A Master Passion~~A snippet from the cutting room

I wrote and rewrote A Master Passion for a period of fifteen years, ending with a novel well over a 1000 pages long. Some scenes, especially those in the beginning which dealt with the far less well-known Elizabeth Schuyler, were cut. This scene, telling us more about the future Mrs. Hamilton, was among the ones that (sadly, I think) fell by the wayside.

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           Colonel Tench Tilghman had come north to Albany, an emissary from the Continental Congress, to attend a parley with the Indians.  General Schuyler and the Americans wished to obtain assurances of neutrality before the war with Britain broke out. 

            Today, though, as if there was no great war on the horizon, Tilghman and a group of young Albany gentry had taken a picnic to the falls at Cohoes, which he had been told was "one of the notable sights of the region."  The Colonel, accompanied Betsy in a steep climb to get a close up look at the top of the falls.

             The path Miss Schuyler elected was surprisingly bad. There were rocks to scramble over and briar patches to negotiate, but she appeared to enjoy this sort of rough ramble. At first Tilghman wondered if this was one of these feminine games which would end with her leaning helplessly upon his arm, but he was more than surprised when this dainty-looking miss kept pace with him. The way to the top was almost vertical, frequently necessitating an undignified down-on-all-fours attack. 

            At the breathless summit, they paused, panting and admiring the view. Tilghman experienced an unexpected rush of pleasure. The young woman's easy manner made him almost feel comfortable, even though they were now completely alone together.

            Pray God I do not have to reveal my wretched broken heart to another lady in search of a husband...

            The way she'd brought him to this splendid sight, agile and uncomplaining as a boy, demonstrated that she'd made the climb many times.

            "Come, Colonel Tilghman!" Betsy called over the noise of falling water.  "The best view is from here."

            Stockings flashing, revealing shapely calves, she scaled the last rock.  Tilghman, following her, had the insouciant thought that the best view might possibly be from exactly where he was. 

           When he reached the height, he found himself an arm's length from enormous quantities of green water hurtling over a narrow lip.  Falling, it became a spectacular white veil.  The ground beneath his feet shook alarmingly.

            Beside him on that rocky shelf, Betsy dropped to her knees, then stretched out on her stomach to get as close as possible to the roaring water. 

          "Do come, Colonel."

          Thunder sounded on every side.  The quick climb, vertigo, the sight of a lady young stretched at full length on the ground, left him almost giddy.

           The wind shifted and spray blew into their faces.   Betsy turned and smiled, a dazzling white flash against her nut-brown skin...

~~Juliet Waldron

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Hamilton's Birthday

It is usually warm--between 82 and 70--so Accuweather says--at this time of year on Nevis. It is also cloudy, as the warm air gathers around the volcanic peak which forms a watchtower on this small  island -- 36 square miles. January 11th of 2016 is the anniversary of the date of Alexander Hamilton's birthday. Our present forecast is for a.m. showers and a light east wind, followed by a partly cloudy afternoon.  I remember the cloudiness from my own long-ago January visit to Nevis; it was no sunbather's paradise, like Barbados, Grenada or Antigua, some of the other islands I spent time on. The long ago Amerindian people called Nevis Oualie, "land of sweet waters," for the excellent fresh water springs.

I wonder if Alexander was born in the morning. Many babies arrive just before dawn, after a long night of labor for the mother. As far as we know, he would have been Rachel's third and last child; she bore only sons. As fair as Hamilton was, I imagine his newborn self as quite bald and pink. Maybe, because Rachel had already had experienced childbirth before, his was a blessedly quick arrival, perhaps only of a few hours. Her female house slaves, I imagine, would have been her companions, her solace through delivery.

Perhaps there was a midwife; we don't know. Childbirth was a dangerous passage in those days, but "calling the doctor" was not so obligatory as in the 20th Century. Rachel's husband James was probably not in the house; 18th Century men left that particular "trouble" to women. The Hamiltons were still living a modestly genteel life when Alexander came into the world. His "father's affairs" had not yet completely "gone to wreck" as he would, years later, write to a Scottish Uncle, William Hamilton.

Here's a snippet from A Master Passion, a vignette from the birth of Alex and Betsy's first child:

"...When she was under covers again, Mrs. Pieterse, with a great, gap-toothed grin, laid “the cause of all this trouble” in her arms, so she could see him. There he was, her first born son, with a tattered shock of black hair, perfect tiny fingers and toes.

