(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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