Hamilton's Battalion Page 33

  “So I’m guessing you’ll want something high-necked,” she said, as if she didn’t have pages of sketches she’d designed just for Mercy. She held her measuring tape against the slim column, wrapped it around to get the measurement. She could feel Mercy’s pulse throb beneath her thumb. She’d placed her mouth against that pulse and suckled the last time they had been together.

  She pulled the tape away, saw the tremor go through Mercy as it caressed her skin. She should have pushed her out of the shop and slammed the door in the wench’s face. Instead she moved behind her, pressed one end of the tape to where arm met shoulder, and slowly pulled the remaining length across the span of Mercy’s back. She kept the pressure of her fingertips light, just enough to graze Mercy through the fabric of her dress.

  “I—I want…”

  Andromeda noted the measurement, then moved to Mercy’s side and repeated the torturous motion, this time spanning from shoulder to wrist.

  “Oh, I know what you want,” Andromeda said. “Something in the style of a burlap sack. You want a dress that makes everyone forget that you exist.”

  She noted the measurement, then wrapped the tape around Mercy’s wrist, right where she imagined the sleeve of a beautiful, stylish-but-sensible dress should fall. There was that pulse again, thrumming away as a reminder of how fragile Mercy was beneath her rigid exterior. Andromeda had grown up surrounded by nature, but life in the city had allowed her to forget that fragile things often tried to appear more frightening than they were to repel predators.

  That didn’t excuse Mercy’s behavior, but it also didn’t excuse Andromeda’s. She hadn’t known love could hurt like that, that time and distance could be a physical pain. She’d told the story of her grandparents so often; of Grandma Kate spurning Grandpa Elijah. She’d always thought the spectacular part of their story was the escape by horseback across the river, but no. It was how he’d waited for her on a river bank in enemy territory, unsure that his love would be returned but willing to risk everything on the hope that it would be. It was Grandma Kate, building a life for them during the hardships of war, unsure if the man she’d given her heart to would return from his time with Hamilton’s battalion. Love wasn’t always about bluster and heroics. It was also having patience during the lulls in excitement, when victory wasn’t assured.

  “Did you read my letter?” Mercy asked as Andromeda crouched down.

  Andromeda pushed her hand beneath Mercy’s skirt, tried not to remember how the skin beneath her fingertips had felt against her mouth. Her hand slid up, up and Mercy gasped.

  “No, I didn’t read it,” she said, looking up into Mercy’s eyes. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to read your words. I knew they would—” She paused, and had to look away from Mercy’s gaze. She focused on pulling the tape taut against her leg. She didn’t need the measure really—she’d memorized the dimensions of Mercy’s body with her hands and her mouth. She knew exactly her measure; or she’d thought so before Mercy had come back into her room and pushed Andromeda away. “I knew that it would be too painful, to read your words, to hear them in your sweet voice, and to know that I had meant nothing to you.”

  She pulled her hands away and stood, catching Mercy’s hapless gaze.

  “You think that you mean nothing to me?” Mercy asked, with a kind of awe in her tone. Mercy was like a startled deer, caught unawares, frightened out of her wits but oblivious of how dangerous her hooves were when she reared and kicked out. Andromeda could not withstand another kick.

  “High neck, slim-fitting sleeves, ruching along the collar, high waist. Is that something you’d want?” Andromeda asked. She reached out to get the measurement of Mercy’s waist.

  “What I want is to apologize,” Mercy said. Her voice quavered. “I should not have been so hasty.”

  “Haste? That is what you apologize for?” Enough. Andromeda could take no more. Perhaps Mercy really was so cold; perhaps the woman she’d met in her letters and shared a bed with had been the bait, Mercy the predator, and Andromeda had been the prey all along.

  She turned to move away and Mercy grabbed her by the collar. It wasn’t a rough tug—strong enough to force her to look upward but not enough that she couldn’t easily pull away—but it surprised Andromeda. She looked up into eyes that had just been filled with uncertainty, but the gaze that met hers now was sharp as the tip of a pin.

