7

Gauntlet (Or Handkerchief?) Thrown

Schuyler Ballroom

Albany, New York

November 1777

As the night wore on, the frenzied pace of the dancing picked up. The officers’ uniforms flashed with medals and a few gold braids. More than a snippet of petticoats could be glimpsed as the turns grew wilder and the men’s hands around the ladies’ waists began to intentionally miss their marks to hold on to something more interesting. Soon the ballroom grew overly warm despite the mid-November chill.

After taking his leave and bowing to Eliza Schuyler, Alex went back to drinking mulled cider from the Schuyler orchards spiked with apple brandy from the Pastures’ own trees and followed that, perhaps a bit unwisely, with French wine spiced with cinnamon and cloves. In between dancing reel after reel with the eligible young ladies of Albany, he went back to regaling perfumed clouds of girls who clustered around him like life-sized lollipops with stories of battlefield valor and carnage.

Taking advantage of the general’s lavish hospitality, he then stepped into the smoking room to indulge in fine Virginia cigars and whiskey brewed beyond the Kentucky frontier before intrepidly accepting a slug of some home-brewed spirit that unfortunately tasted like serpents’ urine. At last, he returned to the ballroom and found himself once again surrounded by a clique of girls.

Well, two girls.

From the eight who had fawned on him earlier in the evening, the Misses Van der Schnitzel, Ten Broek, and Beaverbroke were all standing in a corner, waiting for their chance to dance with the British adjutant, one Major André, who seemed to have won the hearts of all the ladies that evening.

But the loyal Misses Tambling-Goggin and Van Liverwurst eyed Alex flirtatiously above their fans. They were comely lasses to be sure, the kind he would have happily spent the time with back in Morristown or Elizabeth, yet his eyes rolled right over them and shifted back to the dance floor.

For there were the Schuyler sisters, the undisputed queens of the party: Angelica, regal and self-possessed, even next to her less-than-graceful partner, a short and portly but jolly-looking older gentleman; and Peggy, laughing vivaciously and looking as though she were dancing with a French count rather than an awkward lad, the young Van Rensselaer heir. But above all there was Eliza, wearing a dress more suited to the schoolroom than the ballroom, who had insulted his name and rank at every turn, and had even stepped on his foot—and who made him want nothing more than for her to step on the other.

Why was it he couldn’t take his eyes off the one girl who failed to notice his impressive gifts? What was it about the sharp-tongued lass wearing a homespun gown, a modest cotton dress that touched his heart in its bold demonstration of her alliance to the patriot cause?

And why on earth was she dancing for the third time with that blasted British officer, Major André?

“I say, Colonel Hamilton, if you would like to return to the dance floor, I would be happy to join you,” Miss Tambling-Goggin said, sounding anything but pleased. After all, no girl likes to flirt with a boy whose eyes keep wandering away.

“I do apologize, but I am quite satisfied where I am. Please, do not take my fatigue as a sign of lack of interest in your considerable charms,” he said, flashing her a winning, but rueful smile.

“Since the colonel is unwilling,” said a male voice. “Perhaps you will allow me to shepherd you to the dance floor.”

The speaker was another man whom Alex didn’t recognize and who, despite being in his early twenties, wasn’t wearing a uniform. He was a tall, well-built man, though his soft neck and softer stomach spoke of a fondness for food and alcohol that were clearly getting the better of him, judging from the way he swayed back and forth. In fact, Alex was wondering whether the man had been drunk when he got dressed, because he was wearing one white and one brown hose beneath his expensive velvet breeches.

“So what do you say, Letitia?” he slurred.

Miss Tambling-Goggin turned toward the new speaker. “Alas, but like the colonel, I am quite satisfied with where I am as well.”

“Don’t be that way, come now,” said the rude stranger.

“The lady has made her preference known,” said Alex mildly.

“Yet I shall make her preference for her, Mister . . .”

Alex held out his hand, hoping to defuse the suddenly tense situation. “It is Colonel Hamilton, actually. I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance—”

The man looked down at Alex’s hand, but didn’t shake it. Only then did Alex notice that he was leaning heavily on a cane—and then, looking farther down, he saw that the brown hose was not actually cloth. It was a wooden leg.

“I would shake your hand, Colonel, but as you can see my right hand is otherwise engaged,” the man said with a dramatic sigh.

“I do beg your pardon, sir,” Alex said as the music stopped; he noticed Eliza, Angelica, Peggy, and their dance partners heading their way. A half-dozen pairs of eyes were trained on him, and he felt like a complete cad. “A war injury?”

