6

Lovers’ Reel

Schuyler Ballroom

Albany, New York

November 1777

At length the victuals had been consumed, another round of cider and whiskey quaffed, the chitchat dispensed with. A small army of footmen and stable boys suddenly appeared from the door beneath the stairs and in a manner of minutes had cleared the great hall of all its furniture. As the last sideboard was carted out the musicians, who had been playing quietly in the Red Room, took their place at the foot of the ballroom—a trio consisting of violin, viola, and cello. While the players were taking their places, the guests lined up on either side of the long gallery, and then Mrs. Schuyler separated herself from the crowd and stepped out into the center of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said with the air of a born master of ceremony, “it is time to dance.”

A smatter of applause. Mrs. Schuyler waited for it to die down.

“In this time of war,” she said, “it is more important than ever that we not lose sight of the traditions that bind us together as a nation, and the pleasures that we fight for as people. Hence this small party, which my husband and I throw in honor of the many brave men who fight for our new nation, and the stalwart young women who assist them on the home front.”

As Mrs. Schuyler spoke, Eliza was busy retrieving her dance card from the credenza in the southwest parlor. Normally a girl carried her card with her, but on this occasion her mother had revived an old tradition of the female guests leaving their cards on a table, so that any gentleman could pencil himself in without fear of rejection. Eliza knew Mrs. Schuyler did this less out of a love of tradition but rather to make it impossible for her three headstrong daughters to turn down someone their mother thought would make a fine catch.

“As a mother,” Mrs. Schuyler continued, “I am quite honestly relieved that my sons John and Philip are too young to go to battle, but I am also equally proud of the remarkable contributions to the war effort made by my three eldest daughters.”

“Hear, hear!” The murmur of her guests’ approval interrupted her. But not for long.

“Angelica, Eliza, Peggy—would you please join me?”

Just as Mrs. Schuyler called her name, Eliza spotted her card and snatched it up without reading any of the names written on it. She hurried into the ballroom where the crowd was dutifully applauding the famed Schuyler girls, and skipped out into the open space near her two sisters. As she took her place between Angelica, resplendent in her amber gown, and Peggy, dazzling in sea-foam green, she felt a small pang of regret for not deigning to wear the burgundy gown. Between two such fierce beauties, she felt a little like a servant girl, and only her sisters’ hands in hers kept her from cringing into the shadows.

When the applause died down, the sisters began to move back to the sidelines.

“Peggy,” Mrs. Schuyler called, “would you wait a moment.”

Peggy pretended to gasp and look surprised, but it was clear she knew what was happening.

“Angelica and Eliza have both made their official appearances before,” Mrs. Schuyler said to the crowd, “but as this is Peggy’s first ball as a young woman, I am forgoing my right to have the first dance to give it to my daughter. It is not quite a coming-out ball, for such a celebration would be untoward in times of war. Nevertheless we can at least let her have her turn in the lights. Peggy, pray tell us the name of the gentleman who has the honor of sharing your first dance.”

Peggy eagerly pulled her card from her reticule, a beaming smile on her face. Her smile flickered as she looked at the name at the top of the page.

“Ste-Stephen,” she stuttered, “Stephen Van Rensselaer.”

A great roar of applause went up, even as Eliza found Angela’s and Peggy’s eyes and shared in their shock. Stephen Van Rensselaer III was the eldest son of Stephen the second. The Van Rensselaers were distant cousins on Mrs. Schuyler’s side and the wealthiest family in northern New York State. In every way, Stephen III was the most eligible bachelor north of Albany—every way but one, that is.

A tall, thin boy in an exquisitely cut suit of midnight-blue overcoat and dove-gray breeches detached himself from the crowd. Despite his height, however, and the color of his coat, he was no soldier, for one simple reason: He was barely into his teens.

The eighth patroon of the largest estate in all of New York was all of fourteen years old.

Eliza felt a hand on hers and turned to see Angelica.