  “No. I apologize for giving you up so easily,” Mercy said. Her voice was angry, but Andromeda could see that her anger was turned inward. “Do you love him? I can accept it if you love him, but if this is simply for the purpose of business, then I believe I will have to voice my strenuous objection to your union.”

  Andromeda didn’t know what Mercy was talking about, but discovered that she was even lovelier in her determination than she was in her pique.

  “Love whom?” Andromeda asked. She could think of nothing but the stubborn set of Mercy’s mouth and the slight pull at her collar.

  “Martin blasted Shear,” Mercy said in a tone bordering on a growl. She looked down at her hand on Andromeda’s collar and seemed to remember her manners, for she released her. Andromeda felt a stab of disappointment.

  “Martin…” Andromeda’s stomach dropped and then flipped and then flew up to her throat as confusion, then understanding, then hope made their appearances in quick succession. “You read the paper,” she said.

  “Yes. I found it drying in the kitchen and I was furious. I was hurt. But I should have spoken with you. Because you…” The hand that hovered near Andromeda’s certainly rumpled collar lifted and cupped Andromeda’s jaw. Her thumb brushed over Andromeda’s bottom lip and the sensation went through Andromeda like lightning. “…you are irksome and overconfident, but it appears I find that to my liking. And if you do not love this Martin blasted Shear, and you perhaps feel for me a bit of what I feel for you…”

  Mercy’s eyes had gone glossy and Andromeda’s own throat was rough.

  “I don’t love him,” Andromeda said. “Because he doesn’t exist.”

  “Pardon?”

  “While at home, I paid a visit to an old friend,” she said. “She’d recently been engaged to the owner of the local Negro newspaper. I asked if she could do me a kindness by printing something special up for me that I could use as the proof I needed.

  “I had to wait until the next printing day, but I left home with an engagement, on paper, that would put Mr. Porter at ease, and a fiancé who would meet a sad end after the ink on the deed was dried. Martin blasted Shear fell down a well, I’ve heard. A pity. He was a good man and helped me immensely.”

  “You mean…” Mercy’s hands went to her mouth and she took a step back, wobbling on the pedestal. Andromeda caught her at the waist and held her steady for a moment before releasing her and taking a step back.

  “There is no fiancé. I told you that I would never hurt you, which in retrospect is a rather lofty promise. I imagine marrying someone else while I’m madly in love with you might qualify as hurting you, though. And myself.”

  “Madly in love?” Mercy looked about and Andromeda allowed herself a chuckle, a bit of her fear starting to ebb. Perhaps one day they’d even laugh about this. The fact that there might be a “one day” suffused her with hope. The sadness that had weighed Andromeda down fell away. She grinned and took a step closer to Mercy.

  “Yes. With you. I was going to ask…I’ll need help with the boarding house and as you seem not entirely happy at The Grange, perhaps we might form a partnership? There’s keeping the rooms clean, maintaining the property, and keeping the boarders in line. You know, all of those things you seem to get some strange pleasure from. And there would be time for you to write, if that’s what you want to do. I’d make sure you had time.”

  Andromeda looked up at Mercy, imagining what their life could be like together. There would be spats and disagreements over trivial things, to be certain, but there would be days at the Grove and Lady Bess’s. Conversations with friends. Quiet night
s in front of a shared fire as Andromeda sewed and Mercy wrote. Not-so-quiet nights when they retired to their bed early. They might have all that ahead of them, and Andromeda was champing at the bit, to be sure, but she would be patient. For this, she could be patient.

  “So…this is an offer of employment?” Mercy asked quietly.

  “Oh, no. This is an offer of me. Us. Together. The employment is just a means to an end.”

  Mercy’s eyes briefly closed, and when they opened, they shimmered with tears. “Moving back to the city would mean giving up the quiet of The Grange.”

