28

Hen Party

The Cochran Residence

Morristown, New Jersey

April 1780

“Oh, Eliza, isn’t it thrilling! We’re going to be sisters! It is a prospect almost too delicious to contemplate.”

Kitty Livingston, Henry’s older sister and Eliza’s friend since the earliest days of their childhood, had been tasked with throwing Eliza a little celebration of her own. And here it was, coming off as something of a failure

Due to such short notice and Kitty’s lack of acquaintance with the local mademoiselles, she had been unable to round up any guests besides herself and Peggy and Aunt Gertrude, who was now sleeping soundly over in the wing chair next to the fire.

To make up for the lack of guests, however, Kitty had dressed herself in enough fashion for ten women. Her wig was so tall it would have made Madame de Pompadour jealous, and her heavy makeup was done in exquisite grisaille. Her face and décolletage had a silvery sheen, so that she looked like Pygmalion’s statue of Galatea come to life in all her perfect beauty, polished yet nubile.

Her dress was a separate work of art. Acres and acres of laurel-green silk moiré embroidered with the most ornate arabesques of saffron and oxblood, the tones muted yet exquisitely deep, like sugar candies tinted with mint and lemon and cherry. The bustle was three feet wide and the skirts twice that, so the only spot she could find to sit was in the middle of Aunt Gertrude’s longest sofa, which was so crowded with Kitty’s dress that no one else could join her. Eliza thought perhaps Kitty had done that on purpose.

“Can you imagine, Eliza?” trilled Kitty. “One day soon we’ll be able to send out invitations that proclaim ‘Catherine and Elizabeth Livingston and their husbands wish to invite you to Liberty Hall to officially open the season at Elizabethtown’ and ‘Catherine and Elizabeth Livingston and their husbands invite you to—’”

“But, Kitty,” Eliza interrupted her. “If it’s ‘Catherine and Elizabeth Livingston and their husbands,’ won’t your surname be necessarily different after you marry?”

“Oh, I’ve already thought of that. I’ve always said that I’d refuse to marry anyone less distinguished than a Van Rensselaer or a Livingston—or maybe a Schuyler, though Philip is a little too young for me to wait around for,” she added with a wink at Eliza. “And since Peggy seems to have snatched up the Van Rensselaer to have, I’ve set my eye on a couple of cousins on Papa’s side.”

“Oh, Kitty,” Peggy said with a laugh. “You speak of a husband as though he were a long-term investment, like a parcel of land to be cleared and sowed with some slow-growing orchard crop.”

“And isn’t he? How old was Stephen when you began to reel him in? Eleven? Twelve? You have been playing that boy as expertly as a courtesan.”

“Kitty!” Eliza clapped her hand over her mouth. “You go too far.”

“You think I’m speaking ill of dear Peggy, but I’m complimenting her. Your sister will be the richest woman in the United States. If,” she added slyly, “she can ever get him to propose.”

“And what makes you think he hasn’t?” Peggy said coyly.

Like Kitty, she had gone full stop for tonight’s party. Even though the ever-thrifty Catherine Schuyler had slashed her daughters’ dress budgets, Stephen was constantly sending his beloved bolts of the most exquisite silks from Europe. Her dress tonight was made of a shocking orange damask, a color that Eliza would have thought no living girl could pull off. Yet Peggy had gone the extra mile, having her maid dye her hair with ancient Egyptian henna, giving it dramatic umber tones. Piled up high, it sat atop her head like the crest of some exotic bird from the jungles of South America, perhaps, or one of those elegant long-legged cranes that wade through the shallow waters of southern wetlands. The summery palette highlighted the rosy hue of Peggy’s skin, which was sprinkled with enough flecks of mica to rival Kitty’s silvery sheen.

“Has he proposed?—oh, do tell!” Kitty urged, jumping ahead of herself. “I know he is not yet of age to access his fortune, but you could always elope like Angelica did and wait until he is twenty-one. That is, assuming his parents don’t disinherit him.”

“Disinherit him?!” Peggy said.

Eliza was unclear if her sister was outraged or merely pretending to it.

“For marrying a Schuyler!” Peggy laughed out loud. “The Van Rensselaers should be so lucky as to join their family to ours!”

“Aren’t you already related to the Van Rensselaers? On Mrs. Schuyler’s side? Or perhaps Mr. Schuyler’s? Or both?” asked Kitty.

“Mama was a Miss Van Rensselaer, and of course a Livingston on her mama’s side. Papa’s mother was a Van Cortlandt, not a Van Rensselaer.”

Eliza couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh dear, we are so related, it is a wonder that we do not turn into those poor Habsburgs, marrying cousin after cousin until we start giving birth to misshapen idiots.”

Eliza had meant her words to come out in jest, but there was enough truth to them to cause Kitty and Peggy to stare at her in incredulity.

“Oh, Eliza, you are too morbid, even for yourself!” Kitty said at last. “Come let us have a bit of fun, as I know my brother certainly is!”

KITTY WAS REFERRING to Henry’s festivities, which were going on in full force near the officers’ barracks several blocks away. Henry had invited every officer from the rank of lieutenant on up—some one hundred men, most of them under the age of twenty-five, and all eager for one last party before the war went hot again with the return of warm weather.

