Aaron Burr, Matchmaker for Dolley Payne Todd & James Madison

Whenever I write about America in the late 18thc, I’m struck by what a relatively small place it was. By 1790, New York had become the largest city, but with a population of only 33,100; Philadelphia was second at 28,500. The politicians, merchants, bankers, lawyers, and physicians and others who made up each city’s wealthy elite classes were an even smaller group. They attended the same social events, churches, and theaters. They patronized the same shops and tradespeople. They’d attended the same schools and universities, as did their children. They were also bound together through friendships and intermarriage. In the 1790s, the capitol city of Philadelphia really must have seemed like its own little world, where everyone who was anyone already knew each other.

When Aaron Burr arrived in Philadelphia as the newly-elected senator from New York, he faced the same housing-shortage that challenged all new members to Congress: there simply weren’t enough lodgings to go around. He considered himself fortunate to find a place in the boarding house of Mrs. Mary Payne, a Quaker widow, likely some time in 1793. One of the attributes of boarding with Mrs. Payne was the presence of her daughter, Dolley Payne Todd (1768-1849). Dolley was soon to be widowed as well, losing both her husband and an infant son in the Yellow Fever epidemic of 1793. At twenty-six, Dolley was tall, vivacious, and voluptuous, and she and Burr - who always enjoyed the company of attractive, intelligent women - soon became friends. Dolley was impressed by Burr and his beliefs regarding the education of his daughters and step-sons. After her husband’s death, she chose Burr to be her surviving son Payne’s legal guardian, noting in her will that “the education of my son is to him and to me the most interesting of all earthly concerns.”

One of Burr’s other friends in Philadelphia was James Madison (1751-1836), the well-established and respected representative from Virginia. At 43, Madison was regarded as a confirmed bachelor, and his small stature, shyness, and unprepossessing demeanor were hardly the characteristics of a lady’s man. Although he was five years older than Burr, the two men had attended the College of New Jersey (now Princeton University) at the same time, with the intellectually precocious Burr completing his bachelor’s degree at sixteen. Now Burr and Madison were drawn together as political allies in Congress.

But in the spring of 1794, Madison had a different alliance in mind. He had seen the famously striking Mrs. Todd walking with friends, and asked Burr if he would make an introduction. Burr happily obliged, and though no record remains of how exactly he presented his friend’s suit, Mrs. Todd agreed to receive “the great little Madison”, as she called him to a friend. According to family legend, the fashion-conscious Mrs. Todd greeted him wearing a gown of mulberry-colored silk satin. No wonder Madison was instantly smitten, and determined to marry her.

Mrs. Todd was likely more pragmatic. Madison was nearly two decades older than she, several inches shorter, and inclined to ill health. But he was wealthy and powerful, and would offer security and prestige not only to her, but to her son as well. Still, she didn’t accept Madison right away. In the summer of 1794, she left Philadelphia to avoid the annual fevers that had killed her first husband, and went to Virginia to visit friends. Undeterred, Madison followed, and by the middle of August, she had agreed to marry him. He presented her with the ring, above, to celebrate their betrothal. While the irregularly cut diamonds - set in silver and banded in rose gold - reflect the limitations of 18thc jewelry, it’s still a stunner, and was on her hand when she died fifty-five years later.

Dolley Payne Todd married James Madison on September 15, 1794. Because the wedding was a small family ceremony in Virginia, Aaron Burr was not among the guests. But it’s very likely that when the newlyweds returned to Philadelphia, he was among the first to raise a glass in honor of his two friends, now husband and wife due in part to his successful matchmaking.

A side note: All three of these portraits were painted by the same artist, Gilbert Stuart (1755-1828), best known for his portrait of George Washington that was used as the basis for the image on the one-dollar bill.

Top: Detail, Dolley Madison’s engagement ring. Image courtesy of James Madison’s Montpelier. Photo by Larry Bouterie.

Upper left: Portrait of Aaron Burr by Gilbert Stuart, c1793, New Jersey Historical Society.

Right: Dolley Payne Madison (Mrs. James Madison) by Gilbert Stuart, 1804, The White House.

Lower left: Detail, Portrait of James Madison by Gilbert Stuart, c1805-1807, Bowdoin College Museum of Art.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

A Linsey-Woolsey Jacket that Mary Emmons Could Have Worn, c1775

The 18thc is a time of truly beautiful clothing for women, of fine damasks and hand-painted silks and elegantly printed cottons, and I’ve enjoyed sharing many of the garments that my past heroines might have worn.

But Mary Emmons (my heroine in The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr) is a different kind of heroine, with different clothing. As an enslaved woman, she had no choice in her dress. She wore what was provided for her.

When Mary was first brought to the Prevost household in New Jersey, she was given second-hand clothing that would have been similar to what a lower-class white woman would also have worn: a jacket or bodice and a petticoat (skirt) that would have been worn over a plain linen shift, and stays to support and contain her body. An apron tied over the jacket gave it a more defined waistline. She would have kept her hair tightly braided or coiled into a knot and pinned high on her head, and covered with a plain white linen cap. A neck kerchief, socks, and shoes that fastened with laces, not buckles, would have completed her wardrobe. She would have been expected to wash and patch and darn these clothes as needed to present a tidy appearance, and wear them until they disintegrated.

While there is very little surviving clothing with a history of enslaved ownership, a wealth of detailed descriptions exist in runaway advertisements - descriptions that were meant to help identify the runaway, but also leave snapshops of everything an enslaved person was wearing when he or she self-emancipated.

Because 18thc tailors made clothes for enslaved people as well as silk suits for fine gentlemen, the tailors of the Historic Trades program at Colonial Williamsburg recreated the woman's jacket, above, based partly on runaway ads. Entirely stitched by hand, the jacket is made of a coarse blend of undyed wool and linen (called linsey-woolsey, or Virginia cloth, or plantation cloth), which could have been woven in America, possibly by an enslaved weaver in a larger household. It's lined with osnaburg, a rough blend of flax and linen. Since both wool and linen are naturally fire resistant (they smolder instead of bursting into flame) it would have been worn by women like Mary who worked around the open hearths of kitchens.

The sleeves are narrow and fitted but short, to stay clear of messy tasks. The back of the jacket has skirts divided into panels to flare over a fuller petticoat, and to provide ease of motion. The zig-zagging front lacing mimics the lacing of stays (18thc corsets), and could have offered a bit of support for the wearer's breasts. The laced front was also easily adjustable to accommodate pregnancy or other changes in a woman’s body. Lacing was the most inexpensive kind of fastening, too, cheaper than either buttons or pins. The twisted cord of the lacing passed through reinforced eyelets, middle right.

The wearer could have added her own personality with a bright printed kerchief that she might have bought or bartered for, or added a strand of glass beads or earrings. Others might have worn a handmade pendant as a precious, private memento or talisman tucked inside her clothing, where its presence would be an unseen comfort, as Mary did.

What fascinates me is that the basic style and lines of this jacket could have been worn by a woman of any rank. The cost and value of 18thc clothing lay not in the labor or design, but in the textiles. The enslaved women at work with their hoes, right, are wearing jackets that are similar in shape to the reproduction above. Yet if this same basic style of front-opening jacket with narrow sleeves and flaring back panels is made of silk or imported printed cotton, like this jacket and matching petticoat, it becomes the height of European fashion. Worn over whalebone stays, fastened with imported pins, trimmed silk rosette at the neckline, and worn with a lace kerchief, the jacket could have been worn by Theodosia Prevost, or one of the ladies of the elite Schuyler family in I, Eliza Hamilton.

Similar in style, yet so far apart.

Many thanks to Mark Hutter, master in the tailoring trade at Colonial Williamsburg, for his assistance with this post.

Top and right: Reproduction jacket made by the tailors of Colonial Williamsburg. Photos ©2018 Susan Holloway Scott.

Lower right: Detail, An Overseer Doing His Duty, by Benjamin Henry Latrobe, 1798, Maryland Historical Society.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

Five Portraits, Five Faces, of Aaron Burr

Writing historical fiction has many challenges, but one of my favorite ones is describing my real-life characters so that readers can imagine them, too. For us who live in the Insta-age, images of people are captured and preserved without a thought. Anyone who possessing a cellphone can document his or her appearance and existence in as great detail as they wish for digital posterity.

