are remarkable!”
Yes, Emma would make someone a good wife. And she thought she might already know who that someone could be.
“JOHN, EMMA,” SHE said once they were back on the street. “I am thinking of having a little party in a few weeks—maybe a month to do it properly—to celebrate the new additions to our household. Although my confinement is still some time away, I feel as though I have to get all my entertaining in now before I retreat into seclusion. What do you think?”
As usual when they were out together, John had taken Emma’s arm and served as her escort. If at first she had seemed somehow shy about John’s gallantry, now she took it in course, and even looked up at him to allow him to speak first.
“What do I think about you going into seclusion?” her brother said. “Or what do I think about a party? Because I think the idea that a woman must hide her pregnant body is a little silly myself, although I suppose it saves some money on dress fabric.”
Emma blushed a little at this outré comment, though a smile also flickered at the edges of her mouth.
“Oh, John, you’re incorrigible!” Eliza laughed, although if she were being honest, she agreed with him. Her mother had spent almost a quarter of her adult life above stairs when company was over, lest someone not of the family catch a glimpse of her in the motherly way—as if they had not seen exactly the same thing in their own homes! “I meant the party, and you know it.”
“Well, if Peg’s and Angie’s stories are to believed, my rather boring middle sister somehow throws the most exciting parties in New York City, so I think my answer is obvious: Let’s pop some corks!” said John.
“And you, Emma? You would be the party’s second guest of honor. Have you any thoughts on the matter?”
She was pleased to see Emma glance at John before answering, as though he might speak for her. Her deference was a sure sign of their growing connection.
“Oh, Mrs. Hamilton,” Emma said with genuine modesty, “there is no need to honor me. I am a housemaid in all but name, and more than content to fulfill that role.”
“Nonsense,” Eliza said. “You are a Trask, and a niece of Prudence Schlesinger, and as such fit to dine at any table that plays host to my wayward brother.”
“Hey!” John protested. “Who are you calling wayward?”
Emma looked timidly up at John’s face. “I hardly think I deserve such an honor.”
John smiled down at Emma. It was a wry smile to be sure, but charming as well, and Emma lowered her eyes demurely.
“Allow me to tell you something about my sister, Miss Trask,” John said. “Although Eliza has this way of phrasing things so that it sounds as though she’s asking you a question, the truth is she’s simply telling you how things are going to be. In my experience, it’s always best to just smile and nod, and allow her to move your arms and legs about as though a marionette. Because in the end that’s what’s going to happen anyway.”
“Why, John Bradstreet Schuyler!” Eliza laughed. “You make me sound a positive battle-ax!”
“Trust me,” John said to Emma, ignoring his sister. “If she hadn’t been born a lady, I’m pretty sure she’d have ended up as a muleteer or drill sergeant. She may wear silk and powder, but underneath she’s all steel.”
“Who are you accusing of wearing powder?” Eliza said. “My complexion is wondrously fair!”
“It seems I have no choice then but to accept,” Emma said—meekly, of course. She stole another shy glimpse at John, and Eliza could see she was trying not to smile.
“Perfect!” Eliza said. Then, in a leading voice, she added: “You know what a party means, don’t you?”
Emma could only shrug.
“We have to shop for dress fabric!”
“And that’s my cue,” John groaned. “I’m going to meet some of the lads from school.” He bowed to Emma and winked at Eliza. “Don’t wait up.”