“Another fine grandson for the General,” said the midwife. “Just as fine, if not finer, than Mrs. Carter’s. Aren’t you pleased, Colonel?”

Alexander had just come through the door and was even now looking over the midwife’s shoulder.

“I made a boy, just as you wanted.” Betsy spoke as Hamilton, his face shining, bent down to see.

“Of course you did,” said Mrs. Schuyler. “She has always been my most obedient child, Colonel.”

Formally, Alexander lifted his Betsy’s hand and kissed it. Then, unable to stop there, he leaned to press a kiss against her sweaty forehead..."

~~Juliet Waldron

A MASTER PASSION

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~ PUMPKIN CUSTARD "PIE" ~

A Republican tea in Philadelphia and a recipe for those new small fat edible pumpkins. 

 

Betsy heaved a sigh of relief and smoothed her party dress. In the center of the table sat the tea, steaming in a fine English china pot her mother had given her. The surrounding fare was substantial. The guests were obviously enjoying their repast. It was a full-scale affair, a long table covered with savories as well as sweets.

Some, Betsy had made herself, some she had brought in from famous Philadelphia bake shops. From her kitchen had come apple, beef and kidney and pigeon pies, conserves of pears and plums, and loaves of bread.

She knew that to the Philadelphians as well as to the rich southerners, her tea was a simple affair. No roast pig, no pheasant, no songbirds stuffed in pigeons stuffed in ducks stuffed in turkeys. Nor any French cook backstage drowning everything in sauce, such as Mr. Jefferson employed.

Betsy didn’t have money for such luxuries on the slender salary of her public servant husband. Even if she had had, her Dutch housewife’s upbringing wouldn’t have allowed her to ever feel easy with a French cook in the kitchen.

After a little time, she overheard the judgment of Philadelphia society upon the table of Mrs. Secretary of the Treasury.

“Pumpkin custard baked in the pumpkin. How quaint!”

“Yes. Good Lord. I haven’t been intimate with the dish in years.”

“Well, try some. It’s delicious. I’d quite forgotten how good it can be.”

 

A MASTER PASSION

The story of Alexander Hamilton & Elizabeth Schuyler

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here's an 18th Century recipe for Mrs. Hamilton's Pumpkin Custard "Pie," which is made a little chancey without the intense heat of a wood-fired wall oven. My directions will probably be a little eye-ballish to some, but that's the way I learned to cook. I'm a pantser in the kitchen, too, which is why I'll never be a gourmet chef.

 

 Cut the lid from a small pumpkin, the 1-2 lb., such as Baby Bear, Small Sugar, Wee Be Little. Remove the seeds and strings and gently clean. You want meat to be left behind.

 

Place the pumpkin, a TBS of water inside, the top back on, in an oven proof pan, one with sides, like a pie pan, in case of spillage.

 

Roast in a 350 degree oven for 30 minutes.

 

While it's roasting, make a small batch of custard by your favorite recipe, perhaps something like:

 

3 whole eggs

1 cup whipping cream -- or, if you want the lower calorie option, 1 cup of evaporated milk 

1/4 cup brown sugar

1/2 tsp. molasses

dash nutmeg

1/2 tsp. cinnamon  

1/4 tsp. ginger

 

I'd jigger this recipe around in different ways, depending on the size of the pumpkin cavity. Use more or less spice to your taste. More Molasses would have been preferred by the 18th Century American diner.)

 

Beat the custard together.

 

After 30 minutes, check the pumpkin. (If you've got a couple of smaller pumpkins, this will cook faster, so watch it.) As the pumpkin just yields to a knife, remove the top--careful, it's hot--and gently add the custard--as much as the pumpkin/s will hold. You may place any leftover custard in small glass dishes and cook alongside the roasting pumpkin. 

 

Add another 10 minutes if you don't think it's sufficiently softened. Add the custard. Bake for another 45 minutes and then say a prayer to the oven goddess for the custard to set. Again, if not, just give it a few more minutes.

 

Serve the pumpkin whole at table, scraping some of the pulp to accompany each scoop of custard.

 

 

 

(Downsized from the 5-7 lb. pumpkin original and adapted from Jeff Smith's The Frugal Gourmet Cooks American, William Morrow & Co., 1984)

  

A MASTER PASSION

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A Revolutionary War Wedding

September is almost as popular as June for weddings nowadays.
Here's the story of a wedding  that took place just before Christmas
in a country deep in it's first civil war.