This would have been unimaginable in the 18thc world that my characters inhabit. Portraiture was the work of skilled artists, and only the wealthy or important sat for portraits. In America, where there were far fewer professional artists than in Europe, portraits were rarer still. Even among the upper classes, most people had only one portrait painted of themselves during their entire lives, often to commemorate a wedding or other major event.

Aaron Burr was one of the exceptions. He was a member of an elite Connecticut family that was wealthy as well as prominent; his grandfather was Jonathan Edwards, a theologian, preacher, and philosopher, and one of the most famous men in 18thc New England. Burr relatives were painted by illustrious artists like John Singleton Copley, and it was to be expected that Aaron would at some point do the same.

But Aaron Burr accomplished more on his own than simply belonging to a famous family: first as a military hero during the American Revolution, followed by a stellar legal career, a term as a US senator, and finally serving as vice president. Any one of those achievements would have made him portrait-worthy.

But Burr also enjoyed art for its own sake, purchasing prints and paintings for his home, and he considered appreciation of art to be a gentlemanly quality worthy of cultivation. He was one of very few Americans of his generation to become a patron to an artist. Burr offered financial support, encouragement, and connections to the American painter John Vanderlyn, and funded his protégé’s trip to Paris to study with artists there. For a time, Vanderlyn even lived with Burr and his daughter Theodosia while he painted their portraits.

As I envisioned my fictional Aaron Burr, I had a wealth of portraits for inspiration. Like all portraits, however, these varied widely, and it’s fascinating to compare them. The ones I’m sharing here show Burr during the period covered in my historical novel The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, and each contributed something different to my impression of the man.

The portrait, above left, was painted in the early 1790s by Gilbert Stuart. Burr was in his late thirties, a newly-elected senator from New York serving in Congress in Philadelphia. He sat for Stuart in the artist’s studio, a short distance from Congress Hall on Chestnut Street. It’s a surprisingly informal and intimate portrait, showing Burr in an open-necked shirt worn with some kind of knotted silk scarf, his hair loose and unpowdered (and his receding hairline undisguised.) According to his letters home to his beloved wife Theodosia at this time, Burr was homesick and unhappy, and still finding his way in Congressional politics. It’s easy to imagine him having this portrait painted not just for posterity’s sake, but as a gift for his wife, suffering from the long illness that would eventually kill her.

Around 1796, Burr sat for the English artist James Sharples, right, who drew this portrait around 1796, again in Philadelphia. Sharples specialized in profile portraits in pastel chalks of famous politicians and other public figures. These were then exhibited to the public, with copies made to order by other members of the talented Sharples family. Senator Burr’s portrait, still in its original gilded exhibition frame, proves that he had “arrived” as a major political player, worthy of inclusion in Sharples’ collection. Although Burr is only around 40, his dark hair is powdered white as was customary for the time. It’s possible that Burr’s black clothing is mourning for his wife Theodosia, who had died in 1794.

In the late 1790s, Burr sat for the French engraver and portraitist Charles Balthazar Julien Févret de Saint-Mémin, lower left. A refugee from the French Revolution, Saint-Mémin made portraits of many of the important figures of the day, much as James Sharples was doing. Also like Sharples, his portraits relied upon a recently invented device known as a physiognotrace to trace the sitter’s profile as the basis for the portrait. Saint-Mémin’s portrait of Burr shows him with his powdered hair more stylishly cropped at the sides, but with the long queue (ponytail) down the back - the Federalist gentleman’s version of a mullet. A confirmed Francophile, Burr had offered assistance to French refugees like Saint-Mémin, and commissioned the artist to draw portraits of both his daughter Theodosia and her close friend and aristocratic emigree Nathalie Marie Louise Stephanie Beatrix Delage de Volude.

The portrait of Burr at the top of this blog is probably the most famous image of him, and the one most frequently reproduced today. It’s certainly close to an “official” portrait. Painted by John Vanderlyn c1802, it shows Burr at the pinnacle of his political career, as vice president and second only to President Thomas Jefferson. Burr looks confident and direct, a leader of purpose and vision - which is probably exactly how he asked Vanderlyn to paint him.

But another Vanderlyn portrait, lower right, likely painted c1803, shows a much different Burr. By this time, Burr was aware of how Thomas Jefferson had effectively shut him out of the inner workings of both his administration, and the Democratic-Republican party. The political influence that Burr had so carefully gathered over the years was fading fast, and there would be no support for another chance at the presidency. Due to a series of disastrous financial decisions and misadventures, he was also deep in debt and perilously close to bankruptcy. Little wonder, then, that his famously expressive gaze here appears introverted and reflective, and perhaps even a little pensive.

A year later, in 1804, he would meet Alexander Hamilton on the dueling grounds of Weehawken. Although Burr survived, his life of power and prestige was effectively over, and there would be no further elegant portraits. The final surviving image of Aaron Burr is grim indeed: this posthumous death mask, now in the collection of his alma mater, Princeton University.

Upper left: Portrait of Aaron Burr by Gilbert Stuart, c1793, New Jersey Historical Society.

Upper right: Aaron Burr by James Sharples, c1796, Bristol Museums, Galleries, & Archives.

Lower left: Aaron Burr by Charles Balthazar Julien Févret de Saint-Mémin, after 1793, National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution.

Top: Aaron Burr by John Vanderlyn, c1802, New-York Historical Society.

Lower right: Aaron Burr by John Vanderlyn, c1803, Yale University Art Gallery.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

Theodosia Prevost Burr & Slavery in 18thc. New Jersey

A few of the early readers of The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr have expressed surprise that Theodosia Bartow Prevost and her husband James Mark or Marcus (or Jacques-Marc; he went by both the French and Anglicized versions of his name) Prevost owned slaves on their New Jersey property.

At the beginning of the American Revolution, every single one of the thirteen original colonies had enslaved people living within its borders. Slavery was not limited to the large-scale plantations of the south. While enslaved people in the northern colonies did work in agricultural settings, many of them also served as servants in houses and businesses, as well as being skilled tradespeople like carpenters, coopers, shipbuilders, seamstresses, laundresses, and so on. The majority of them did not live in separate quarters, as on the southern plantations, but in the homes or businesses of their slaveholders, sleeping in attics, cellars, or simply on a pallet in the corner of the kitchen or hall.

Theodosia and her husband lived on a sizable property called The Hermitage near the town of Hopperstown (today called Ho-ho-kus) in Bergen County, New Jersey, not far from the New York border. The Prevosts lived in the newer house on the property, called the Little Hermitage, while Theodosia’s widowed mother, Ann DeVisme, lived with her younger children in the other. Like most of Bergen County, the houses were surrounded by rich farmland that was likely worked by a combination of free and enslaved people. Additional enslaved servants worked inside the two houses.

There are no surviving records of these enslaved people, or what became of them once The Hermitage was sold by Col. Aaron Burr after his marriage to the then-widowed Theodosia. As a result, the enslaved people I include in The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr are characters of my invention. But the names and descriptions of two of Colonel Prevost’s enslaved servants from before the Revolution are known, because together they self-emancipated, and ran away from The Hermitage.

Col. Prevost placed the advertisement, above, in The New-York Journal; or, The General Advertiser, in January 12, 1775. He offered a reward for the capture and return of a husband and wife named Mark and Jenny. Runaway advertisements like this were a common feature of colonial American newspapers at the time, a way for those who placed them to retrieve their lost “property”. The advertisements are also one more example of how insidious the institution of slavery was in colonial America, as commonplace as notices for sales of ship’s bread and lost pocketbooks. The newspaper’s owner might not himself be a slaveholder, but he was still part of the complicated economic chain of slavery, and profiting from it.

This advertisement is interesting because while Mark and Jenny ran away in September, Col. Prevost didn’t place the advertisement until January. Perhaps he hoped they’d come back on their own, or be captured and returned by a helpful neighbor (who wouldn’t expect a reward), or perhaps he placed an earlier advertisement in another newspaper that has not survived. In any event, it’s not known if Mark and Jenny were ever captured and returned to the Prevosts, or if they escaped together to freedom and a new life.