  “I can be quiet,” Andromeda said quickly. “Truly. Sewing is quiet by its very nature, and I can walk about in stocking feet, and try not to ask too many questions. I’ll be busy much of the day, you know. You won’t even know I’m about, that’s how quiet—”

  “Andromeda?”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps you should finish these measurements. I’ll need a new wardrobe if I’m going to be among the fashionable townfolk now.”

  Andromeda nodded, joy surging through her, and roped her measuring tape around Mercy’s waist. Instead of cinching it tight, she used it to pull Mercy forward so that they were pressed against one another.

  “I don’t believe this is part of the measurement-taking process,” Mercy said. That determined look was still lighting up her eyes, and her expression was open and inviting.

  Warmth flowed through Andromeda; she thought she might float from the happiness that rushed to her head. “It’s an exclusive service, reserved for my most important client.”

  “Ah. Starting my return from the far-flung countryside in grand style. If that’s the case, carry on.”

  “As you wish.” Andromeda continued where she’d left off, pulling Mercy close and standing on tiptoe to meet that sweet, soft mouth. The kiss was gentle at first, but then Mercy’s hands cupped Andromeda’s face and held her in place. Mercy kissed her deeply, possessively, and without an iota of prudish restraint.

  Lord above, Andromeda did love a challenge. Luckily for her, so did Mercy.

  Epilogue

  Mrs. Hamilton,

  Enclosed you will find a recollection from Mr. Calvin Porter, whom I encountered at Lady Bess’s Tavern, a local establishment which I frequent with Andromeda. I overheard Mr. Porter recounting his participation in the theft of several cannons from the British at the request of Alexander Hamilton. Learning that he had not yet shared it with you, I asked if I might send you a summation. Please forgive the length of the piece, but I wanted to ensure that I conveyed the humor in Mr. Porter’s vivid storytelling. It seems I, too, am invested in your Hamilton’s legacy. I hope you find the tale useful.

  In your previous letter, you asked how things are coming along. Both the boarding house and Andromeda’s dress shop are flourishing, and she is already looking for her next investment. I volunteer my services at the orphanage twice a week, teaching the children to read and write, and a few of my poems have been published in local papers. I have also started working on a play to be put on at the Grove.

  I do miss the quiet of The Grange, but although things are not always easy, I am quite content. That is more than I’d ever imagined for myself; that is more than enough.

  Your obedient servant,

  Mercy Alston

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed Mercy and Andromeda’s story!

  If you’re curious about Andromeda’s grandparents, Kate and Elijah Sutton, the story of their battle for love and freedom can be found in my novella Be Not Afraid. It’s already available.

  If you’d like to be notified about upcoming releases, feel free to sign up for my newsletter at www.alyssacole.com! You can also follow me on Twitter at @AlyssaColeLit, or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AlyssaColeLit/.

  For historical notes on all three novellas, please continue reading.

  End Notes: Rose Lerner

  Acknowledgments

  There are always so many people to thank, but this book has more than most. Thank you, of course, to Tiffany Ruzicki, beta reader extraordinaire. I rely on you. Thank you to my uncle David for looking over the military stuff. Thank you to the friends who shared Hamilton fandom with me: Susanna Fraser, Olivia Waite, and especially Tiffany Gerstmar, my partner in Aaron Burr ambivalence.

  Thank you to Courtney and Alyssa, for including me in this amazing project. This wasn’t an easy book to write, especially now, and I don’t think I could have done it with anyone else. Hopefully you will never know how much I admire you both because it would be a little embarrassing.

  Thank you to our copyeditor, Kim Runciman, for your expertise and for thinking Nathan was adorable.

  Thank you, as always, to Sonia, my partner in creativity and in life. There’s no one I would rather have waited outside the Hamilton stage door with. I would always rather do everything with you.

  Thank you to Elizabeth for sharing your knowledge of halacha and Jewish history and practice with me. Remaining errors of fact or judgment are, of course, all my own.

