Love & War by Melissa de la Cruz
“Oh, I wouldn’t say ‘unseemly,’” Mrs. Schuyler protested. “Unseemly is the way you are fanning your face like Cook trying to save a custard. A porch is merely . . . common.”
Peggy blushed and immediately slowed her hand. Eliza, who had been fanning herself and Kitty nearly as vigorously, also slowed, but still laughed at her mother’s teasing.
In the three months since Kitty’s birth, the family dynamic had changed in tone. Mrs. Schuyler, who seemed to know that this was her last child, had relaxed into a benevolent, almost grandmotherly playfulness, treating her eighth child as a pet to be indulged at every occasion, and softening in her attitude toward her adult children. The stern mother of yore was still there, as witnessed by her chiding about Peggy’s fan, but it was delivered in a tenderer tone, sometimes even teasingly. Mrs. Schuyler no longer acted as if the slightest breach of etiquette—serving oyster forks with the fish, say, or wearing any color brighter than midnight blue on a Sunday—were a disaster from which the family’s reputation would never recover.
Eliza thought fondly of how Alex would enjoy this change in his mother-in-law. Her husband was still a bit awed and cowed by her mother.
“The truth is your father didn’t want a porch,” Catherine said now. “I amend that. Your father wanted a grand Palladian affair, with Corinthian columns and a pediment decorated with a frieze, if you can believe it. I told him it was scandalous enough that we had natural figures”—natural was Mrs. Schuyler’s code word for nude—“inside the house, on that wallpaper everyone loves to ooh and aah over, but I absolutely was not going to have . . . exposed . . . cherubs leering at my guests every time they entered or exited my home. As your father is never one to compromise, we ended up without said porch.”
“Well, I for one love having picnics down here,” Peggy said. “It makes an occasion of it. It might be less work up at the house, but it wouldn’t be nearly so special.”
“That’s because you’re not the one carrying a child,” Eliza said. “I believe Kitty has gotten bigger every day she’s been alive.”
“That is the preferred direction, is it not?” Angelica teased. “Imagine if she were to get smaller? It would be most peculiar. And might I add, you are not carrying a child, you are merely holding one and can put it in the arms of a nurse at any time. I am carrying a child, and may I say that with each passing day, I grow more and more in awe of Mama, who did this more times than I can count and never let on how truly uncomfortable it is. It feels like Dot has cinched me into the tightest corset and is now trying squeeze a melon in between the whalebone and my ribs.”
“In my day,” Mrs. Schuyler said, “a woman didn’t talk about her condition. It was—”
“Unseemly?” Peggy teased. “Or merely common?”
“Vulgar, I should say,” Catherine said in a serious voice—so serious that Eliza thought her mother was putting on a show. “But what do I know? I am just an old woman of six-and-forty years.”
“Well, if you say ‘six-and-forty’ like a member of Queen Elizabeth’s court, people will think you an old woman.”
“Well, what should I say? ‘Forty-six’?” Mrs. Schuyler shuddered. “What next? Shall I go about town without a bonnet?” She lifted up the hem of her dress until it was higher than the cuff of her summer boot, revealing a few inches of pale pantaloon. “Expose my ankle? Or, I know, why don’t I just adopt a profession? Perhaps I will study law, like Eliza’s Colonel Hamilton, or be a merchant, like Angelica’s Mr. Church, or, hold on, why don’t I just name myself Patroon like Peggy’s Mr. Van Rensselaer!” Mrs. Schuyler chortled wickedly. “You girls with your modern ideas! Always thinking things can be improved upon when the old order has worked century upon century.”
“But has it?” Eliza said. “I mean, if the old order worked so well, then why are we fighting this war? Why don’t we continue to let some king on the other side of the ocean impose unjust taxes on us, and take the better part of our income simply because he happens to be the son of someone who happened to be the son of someone who happened to be the son of someone who—”
“Yes, I think we see where you are going with this,” Mrs. Schuyler interjected. “But these are the sorts of questions men ask, and men answer. It is a woman’s place to maintain a steady keel, so that our menfolk always have a safe haven to turn to in an ever-changing world.”
“Why, Catherine Van Rensselaer Schuyler!” Angelica said. “I never thought I would hear you adopt such a—such a meek position, not just for all women but for yourself! You are one of the most strong-willed, independent, and capable women I have ever known. During the five long years of this war, there have been more months than not when Papa was away and you ran this house singlehandedly, assuming all of his duties in addition to yours. And, I might add, turning more of a profit off the farm than Papa ever did!”
“For shame!” Mrs. Schuyler said, but Eliza thought she detected a submerged pride in her mother’s voice. “I only stepped up as was my duty. What I did was nothing special.”
“Perhaps it was ‘nothing special,’” Eliza chimed in. “But if that’s the case, doesn’t it prove that the female sex is capable of doing anything that males can do? I say they are the ones who are nothing special!”
“Anything?” Mrs. Schuyler scoffed. “Would you stand behind a plow and furrow the fields? Would you shoulder a rifle and march to war?”
“It seems to me that it’s the horse that does the work in the first instance, and the bullet in the second. Neither requires any great feat of manly strength.”