Like Mary Emmons, the heroine of Secret Wife, I very much hope they did.

Many thanks to Victoria Harty, Executive Director, The Hermitage Museum, for her assistance with this post.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

Young Theodosia Burr, in a "Dressed Portrait" by Mary Way, c1788

The daughter of Aaron and Theodosia Bartow Prevost Burr, Theodosia Burr Alston (1783-1812) was the only one of the couple’s four children to survive to adulthood. Young Theodosia and her father were extremely close, and drew closer still after mother Theodosia (I know, it’s confusing that they shared the same name) died in 1794.

Burr insisted that his daughter be educated with the same rigor usually reserved for boys, and from an early age her day was tightly scheduled with tutors and teachers who taught her classical languages, French, science, mathematics, geography, philosophy, and literature. Nor were the more “ornamental” accomplishments neglected, either: she also had a dancing master and music lessons. Intellectually gifted (and eager to please her doting father), Theodosia proved herself to be a dedicated student. The result was that by the time she turned eighteen and soon after married Joseph Alston, Theodosia was arguably the most comprehensively educated woman in America. According to contemporary reports, she was also charming, attractive, poised, stylish, and able to discuss just about anything with anyone. She was a true paragon, and her proud father adored her.

This delightful small portrait of Theodosia as a young girl with a bird on a string was likely made around 1788-1790. It’s called a dressed portrait since the figure - delicately cut from paper and detailed with colored pencil - was dressed in scraps of silk fabric and lace, a style that today we’d call collage. There is also a matching dressed portrait of the elder Theodosia, (below, and not included in the Winterthur show) likely done at the same time. The Burrs had many family members in Connecticut, including Aaron Burr’s only sibling, his sister Sally Burr Reeve, and it’s possible that the two Theodosias sat for their portraits while on a visiting relatives. While the pair of portraits remained together for more than two hundred years, they were sadly separated at a 21stc auction, and now belong to different collections.

The artist is Mary Way (1769–1833), who, along with her younger sister Betsy Way Champlain (1771–1825) practiced this distinctive style of portraiture along with more traditional watercolors and drawings on paper and ivory. Without any formal training in academic art, the two created profile portraits of women, men, and children of some of the most notable families around New London, CT from the late 1780s to the early 1800s.

In 1811, the unmarried Mary Way - unencumbered by either a husband or children - took a remarkably independent step for any woman of her time, especially at age forty-two: she moved to New York City for the sake of her career. There she studied with leading artists like John Wesley Jarvis, and exhibited her work at the American Academy of the Fine Arts with great success.

Tragically, neither Theodosia Burr Alston nor Mary Way had happy endings to their lives. Theodosia was plagued with debilitating ill health following the birth of her only son (who died from a childhood fever), and she herself was lost at sea shortly before her thirtieth birthday. Thanks to a lovely song in Hamilton: An American Musical, Theodosia is once again being remembered, and studied by scholars. (She and her mother are also both prominent characters in my new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr.)

After only nine years as a professional artist in New York, Mary Way’s eyesight began to fail, forcing her to abandon her career and return to New London and the care of her extended family. She died blind, forgotten, and impoverished in 1833. Today, however, she is recognized as one of the most important miniature artists of 18thc America, and her work is prized by collectors and museums. Check out this clip from Antiques Roadshow to see exactly how high her artistic stock has risen.

This portrait of Theodosia Burr by Mary Way is included in the new exhibition Hamilton and Burr: Who Wrote Their Stories?, currently on display at Winterthur Museum, Gardens, and Library. Many thanks to Rebecca Duffy, curator of the exhibition, for her assistance with this post.

Above: Theodosia Burr by Mary Way, c1786-94, private collection.

Right: Theodosia Bartow Prevost Burr, by Mary Way, c1786-94, private collection.

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

Everyday History: 18thc Tin Lanterns with Windows Made of Horn

One of my favorite parts of writing historical fiction is creating the material space for my characters to inhabit. Sci-fi and fantasy writers call this “world-building” - describing their invented world in such detail that the reader can experience it as a real place. When I write, I’m world-building, too; the only difference is that the world I’m describing once really did exist, and I need to rely on research as well as imagination to bring it to life for readers.

Whenever I visit a museum or historic site, I’m always on the hunt for the small, everyday things that my characters would have taken for granted, but that will be new to my 21stc readers: utensils for open hearth cooking, specialized irons for pressing linen clothes, molds for casting lead musket balls, needle-woven thread buttons for shirts, a wooden bucket by a well. In the course of a story, I try not to stop the action to step back and deliver a lengthy lecture on those buttons or buckets, but I will make them part of my characters’ lives - things they use without thinking.

Colonial Williamsburg is filled with these little details. On my visit there last weekend, I learned more about lanterns from Jenny Lynn, an apprentice tinsmith in CW’s Historic Trades Program. Used throughout 18thc America, tin lanterns were the flashlights of the day, and came in many sizes, shapes, and materials. Lanterns made of tin (the one showed here, a replica of an 18thc design made by the tinsmiths, has been painted) were both inexpensive and lightweight to carry. The hinged and latched door provided access to the candle, which was anchored to the interior base. Lanterns protected the candle from being accidentally extinguished by rain or a gust of wind, and also in turn protected the clothes and hands of whomever was carrying it from the open flame.

The simplest tin lanterns had holes punched into their sides to permit the light to pass through. More costly lanterns, like the one shown here, had windows filled with translucent panels crafted from the horns of cattle. Horn was the plastic of the 18thc, lightweight, sturdy, and easily shaped into everything from hair combs to cups to the frames of eyeglasses and mirrors. Little wonder, then, that hornworking was a skilled, specialized trade, much in demand.

Once cleaned, a fresh horn could be boiled until it became pliable, and then shaped. For the windows of a lantern, the original horn would be slit lengthwise and pressed flat, sometimes between heated iron plates. Unlike glass panes, horn panels would not shatter if dropped. The candlelight through a horn window would have been a soft glow, but bright enough to light the way.

As practical as the horn panels seem, however, they did have one drawback. Being an organic material, they were a tasty treat for moths and other insects, who nibbled away at a lantern’s windows. In the panel that Jenny is holding, right, tiny insect bites along the edges are clearly visible. In the past, the damage was considered an ordinary nuisance, and the lantern’s owner would simply take the lantern back to the hornworker’s shop and have the panels replaced to prolong the lantern’s life

Now, how am I going to incorporate all that interesting knowledge into my current work in progress?

Many thanks to Jenny Lynn for her assistance with this post.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

A New Hamilton-Burr Exhibition at Winterthur Museum

Even though Philadelphia plays a major role in Hamilton: An American Musical, we’re still waiting for the road company to come to town this fall. While we wait for it (I know, I know, I couldn’t resist a Hamilton lyric quote), there’s a small but choice exhibition to visit at nearby Winterthur Museum.

Hamilton and Burr: Who Wrote Their Stories? focuses on the fatal duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr and its aftermath, and how the legacies of both men were shaped by their families and friends. The exhibition draws on the museum’s own collections, and uses objects as diverse as printed handkerchiefs, children’s ceramic mugs, newspapers, and brass cloak pins to show how Americans honored - and reviled - Hamilton and Burr long after the duel. (I’ve already written here about one of the most evocative pieces in the exhibition: the letter that Burr wrote to Dr. David Hosack inquiring after Hamilton’s condition on the day following the duel.) Click here for more information about Winterthur and the exhibition.

Complicating Burr’s legacy is the fact that there is comparatively little remaining that once belonged to him. In addition to Hamilton’s vast collection of letters and other papers, the home - called The Grange - that he built in upper Manhattan is today preserved as a National Parks site. His portraits, books, letters, and many of The Grange’s furnishings were also kept as cherished mementos by his large family and numerous friends. In contrast, Burr’s beloved Manhattan home, Richmond Hill, and all its contents were seized by his creditors after he fled New York following the duel.