 

 

"....The wedding took place in the yellow parlor in front of a crackling hearth. The Dutch Reformed minister performed the ceremony and everyone who was anyone for miles around attended. The room was packed with patriot gentry, all turned out in their finest wigs and lace. The young men present were almost universally in blue and buff.

Hamilton had gone to the expense of outfitting himself anew before the trip north and today he looked resplendent in a crisp new uniform. The epaulets of Lieutenant Colonel gleamed on his shoulders; his chest was crossed by the green sash worn by the aides de camp of a commanding general. His hair had been powdered, but not quite enough to extinguish a gingery glitter. Everyone agreed; he looked overwhelmingly handsome.

“If Mama hadn’t had all these months to prepare, I’m afraid my little sister would look like a hen pheasant beside that beautiful fellow.” Angelica whispered waspishly to the only woman present she considered her peer, tall blonde Arietta van Corlear. Diamond earrings flashed against creamy necks as the belles approvingly surveyed the lithe figure of the groom.

Still, few others present would have agreed. For the ceremony, Betsy had been transformed into a perfect, fashion plate angel. She had submitted to wearing a wig (sent through enemy lines from Philadelphia), which provided her with a tumble of snowy curls. Beneath this, her olive skin, black eyes, and long dark lashes made a magnificent contrast. Mama had insisted upon applying a delicate lamb’s wool brush of rouge to her high cheekbones, which hollowed the Dutch fullness. Her dress was a cream-colored sacque trimmed with lace and white satin bows.

When she entered the room upon the arm of her father, a number of Hudson valley cousins suffered unanticipated pangs of regret. Was this radiant bride really their own sweet, plain “Little Saint Bess”?

“They make a lovely couple.” Peggy sighed and slipped an arm around the waist of her younger cousin, Eliza van Rensselaer. Peggy had earlier confided to Miss van R. that she herself was secretly “a little in love with that rascal Alexander.”

The hordes of tow-headed children were cautioned, and the fire in Mrs. Schuyler’s eyes was sufficient to convince the most rambunctious that she meant business.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, a plain gold band, an heirloom from long ago Amsterdam, was slipped onto the bride’s delicate finger. The old-fashioned lace veil that had belonged to Grandmother Angelica Livingston Van Rensselaer was turned back, and Colonel Hamilton, in his blue and buff uniform, gave his lovely blacked-eyed Betsy a worshipful kiss.

Mrs. Schuyler leaned on her husband’s arm. She, too, was radiant. Within, the baby she carried stirred restlessly, awakened by the triumphant emotion which coursed through her mother like the Hudson in full flood. To see a beloved daughter handed properly from father to husband, married in the midst of this sea of relations, was a supreme moment...."

~~ Juliet Waldron

A MASTER PASSION
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http://connievines.blogspot.com.au/ Connie Vines

A MASTER PASSION~The story of a Founder's marriage

 

 

 

Betsy heaved a sigh of relief and smoothed her party dress. In the center of the table sat the tea, steaming in a fine English china pot her mother had given her. The surrounding fare was substantial. The guests were obviously enjoying their repast. It was a full-scale affair, a long table covered with savories as well as sweets.

Some, Betsy had made herself, some she had brought in from famous Philadelphia bake shops. From her kitchen had come apple, pumpkin, kidney and pigeon pies, conserves of pears and plums, and loaves of bread.

That wonderful Dutch treat, oleykoecks dusted with sugar, those that had escaped the nimble fingers of the children, were not an hour old and wafting fragrance over the table. From the German baker there were sticky honey cakes and high tortes of nuts, cake and cream. A fine ham sat in state beside the tea pot with slices cut to order by Davie, who had stayed with them. He was resplendent tonight in a fine new wig, coat and pants.

Betsy knew that to the Philadelphians, as well as to the rich southerners, her tea was a simple affair. No roast pig, no pheasant, no songbirds stuffed in pigeons stuffed in ducks stuffed in turkeys. Nor any French cook backstage drowning everything in sauce, such as Mr. Jefferson employed.

Betsy didn’t have money for such luxuries on the slender salary of her public servant husband. Even if she had had, her Dutch housewife’s upbringing wouldn’t have allowed her to ever feel easy with a French cook in the kitchen.