The women fell silent after this exchange, their thoughts all filled with the ongoing siege five hundred miles south, in Yorktown, Virginia. It had been more than a week since Eliza had heard from Alex, and the silence was close to driving her mad. By now, her anger had completely faded, and even her fear had subsided to a dull ache. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t on her mind a hundred times a day. The glimpse of a ribbon that he had worn in his hair could bring him to mind, or one of his old jackets lurking at the back of a wardrobe, or even just his empty seat at table.
But she always tried to steer her thoughts away from him, lest she begin conjuring fantasies about what was happening to him at that moment. Did his silence, for example, mean that the siege had escalated to actual battle, or that the battle was over? Was it possible that Alex had fallen—
No! she said to herself, cutting short this train of thought.
She looked down at the sleeping face of her newest sister. Kitty had been sickly for the first few weeks of her life, and Eliza had been terrified that she would meet the same fate as Cortland, her mother’s last child, who had only survived a few weeks before succumbing to one of those unnamable maladies that so often steal young babes away. She had fretted over Kitty’s bed as if she were the girl’s mother, and though Dr. Van Vrouten declared that none of her symptoms were life-threatening, Eliza’s ministrations had helped ensure that they did not become more alarming. But as Kitty’s health improved, Eliza had been plagued by a new fear: that somehow Kitty’s life had been bought at the expense of her husband’s. She knew it was folly. That neither illness nor God worked in such a way, but the eleven days since she had heard from Alex had been excruciating for her, and she longed to receive word that he had survived the command he had demanded, and not succumbed to the perils of battle as Governor Clinton had so mockingly predicted.
“Speaking of boys,” Peggy cut into Eliza’s reverie in a bored voice. “Have you noticed Philip and John and Ren have fallen suddenly silent? I do hope they haven’t slipped into a hole somewhere.”
Eliza strained her ears, and indeed heard nothing but her mother’s singing birds.
“They’re probably hunting something. I expect we shall hear a gunshot at any—”
She was cut off by exactly the sound she prognosticated, not once but two, three, four, five times, in rapid succession.
Eliza wondered at her mother’s expert knowledge of munitions—well, she was a soldier’s wife, after all—but before she could ask, she heard the light tread of multiple running feet. A moment later, her three brothers appeared at the base of the garden path and tore toward the feminine quintet in the gazebo. The two older boys each held one of eight-year-old Ren’s hands in one of theirs, and were all but carrying the smaller boy as they charged up. Their guns flapped loosely in their other hands.
“Mama! Mama!” John called. “Redcoats!”
“Redcoats!” Philip and Ren echoed.
“Mama!” John cut them off. “A party of redcoats and Indians is advancing upon the house from the northwest! There are at least fifteen of them, maybe more!”
“What?” Eliza said, standing so suddenly that little Kitty roused from her nap and let out a thin mew. Eliza peered toward the northwest but could see nothing over the well-grown trees of the cherry orchard. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“They fired at us! The white men are dressed as civilians, but there can be no mistake! We must get to the house and prepare to defend it!”
Eliza turned to her mother for direction. Catherine Schuyler was pushing herself to her feet with an inscrutable expression on her face. Before the shocked gaze of her three oldest children, she strode purposefully to John and snatched the rifle from his hand, then turned to Philip and grabbed his, and then, to the gape-jawed astonishment of her audience, threw both weapons deep into the flowerbeds.
“There will be absolutely no defending or firing of any kind!” she said with more passion in her voice than Eliza had ever heard. “Are you mad? If you fire on a British war party, they will cut you down as though you were soldiers on the line. I will not watch my sons shot down in my own house!”
“Mama!” Philip began, but Catherine whirled on him.
“Not another word, or as our Lord and Savior is watching, I will turn you over my knee! To the house, all three of you. And you girls, what are you waiting for? Get up the hill now! Are you going to greet a party of gentlemen in the garden like a group of lolling milkmaids? Up! Up!”
The stunned group began a straggling march up the stone steps that led from the garden to the house. Eliza was still carrying Kitty and found herself clutching the infant so closely to her chest that her sister was beginning to fuss. She willed her arms to relax, yet it was impossible. It seemed unbelievable that even as Alex was risking his life to challenge the British in Virginia half a thousand miles away, she and her mother and sisters and brothers were under fire right here in Albany.
It is a sign of British desperation, she said to herself. But that didn’t make her feel any safer. Or less outraged. Cowards! she thought. Going after women and children! Her heart raced as she thought of her family’s safety, and of Alex’s distraught if anything were to happen to her.
Halfway up the slope, she turned back. To her horror, she saw a swarm of dark-coated figures down at the bottom of the hill. They were pale skinned and dressed in European attire, no redcoats visible, but they didn’t need uniforms to identify themselves as the enemy, anyone could see the hostile expressions on their faces.
“Eliza, please!” Peggy said, taking her arm. “Do not gawk! Get inside!”
She hurried up the hill, but she couldn’t help but feel she was running into a trap. Why had her mother had thrown the boys’ rifles away—the only weapons they had to defend themselves! Rationally, she knew Mrs. Schuyler was correct. If the boys were foolish enough to fire at their attackers, they would be executed in a hail of answering bullets. But to be corralled in the house, with no weapons and no route to escape! It shook her to the core. Yet what else could they do but trust that the men chasing them up the hill were not so dishonorable that they would fire upon civilians?
