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Just thinking of the Manhattan Well made Alexander burn with rage. “You know well enough what his methods are.”

“I know well enough what yours are.” Harison let out a puff of breath, visible in the cold air. “Didn’t you just tell me yourself you’d promised Mrs. Hamilton not to exert yourself?”

“My Eliza would be the last to prevent me from exerting myself in a matter of justice,” said Alexander firmly, although when he remembered Eliza as she’d been that morning, exhausted, as close to defeated as he’d ever seen her, he wasn’t quite so sure.

There’d been a piece in the Aurora last week, claiming Alexander had been with his supposed mistress, Maria Reynolds, in Philadelphia. Eliza knew it was nonsense, of course. Alexander was reasonably sure Eliza knew it was nonsense. It was just another Republican dig, another attempt to discredit him, dragging up that old muck, the painful remembrance of his own misjudgment.

A case such as this would provide fodder of quite another kind for the papers. Burr and his Republicans had been making inroads with the lesser sort in the city, the small tradesmen and mechanics. Livingston was an ardent Republican; the two of them defending this Weeks boy would only entrench them as the champion of the little man.

But if Hamilton were joined with them in Levi’s defense . . . well, perhaps that might go some way to getting the Federalists the votes they needed to carry the spring assembly elections.

There was also the matter of the house. Ezra Weeks was one of the most sought-after builders in the city. If one were to build a house, one must have a builder. So it was really for Eliza’s benefit in the end if Alexander were to offer to Weeks to defend his brother.

And there was justice to be served too. It was really quite economical; he could annoy Burr, improve his own standing, benefit his party, thwart the mob, and forward the project of the house in the country, all at the same time.

“Would you have me leave an innocent to the mercy of the mob—and the eloquence of Livingston and Burr?”

“You know best,” said Harison doubtfully.

“Except when I do not?” Alexander clapped his old friend on the shoulder, his spirits rising dangerously; he could feel the excitement building, the thrill of a challenge. “You’ll introduce me to Weeks senior? I’ve had it in mind to build a house for Eliza. . . .”

“Oh, it’s about a house, is it?”

“I might just interest myself in his brother’s case.” Alexander looked seriously at his old friend. “I can’t leave a man to the mob, Richard.”

“Or the glory to Colonel Burr?” Relenting, Harison took his arm. “Come. We’ll leave these ghouls to their gawking. I’ll take you to Ezra Weeks.”

Chapter Two

I saw the corpse of the deceased twice. I had but a superficial view, however, of it, as it lay in the coffin, exposed to the view of thousands; I examined such parts as were come-at-able—Such as her head, neck and breast.

—From the testimony of Dr. Richard Skinner at the trial of Levi Weeks

New York City

January 6, 1800

“You can see what he did to her—Weeks.” Richard Croucher’s exaggerated British drawl carried over the slurred consonants of the local Dutch accent.

There were too many people crammed into the frame house on Greenwich Street; Catherine Ring felt as though it were about to split open, like an overfilled barrel. People lined the streets outside, peering through the windows. Caty could hear the cries of vendors hawking oysters and roasted chestnuts, gingerbread and cider, handbills and gossip. People breezed into the house with crumbs and rumor on their lips.

A new wave of visitors shoved past Caty as if she weren’t there, as if this weren’t her house, her sitting room, her cousin. They ogled the bruises on Elma’s throat and breast, trailing their fingers over the dark marks on her neck, lifting her limp hands, pursing their lips in noises of sympathy and horror and glee. Some pretended to expertise, calling themselves doctors, spouting learned words in Latin while they peeled apart Elma’s bodice. Others didn’t bother to pretend any professional interest. They just stared and speculated, fondling her hair, her dress, making ribald remarks as if it didn’t matter, as if her family weren’t listening, as if there weren’t children there.

Caty wanted to take her broom and sweep them all out of her house. Out, out, out.

Let them see what he did to her, Elias had said, the same words, over and over, battering Caty’s ears. What he did to her . . . what he did to her . . .

What Caty had allowed him to do to her. Elias hadn’t said it, not outright, but Caty could hear it; she could feel it in the way Elias wouldn’t quite look at her, wouldn’t meet her eyes, slouched away when he saw her coming.

He couldn’t blame her more than she blamed herself.

On that endless Sunday, there had been so many moments when she might have taken Elma by the hand and said, “Thee needn’t be married in this hole-and-corner way. Be married from thy own house, with honor. If he persuades thee to run from thy family he wants nothing good of thee.”

Elma would have laughed if she’d said such a thing, Caty knew that. And yet . . . Come back, she imagined herself calling.

Instead, Caty had tied on Elma’s gloves for her.

Caty elbowed through the crowd in the front room; she had to find Elias and make him stop this. Not just because they were letting goodness only knew who into the house, tracking in the refuse of the streets, and she had dinner to make and children to tend—the living still mattered too—but for Elma’s sake also. It wasn’t decent; it wasn’t seemly.