“I sense Mama’s handiwork here,” her older sister said, even as the band struck the first notes and Peggy and Stephen took their places at the end of the room.

Stephen’s face was fine enough and might one day be handsome, but at the moment he looked like a stick doll in a suit. And Stephen had always been quiet and fumbling for words. A curious sort of fellow with a fondness for birding, he had earned himself the reputation of a loner.

“Stephen is at least four years younger than Peggy!” Eliza said indignantly. Their families had sat across from each other at the Dutch Reformist Church for years as the children grew up.

“Four? I think it is more like five. Isn’t he only a year older than Johnny?” sniffed Angelica.

Eliza nodded, thinking it was a bit strange indeed, watching the gawky young man dance with the belle of the ball in front of a cheering—or was it jeering?—crowd.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? He is the richest single male in our circle, and we are the three marriageable daughters of a family fallen on hard times,” said Angelica. “Oh dear,” she gasped, as Peggy and Stephen danced past them down the line, a strained grace on her sister’s face, a look of dogged terror on Stephen’s. “She is leading him. She. Is. Leading. Him,” she hissed.

“Let’s hope the engagement is a long one,” Eliza said with a sad laugh. She pulled out her own card to see whom her mother had arranged for her to dance with first, and soon she was as aggrieved as her sister. A small gasp escaped her lips. “It can’t be!”

“What?” Angelica asked. “Who is it?”

“Major André!”

“John André? That is insane, even by Mama’s standards!”

Major John André was a British loyalist, born in London to wealthy French Huguenot parents, whose ancestors, like so many Americans, had fled religious persecution in France. Before the revolution began, he and General Schuyler had served in the British army together, and André had been a favorite of their father’s. Indeed, he was said to charm everyone he met, with his easy conversation in English and French and his ability to dash off the most remarkable likenesses in pen and ink, and above all, with his guileless brown eyes and open, honest expression set in a broad, handsome face.

But when the Colonies declared independence he had chosen to fight for the country that had taken in his own family when they had fled France. Such was General Schuyler’s honor and fond memories of serving with André that he said he could not condemn the major’s decision, and even went so far as to declare that he would be “most aggrieved” if circumstances forced him to shoot the dashing young officer. But that still didn’t explain what he was doing on Eliza’s dance card.

“How is he even here? Why is Papa not arresting him? Or—or shooting him?” asked Eliza.

“Apparently Major André was commissioned on a diplomatic mission to General Gates, for which he was granted safe passage up and down river,” said Angelica. “It had to do with the prisoner exchange for General Burgoyne, and his transport to New York so that he can be sent back to England. When Papa found out he was in Albany, he invited him to dine.”

“I declare, Papa’s chivalry will be the death of us all. But chivalry wasn’t why my mama let him sign my dance card. She is punishing me.”

“For the dress, no doubt. Who do you have after him?”

Eliza looked down and turned paler. “Colonel Hamilton!”

This time, Angelica exclaimed loudly enough that people turned and looked at them. In a quieter voice, she added, “How could Mama do that, especially after his meeting with Papa?”

Eliza shrugged. She knew full well how to incur her mother’s wrath. “How did you fare?” she asked Angelica.

Her sister held out her card with a smile. Only one name was written on it, albeit eight times, for every single dance of the evening: Mr. John Barker Church.

“What?” Eliza exclaimed. “How did you pull that off?”

“Simple,” Angelica answered. “I was not foolish enough to leave my card out for Mama to commandeer. Not my first time at the ball,” she added mischievously, flashing a little smile to Mr. Church himself, who stood on the far side of the room, patiently awaiting his dance.

John Church was almost a decade older than Angelica. Like Major André, he was British born and had only arrived in North America a few years earlier. Unlike Major André, though, he espoused the Revolutionary cause. But he also refused to renounce his British citizenship, and this, coupled with the fact that when he first arrived in the Colonies he set up business under the alias “John Carter,” made many suspicious of his character. General Schuyler had said straight out that he thought Church was a gambler and a spy, and scented something devious about his business methods. However, Mrs. Schuyler, knowing her daughter’s fondness for Church, as well as hearing stories about Church’s growing fortune, had insisted he be allowed to attend the ball. “Until we have proof against him, civility directs us to be for him,” she said diplomatically, and as General Schuyler valued decorum above all things in human society, he had reluctantly assented.