The last thirty seconds as they ran up the hill were the longest of Eliza’s life. She hunched her shoulders, as if they would somehow provide more protection if the men behind her did choose to fire. But no shots rang out, and at last the Schuyler clan was at the top of the hill and running around the corner of the house to the back door. One by one, they ran inside into the rear hall, where several of the maids were already gathered at the foot of the stairs with Mary and Samson the butler.
“Should I barricade the door, madam?” he asked as soon as John, who insisted on being last through the portal, was inside.
“Leave it open,” Mrs. Schuyler commanded. “We do not want to inflame the passions of our besiegers by forcing them to hack their way in. Please take the maids and my children upstairs and wait in the hall. Do not hide, and if the men do come upstairs, speak to them as briefly but respectfully as possible.”
“Mama, you must come, too!” Peggy said.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Schuyler replied. “This is my home, and I will greet any and all visitors as is proper for a mistress when her husband is not as home.”
“Mama, I must insist,” said Peggy. “Papa would never allow anything to happen to you. We can take care of these men.”
“Yes, Peggy and I will greet them,” said Eliza determinedly. “Mama, go upstairs.”
For a moment, Mrs. Schuyler seemed ready to argue, but seeing the fierce look of determination on both her daughters’ faces, she nodded instead.
“Upstairs. All of you,” said Eliza. “Peggy and I will deal with this matter. Angelica, you cannot remain downstairs in your condition.”
Angelica held her sisters’ gazes gravely and then, taking Ren’s hand, led him upstairs. John and Philip followed.
“Are you certain we can do this?” asked Peggy when they had gone.
“We have no choice,” said Eliza, who turned to the door when she realized something. “Mary? Is Cornelia upstairs already?”
Mary gasped. “It was time for her nap, and it was just so hot upstairs!”
“Mary!” Eliza said sharply. “Where is Cornelia?”
“She must be sleeping in the east parlor!” cried Peggy.
Eliza turned and, all but dumping Kitty in her mother’s arms, pushed past Mrs. Schuyler and dashed down the hall toward the front of the house. She ran into the east parlor, where her five-year-old sister lay stretched out on a sofa.
“Cornelia,” she said in as gentle a voice as she could muster, though it sounded quite shrill to her ears.
Cornelia’s eyes fluttered open. “Lizzy? Is it tea time?”
“Not exactly, dear. But come along now, and I’ll have Mary fetch you a nice bowl of fresh cream and baked apples.”
Cornelia sat up slowly, and Eliza had to hurry her along.
“Schleepy!” she called as Eliza dragged her into the hall—just as the front door burst open, only a few feet behind them, and a horde of men began streaming into the house.
Eliza grabbed Cornelia and pushed her into Peggy’s arms. Peggy drew back, trembling as she held their youngest sister.
“Gentlemen!” Eliza said in her brightest voice even as she backed toward the staircase, which was a good thirty feet behind her. “Forgive me for not opening the door myself. I did not hear you knock.”
“Quiet, girl!” one of the ruffians spat. “We have no interest in you or your fellow brats. Where is Philip Schuyler?”
“Gone to alert the Albany militia,” said Eliza, thinking quickly. “If you know what’s good for you, you will hie back to whatever cave from which you crept before he returns.”
“Yes!” said Peggy stoutly. “Papa will be here in any moment!”
In fact, General Schuyler had left yesterday for the estate in Saratoga, preparing for the harvest, and no help was on the way. Eliza doubted their improvisation would fool their attackers. But maybe—the men seemed to think General Schuyler was still in residence, af
“Oh, is he? And how do we know he is not hiding upstairs like a frightened child?” sneered the Brit.
Eliza placed herself in front of Peggy and Cornelia, to shield them from the men, and drawing herself to her full height, scoffed at the notion that her father would be so cowardly. “The answer to that question is implicit in your presence here. You have come for our father because you know him to be a military man of great renown and fortitude. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be worth your while. Do you think such a man would cower from a ragtag bunch of irregulars who themselves don’t have the courage to wear the uniform of their allegiance?”
The front of the hall had completely filled up with armed men now. Their expressions were leering and contemptuous, yet they held themselves in check, though one Brit was eyeing a silver ewer with a gleam in his eye.
If that is the only thing they take, Eliza thought, we will be getting off easy.
“You have a saucy mouth,” the apparent leader said. “Especially for a genteel, unarmed woman.”
“I am armed with my God-given womanhood, which is more than enough to protect me from the likes of you. And soon enough our father will be back with twenty men, and then I wonder what will protect you,” said Eliza angrily.
The men looked nervously at one another, some doubtfully, but others with palpable alarm.
Eliza took the moment to push Peggy and Cornelia farther back, and soon Peggy was climbing the stairs two at the time, Cornelia giving off a little cry.
“Bah!” another soldier said now, stepping forward. “Let’s see your womanhood protect you from this.” And so saying, he grabbed an axe and hurled it right at Eliza.