“Indeed. Some of us haven’t spent the past year and a half writing letters in an office. We spent it on the battlefield.” He snorted. “It’s quite ironic when you consider it. Normally you would expect the person of highborn rank—that’s me, by the way,” he added contemptuously. “Normally you would expect the son of gentry to shirk the battlefield. But in this case it is the nobody commoner who flees glory and hides behind a clerical duty or some other equally flimsy excuse while the nobleman defends his country’s honor. But then, it isn’t really your country now, is it? Where were you born again? An island off the coast of nowhere?” the man sneered, as the Schuyler girls and their companions clustered around their little group.

Alex felt his cheeks go red and had to resist the urge to throw down his glove for a challenge—or just punch the man outright. No matter how important his work as aide-de-camp and ambassador for General Washington, his spending the war doing various non-combat jobs was a source of great shame to him. He wanted to risk life and limb for this country, which, though he hadn’t been born here and had only lived on its shores for a few years, had nevertheless embraced him and inspired him with its ideals and potential. Only the fact that the man speaking so rudely to him was an injured veteran stayed his hand.

“I-I do apologize,” Alex said again, letting the slur against his birthplace go. “Your country owes you a debt of honor.”

“Yes, it does. Whereas all it owes you is a paycheck.”

“Oh, put a cork in it, Peterson,” said a young male voice. He turned to see Stephen Van Rensselaer rolling his eyes. “Everybody knows you got ‘injured’ when you stabbed yourself in the ankle with your own bayonet while you were loading your gun, and then you fell down drunk in a latrine and got it infected so that it had to be amputated. The mules who pull cannons serve their country more usefully than you do.”

Peterson looked distinctly outraged, but before he could speak, Angelica’s partner chimed in.

“Indeed, Peterson,” said John Church. “Colonel Hamilton’s contribution to the war effort is known throughout the thirteen colo—the thirteen states,” he corrected himself with a wry smile, “and across the pond in England, France, and Germany. While we must never make light of bravery under fire, the skill it takes to load and shoot a gun is not a rare one, whereas the ability to address generals and diplomats—and indeed kings—is a truly singular gift. Hence General Washington’s unwillingness to surrender his most valuable asset to the battlefield.”

“Thank you, good sir,” said Alex.

“John Church. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Church as Angelica looked at him fondly.

But that was the straw that broke Peterson. He whirled drunkenly on John Church. “You! A lobsterback! You dare to insult me in my own house.”

Eliza, who had been silent throughout the whole exchange, spoke up. “Actually, Mr. Peterson, Mr. Church is not a soldier and hence does not wear a redcoat, and pray I remind you, the Pastures is my father’s house.”

Peterson looked confused. “Well, in my own country, then! The Petersons have been respected landowners in the Hudson Valley for more than a century.”

“Actually, Peterson,” young Van Rensselaer drawled, not so very awkward anymore. “Your land belongs to my father, ever since you gambled away your income at gaming houses in New York City. You own no more land than Colonel Hamilton. No offense, Colonel.”

“None taken,” said Alex, feeling gratified at the swelling of support from Angelica’s and Peggy’s companions.

Peterson sputtered so hard that Alex was afraid he was going to fall over. “Oh, who cares what you think, Rensselaer. You’re merely a Dutchman. My family are British through and through.”

“I thought you didn’t like the British,” Eliza’s partner, Major André, said smoothly. “You are fighting a war against us, after all.”

Peterson’s jaw dropped. He lifted his cane as if to strike the major, but the movement caused him to lose his balance on his wooden leg, and Alex had to steady him. “Careful there, Peterson.”

“Unhand me! Why I . . . to be insulted in this manner by people who are on the raw edge of respectable!” An ugly sneer covered his face as he turned his attention to Eliza. “And you, girl. If your mother thinks you will make a rich match, she’s sorely mistaken. No one is interested in a girl afflicted with intellect and opinion and a small dowry! It’s why you only have a redcoat and a clerk as your dance partners this evening!”

There was a shocked silence from the assembled, until Alex spoke, his words cold as the first frost: “You will apologize to the lady.”

“Apologize? For telling the truth?” Peterson sputtered. “Why? Is she your paramour, is that it? Oh, Colonel Hamilton, do not protest—everyone has noticed your interest in the girl. You can barely take your eyes off her.”

Alex’s grip on the man’s arm became a vise, as Eliza’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment and anger.

“Nonsense, my interest is purely to redeem something the gentle lady has been holding for me. I assure you it is most business-like in nature,” he said, lying through his teeth.

“A fine story,” sneered Peterson, practically apoplectic and sweating all over the place.

“But a true one,” said Eliza, her cheeks reddening uncontrollably. “However, Colonel, I apologize as I do not have your handkerchief on my person.”

“Nevertheless,” said Alex, turning to Peterson, “you will apologize to the lady.”

“Fine! Fine! My apologies! There!”