Burr was a man of taste who delighted in surrounding himself with art, books, and fine furniture that reflected his refinement. Today little remains that can be definitively identified and connected to him, but in the Winterthur exhibition is an elegant card table, right, that might very well have been commissioned by Burr directly following the hard-fought presidential election of 1800. The two Democratic-Republicans, Burr and Thomas Jefferson, defeated Federalist incumbent John Adams, but tied with one another in electoral votes, resulting in the election being decided by the House of Representatives. There Jefferson was elected by a single vote, and Burr became his vice-president.

The panel, left, on the front of the table commemorates this election. The names of Burr and Jefferson appear on a shield held by a patriotic eagle, surround by an anchor, an American flag, a cannon, and a liberty cap. Only one other such table is known to exist, and it’s likely they were created as a pair by a now-unknown New York City cabinetmaker.

With its inlaid banding and slender, tapering legs, the table is an elegant piece of furniture, combining mahogany, walnut, and satinwood along with the gold-foiled glass panels. For a game of cards, the table’s top is hinged to unfold, and one of the legs swings around for support. It’s difficult to imagine any other wealthy individual in Federalist-dominated New York except Burr ordering a celebratory table like this, and very easy to picture him proudly showing the pair off to his guests at one of his frequent entertainments at Richmond Hill.

When this table was made around 1800, Burr was at the top of his political game, with popularity, power, and prestige. To be sure, he’d lost this presidential election, but he’d every reason to believe that in another four years, he’d be next in line to replace Thomas Jefferson in Washington. But by 1804, everything - everything - would change, and Burr’s life would never be the same.

Above: Card Table, unknown maker, c1800, Gift of Henry Francis du Pont, Winterthur Museum, Library, and Gardens.

Many thanks to Rebecca Duffy, curator for this exhibition, for her assistance with this post, and for the personal tour.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

Princess Elizabeth's Wedding Dress & the True Importance of Historical Accuracy

This week I returned to Winterthur Museum, Garden, and Library, one of my favorite places for inspiration of every kind. One of their current exhibitions features a selection of costumes from the Netflix series The Crown, which follows the life and reign of Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain. Costuming the Crown will remain on display through January 5, 2020.

I haven’t watched the series yet, but I always enjoy seeing historical costumes designed for theater and film. Costume designers face so many challenges with time and budgets, and the best ones are adept at creating a big impression on screen or stage with a variety of resources. They’ll paint designs on textiles to replicate embroidery, substitute unexpected materials (I once saw a costume that had used paper doilies for lace along the hem of a crinoline skirt, and it looked fantastic on film), incorporate scraps of vintage garments into new designs, and turn the flimsiest foil into pure gold.

In addition, costume designers must help the actors and actresses build their characters through clothing. While most of the costumes for The Crown are based on much-photographed originals, the designers had to do considerable adaptation. The tall, willowy actresses playing both Elizabeth and her sister Princess Margaret are physically very different from the queen and her sister, and the costumes had to be designed accordingly both to compensate for these differences, and not to jar the viewers’ sense of what “looked right.”

One of the most striking dresses in the exhibition is Princess Elizabeth’s wedding dress. Because this dress was so important in her life and in the series, the designer, Michele Clapton, was given an unusually large budget. Like the original created in 1947 by designer Norman Hartnell, the replica costume was embroidered entirely by hand, with a team of six professional embroiderers working ten-hour days for seven weeks to recreate every beaded star and pearl-encrusted flourish. And the dress is stunning, a true tribute to the skill of those talented, hard-working embroiderers.

However, what really caught my eye was this quote from Ms. Clapton on the placard:

“We were keen to create a small number of costumes as exact copies or to make them as close as possible, particularly the pieces that were well known and well documented. I felt by doing so we could gain the respect and confidence of the viewers, which would then allow us to make creative decisions to aid in the storytelling of the private, undocumented side of the family.”

While I tell my stories with words, not silk and embroidery, I understood exactly what Ms. Clapton meant. Historical accuracy shouldn’t be a game of factual gotcha, but a background that’s so virtually seamless that the hard work of research and recreation is invisible. I write historical fiction, and it’s important to me to make the past as real a place as I can for readers. I’ll spend an entire morning researching to discover if the windows in my heroine’s house opened with sashes or casements, or whether my hero wore spurs or not. It’s those kind of details that help create a fictional world that’s sufficiently substantial to support my story. I want it to feel so effortlessly real that readers will accept it without doubt or thought, and be free to experience the story all along with my characters.

So yes, Ms. Clapton, my goal, too, is to “gain the respect and confidence” of my readers. I hope I succeed as well as you did with this wedding gown!

Above: Wedding Dress, Veil, Tiara, and Bouquet, worn by Claire Foy as Princess Elizabeth. Designed by Michele Clapton for Season I, Episode I of The Crown.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

Who Tells Your Story? It All Depends Who's On Your Side

On July 11, 1804, General Alexander Hamilton and Colonel and Vice President Aaron Burr fought their now-famous duel. On July 12, Hamilton died from his wound, and on July 14, he was buried in an elaborate funeral that cast most of Manhattan into paroxysms of public grief. Burr, meanwhile, fled to South Carolina to avoid facing murder charges that had been filed against him in New York and New Jersey.

Word of the duel spread throughout the country as swiftly as the limited communications of the day permitted. Regardless of their political beliefs, Americans were shocked that two of the country’s most prominent statesmen had resorted to pistols to settle their differences. Ministers denounced dueling from their pulpits in fiery sermons. Newspapers published both tributes to Hamilton, and condemnations for how he died. The editorial tone varied by region. In the Democratic Republican southern states, where dueling remained more respectable between gentlemen and Hamilton’s economic policies had made him deeply unpopular, the notices were less strident.

But in New England, still firmly Federalist, Hamilton’s death was seen as an enormous loss not only to his family and friends, but to the country as well. This small, black-bordered announcement from the Salem (MA) Gazette was published on July 17, and its message couldn’t have been more clear.

Posthumously Hamilton is described as "the most honourable and most beloved citizen of America.” Perhaps that could have been said then of President George Washington (or today in the age of Hamilton: An American Musical), but for Hamilton in 1804, it was an…exaggeration.

The duel itself has been refigured as cold-blooded, all-caps murder. It’s as if Burr had waylaid an unsuspecting and entirely innocent Hamilton, instead of the two men arranging to face one another with loaded pistols in their hands. The tragic result, of course, would have been the same, but there’s a definite editorial spin at work.

General Hamilton is described by his military title. Colonel Burr has lost his, nor is there any mention of him being the sitting vice president. The Gazette’s Massachusetts readership would also have been aware that Burr was the grandson of Jonathan Edwards, one of New England’s most famous theologians and revivalist preachers. To them the vengeful Biblical quotation from Genesis 9:6 calling for Burr’s blood must have been especially satisfying.

Still, I can’t help but wonder: how would this notice have been written if Burr had been the one who died, and Hamilton the survivor?

Thanks to Donna Seger for sharing this notice.

My latest novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

A Letter Filled with Anxiety & Concern: Aaron Burr Inquires after Alexander Hamilton Following Their Duel, 1804

We’ll never know for certain, but it’s unlikely that Vice President Aaron Burr, Jr., right, intended to kill Gen. Alexander Hamilton in their fateful duel on July 11, 1804. Burr had only fought one other duel, with Hamilton’s brother-in-law John Barker Church, and that had ended with honor satisfied and no blood shed. Hamilton had been involved in ten “affairs of honor”, but none of those disputes had escalated to the fatal final step, either.

But when the two pistols were fired and the gunsmoke cleared that morning in Weehawken, NJ, Hamilton crumpled to the ground while Burr remained standing, unharmed. Burr’s first inclination was to go to Hamilton, but his second and good friend, William Van Ness, held him back. The duel’s attending physician, Dr. David Hosack, left, rushed to assist Hamilton, now cradled in the arms of his second, Nathaniel Pendleton. Van Ness hurriedly ushered Burr away to the boat that carried them back across the Hudson River to Manhattan. Burr then retreated to wait at Richmond Hill, his home a short ways north of the city.