Eliza looked over at her sister’s paramour. He was not what she would call ugly, but he was far from handsome. He was shorter than Angelica, for one thing, and rather thick through the waist, and his face always had a rather silly-looking smile on it, especially when he looked at Eliza’s older sister, as he’d been doing all evening.

“Tell me again what you see in him, Ange? Besides his fortune, I mean?” she asked her older sister.

“I refuse to be an ornament in a gilded cage,” said Angelica, lifting her chin. “And while a pretty face is nice to wake up to, an adoring face is so much more rewarding. Church talks to me like an equal and is grateful for my affection. I need never worry about him stepping out on me. And yes, his fortune is a most welcome quality.”

“Papa will never allow it, though,” Eliza warned. “You know how he feels about the man.”

“We shall see,” said Angelica, and Eliza knew her sister was determined to change their father’s mind about her unsuitable suitor.

Eliza sighed, even as the first song came to an end. Sometimes her sister’s pragmatism was too similar to her mother’s. While Eliza professed no outward interest in romance, at heart she yearned to experience a lush, sweeping love affair of her own.

She was about to ask Angelica if she’d seen Major André, when she was tapped on the shoulder. She turned to face a fine-looking gentleman whose thick brown hair was pulled back from a high brow, his rich chocolate-colored eyes staring into hers.

“Miss Schuyler,” a suave British voice announced. “I believe I have the honor of this dance.”

Eliza’s heart turned a little somersault. She had heard stories of how good-looking Major André was, but she had not been prepared for this. He was the picture of debonair in his dashing suit, which, though not a uniform (wearing his redcoat here probably would have gotten him shot in a duel!), was still sharply cut in a rich burgundy and accented with polished gold buttons and lace at collar and cuffs. She felt as though she were staring into a painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

She curtsied politely. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Major André said, leading her into position directly behind Angelica and John Church. “May I compliment you on your appearance this evening? You are among the brightest flowers here.”

Eliza couldn’t quite stifle her laugh. “No need to flatter me, Major André. I am aware that my dress is a little drab this evening.”

The major turned to look her at her directly. “Your dress?” he said smoothly. “I hadn’t noticed it.” His eyes never left hers. “I’m sure it is the loveliest in the room.”

The music started, saving Eliza from having to answer. For the next fifteen minutes she danced the line with her partner, whose light touch deftly guided her in the turns and twists and bows without ever once overpowering her. Because it was a quadrille, they kept spinning away from each other and coming back, dancing side by side and then turning to face each other. It was a complicated set of maneuvers, one that Eliza had spent many hours learning, and though she went through her paces gracefully, she always felt a little nervous, lest she make a misstep and bring the coordinated roomful of dancers to a crashing log jam. Yet every time she felt a twinge of anxiety she found Major André’s hand in hers, or his eyes on hers, and he deftly set her to rights.

If, at the end of the dance, he had asked her to run away with him, she might have exclaimed, “Long live the King!” and run all the way to the docks by his side. But before she knew it the music faded out, and Major André was bowing to her.

“It was like dancing with a dove,” he said. “I felt as though you carried me up and down the room.”

“Oh, Major André,” Eliza said, blushing, “you are too kind.” It was not the most original line, but it was all she could come up with, rattled by how charming she found him.

Eliza caught Angelica’s gaze across the dance floor as she was bowing to the handsome British adjutant, and her sister shot her a wink and a little smile. Then Angelica threw back her shoulders in an exaggerated signal to encourage her sister to lift her chest in a more enticing pose. Eliza quickly followed suit because big sisters know a thing or two.

