18
All-Night Diner
Ruston’s Ale House and Inn
New York, New York
August 1785
Alex rushed from Saint Paul’s back to his office, where he labored late into the night. He pored over the church’s records of its holdings, totting up figures on page after page, double- and triple-checking his math until he was convinced he’d come up with the right number. He pulled his statute books from the shelf, cross-referencing British and New York law to see if there had been any major changes since independence had been declared. After nearly six hours of labor, he was convinced that the solution he’d come up with was not only legal but ethical, which is to say, Reverend Provoost wouldn’t balk at it the way he had rejected Alex’s previous proposals. More to the point, he was certain it could win in court. And if he did win, the benefits—to his reputation, to his practice, but perhaps most pertinently to his finances—were monumental. Neither the church nor his family need ever worry about money again.
Jubilant, he closed up shop and headed home, eager to share news of his victory with Eliza. It wasn’t until he was halfway down Wall Street that he saw his darkened windows and remembered: His wife wasn’t in. John had gone to stay with the Livingstons for a spell as he could not imagine life without servants.
He chuckled to himself but couldn’t deny the pang of sadness he felt. He had, as Eliza herself had pointed out, left his wife home alone a dozen times and more since they’d been married. Not just when he went to war, but when he went to Congress in ’82 and ’83, and who knows how many more occasions on business, for a night, a week, a month, three. How dare she leave him by himself just once!
If he had a thought to try to stop her plans, thinking traveling was a bit rough on her condition, their argument the weeks before had held his tongue. Who was he to tell her what to do? Still, he was worried about her and hoped she was taking care of herself. There was certainly no one to take care of him at the moment.
“Oh, what helpless creatures we men are!” he muttered aloud as he let himself into the darkened, chilly house. With Drayton and Rowena gone as well, every single fire had burned out, and even the coals in the kitchen stove had gone cold. It took Alex an embarrassingly long time to light a fire in the dark—he had grown too used to having a servant take care of such quotidian tasks. All the while he worked the flint over the tinder, he was thinking how Eliza’s face would light up when he told her his news. (Light up, he groaned inwardly, as spark after spark failed to catch flame.) He knew once he’d communicated the gist of it—and got her to understand how much money was involved—she was sure to be as ecstatic as he was. More so, even, because she would not only be happy for the family but for him. No one had ever celebrated his triumphs more than she had. Certainly not his family (what little he had); nor General Washington, who had always admired him, yet also seemed to look on him as Kronos had looked at Zeus: as a son whose natural abilities presaged far greater accomplishments than the father could ever hope for.
At last the tinder caught, then twigs, then logs, and soon heat began to radiate from the stove. Alex lit a lamp and inspected the larder, where half a dark loaf of bread and a crock of butter were all that greeted him. Rowena was an excellent baker, and Alex knew that her bread was as satisfyingly rich as a slice of beef, yet it was still . . . bread. Not exactly the most celebratory dinner in the world.
“Hang it all, I’m going out,” he said aloud.
He sealed up the larder and stoked the stove—he wasn’t going through that ordeal again!—looked in vain for his coat for nearly ten minutes before he realized he’d never taken it off, then locked up and headed back down Wall Street toward Water Street. In fifteen minutes, the curtained but still-lighted windows of Ruston’s Ale House came into view.
A man Alex didn’t recognize was behind the bar when he entered. It had been nearly two weeks since his last visit, and though Alex thought Caroline might have hired a new barman, it was more likely that it simply wasn’t seemly—or safe—for a woman to be working at this time of the night. There were four patrons scattered around the tables despite the late hour. All salts from the look of them, hoary gentlemen who were probably staying at the inn until they shipped out again, and seemed, to a man, to be deep into their cups. Alex thought he would ask to join one of them. He would trade his war stories for their tales of adventure on the high seas. Who knew? Perhaps one of them was from Nevis, or had stopped there, and would have tales of his home island.
Then he caught sight of her.
She sat in a shadowy booth in a corner of the restaurant. She was wearing a black dress like a widow and had probably dressed that way to repel the kinds of men who ate dinner at eleven at night. She herself was not eating, but reading a book, with a steaming cup beside her.
Alex considered ducking back out, not wanting to draw her attention, and not particularly desiring her company. Especially not while Eliza was away. But before he could, she had looked up and seen him. A smile crossed her face, but tentatively, as if she could sense his own hesitance, or simply because he had not been in touch with her in nearly two weeks.
Steeling himself, Alex walked across the room, his hand extended stiffly in front of him like a bayonet. “Good evening, Mrs. Reynolds. It is very nice to see you.”
His voice rang hollowly in the quiet inn. He wondered whether she could tell he was lying.
TWO WEEKS AGO the investigator Miguel de La Vera had reappeared in Alex’s office. He showed up in his usual way: Alex let himself into his locked office only to find Miguel sitting calmly in a chair just beyond the door. A grimace split his dark curly beard, which was the investigator’s way of smiling. “So. As I suspected, this is not your usual case of a British loyalist who had his property seized from him by Governor Clinton.”
Alex chuckled. “As you know, Señor La Vera, it is you who delivers information to me and not the other way around. For me to tell you anything about my clients would violate their confidentiality.”
Miguel’s grimace widened into a snarl of amusement. “Somehow I doubt James Reynolds is a client of yours. Perhaps it’s his wife, who has been missing for almost a fortnight?”
Alex spread his hands in mock helplessness. “I can neither confirm nor deny your supposition, Señor. I only ask that you tell me everything you’ve been able to ascertain about Mr. Reynolds, including any material that pertains to his marriage.”