Thanks to the notoriety that would soon forever cloud Burr’s name, the descriptions of his actions at Richmond Hill have ranged from chilly dispassion as he dined with a cousin, to reveling in his rival’s suffering, to considering his own suicide. As news of the duel raced through New York that day, the first reports said only that Hamilton had been wounded, and that he was even expected to recover. (See this letter from Hamilton’s sister-in-law Angelica Schuyler Church to her brother.) Hamilton had been brought across the river to the home of his friend William Bayard. Dr. Hosack had soon realized the wound would be fatal, and tried to ease Hamilton’s suffering as best he could while family and friends gathered in shock and sorrow.

Burr didn’t dare leave Richmond Hill, sending word to Van Ness to bring any news he could gather. In these days before phones and the internet, Burr must have spent a long, bleak night reflecting on what he had done and what might happen next. The following day, he wrote the letter, above, to Dr. Hosack, inquiring after Hamilton’s condition.

Hosack not only served as physician to both Burr and the Hamilton family, but was considered a good friend by both men. Yet Burr’s letter is uncharacteristically formal, referring to himself in the third person. His handwriting lacks its customary polish, he omits words, and he writes the wrong day, crossing over to correct it. Here’s the transcription:

Mr. Burr’s respectful compliments – He requests Dr. Hosack to inform him of the pre-sent state of Genl H. and of the hopes which are entertained of his recovery-

                     Mr. Burr begs to know at what hour of the [day] the Dr. may most probably be found at home that he may repeat his inquiries – Hewould take it very kind if the Dr. would take the trouble of calling on him as he returns

from Mr. Bayards’

  Thursday

12 July

Whatever opinion history holds of Aaron Burr, two things stand out from this letter: he was anxious about what had happened, and he was scared. He’d every reason to be both. By early afternoon, Hamilton would be dead, and New York would plunge into mourning and outrage. Burr would flee, eventually joining his daughter Theodosia in South Carolina. He would be charged with murder in New York and New Jersey, and Richmond Hill and its contents would be seized by his creditors. Hamilton might have died, but Burr’s life as he’d known it had been changed forever.

This letter appeared in last year’s exhibition Hamilton and Burr: Who Wrote Their Stories? at Winterthur Museum.

Above and Lower Right: Letter from Aaron Burr to Dr. David Hosack, 1804, Courtesy Winterthur Museum, Library, and Gardens. Gift of John Hampton Barnes, Jr.

Upper Right: Portrait of Aaron Burr, by John Vanderlyn, c1803, Yale University Art Gallery, Bequest of Oliver Burr Jennings .

Left: Dr. David Hosack, by Thomas Sully, 1815, Courtesy Winterthur Museum, Library, and Gardens, Gift of Mr. J. Hampton Barnes, Jr.

Read more about the Hamiltons in my historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton. My latest novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

An Unlikely Prelude to a Duel: Independence Day, 1804

Most Americans have spent today sliding back into work after a long weekend that began with the celebration of Independence Day. Those celebrations may have included fireworks and fireflies, parades small and large, a political speech or two, and gathering with friends and family for good fun and drink.

The celebrations of 1804 weren’t much different, with the addition of the noisy firing of guns and cannon. Only twenty-eight years had passed since the Declaration of Independence had been signed in Philadelphia, and yet the new country had become a far different place. Many of the most famous of the founding generation - Benjamin Franklin, John Hancock, Samuel Adams, Stephen Hopkins, Patrick Henry and, of course, George and Martha Washington - had died. There was an entire new generation who had no memory of that first reading of the Declaration, including many who’d been too young to recall the long war that had followed. Joining them were immigrants from other countries and refugees from other wars who had come to America in the years since 1776.

Many of these newcomers had arrived in America by way of the City of New York. In 1776, New York had had approximately 25,000 inhabitants; by 1804, it had become the largest city in the country, with a population of over 60,000. Although the city had suffered greatly during the war from the British occupation and subsequent fires, it had rebounded at a feverish pace, with new construction racing farther and farther up Manhattan Island and into the surrounding boroughs. Older New Yorkers grumbled (as they continue to do today) at how quickly things were changing, and not for the better, either.

Among the celebrations for Independence Day in New York in 1804 was one at the Fraunces Tavern on Pearl Street. Built as a house in 1719 and converted into a tavern in 1762, Fraunces was likely a little old-fashioned by 1804. For the members of the New York chapter of the Society of Cincinnati (learn more about the Society and the President’s diamond eagle insignia here), however, the tavern’s history more than made up for it. Here Gen. Washington had made his farewell to his officers of the Continental Army, and while many of these officers, too, had died by 1804, there were still a good number left to dine, reminisce, and raise a glass to the war and departed comrades here in the long room at Fraunces. Nostalgia must have been thick in the air.

Among those was Gen. Alexander Hamilton. A founding member of the Society, Hamilton had become its second president after Washington’s death. (Read more about his role and his own Cincinnati insignia here.) For Hamilton, the war had been a time of rare camaraderie and brotherhood, and the basis of many of his most lasting friendships. With his political career now virtually over and his influence waning, the Cincinnati remained his haven for the old Revolutionary ideals and fraternity. Other members later recalled (doubtless with unavoidable hindsight) that Hamilton had been in high spirits and particularly animated that night, with some remembering him climbing up to stand on a table to sing. The song he chose, “How Stands the Glass Around”, was a military ballad reputed to have been written by Gen. James Wolfe the night before he died at the Battle of Quebec. Today the lyrics seem unbearably prescient: “Why, soldiers, why/Should we be melancholy, boys?/Why, soldiers, why/Whose business it is to die!”

Fraunces Tavern in 1777, as imagined in the late 19thc. Image: New York Public Library.

Sitting at the same table that night was another veteran officer, one that Hamilton had known since the early days of the war. For Col. Aaron Burr, the Revolution had not been a glorious event that he recalled with fondness; disillusionment and persistent battle-related ill health had led him to resign his commission before the war was done. Burr was not one of the original members of the Cincinnati, but had only joined in the previous year, hoping that the connections might aid his own faltering political career.

Again, hindsight likely colored the memories of those who were there. Burr’s demeanor was described as brooding, withdrawn, and silent, and supposedly he was unable to look squarely at Hamilton. Some modern historians have taken this a step further, and describe him that night as grim, ominous, and forbidding. It’s possible that Burr - who was generally in his element in a convivial tavern - found the raucous sentimentality of the event not to his taste, or perhaps it called up old memories of the war that he’d rather have left forgotten.

Burr left no record of his thoughts from the dinner, nor did Hamilton. But over the next days, both men wrote farewell letters to their loved ones, and attempted to put their financial affairs in some semblance of order; despite their professional and social prominence, both men were deeply in debt. Outwardly they continued their lives as usual, conducting business and seeing friends and family who were unaware of what would come next.

And in my new historical novel, The Secret Life of Aaron Burr, Col. Burr uses these last days to travel to Philadelphia to set one great wrong in his life right - or at least as right as he can.

Early on the morning of July 11, Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton would meet on the dueling grounds at Weehawken, NJ, and both their lives would be forever changed.

Top: Portrait of Aaron Burr by John Vanderlyn, c1802; Portrait of Alexander Hamilton by James Sharples, c1796

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

The Fourth of July in Philadelphia, 1812

Today most Americans are celebrating Independence Day with picnics and barbecues, trips to the beach or the lake, parades, baseball, and fireworks, and just general lazing around. The painting, above, may look more like a genteel Jane Austen-esque gathering than a Fourth of July celebration, but that's exactly what it is: Philadelphians gathering to celebrate the day in July, 1812.

Painted by German-born artist John Lewis Krimmel (1786-1821), the picture - click on the image to enlarge - is actually quite true to the spirit of the holiday. Like many Europeans, Krimmel was impressed by the democratic, orderly feel of the young republic, still less than forty years removed from revolution. Philadelphians from all different social groups have gathered together to observe the day. There's a group of fashion-conscious gentry, a family of Quakers in plain clothes, stylish free people of color, a few rakish bachelors, children acting up, and a pair of sailors gawking at the classically underdressed statue in the fountain. Everyone appears to be enjoying themselves in a mannerly way. Even the dogs are getting along.

