By Passion Undone~Book 2~ Glory Passes

 

(Excerpt from the Chapter By Passion Undone) 

“Sar.” A bare-legged servant stuck his head around the door. “There’s a gen’lewoman wantin’ to see you. Says she’s a cousin of Mr. Livingston of New York. She’s got trouble she needs your help about.”

“She didn’t happen to say which Mr. Livingston, did she?” Hamilton sprinkled sand on the paper. He knew at least eight New York “Mr. Livingstons.”

“No, Sar, she di’nt.”

Hamilton turned over the card the fellow brought, but aside from the name, “Maria Reynolds,” there was no other information. A supplicant at his door wasn’t unusual. Gentry in trouble were likely to call here, particularly at this time of year, when everyone else prominent was out of town.

“Show the lady in. But—give me a minute to get dressed.”

“You’ll be glad you saw ’er, Sar.” Hamilton noted an unaccountable smirk.

Shaking his head, he stood to slip on his waistcoat. The servant was impudent, but Alexander mostly overlooked it, for this ex-soldier generally had his wits about him.

At the mirror, he folded the stock around his throat and tied a loose knot. Next, he shrugged on a white linen coat. He often wished that he, like the servant, could get by wearing only a shirt and trousers. He mopped his brow again.

Philadelphia is even more like Hell than usual.

The door opened. “Mrs. James Reynolds, Sar.” The servant bowed her through.

As the woman approached, Hamilton’s eyes widened. She was young, straight-shouldered and tall enough to look him straight in the eye, but utterly female, all voluptuous curves and sway. Her hair was a glossy, rich brunette. Her skin, flushed by the heat, looked soft. Her cheeks were bright, her eyes deep blue.

Celestial Venus!

Hamilton was rarely at a loss for words, but he could barely summon sufficient courtesy to motion this fair creature to the chair the servant brought forward. When she smiled, a nervous, yet confiding smile, everything else in the room vanished.

Hamilton stayed behind his table, but even with this formidable bulk and all those stacks of paper, she was a palpable presence.

With charming diffidence, she explained that the Livingston’s she was kin to were the Livingstons of Red Hook. Hamilton had never heard of them.

More distant kin to my Betsy?

“How may I be of service to you, Mrs. Reynolds?”

As she replied, her creamy bosom began to rise and fall in agitation. “I know you’re a terrible busy man, sar, so I’ll come straight to it. I’m sore ashamed to come to you like this—like a—like a beggar—but my husband has left me in such straits I don’t know where else to turn.”

Her voice was teary, low and soft. An accent far more common than that of her initial speech came creeping in.

Not real gentry, or just clinging to the edge…? Alexander’s sympathies were immediately engaged.

“My Mister has found hi’self another woman, ya see, sar, and the night he left me and my little girl—she’s just five—and—and—why, sar, ’e—’e beatin’ me right in front of my little girl, for ’e’s the very devil when ’e’s drunk.” The blue eyes spilled over, brimming with shame and helpless rage. “I want to go home to my own people in New York, sar, and leave Mr. Reynolds for good—but I—I haven’t no means.”

What incredible skin—so fair and beaded with sweat! Five year old or no, this young mother was not even out of her teens.

“Please—please—don’t be offended, Colonel Hamilton.” She turned those luminous eyes sadly towards him and withdrew a handkerchief from the cleft which separated her round breasts. “I’m so ashamed for tellin’ you—a perfect stranger—’bout my disgrace, but I’ve seen you about the city and you always look like such a kind gentleman. My landlady said to me this very mornin’ that you’re a good Samaritan for helping out folks in trouble, ’specially New Yorkers. If you could just give me enough for the coach back to New York and—and—to settle with my landlady, I’d be ever so grateful.”

She was affectingly nervous, stammering and girlishly wringing the handkerchief.

“Really, Colonel, there’s no one else I’d dare ask.”

Hamilton removed his own handkerchief and mopped his brow, where sweat poured. Even his palms were perspiring! He wiped them surreptitiously, one at a time, upon his breeches. In this damnable, relentless heat, not even the linen jacket could be long endured.