Miguel snorted. “Marriage is a fancy term for his union. I find no records of a marriage certificate in Boston or New York in church or courthouse, nor could I find a clergyman or justice of the peace with any memory of Señor Reynolds. So whatever union he has is sanctified, if that is the right word, by a more provisional authority. If that, too, is the right word.”
Miguel’s Spanish accent was pronounced, but his English vocabulary was flawless. Alex often suspected that the accent was part of his disguise, like the articulated wooden appendage—instead of the standard issue peg leg—he wore inside a knee-high leather boot to disguise his missing foot. Alex wouldn’t be surprised to find out the man’s real name was Michael and he had been born in Charleston or Birmingham.
“Do you mean they are not legally married?” Alex asked, after weighing the information Miguel had just presented. “In that case, a formal divorce is un—” He broke off.
“You cannot dissolve what has never been established. Which is not to say that there is not a relationship between James Reynolds and Maria Lewis, as the state still knows her.” Miguel smiled cunningly. “But you’re not interested in Miss Lewis or Mrs. Reynolds, or however you would term her, right? You’re only interested in the husband.”
Alex kept his face impassive. “I’m interested in whatever tells me more about the husband. If that involves information about his wife, or companion—”
“Companion is not quite the word I would use, Señor Hamilton.”
“Señor La Vera, please. Despite the unusual state of her union, she is still a lady. Speak with respect.”
“Begging your pardon, Señor Hamilton, but whatever else Miss Lewis is, she is no lady.”
Such vulgarity made Alex physically recoil. “Señor La Vera!”
“Believe me, Señor Hamilton, it pains me to speak of a member of the fair sex in such a manner. But Miss Lewis’s past, and her liaison with Mr. Reynolds, are the type of thing that you would prevent your own wife even to know about, let alone associate with.”
“I am shocked to hear you speak this way, Señor. You and I both know more than most that a person is neither his ancestry nor his upbringing. Especially in this country. A person is what he makes himself—or herself, in Mrs. Reynolds’s case.”
“You mean Miss Lewis.”
“I mean Mrs. Reynolds! She has been with him since she was sixteen years old!”
“Did she tell you that? If she did, she was lying. She has been with him no more than two years.”
Alex couldn’t help himself. He smashed his fist down on his desk. “How dare you!”
Miguel had fought in half a dozen wars and watched as a surgeon sawed off his own leg. He was not easily ruffled, and his affection for Alex was such that Alex’s blow brought a smile to his face, albeit a rueful one.
“You know me, Señor Hamilton. You know I do not say such things lightly. But I’ve spoken to a dozen and more people who all testify that Miss Lewis is a woman of low morals, and that for the past two years Mr. Reynolds has been her . . . agent, if you will.” He raised his hand to silence Alex before he could interrupt. “You charged me with investigating Mr. Reynolds, but it was very clear that Mrs. Reynolds was the real focus of your interest, so I asked around about her, too. I learned that she was orphaned young and ill-served by her family. I have no doubt that she was forced to become the kind of woman that she is, and that Mr. Reynolds preyed upon her vulnerability to keep her in that position. She is not the first girl he has mistreated in such a manner. But after a two-year liaison you have to ask yourself, why is she only leaving now?”
For perhaps the first time in his life, Alex was stunned speechless. Miguel gave Alex a moment before he continued: “People can change, Señor Hamilton. For the better, but also for the worse. By all accounts Miss Lewis was a fine lass. Perhaps one day she will be again. But do not assume that just because she is a woman she is incapable of making plans of her own. You do not know why she left her husband, or why she sought you out. You do not even know if she has really left him.”
Alex laughed. “Now you’re just talking nonsense.”
“Have you ever known me to speak nonsense before?” Miguel didn’t give Alex a chance to reply. “I managed to speak to the vile man. He tried to pretend that he knew where his wife was, but I don’t believe him. But I also spoke to many people who tell me that he many times uses women to swindle honest men. Honest married men,” he added pointedly. “Married men like you, Mr. Hamilton.”
Even as his spine went cold, Alex felt his face flush at this insinuation or warning, he wasn’t sure which. “Did you always know she was my client?”
Miguel considered Alex’s words and offered a genuine smile. “It’s what you pay me for, Señor Hamilton.” He stood up to leave, pulling a thick envelope out of his pocket and tossing it on Alex’s desk. “For what it’s worth, Mr. Reynolds is pure filth. These documents will give you all you need to destroy him. For the good of all of New York, please do so.”
THE SCENE FLASHED through Alex’s mind as he shook Maria’s hand.
“I was just reading,” she said, setting her book aside. “I get so bored in my room, especially with no visitors.” If there was an accusation in her words, she kept it out of her tone. With a small gesture, she indicated the seat opposite hers. “Won’t you join me?”
Alex looked at her sweet, open face. Could she really be the swindler Miguel said she was? Could she really be trying to swindle him? No, he decided. She was a woman alone in the world, a woman in a position not unlike the one his mother had found herself in—and his mother was innocent and deserved a better life. So did Maria Reynolds. She deserved his trust, and if he was honest, he was lonely.
Miguel had said she was false, but Alex couldn’t believe that to be true. It would be like blaming his mother for her woes, and he could never, would never, be so disloyal as to think that of the woman who had raised and loved and yes—admittedly—failed him.
“Mr. Hamilton?” she prodded.
“I’d love to,” he said at last.