Alex and Eliza: A Love Story(11)
He managed a weak chuckle. “Ladies, you have caught me. I do indeed spend many hours serving as General Washington’s amanuensis, assisting him in his communications with—”
“Amanuensis!” a third feminine voice cut him off. He turned to see—
The girl from the stairs, dressed in a simple gown unamplified by hoops. As his eyes darted between the three girls, he realized he’d been ambushed by none other than the beautiful and clever Schuyler sisters.
An image of Fort Ticonderoga, besieged on all sides, sprang to his mind.
The ladies who made up his breathless entourage of powdered hair and high heels glanced at one another peevishly before petulantly making room for the three newcomers. It wasn’t just that this was the Schuylers’ house, Alex thought. These three were clearly used to commanding any room they entered.
“Amanuensis is such an impressive-sounding word,” said the one he’d bumped into by the stairs. She stood in the middle of her siblings, glowing with good health, a little shorter than the one, a little taller than the other, and yet more vibrant than either, despite the plainness of her gown. “It must refer to some tremendously important position, like a bombardier or a charioteer.”
A blush crept over Alex’s cheeks. “There are no charioteers in the Continental army, Miss, ah, Schuyler, I presume?”
“He is correct, Eliza, the position is not as lofty as one might assume,” said the first sister, the one with the sculptural face. “It is, of course, outside of the domestic purview of provincial females such as ourselves, but I do think what the word amanuensis describes is a position more akin to a . . . scrivener?”
“What’s that you say, Ange?” the other sister said. “Scribbler?”
“Scribbler is a good word, Peg,” the second sister—Eliza—answered. “And yet scribbler is a name often applied to novelists, who, after all, are the authors of the words they scratch onto the page. Whereas, an amanuensis is more of a copyist, don’t you think, Angelica?”
“Indeed,” the tallest sister answered. “It is a position rather akin to a ventriloquist’s mannequin, who simply mouths the words of his master.”
“There’s another word for mannequin, isn’t there?” Peggy asked. “Dolt or dummkopf or . . .”
“Dummy,” Eliza filled in, looking directly at Alex. “I think that’s the word you’re looking for.”
It was a rout, and revenge against what she had heard at the back landing. They were angry and defending their father from this court-martial, and they were out to shoot the messenger.
Alex looked up at the three faces arranged determinedly before him: elegant Angelica on the left; pretty Peggy on the right; and in the middle, the most bewitching of the three, seeming to combine the best features of both sisters and yet not resembling either of them. Angelica and Peggy were both lovely girls, but their beauty emanated from their visages. Eliza was certainly lovely as well, yet her distinction, her captivating quality, came from within rather than without.
He had eyes only for Eliza as he pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and waved it in the air. “I surrender,” he said weakly. “Do with me what you will.”
Eliza stared back at him for a long moment, a triumphant smile flickering at the edge of her lips. Then she reached out and, as if she were plucking a flower, pulled the handkerchief from Alex’s hand. Examining it as though she’d never before seen a man’s lace-edged, pocket handkerchief, she tucked it into her cleavage.
“He’s all yours, ladies,” she said to the Misses Ten Broek, Van der Schnitzel, Beaverbroke, Tamblin-Gogging, and Van Leuwenwoort. She turned her back on him, her voice dripping with contempt, “Do with him what you will.”
6
Lovers’ Reel
Schuyler Ballroom
Albany, New York
November 1777
At length the victuals had been consumed, another round of cider and whiskey quaffed, the chitchat dispensed with. A small army of footmen and stable boys suddenly appeared from the door beneath the stairs and in a manner of minutes had cleared the great hall of all its furniture. As the last sideboard was carted out the musicians, who had been playing quietly in the Red Room, took their place at the foot of the ballroom—a trio consisting of violin, viola, and cello. While the players were taking their places, the guests lined up on either side of the long gallery, and then Mrs. Schuyler separated herself from the crowd and stepped out into the center of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said with the air of a born master of ceremony, “it is time to dance.”
A smatter of applause. Mrs. Schuyler waited for it to die down.
“In this time of war,” she said, “it is more important than ever that we not lose sight of the traditions that bind us together as a nation, and the pleasures that we fight for as people. Hence this small party, which my husband and I throw in honor of the many brave men who fight for our new nation, and the stalwart young women who assist them on the home front.”
As Mrs. Schuyler spoke, Eliza was busy retrieving her dance card from the credenza in the southwest parlor. Normally a girl carried her card with her, but on this occasion her mother had revived an old tradition of the female guests leaving their cards on a table, so that any gentleman could pencil himself in without fear of rejection. Eliza knew Mrs. Schuyler did this less out of a love of tradition but rather to make it impossible for her three headstrong daughters to turn down someone their mother thought would make a fine catch.