And then he was gone, and a white-powdered wig took his place, capping a pair of russet eyebrows and piercing, amused blue eyes. Alexander Hamilton looked as surprised as she was to be asking her to dance.

“Miss Schuyler? I hope my name on your dance card wasn’t too alarming, but your mother said she would make me sleep in the barn if I didn’t sign up.”

Eliza refused to acknowledge him just long enough to make him squirm, then finally took his hand and allowed herself to be led back to the head of the room. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she said as they walked, “but she’s going to have you sleep in the barn anyway.”

“Ah—” Alex’s voice was cut off by the first strains of a reel. Almost reluctantly, he offered her his hand, and Eliza put her gloved fingers into it as though reaching into a pail of sour milk for a ring that had fallen. Yet she couldn’t help but note that his hand had a sure and confident touch: light and attentive, and if she was being honest, not completely repulsive.

It irritated her, this confidence, and so she sought to undermine it.

“Colonel Hamilton, if you please,” she said, adjusting herself beneath his grip. “I am not an apple on the tree to be tested for ripeness. If you could perhaps squeeze a little less tightly. I have worn corsets that took less liberty.”

Alex’s eyes went wide, and his fingers, which barely rested on her shoulder and waist, relaxed still more. “I do apologize,” he said in a voice so aggrieved that she felt a twinge of guilt.

They began to move to the music. Alex’s step was as assured as Major André’s had been, but Eliza deliberately dragged her feet a little, so that he was forced to hurry her along to keep them from bumping into the other couples on the dance floor. A smile remained on his face, but it was a little strained.

They whirled by Major André, who had his hand in Henrietta Beaverbroke’s. Eliza tried to catch his eye, but the music called for a whirl and they swept away from each other. Again, Eliza found herself face-to-face with the colonel’s handsome but increasingly strained face. Spots of sweat had appeared on his temples beneath his periwig.

“I wonder that your parents would allow you to dance with a British officer,” he said, nodding at the major.

Eliza frowned and did not answer.

“Miss Schuyler, have I offended you in some way?” he asked suddenly. The dance took them away from each other for a moment, and when he was back he continued: “If so, I do apologize. I can assure you that my errand today is as odious to me as it is to General Schuyler, for whom I have only the utmost respect.”

“You have a strange way of showing it, then,” Eliza shot back, but again she felt a little badly for her partner. His voice was genuinely full of concern, and her own father had told her innumerable times that war forced men to make compromises that in any other circumstances would be intolerable. But she didn’t care. He had insulted her father’s honor, and she didn’t care if he was the most handsome soldier at the ball (much more handsome than even the British major, she had to admit); he would have to do a lot more than offer a de rigueur apology to get back in her good graces.

The colonel seemed about to say something more, but the dance called for a particularly complicated set of turns, bows, and weavings, and they were both forced to concentrate to move through them smoothly. But as they came to the end of the maneuver, their path brought them close to Major André and Henrietta. Eliza’s eyes caught those of the dashing British soldier, who flashed her a smile, and she fell behind a half step. As she ducked beneath Alex’s arm, her heel came down squarely on the bridge of her partner’s foot.

Alex gasped, but he managed to repress a yelp. When they were face-to-face again, she glanced at him with equal measures of guilt and glee.

“Normally when a gentleman’s foot interposes itself between his partner’s and the floor, he apologizes for being so clumsy,” she said in the kind of imperious voice that would have made Angelica proud.

“Did you drive the sharp wooden heel of your shoe into the top of my foot, threatening to break my arch?” he asked in the lightest possible tone. “I didn’t notice.”

Eliza couldn’t help it. She smiled. And when he unexpectedly threw in an unscripted bound instead of the expected coupé, she let out the tiniest of whoops, and would have fallen if his strong arm hadn’t pressed firmly into the small of her back.

“I beg your pardon,” he said when she was upright again. “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

She had to hand it him. He was good, this Alexander Hamilton. Under other circumstances, she might actually like him. But right now she had about seven more minutes of his time, and she was determined to make them as difficult as possible.