He had to clear his throat before he could reply. All the time he was intently aware of those eyes fixed upon him, and of the heavy scent—sweating young female and a cheap floral perfume.

“Well, certainly, Mrs. Reynolds, it sounds a good plan. To return to your family, that is. I’ll be glad to assist you, but I don’t have so much as a dollar here.”

The dark eyes stared, incredulous. Her pink lips parted slightly. She looked, he thought, childishly expectant, in breathless suspense.

“Let me see. I will get a bank bill and send it to you. Will tomorrow be soon enough?”

“Oh, yes, Colonel.” The tears stopped as quickly as they’d started, and she sprang to her feet, dabbing her eyes. “Oh, thank you, Colonel! Everyone said you was a most kind gentleman, and indeed—indeed—so you are!”

Hamilton, following her lead, also stood.

“Here, sar.” She stepped forward and laid a folded bit of paper on the desk. “This is my address.” Then she cast her eyes down. “I’d be grateful, too, Colonel, if you would come yourself and—and—not send a servant. I—I shouldn’t like for anyone to see what I’m reduced to—me and my little girl.”

 

* * *

 

“Knew you wouldn’t be sorry to see her, Mr. Secretary. Weren’t that some fine piece of woman flesh? Her husband must have lost ’is mind. I ask you, where’s ’e goin’ to find another filly that’ll ride like that one?”

“Mr. Donelson,” Alexander said, “your eyes are obviously good, but your ears must be even better. I warn you, sir, if you ever listen at my door again, you will find yourself looking for another job.”

The man tugged his forelock and mumbled, “Yes, sar, Colonel, Mr. Secretary.” As he backed out the door, Alexander caught a flash of his mocking grin.

He removed his jacket, the stock and the waistcoat again. He sat and tried to go back to work, but he was no longer able to concentrate. The scent of woman, of her rose perfume, lingered in the room. Hamilton kept trying to bring himself back, to refocus upon his “Report on Manufactures.” He swatted at a mosquito that came buzzing by his head, while silently cursing the whole race of women. All he could think about was what he hadn’t had since Betsy had gone to Albany, well over a month ago.

What I should be cursing is sex itself.

Hamilton leaned back and stretched his arms over his head.

After only a few weeks without a wife, I’m like a bull locked in a barn, smelling cows down in the pasture. Here I sit, unable to think about anything but kicking the walls down and finding one of them….

 

~~ Juliet Waldron

 

(And if you think this sounds like trouble--it is.)

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Hop along to these snippets from talented BWL writers: 

http://triciamg.blogspot.com/

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http://connievines.blogspot.com.au/ Connie Vines

 

 

 

 

THE MASTER PASSION ~ Betsy Schuyler

 

 

Chapter Two ~ The Pastures, Albany, NY

 

The girls had strayed too deep into the old pasture to run back to the red brick pile of their house, so they hid. Angelica grabbed little Peggy and together they crouched inside a big hole within the trunk of one of the squat, ancient fruit trees, one that Papa said had been brought as rootstock by the very first Dutch settlers.

 When they’d first spied the Indians, Betsy had been climbing to pick apples. It was too late to climb down, so she tucked long skirts over her knees and made herself into a small bundle, hugging the trunk and praying the leaves would cover her. As the party passed directly beneath her, she froze and tried not to think of the old war stories the servants told, about how Indians had killed her Uncle ’Bram—shot dead right on his Saratoga doorstep.

 These intruders were wearing buckskin trousers, homespun shirts and hats with foxtails and feathers. The European touches were a good sign, for this was the way Indians dressed when making a formal visit to Albany.

 There was a woman, too, walking very erect. Beside her marched a boy. He must have recently joined the men’s lodge, for his head was newly plucked, pale as a butchered hog on either side of the bristling strip of hair. He looked straight up, met her eyes, and then, without a word, continued on with his elders.

 Betsy knew these Indians were Mohawks, a tribe with whom her father was on good terms. Nevertheless, trained, as all frontier children were, to hide from strangers, she didn’t twitch.

 Today’s Indians must have had a claim on Papa, for they went directly to the wing of the imposing brick house which contained his study. A few minutes later, in the distance, they saw their father come out to greet them.