Earlier in the day when she was out for a stroll, Eliza had seen dozens of casks of beer, cider, and sherry being rolled into the long stone barn that housed the C infirmary.

Curious enough, she had peeked in, only to find that all the beds had been cleared out. The four cast-iron stoves had doubled to eight, and large stacks of firewood were piled beside each of them—enough to heat the large space moderately for a week, or to keep a single party raging all night long.

“Pardon me, Corporal,” she’d said, pulling aside one of the enlisted men setting up the party. “But—where have all the patients gone?”

The corporal had blushed deeply. “You will forgive me, miss, if I decline to answer that question on the grounds of decency.”

“And you will forgive me, Corporal, if I tell my fiancé, Colonel Livingston, that you declined to assist a lady.”

“Ah, Miss Schuyler, I didn’t know it was you. I do apologize.” He blushed. “Colonel Livingston had us take the sick to the house on Whitelawn.”

“The house on—” Eliza’s jaw dropped. “You mean, the one on the corner of Farrier Street?”

“Aye, Miss Schuyler. Now if you’ll excuse me, Colonel Livingston said that if we get the party set up by sundown he’ll let us have a cask of cider for ourselves.”

“ELIZA?” KITTY’S VOICE cut through her reverie. “Are you all right? Or is just the thought of the momentous cusp you stand upon that has you so preoccupied?”

Dazed, Eliza looked up at her friend—her cousin, her dreadful fiancé’s sister.

“Cusp?” she repeated. “A cusp is the top of a hill whereupon one can see clearly in every direction. This is not a cusp. It is a . . . it is a cliff, a drop into some unfathomably deep and foggy abyss. And, and—and below it all, I hear the thunderous roar of waves crashing upon rocks, like those that dashed Prospero and Miranda upon Caliban’s island!”

“Eliza!” Kitty said sharply, placing her hand on her friend’s knee. “You are overwrought! I tell you, you must calm down, dear. It is a marriage, for God’s sake, not a shipwreck!”

“Isn’t it, though?” Eliza said glumly.

“Sister!” Peggy spoke up. “You insult our cousin!”

“It’s . . . acceptable,” Kitty said, though the color had come into her cheeks, visible even beneath her makeup. “I-I understand that you haven’t known Henry long enough to love him. I even know that Henry can be . . . difficult, but I promise you, I know all his secrets and his weaknesses, and once I’ve shared them with you, you’ll have him under your thumb in no time. And Papa is grooming him for a career in politics, which means that he’ll spend most of his time in Philadelphia or New York or wherever they decide to place the capital, so you’ll hardly have to deal with him at all!”

“But is that what a marriage is?” Eliza said. “Learning how to ‘manage’ your husband so that he doesn’t oppress you? Praying for his departure rather than yearning for his return?”

“My word, Eliza, everyone always said you were the sensible Schuyler sister!” Kitty laughed. “And here you are, mooning about romance like some latter-day Juliet. Listen to me, Cousin. We live in a new country—a country that will be larger than any in Europe by three times, and with unlimited possibility for expansion. And we are our country’s gentry—its kings and queens, princes and princesses, dukes and duchesses, its barons and earls and—”

“I am quite familiar with the order of ranks,” Eliza snapped. She did not appreciate the turn this conversation had suddenly taken.

“Then you are also familiar with our responsibilities.” Kitty fluffed up her enormous flounces. “Yes, we command great prestige and power and wealth compared with the rank and file. But we also owe a duty to our position in society. The common man and woman are free to marry whom they choose based on nothing more than base physical attraction, but we are bound to make unions that preserve our fortunes and estates, which provide the structure and indeed the occupation on which plebeian lives depend.”

Peggy tittered.

“Indeed,” Eliza said, turning to her sister. “And no offense intended, Peggy, but I’ve heard Stephen wax on about his holdings and tenants more than once.”

“No offense taken. He does tend to go on and on about out the patroonship.”

“But,” Eliza continued, turning back to face Kitty, “isn’t that what we’re revolting against? The unfair advantages of aristocracy? The tyranny of a distant king deciding one’s fate based on what suits his interest, rather than one’s own?”

“You talk of politics, Eliza. That is men’s business.” Kitty took a long pull from her glass and banged it down on the side table. “We are women. We tend to the home front.”

“And why should that be?” Eliza demanded. “This is a new country, as you say. Why shouldn’t it have new laws, new customs? And why should not those customs extend to the home itself. To—to love!”

For the first time this evening, Kitty’s expression cracked, though her makeup almost managed to conceal it.

“I sense your heartache, Eliza,” she said finally. “The news of your flirtation reached us, too. You mourn the loss of a great love that you think could have surmounted the difficulties of rank and fortune. And I agree, he is quite a charming bastard—in every sense of the word. However, I must point out that Colonel Hamilton never proposed to you. You may have thought love conquers all, Eliza Schuyler, but he knew the rules of the game.”

Eliza steeled herself for Kitty’s next words.

“And the truth is, dear sister-in-law, even Alexander Hamilton realized he wasn’t good enough for you.”