“Oh dear, Mr. Peterson,” John Church said. “You seem to have exerted yourself.”

“Here,” said Angelica, “speaking of handkerchiefs, I believe Mr. Peterson needs one,” and she reached into the pockets of her dress and handed one over to him.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Church. And he used the handkerchief to pat down Peterson’s face as if he were a little baby.

Peterson grabbed the handkerchief and waved it in Church’s face for a moment before his hand fell and he stuffed it in his pocket. Publicly humiliated, he shook Alex off and stormed away in a huff, the butt of his cane striking the floor hard above the music.

“Oh dear, that’s going to do beastly things to Mama’s floor,” Peggy lamented.

Eliza turned to Alex. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“It is an honor to come to your defense,” he said with deep sincerity, his heart hammering under his uniform.

“And I must commend you on your restraint. An ugly situation could have grown much uglier had you not shown such decorum.”

Alex smiled. “Those are the kindest words I’ve heard all evening.”

Eliza looked as if she was going to take them back, but she held his gaze and didn’t look away from him. He wished he could tell her how he really felt, but somehow he understood it would not be welcome at this juncture. Alex stepped back with a gentlemanly bow, watching Eliza walk away on the arm of the British major.

HOURS LATER, THE party finally came to its end and Alex retreated from the ballroom only to run into Rodger, General Schuyler’s valet, under the stairs. The servant offered to help him to his accommodations for the evening.

“If you’ll follow me, sir . . .” Rodger turned to the back door and headed outside. Alex realized with a start that he really was going to sleep in the barn tonight.

Rodger guided him across the slippery gravel paths by the light of a single flickering lantern whose glow was swallowed up by a heavy clinging fog coming from the river. The dim light made it that much harder to negotiate the gravel, which rolled like marbles beneath his shoes.

The interior of the lofty barn at the foot of the hill was no less cold than the November night outside and reeked of a pungent mixture of manures: horse and cow and pig and sheep and chicken. Rodger led him down the barn’s center aisle to a ladder whose upper reaches were lost in the darkness of the rafters. He pointed upward, indicating that Alex’s bed lay somewhere up there.

“With the house so full of guests, Mrs. Schuyler was unable to find a spare blanket, but there’s plenty of hay,” Rodger said without sarcasm. He’d seen worse. “The boys will be in to milk the cows at dawn. That’s about three hours from now. Perhaps one of them will give you a ladle or two before you have to be on your way.”

Alex nodded wearily.

“Oh, and before I forget, I was told to give this to you.” Rodger handed him a note folded with cloth. Without another word, the valet turned and made his way back down the aisle.

With a start, Alex realized it was his handkerchief—the one that he had surrendered to Eliza Schuyler earlier that evening, the same one she had tucked into her bosom. It smelled like her perfume, and he inhaled its sweet scent, bringing it to his nose, just as a scrap of paper fluttered out of it.

In the dim light of Rodger’s retreating lantern, he saw a few words in a flowery woman’s handwriting:

Wait for me. The hayloft. After the ball.

Alex stared at the note. A midnight assignation? In the hayloft? With Eliza Schuyler? Was he reading this correctly?

He looked around, as if the note writer might be nearby, but just then Rodger opened the barn door and stepped outside. When the door closed behind him, the last of the lantern light disappeared and Alex couldn’t see past his nose. And it wasn’t just the rafters that were dark. The entire barn was pitch-black. Thankfully he’d put a hand on the ladder to hold himself steady, or he didn’t think he’d have been able to find it, and would have had to sleep beside whatever animal occupied the nearest stall.

But after a couple of swings with his foot, he found the first rung and slowly started to climb, somehow managing not to fall. The whole time his heart was beating in his chest at the thought of that marvelous girl making her way up to join him. He wasn’t aware that he’d reached the end of the ladder until he found himself tumbling forward into a surprisingly soft and deep pile of something he assumed—hoped—was hay.

While he was excited about the possibility of seeing Eliza again, he was also too tired to care about the indignity of a colonel and aide-de-camp to General Washington being forced to sleep under such circumstances, and burrowed deeper into the hay. The sweet smell of straw filled his nostrils, and his body heat began to warm his little cocoon.

She would be here soon. It was after the ball. What would he say to her? So she had succumbed to his charms after all! And that strange, withering look she had given him after the incident with Peterson had belied a hidden affection! She had understood what was in his heart all along.

And now she was on her way.

He fought sleep, waiting.

And waiting.

BEFORE LONG IT was morning. When he awoke, he found himself staring into the eyes of the most colorful bird he’d ever seen.

It was a rooster with brilliant plumage of blue and red and golden feathers, and it came at him with beating wings and talons extended. Alex barely made it out of the loft with his eyes intact.