 Sometimes, if Chiefs arrived in rain or snow, they would be invited in to sit cross-legged in the downstairs great room with Papa. Here they dipped their dinner out of three-legged pots carried in from the kitchen. Betsy and her sisters, would slip out of their room, down the staircase, and try to get a peek through the door which led into the study wing. Here, if they were lucky, they’d see warriors sitting-crossed legged on the carpet, solemnly gazing around at the French panoramic wallpaper and up to the crystal chandelier.

 Relieved that these were only visitors, Betsy climbed down to join her sisters. They collected their dolls and walked slowly back to the house, Betsy holding Margaret’s sticky little hand. They met slaves already carrying out carpets and furs.

“Let’s sit here.” Angelica, the oldest, and always the leader, took a seat on one of the long benches along the study wing. “We can watch.”

Peggy, however, was done with outside. She wanted to go in, and began to complain. They were close to the kitchen now, and the smell coming from there made her think of the treats she could wheedle from the women there.

“I want a koekje!”

Peggy strained at Betsy’s hand and, after a little pulling, Betsy gave up and simply let her go. One of the house slaves at work there would certainly take charge of her little sister. Peggy went charging away, as fast as her short legs would carry her, toward the kitchen door.

While they watched, a pavilion arose beneath the biggest maple, and a fire was made beside that. Tables and carpets came out, and an entire joint of beef was carried from the kitchen.

 Then, a commotion began. Mama was at the center of it, although this was a surprise. Their Mama rarely lost her temper. She came out of the kitchen door, hauling Ruby, one of the slave girls, by the arm. She had a hazel switch in hand.

 “Ruby, if I set you to watch my girls, you are not to let them out of your sight!” Mama switched Ruby’s legs, and poor Ruby hopped up and down in her short skirts, shrieking.

 “Why is Mama so cross?” Angelica asked, as Mrs. Ross, their plump Scots governess, herded them away into the house and upstairs.

Something was very wrong. Mama never lost her temper!

 

* * *

 

 

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THE MASTER PASSION ~~ Excerpt for BEA week

THE MASTER PASSION ~ Chapter One, West Indies Boyhood
This Founding Father was not born to the purple, like the others.

 

Sharing a sick feeling, Alex and Jamie Hamilton stood on barefoot tiptoe and peeked through flimsy wooden louvers, all that separated the rooms of their small West Indian house. Both boys were red-heads, but there the resemblance ended. Eleven year old James was well-grown and strong. Alexander, seven in January, was delicate, fast-moving and nervous, like a freckled bird.

“An idiot would have known not to trust him.” The beautiful dark eyes of their mother flashed. Rachel faced her husband, a slight man of aristocratic feature, who wore a white linen suit. Like him, it had seen better days. His wife’s tone was challenging, her arms akimbo. Her stays, containing a generous bosom, rose and fell.

 “I—I—took him for a gentleman.” Father sputtered, attempting to fall back upon a long ago mislaid dignity. “He gave me his word.”

“His word!? Which means bloody nothing! How many times did I tell you what was going to happen? How many times?”

“Shut your mouth, woman!”

A sharp crack sounded as he slapped her. Rachel, hair spilling from beneath her cap, staggered backwards. From the kitchen came the fearful keening of Esther, their mother’s oldest slave.

“There’s naught canna be dune noo!" James Hamilton, his long face flushed, roared the words. Scots surfaced whenever he was angry.

“Yes, nothing to be done. As usual.” A livid mark glowed upon Rachel’s face, but she, with absolute disregard for consequences, righted herself and finished what she had to say.

“This time Lytton’s going to let you go. And if you can’t even manage to hold a job with my kinfolk, where will you get another? What are we supposed to live on? Air?”

In spite of the fact that it was winter on the island, the best weather of the entire year, Alexander shuddered. Distilled fear slid along his spine.

How many times in his short life had he watched this scene replayed? Listened to Mama shout Papa’s failures, watched as his father, humiliated and enraged, used his fists to silence her?

A business deal gone bad! Money lost….

Will we move again?