After a little time, she overheard the judgment of Philadelphia society upon the table of Mrs. Secretary of the Treasury.

“Pumpkin custard baked in the pumpkin. How quaint!”

“Yes. Good Lord. I haven’t been intimate with the dish in years.”

“Well, try some. It’s delicious. I’d quite forgotten how good it can be.”

The first speaker was Mrs. Willing, a tall and fashionably dressed brunette, a member of an old Philadelphia family. The second, Mrs. Bingham, was younger, fair and bejeweled.

“Look at this whipped cream! I must say, this is the first edible Republican tea I’ve had. The torte is Herr Kumkraker’s, certainly, but excellent as usual. The rest, I divine, came from her kitchen. I must confess it’s all extremely well prepared.”

 Betsy, holding her chin high, strode to confront the speakers. Mrs. Willing, she thought, was, as usual, sailing just to the lee of rude, but then, what else could be expected from someone whose father had been a war profiteer? The other lady’s maiden days had been spent coquetting it among the red coats during the occupation. One of her bosom friends had been the glamorous, notorious, and now forever banished Peggy Shippen—Mrs. Benedict Arnold.

“Ah, Mrs. Secretary Hamilton, such a marvelous table!”

“Yes, and so perfectly apropos for our Republican Court.” Mrs. Willing caught the flash in Betsy’s dark eyes and quickly added, “These days, with so many well-trained émigrés to employ, one is liable to overlook one’s native diet.”

“Such satisfying food! Why, it’s the kind of tea my worthy Grandmother Chew often served.”

“Your chef…is, ah, from New York?”

Betsy was certain they were fishing for an admission that she had “stooped” to cooking. Gazing into those smug, smooth, carefully made-up faces, she was ready to give them something to gossip about—these foolish women, too proud to enter their kitchens.

A man’s arm slipped beneath hers, interrupting.

“Ladies!” Alexander saluted Betsy’s companions, bowing gracefully. Both women returned his greeting with the responsiveness that Betsy knew usually welcomes a man who is both good looking and powerful.

“Mr. Secretary.”

“Mr. Secretary.”

“I overheard you ladies discussing our chef.” His glorious blue eyes flashed at Mrs. Bingham. The reigning beauty’s color rose beneath her rouge.

The secret of his power over all of us, Betsy thought with a deal of irritation, is that he acts as if he’s not only been in our bed before, but that he’s eager to get back in!

“Actually, a mere cook, ladies.” Alexander began smoothly, sending the merest flicker of a wink to his wife. “She is a marvelous Dutch woman from Albany, sent to us by Mrs. Major General Schuyler. If you can believe it, she speaks not a word of English. My wife is the only one who can communicate with her.”

While Mrs. Bingham and Mrs. Willing were mulling this astonishing fiction, he added, “Plain fare it is, but, I must confess, ’tis quite rich enough for a man with a delicate constitution.”

“You, Mr. Secretary?”

“Ah, yes, unfortunately so. Please excuse me, my dear.” He set Betsy’s arm free. “It is imperative that the ladies taste the pigeon pie.”

Collecting them, one gorgeous belle on each arm, Hamilton began to steer them along the length of the table to where the pigeon pie sat in state, rich brown gravy flowing from a generous cut where the Knoxes had already assailed it. Davie, helpfully attentive, picked up a plate and a server, ready to offer whatever the ladies fancied.

“I confide, of course.” Hamilton spoke in lowered tones. “Trusting implicitly in your discretion.”

The ladies nodded, curls dripping from their towering hairpieces, eager to have his attention.

“Did I hear you say something about a delicate constitution?” asked Mrs. Bingham. “That you should have any weaknesses at all, Mr. Secretary, is an astonishing notion.”

“Ah, Madam, if only I had none. In fact, I have several. A Spartan diet takes care of one.” Here he paused, blue eyes tantalizing them. “Marriage, I confess, assuages the other.”

The buxom Mrs. Willing leaned closer and tapped his chest with her fan. “But, surely, if the weakness is still with you, you must occasionally experiment with other cures...”

 

 

 

~Juliet Waldron

 

 

Available at:

 

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Hop on to the next snippets from other talented BWL writers:

 

 

 

 

http://triciamg.blogspot.com/

http://mizging.blogspot.com (Ginger Simpson)

http://authorjamiehill.blogspot.com/ (Jamie Hill)

http://romancingscifi.blogspot.com/ (Vijaya Schartz)

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