The temple-like building in the background isn't some classical folly, but a testament to civic welfare. In the late 18th c, Philadelphia had suffered from a horrific outbreak of yellow fever that had killed more than a tenth of the city's population. Believing that one of the causes of the outbreak was Philadelphia's notoriously bad drinking water and nonexistent sanitation, the city fathers commissioned architect Benjamin Latrobe to devise the country's first waterworks. Shown here is the central pump-house, built in 1800, which contained a steam-driven pump (the reason for the smoke drifting from the roof) that brought fresh water to houses and businesses throughout the city, and provided sufficient water pressure to wash streets and docks. This was a huge achievement that benefited the entire city, rich and poor alike. Celebrating the Fourth of July here, before such an obvious example of civic pride and unity, must have made perfect sense.

Another reason why this celebration doesn't seem quite as raucous as later ones would become: the United States had just declared war on Great Britain to begin what would later be called the War of 1812. The war was not popular – the congressional vote was the narrowest of any formal declaration of war in American history – and even the most bellicose of Philadelphians must have been wondering uncertainly what the future would bring.

Of course modern Americans know exactly how the War of 1812 turned out (at least the ones who even know there was such a war, but that's a separate issue altogether), and this year many Independence Day celebrations will be including bicentennial tributes. However you choose to observe the day, we wish you all the best!

Above: Fourth of July in Centre Square, Philadelphia, 1812, by John Lewis Krimmel.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

Video: Did I See Eliza Hamilton's Ghost at the Schuyler Mansion?

Usually my blog posts are filled with history and facts. This one, however, isn’t. Instead it includes three seconds of video that, a year after it was recorded, I still can’t explain.

I’ll call it a ghost story for lack of anything better. Last summer, I spoke at the Schuyler Mansion, the 18thc family home of the Schuyler family of Albany, NY; you can read more here, here, and here about the house and its significance in my historical novel I, Eliza Hamilton. The house was the childhood home of my heroine, Eliza Schuyler Hamilton, and as an adult, she returned to it often with her husband, Alexander Hamilton, and their children.

My talk was late in the day, and after the house was cleared of other visitors, one of the site’s interpreters, Jessie Serfilippi, offered to take me inside for one final look before. There have been numerous unexplained events in the house over the years: thumps and bumps overhead, doors that refuse to remain shut, distant voices, and even a few faint figures in 18thc dress who vanish as quickly as they appear. If you believe in paranormal activity, then this all makes sense for a house that’s over 250 years old. If you’d prefer a more logical explanation, then the age of the house and the creaks and groans of its old timbers should suffice.

I’ll freely admit that when Jessie and I stood in the Family Parlor, we hoped Eliza might show herself in some way. The room was known to have been a favorite of hers. Her wedding to Alexander had taken place here, and the fortepiano she’d played as a girl was here, too. The room was quiet, and the security shutters had already been closed and latched for the night from the outside. With the shutters fastened and no modern electrical lighting, the room was murky with shadows. Jessie and I waited for a few moments, then laughed sheepishly at our own foolishness. I took a few more photos of the Parlor, and we left.

It wasn’t until several weeks later, when I downloaded the day’s pictures from my phone, that I realized I’d accidentally (?) taken one of the pictures in the parlor as a video instead. I’ve posted it above (and apologies for the stupid video-links that follow; that’s YouTube). It’s only three seconds in length, but clearly there was more happening than either Jessie or I realized. One locked shutter appears to open briefly to let the late afternoon sun spill into the room. Another circle of light darts quickly across the floor to the fortepiano.

Now I know I write fiction for a living, so you can take all this with as large a grain of salt as you please. But all my other photos taken at the time look like the one right, grey and grainy. There aren’t any bursts or circles of light, and the shutters stayed firmly latched.

I don’t have any answers. Was Eliza there with us? I’ll let you decide…..

The Schuyler Mansion is a state historic site, and open to the public. I can’t promise any Eliza-sightings, but please see their Facebook page for more information about visiting and tour reservations. All photographs ©2017 by Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere. My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

Video: How an 18thc Lady Dressed for Traveling

Traveling for ladies in the 18thc - whether a week-long journey by stage or sloop, or a quick call ten minutes away in a private chaise - was not easy in Great Britain, and even more difficult in the American colonies. Even the most luxurious carriage would have been without heat, and a journey in the winter would often have been made in an open sleigh across the snow. Special clothing was required: stylish, yet also practical. Some ladies wore riding habits of a sturdy wool, while others chose a silk petticoat (skirt) and hooded jacket like this one called a Brunswick.

Characters in my recent historical novels have worn their Brunswicks: Eliza Schuyler Hamilton in I, Eliza Hamilton and Theodosia Prevost Burr in The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr. Both were women of the elite classes who could afford an outfit exclusively made for traveling. More ordinary women - like Theodosia’s servant Mary Emmons - would simply have worn their everyday woolen cloak over an extra shawl or two.

The Brunswick jacket and petticoat were usually made of matching fabric, and often decorated with pleated or ruffled trim. The flounces at the elbows mimicked fashionable gowns with their elbow-length sleeves, but here an additional inner sleeve continued to the wrist for warmth. The hood could have been pulled up, or folded back over the shoulders, and beginning in the 1770s, the hood would have been cut more amply to accommodate the taller hairstyles of the day. The young woman with her dog, right, wears an elaborate Brunswick of pale lavender silk; all those ruffles must have rustled most beguilingly as she walked.

As this video showed, then, as now, the secret to keeping warm would have been layering. A thick extra petticoat or two and heavier stockings, gloves, a cloak, and a muff could also have been worn, and on especially cold days a lady could have tucked a footwarmer containing hot coals beneath her feet.

This is the latest “Getting Dressed” video by CrowsEyeProductions; some of you might recall earlier videos in the series from my old Two Nerdy History Girls blog. Many thanks to Pauline Loven for sharing this new video with me so I could in turn share it with you!

Right: Detail, Portrait of a Young Girl Holding a Spaniel by Alexander Roslin, c1765, private collection.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

A Parlor Truly Fit for the Wedding of Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton

Last weekend I returned to the Schuyler Mansion in Albany, the splendid home of the Schuyler family in the 18thc. The house is now a New York State landmark, and open to visitors. The tours are fantastic, and the Mansion is well worth a side-trip on your summer vacation.

As readers of I, Eliza Hamilton will know, the house played an important role in the life of Eliza Schuyler Hamilton. Her father Gen. Philip Schuyler designed it, and her mother Catherine oversaw the house’s construction while her husband was away in London ordering every kind of fashionable furnishing to make his home the showplace of northern New York. He succeeded, too, and after young Eliza and the rest of the family moved in, the house became as celebrated for hospitality as it was for its beauty. Eliza wed Alexander Hamilton here, and throughout her marriage she returned, often with children in tow, to enjoy her family’s company as well as a climate that was more healthy than either New York City or Philadelphia.

I’ve written before about the house’s Family Parlor, the large corner room that was the site of Eliza’s and Alexander’s wedding. While the house has been an historic site for over a century, new research is always revealing more about how it was originally decorated. Recently the Family Parlor received new period-correct window draperies and carpeting, as you can see above. The rich layering of pattern and color are characteristic of upper-class houses of the era, and match the elegance of the late 18th silk-covered furniture, which may have been chosen for Philip by his eldest daughter Angelica Schuyler Church while she was living in London.

The most dramatic part of the restoration is overhead. Philip had installed an papier-mache ceiling that mimicked the elaborate plaster ceilings found in aristocratic English houses. Papier-mache is fragile at best, and only a handle of 18thc examples still remain; the one that graced the Mansion was destroyed long ago. The new recreation was copied from the east parlor of Philipse Manor Hall in Yonkers, NY. State-of-the-art laser-printing fashioned the molds that were used to shape the papier-mache elements, which were then installed onto the ceiling of the Mansion’s Family Parlor.

With the ornate chandelier centering the rococo-inspired motifs, the effect is stunning - and much closer to what Philip must have planned, and what Eliza would have remembered from her wedding day.

Photographs ©2019 by Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton. My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

When Historical Fiction and Reality Come Together (in a Starbucks)

Most of the time writing is a solitary (except for the cats) occupation. It’s me with my laptop, a pile of research books, and whatever is calling out for attention in my imagination.