  Younger readers familiar with Hebrew might notice that Rachel and Nathan’s pronunciation is different from what they’re used to. Like many things in modern life, the language has been standardized in recent decades; most synagogues today use the modified Sephardi pronunciation that is spoken in Israel. Rachel and Nathan know Ashkenazi Hebrew. I don’t, although I remember my mother said certain words differently than my rabbi does. Heartfelt thanks to Miranda Dubner and her family for your help, as well as to Elizabeth. I apologize for any lingering mistakes!

  I would like to thank Revolutionary War reenactors for your exhaustive expertise, and for your commitment to making it available on the internet. I would have had no idea what to do about tents without you. Thank you to Thomas Fleming for your insightful, detailed books on Yorktown and the Revolutionary War, and to Michael E. Newton for writing Alexander Hamilton: The Formative Years and loving footnotes even more than I do.

  Thank you to Jewish historians for safeguarding our memories; I am grateful every day for your work and your strength.

  Last but not least, I would like to thank Lin-Manuel Miranda, for creating Hamilton and for making me want to write about America.

  Historical note

  I hope you enjoyed Rachel and Nathan’s story! This is my first Revolutionary War story—my first story, actually, that isn’t set in Regency England—and I had a wonderful time researching and writing it.

  The burning of the HMS Charon really happened. John Laurens, cinnamon bun that he was, wrote in his diary, “It was allowable to enjoy this magnificent nocturnal spectacle, as the vessels had previously been abandoned by their crews.” In my story I had him share that thought with his men.

  Women in uniform were a reality in every eighteenth-century army and navy. The difference between men and women isn’t as wide or as fixed as we sometimes imagine, and people don’t pay that much attention to each other anyway. Plus, while soldiers and sailors lived in close quarters, they usually didn’t bathe much or have more than one set of clothes. Rachel’s role model, memoirist Hannah Snell, served successfully in the British marines for three years from 1747 to 1750.

  Deborah Sampson served in the Continental light infantry for seventeen months. After the war she petitioned for and received a military pension, authorized a biography, and went on a successful lecture tour in 1802, as part of which she performed military drills in uniform. I highly recommend Alfred F. Young’s recent biography, Masquerade.

  Many Jewish soldiers served in the Continental Army, both as officers and enlisted men. Fritz Hirschfeld’s George Washington and the Jews is a good starting place to learn more (not to mention a great name for a band). Haym Salomon, Nathan’s spy mentor, was real. He often gets referred to as “the financier of the Revolution,” and it’s true that his help as a broker was invaluable to finance superintendent Robert Morris, desperately wheeling and dealing in Philadelphia to keep the ar
my afloat.

  But what gets forgotten (maybe because most historians don’t see Jews as action heroes) is that before he fled New York for Philadelphia, Salomon was a spy who used his knowledge of German to turn disaffected Hessian officers. He was twice suspected of setting major fires in the city to sabotage the British occupation. He spent all his own money on the Revolution (he even paid James Madison’s personal bills) and died broke in 1785. If he had lived just a few more years, Alexander Hamilton’s insistence on full repayment to holders of Continental debt would have restored his fortunes.

  Was Hamilton Jewish, as Rachel and Nathan wonder? The evidence is entirely circumstantial, but personally, I think there’s a case to be made. The story about him attending Hebrew school as a boy is true. It’s too complicated to get into here, but if you’re interested in learning more, visit the Hamilton’s Battalion’s DVD extras page on my website: I’ve written a long blog post about it.

  Believe it or not, I didn’t make up the Great Yom Kippur Window Controversy of 1755 either! Solomon Hays (who sounds like a real jerk) was eventually readmitted to the synagogue after he apologized and agreed to stop writing a tell-all book. But I doubt people forgot. And Rachel was right that the grudges and loyalties formed during the Revolutionary War would never be forgotten either. When I read Thomas Fleming’s Washington’s Secret War, about the general’s struggle to improve conditions at Valley Forge while Charles Lee and Thomas Conway worked to undercut him, I was surprised at how many of the players were already familiar to me as Hamilton’s friends and enemies from his later political career—and how little the battle lines changed.