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“What does thee take me for? It was Levi. It was Levi who killed her. Thee knows it to be true. What? Do thee think I pushed her in the well? I was by thy side that night.” He seized her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin through the thick layers of linen and wool. “Thee knows I was in the house. Thee will attest to that in court, because thee knows it to be true.”

Elias slouched so these days that Caty had forgotten how tall her husband was, how strong his hands. He’d helped build their meetinghouse, hauling those boards, hammering nails. He’d grown soft in their city life, but that old strength was still there in his fingers.

“Yes,” she choked out. “Thee were here. With me.”

Except when he wasn’t.

Elias released her, so abruptly that she staggered.

“What happened before—it was nothing to do with anything. We will never speak of it again, does thee understand me?”

Caty nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“Good,” he said, and turned to go.

“Elias?” Caty’s shoulders hurt where his fingers had pressed. Or maybe that was her imagination. He hadn’t held her so hard.

“Yes?”

“The front door—” she said tentatively. “It still sticks. If thee might find the time to fix it?”

His eyes met hers. Caty used to love his eyes. She used to love the way he looked at her. Now he was staring at her narrow-eyed, as though gauging her intentions.

He gave a short, brief nod. “All right. I’ll do it today.”

“I thank thee—husband,” Caty said, and tried not to think of Elma.

Chapter Fifteen

I had taken my passage for this day, and anticipated the pleasure of dining with you on Saturday. But—but—these buts—how they mar all the fine theories of life! But our friend Thomas Morris has entreated in such terms that I would devote this day and night to certain subjects of the utmost moment to him, that I could not, without the appearance of unkindness, refuse. . . . But, again, more buts. But after I had consented to give him a day, I sent to take passage for tomorrow and lo! the stage is taken by the sheriff to transport criminals to the state prison. I should not be much gratified with this kind of association on the road, and thus I apprehend my journey will be (must be) postponed until Friday, and my engagement to dine with you until Monday.

—Aaron Burr to his daughter, Theodosia, March 5, 1800

New York City

March 11, 1800

Aaron Burr sat in a ramshackle office on Water Street and contemplated murder.

It was Shakespeare, if Aaron recalled correctly, who had blithely urged, “Let’s kill all the lawyers.” That seemed a bit extreme. Aaron would happily limit the carnage to one General Alexander Hamilton, who, not content with wasting his own time, was intent on wasting Aaron’s as well.

After an exceedingly tedious journey, delayed by one annoyance after another, Aaron had returned home in happy anticipation of a joyful welcome from his Theodosia and instead had discovered Theodosia gone to visit her half brother John Bartow Prevost, leaving an empty house which Hamilton had attempted to fill with a barrage of agitated correspondence, all demanding Aaron’s immediate presence for news of great moment.

This news appeared to have something to do with the sexual habits of the residents of the boardinghouse on Greenwich Street, a topic which Aaron viewed as entirely insufficient for dragging him down to Hamilton’s office on Water Street when he had far more urgent matters to attend to, including, but not limited to, Theodosia’s disregard of his intentions, the conduct of the coming elections, and the state of his coffers.

Aaron’s creditors were showing an unsettling tendency to desire the return of their money.

Thomas Morris—he had been terribly apologetic about it, but he had suffered reversals of his own. Morris’s reversals, Aaron was quite sure, were nothing compared to the amount Aaron had lost through the ill-fated Holland Land Company. The thought of the hundred thousand acres he’d had to default on made him feel sick. Theodosia was still angry at him for dragging his stepson John Bartow into bankruptcy.

There were few people for whose good opinion Aaron cared, but Theodosia was one. Perhaps the only one.

John Bartow would recoup his fortunes—they would all recoup their fortunes—as soon as these elections were won. Power, patronage, emoluments. What were a few trifling debts to those?

And it was all his, provided this prancing nuisance in front of him could be kept sufficiently distracted. Aaron had no doubt that if he faced any threat to his ambitions at all, it was from Hamilton. He could only be grateful that Hamilton’s obvious talents were counterbalanced by his poor sense.

For example, expending his energies hunting down rumors about the amorous peccadilloes of Quakers.

Aaron broke into Hamilton’s monologue. “Can one truly identify a voice heard through the wall—under such circumstances?”