Writing has also brought me a wealth of wonderful new friends and acquaintances - readers and fellow writers, historians and archivists and museum professionals and all-around lovers of history - that I never would have met otherwise, and who have more than compensated for all that solitary time.

The internet makes many such meetings possible, of course, when a tweet or comment can lead to a DM, a flurry of emails, and sometimes even a meeting in person at a conference or booksigning.

But meeting the woman pictured here with me was different.

In the first interview for my new historical novel,The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, (and in this blog post as well) I described my heroine. Mary Emmons (c1760-1832) was a woman of color who bore Aaron Burr two children, and who tradition says became his second wife. I also described how most historians and biographers of Aaron Burr - a heroic officer during the American Revolution; a noted lawyer, politician, and founder of the bank that’s evolved into JPMorgan Chase; the third vice president of the United States; and the man who famously shot Alexander Hamilton in a fatal duel - either ignore this relationship entirely, or dismiss Mary and her children as salacious gossip. Some even doubt Mary’s very existence.

When this interview turned up on social media, one commenter took offense at the doubts of those historians. The commenter’s name is Karla Ballard Williams, and she’s the 5x-great-granddaughter of Mary Emmons and Aaron Burr.

And yesterday, Karla and I finally met. That’s us together in the photo above, laughing as we tried to figure out where she should be looking for a selfie.

Yes, we met in a prosaic Starbucks, but a Starbucks that was within a mile or so from where young Colonel Aaron Burr wintered with his regiment at Valley Forge in 1777-78. He might have been even closer yesterday; he always did like strong-brewed coffee. Karla and I both felt Mary’s presence there with us, too, gently guiding our conversation as we spoke of the generations of her family.

I know, I know, Mary and Burr are my characters, my inventions, but they were real people first. There’s power in that knowledge, yet there’s responsibility, too, as meeting Karla so vividly reminded me. It’s all part of the magic of historical fiction, and what makes it so special to writers and readers alike.

And I can’t wait to see where it leads me next.

Read more about Mary Emmons in my new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, now available everywhere in stores and online. Order here.

"To Make a Currey the Indian Way" in 18thc New York City

Mary Emmons, the heroine of my new historical novel The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is a cook. Because there were no cooking schools or culinary institutes in the American colonies, she learns to cook the traditional way: from other cooks, in other kitchens, while peeling, chopping, slicing, and stirring, but most of all by observing, listening, and tasting.

In the home of Colonel Aaron Burr and his wife Theodosia, Mary is the much-prized cook - and a much-prized possession, too. Like many of the cooks in 18thc America, Mary is enslaved. Whether female or male, on a large tobacco plantation in Virginia or a brick townhouse like the Burrs’ in New York City, the cook was usually the most valuable enslaved person in the household. Not only was the cook responsible for feeding the family, but she (or he) was also essential for successful entertaining, and maintaining the genteel air of hospitality that was so important in early American society.

Theodosia would have planned the day’s meals with Mary, and taken extra care when guests were invited. Considering that the Burrs were exceptionally well-read and kept a standing account with a London bookseller, it’s likely that Theodosia owned the latest edition of The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by Hannah Glasse (1708–1770), and turned to it for reference and recipe ideas. The frontispiece, right, shows the beruffled mistress of an English household giving a recipe to her cook. The legend beneath this illustration is a flattering 18thc version of “good food for busy cooks” that’s promised in modern cookbooks:

The Fair, who’s Wise, and oft consults our Book

And thence directions gives her Prudent Cook,

With Choicest Viands, has her Table Crown’d,

And Health, with Frugal Ellegance is found.

Mrs. Glasse’s cookbook was first published in 1747. An early bestseller, it swiftly became the most popular book of its kind in the 18th and early 19thc English-speaking world, and outlived Mrs. Glasse herself, with the cookbook going through numerous editions and revisions over the years.

These revisions reflected evolving British tastes and the increasing availability of imported ingredients. Europeans had been trading with India since the 16thc, and the cookbook’s first edition included a simple recipe for curry that depended mostly on pepper for flavoring. By the 1770 edition, a “currey the Indian way” included ginger and “tumerick” as well. Global trade routes benefited adventurous cooks, and these spices - as well as many others - would have been available in the shops of 18thc New York City. A curry like Mrs. Glasse’s would have been considered a sophisticated dish for Theodosia to serve her guests.

But to Mary, who had been born in India, Mrs. Glasse’s version would have been a Westernized travesty. Of course Mary has no say in the matter, and would have followed Theodosia’s wishes and Mrs. Glasse’s recipe, shown above, no matter how much she dislikes the results:

“It was the recipe’s seasonings that made me frown with dismay, even disgust.  Mrs. Glasse believed that with the simple additions of two ounces of turmeric and a large spoonful of raw chopped ginger-root to the cream, the dish now had a right to be called a ‘Currey Made in the Indian Way.’  I could have told her that it most assuredly wasn’t.  There was none of the subtlety or delicacy of carefully toasted, ground, and blended spices that was to be found in a true Indian curry. This was coarse and common and English. I hated to think what my grandmother with her treasured masala dabbas would have said had she seen this unappealing dish, glowing yellow from a surfeit of turmeric and surrounded by frills of parsley.”

Later in the novel, Mary finally does get to make a curry that honors her past, but the consequences for her future will prove far more lasting than those frills of parsley….

Illustrations from The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by Hannah Glasse, London, 1777.

Excerpt from The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr copyright 2019 by Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Mary Emmons and Aaron and Theodosia Burr in my new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, now available everywhere in stores and online. Order here.

For Memorial Day: A Powerful Painting by Joseph Wright of Derby, 1789

The last Monday in May is America's Memorial Day, a day set aside to honor the men and women who have given their lives for their country. It's also a day whose meaning too often is lost in the flurry of department store sales, parties, and the first long weekend of the summer.

This painting might be somber reminder of the day's true purpose. Painted by Joseph Wright of Derby around 1789, The Dead Soldier is a strong political statement about the real cost of war, no matter the century or the combatants.

A new widow buries her face with grief as she holds her dead husband's hand, bringing his fingers to touch those of his now-fatherless child. In the distance, the battle still continues, but the real drama is between these three, and it's heartbreaking. Most military paintings focus on the glory of generals and great victories, and are intended to stir patriotic feelings. This one instead shows the bleak aftermath of war for a common soldier, and the fact that the faces of both the woman and the man are hidden makes them stand in for all the now-forgotten soldiers and widows who suffered a similar fate. Only the baby turns towards the viewer. The woman's ruffled white cap, cast on the ground in despair, is an especially poignant note: a small, beribboned symbol of the girl her husband had loved, and of the life that was now over for them both.

At the time that Wright painted this, England had recently concluded an unpopular and costly civil war with the American colonies. There were few government provisions made for returning soldiers crippled by this war, or for soldier's widows and children. Many sank into deep poverty, falling into begging, prostitution, and crime to survive.

Clearly Wright had these issues in mind. He was inspired by a passage in the 1777 poem "The Country Justice" by John Langhorne, which asks for mercy and understanding for those driven to crime by poverty and indigence. While this is an unusually political painting for Wright (he's more often remembered for fashionable portraits, scientific scenes, and dramatically lit landscapes), it became his most popular work with the public from the time it was first exhibited at the Royal Academy in London. There are multiple versions of the painting, and engravings of it were widely available in Britain and Europe well into the 19thc. Significantly it remained popular throughout the era of the Napoleonic Wars.

There are multiple modern interpretations of the painting. One scholar points to the classical inspiration of the figures, and another says it actually represents the moment that the wife at home receives word of the soldier's death. Others find it overly sentimental and calculated, or concentrate on its unavoidable anti-war message.

But for me (and for many people in the 18thc. who responded so strongly to it), this powerful painting is about love, loss, and sacrifice: all things to consider and remember on Memorial Day.