Every change of residence, from Alexander’s birthplace on cloudy Nevis, to St. Kitts, and from there to St. Croix, had carried them to smaller houses and meaner streets. The carriage, the two bay horses and the slaves who tended them, were only a memory.

Mama was shrieking now, about loans and due dates, things which she declared “any fool” could understand. Frozen, knowing what would surely come, Alexander watched as his father, crossing the room in two quick strides, caught his mother by the shoulders.

With the strength of rage, he threw her like a rag doll. She struck the wall so violently the flimsy house shook. Small emerald lizards stalking the mosquitoes drawn by candlelight, vanished into shadow.

Silenced at last, Rachel crumpled to the floor, sobbing. Her once gay calico dress, muted by many, many launderings, lapped her. The under shift, always scrubbed to a sea-foam white, drifted from beneath.

James Hamilton, breathing hard, blind with rage, tore open the door and strode past his cowering, terrified sons. For the last time, Alexander saw his beloved father’s face, a sweating mask of fear.

 

* * *

 

“Come on, boys. Out of there.”

A candle shone in the balmy West Indies night. The voice wasn’t unkind, just drunk and hurried. From outside came the bell-chorus of an untold host of peepers.

Alex and Jamie, in shirts too ragged to wear during the day, had been asleep in the only bed. There was a mattress filled with palm fronds in the next room upon the floor, but this time of year scorpions came in. When Mama hadn’t returned, they’d decided to sleep in the greater safety of her bed.

Jamie groaned, sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The Captain of the Guards, Mr. Egan, leaned over. He breathed rum and seemed unsteady. Behind him, supporting herself on the door frame, was Mama. She was, Alexander noted with a thrill of disgust, bare-shouldered, her cap removed, her shining dark hair loosened.

“Out, boys,” she echoed. “Esther said she’d beat your mattress and lay it out after supper. What are you doing in here?”

Neither boy replied. She didn’t want an answer. What she wanted was for them to leave. Tomorrow she’d give them a scolding, but not tonight. At the moment there were other, more important things on her mind.

“Here, young fellow.” Egan, muscles rippling beneath his shirt, handed Jamie the candle. Obediently, Jamie took it. Their rooms were, after all, rented space in the front of his house.

“Use this to look if you’re worried something’s in your bed. Your Ma and I won’t be needing it.”

He threw a grin at Rachel, who was restlessly tossing a dark curl over a pale shoulder. Mrs. Lavien or Mrs. Hamilton—whichever name she used now that she was living alone with her sons on St. Croix—was almost thirty, but she still turned heads whenever she passed along Christiansted’s bustling main street. Anticipation caused the captain to deliver a slap on the rear to speed the smaller boy along.

“Don’t you touch me!” Alex spun and glared, his thin face white under coppery curls.

Jamie grabbed a handful of his brother’s shirt. “Oh, come on, Alex!” He dragged his slight brother through the door. “The captain didn’t mean anything.”

Alexander was wide awake now, his eyes blazing blue fire. The distant echo of surf, the sighing palms, the intoxicating fragrance of Lady of the Night that climbed in profusion over the house, held no power to still his pounding heart.

Grinning, Egan stepped back, threw an arm that was infuriatingly proprietary around his mother.

“Yes. Don’t start,” Rachel cautioned. “Just mind your own business and go back to sleep.” Her dark eyes turned toward Egan. One hand moved easily across his chest, taking in the feel of hard flesh beneath. Alexander wanted to kill them both.

“If you and Jamie slept where you were supposed to, this wouldn’t happen.”

“Come on, woman.” Egan terminated the conversation, pulling her playfully through the door into the darkness.

“The little brats.” Their mother was heard to sigh when the door closed. “I swear they do it on purpose.”

In the next room, the boys busied themselves in a thorough inspection of their mattress. Satisfied at last about the absence of scorpions, they extinguished the candle and lay down together. From over the transom came whispered laughter and the sound of the captain’s boots dropping to the floor.

In the soft darkness, beside his now stolidly motionless brother, Alexander crammed fingers tightly into his ears. Tears pooled against his cheek.

“Oh, Papa,” he whispered into the night. “Papa, please come back...”

 ~~Juliet Waldron

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