While it’s unlikely that the main characters in my most recent books (I, Eliza Hamilton and The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr) would have seen this painting, they would been acutely aware of the less-than-glorious consequences of the American Revolution on both sides of the Atlantic. As former officers themselves, both Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr were concerned about the welfare of the enlisted men who had served with them, and after the war both were involved in government efforts to offer assistance to veterans. And while both men escaped the war outwardly unscathed, there’s little doubt that the battles they survived left their marks: both suffered from occasional debilitating collapses that required bedrest to overcome, and would today likely be diagnosed as symptoms of PTSD. Much as Hamilton and Burr continued to be called by their military titles throughout their civilian lives, the Revolution always remained part of who they were, including the inner scars of the war they’d fought for freedom.

Above: The Dead Soldier, by Joseph Wright of Derby, c. 1789. The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco.

A Beautiful Child's Dress Handmade by Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, c1810-1840

Eighteenth-century gentlemen were not shy about taking credit for their achievements; think of those boldly-written names at the bottom of the Declaration of Independence.) But the accomplishments of most women took place in a less-public sphere, and were seldom of the kind that could be signed: a safely-delivered child, a perfectly baked cake, a well-run shop or trade, a farm managed while a husband and sons were away fighting the war.

Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton (1757-1854) is known today as one of the founders of an orphanage whose work continues today, as the defender of her husband Alexander Hamilton’s reputation, and as the devoted mother who held her family together after Alexander’s untimely death. This is a powerful legacy in itself. But Eliza was also believed to be a skilled needleworker who not only took pride in her handwork (see here and here) , but also enjoyed creating for others even as an elderly woman with failing eyesight.

Her needlework is qualified with that “believed to be”, since none of her surviving pieces are signed. But family stories and traditions are strong, and help establish provenance even if a “signature” is absent. It’s also easy to believe that Eliza, like every woman who sews, embroiders, or knits today, enjoyed the relaxation and self-expression that her needle could provide, as well a way to put a bit of herself into gifts made for those she loved.

Certainly this child’s dress, below left, believed to be Eliza’s work, would belong to that last category. It’s been beautifully conserved by Filaments Conservation Studio, and is now on display, above, through August at the Museum of the American Revolution as part of their “Year of Hamilton” celebration. The dress is on loan to the Museum through the generosity of Douglas Hamilton, fifth-great-grandson of Eliza and Alexander Hamilton.

Dated to between 1810-1840, the dress is thought to have been made by Eliza for one of her nine granddaughters born between 1811 and 1838. It might also have been worn by one of her grandsons. Babies and young children at this time were dressed in much the same way, and there’s nothing in this garment to indicate the wearer’s gender.

According to Textile Conservator Virginia J. Whelan, the dress was intended for a young child (around six to nine months ) who was still too young to walk. The skirts are intentionally longer, and meant to drape over the legs of a child and trail across the arm of whomever was carrying the baby. Adult fashion influenced the dress, too, with the higher waist of the dress and the scooped neckline reflecting early 19thc women’s fashions. Stitched channels around the neckline and below the waist contain tapes for adjusting the fullness and fit, and to tie and fasten the dress at the back.

My favorite parts of the dress are the little sleeves, right, which to me resemble an angel’s wings. Ms. Whelan explained their elaborate construction:

“The ruffle is a width of fabric with hand-worked embroidery on one edge that is then gathered at the other edge and applied with hand-stitching to create the sleeve. Each short, puffed sleeve is constructed of two staggered rows of applied ruffles. Gussets were inserted in the sleeves to allow extra movement by the wearer. The outer scalloped edge is a buttonhole stitch and there are alternating designs (four-prong, twig-like shapes alternating with a diamond shape made of dots) worked in a satin stitch.”

There’s further embellishment, too. Whitework as well as cut-and-drawn work enhance both the sleeves and the skirt. The scalloped hem is designed to echo the ruffled sleeves.

It’s no secret that babies throughout history have been prone to unpredictable mishaps and messes. To modern mothers accustomed to wash-and-wear-and-wash-again baby clothes, all this snowy-white cotton requiring careful washing and ironing (and quite likely the skill of a professional laundress) would be a nightmare. Nor have babies themselves ever cared what they wore as long as it is warm, comfortable, and dry.

Yet the very fact that this dress has been preserved and passed down through generations of Hamiltons shows how much the garment was cherished. It’s easy to imagine Eliza - famous for her devotion to children - thinking of the special small person who would wear this with every stitch she took, just as that small person, when grown, must have looked back at this gown and fondly remembered the grandmother who put so much care and love into its creation.

Many thanks to Virginia J. Whelan, Filaments Conservation Studio, and Mark Turdo, curator, Museum of the American Revolution, for their assistance with this post.

Child’s Dress. Made by Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, New York, 1810-1840, on loan from Douglas Hamilton. Upper photo copyright 2019 Virginia J. Whelan; lower photo copyright 2019 Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton in my historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton. My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

Knitted Mitts, and the 18thc Women Who Wore (and Didn't Wear) Them

During my recent visit to Colonial Williamsburg, Associate Curator Neal Hurst showed me this pair of women’s knitted mitts from the Foundation’s Costume & Textile Collection. Mitts were an important accessory for women in the 18thc, a time when the sleeves of most women’s garments ended around the elbow. Mitts covered the forearm yet left the fingers free, and they could be cut and sewn from cloth, or knitted. (See the genteel white mitts being worn while reading in this detail of a portrait by John Singleton Copley, below right.)

The Colonial Williamsburg mitts were hand-knit in very fine linen yarn/thread on very small needles, at a gauge of about 22 stitches per inch. Modern knitters will understand how delicate this is, and also know that this size needles and yarn are no longer commercially available. The mitts were knitted seamlessly, with shaping decreases at random intervals narrowing at the wrist. More decreases plus increases created the open thumbs as well as the pointed shape of the flap that would lie over the back of the wearer’s hand. There are initials worked in cross-stitch silk thread at the top of each mitt: AS, for Abagail Steere [Fowler] (1775-1860), the original owner and possibly the maker as well. If she was, then she was not only industrious, but she also possessed the considerable leisure time to devote to knitting these useful, fashionable accessories.

In my upcoming book, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, one of the most important characters is Theodosia Bartow Prevost, the wife of a British officer. While her husband is away fighting during the Revolution, Theodosia is left with their children, her mother, and her younger half-sister on her husband’s estate, The Hermitage, in New Jersey, and stranded in a no-man’s land between two armies. She must rely primarily on her intelligence and cleverness to defend her family and property; in the face of guns and cannon, her only weapons are the letters she writes to the officers on both sides, charming and coaxing and pleading as she carefully balances one side against the other.

I pictured Theodosia furiously writing letter after letter at a small table in her bedchamber, the room chilly despite the fire. She has a shawl around her shoulders and mitts on her hands while the pen in her hand scratched across the page. Theodosia’s mitts might be made of soft wool, linen, or even imported silk, and they could have been decorated with embroidery, or with her initials, like Abagail’s. Not only would Theodosia’s mitts keep her arms and hands warm, but they would also help protect them from the sun if she ventured outdoors. Even during wartime, Theodosia would have wanted to maintain the fashionably soft, unblemished skin expected of a lady of her rank.

There would have been no such expectations for Theodosia’s enslaved cook Mary Emmons, the heroine of Secret Wife. While Mary might also have occasionally worn mitts, hers would have been made of coarse wool that she’d carded, spun, and knitted herself. She could have pulled them on outdoors for warmth as she hurried from the house to one of the outbuildings, or perhaps brought in more wood for the fires.

But in the kitchen, Mary’s hands and arms would have been bare, her skin vulnerable in countless ways large and small. Burns from wayward sparks from the open hearth, the too-hot handle of a kettle, a splash of boiling water meant for her mistress’s tea, nicks and cuts from knives and graters, and washing dishes and pots with harsh soap all could have left their marks. Mary’s hands would have been strong and skilled and capable of both culinary marvels and compassion, and later they, too, would learn to wield a pen. But dark-skinned, laboring hands would never have been considered beautiful to the 18thc eye, and they never would have been painted by John Singleton Copley.

Top: Knitted Mitts, 1780-1810. Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. For more photographs and information, visit the page for the mitts through the Colonial Williamsburg eMuseum.

Right: Detail, Mrs. James Russell (Katherine Graves) (1717-1778) by John Singleton Copley, c1770, North Carolina Museum of Art.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.