.99 on Kindle This Week--ELIZA JUMEL BURR, VICE QUEEN OF THE UNITED STATES

Abandoned at childhood, Betsy Bowen found out she is George Washington's daughter and escaped the streets of Providence to become Eliza Jumel Burr, New York's richest woman. She pursued Aaron Burr, the love of her life, for decades and he finally proposed when he was 80 and she was 56. She divorced him on adultery charges, and he died two days after being served the papers. Who was her lawyer? Alexander Hamilton, Jr., the son of the man Burr killed in the famous 1804 duel.

Eliza believed George Washington was her father. Nine months before she was born, her mother spent one night with the general and became pregnant. Eliza's many attempts to reach her father gained her an invitation to Mount Vernon weeks before his death.

She met the love of her life, Aaron Burr, at President Washington's inauguration. While Aaron was in the capital serving as a senator, Eliza met wealthy wine merchant Stephen Jumel, and faked her own death to get Stephen to marry her. When Stephen fell from a cart and died in Eliza's arms, she was brought up on murder charges, which were dismissed. Aaron proposed to her and she became Mrs. Burr, her lifelong wish.

Eliza Jumel Burr

From Eliza Jumel Burr, Vice Queen of the United States:

July 11, 1804, a day I'll never forget, a Wednesday, I rose early from fitful sleep. Two of my servants huddled in the kitchen, murmuring instead of cooking. They held the newspaper wide open.

When I walked in, they froze as if turned to stone, and held the paper out to me.

"What is it?" Without fresh coffee I was half-awake. But seeing the paper, I trembled. My mouth dried up. "Oh, no." I hid my eyes with my hands, I couldn't bear to look.

"M-Miss Eliza..." Mary stammered. "Vice President Burr shot General Hamilton in a duel."

Too weak to stand, I grabbed a chair and sank into it. "He shot Hamilton?" My head spun, dizzy with relief. But I still didn't know about Aaron. "Is he all right? The vice president?"

"We don't know, ma'am. It just says General Hamilton was mortally wounded."

Without another word, I ran down the hall, threw open the front door, not closing it behind me, and raced to Gold Street in the gathering morning heat. Humidity soaked my clothes. I mopped sweat from my face.

I banged on his door. No answer. "Aaron, open the door, it's me, please, we need to talk!" I banged again. Echoes answered me. He'd fled. But where? When would I see my beloved again?

Hamilton died the next day, and the city fell to its knees in mourning.

The tolling church bells and muffled drumbeats echoed through the sweltering city air.

****

   I saw Mrs Hamilton on Broad Way, head to toe in widow's weeds. I wanted to approach her and offer my condolences, but she knew I was intimate with the vice president, so I kept my distance. Their country home, The Grange, was not far from the Morris mansion I planned to buy. We'd be neighbors someday.

Purchase ELIZA JUMEL BURR from Amazon

My Visit to Eliza Jumel's Mansion to Research my Book--I Made Eliza's Ghost Laugh!

Those of you who have seen the play Hamilton are now familiar with Aaron Burr's last wife, Eliza. She started out dirt poor in Providence and with her street smarts and business acumen, became  New York City's richest woman. Read about my visit to her mansion and my 'ghostly' experience:

Me on the Steps of the Jumel Mansion

In researching my biographical novel about Aaron Burr and his last wife, Madame Eliza Jumel, I visited her mansion in Washington Heights, NYC. It's beautifully restored and maintained, befitting the once-richest lady in New York. 

You can also hear the many stories of her ghost wandering the mansion in a purple gown, rapping on walls and windows, and yelling at schoolkids to shut up! 

One July night in 1833, Aaron, age 77, showed up at Eliza's door with the same minister who married him to his first wife Theodosia fifty years before. After several rejections of his proposal, she finally agreed to marry him in the front parlor (photo below). 

Front Parlor

When she realized he was a gold-digger (as by then, he was broke), she began divorce proceedings, also charging him with adultery, as he had a mistress in Jersey City. In an ironic twist, she hired Alexander Hamilton Jr. as her lawyer. But in the most ironic twist of all, he died the same day he received the final papers. 

When we visited, my husband Chris & I were on the 2nd floor where the bedrooms are. I was standing in the doorway of her bedroom (Aaron's is across the hall), and said out loud that I wondered if they ever slept together, or always in the separate rooms. Chris said, 'she was so old, and he was 80!'

I replied, 'Well, from what I've read of him, he could still get it up.'

A minute later, Chris asked me if I laughed after saying that. I definitely had not laughed.
That means somebody else did! He'd heard a woman's throaty chuckle, NOT my voice at all.

Aaron's Bedroom

We were the only (living) people up there at the time. I'm convinced it was Eliza, eavesdropping on us, and I was able to give her a laugh.
Have you ever heard of a ghost laughing? I never have! 
If you're ever in the area, visit the mansion--it's an unforgettable experience.

My biographical novel is titled ELIZA JUMEL BURR, VICE QUEEN OF THE UNITED STATES. I enjoyed researching this fascinating woman's life.

Purchase ELIZA on Amazon

Visit the Jumel Mansion website

For Third Scene Thursday, Here's Scene 3 of Biographical Thriller SHARING HAMILTON

I wrote my biographical novel about Alexander Hamilton, his wife and mistress when I read about "The Reynolds Affair" which nearly ruined Hamilton's political career and his marriage. My author friend Brian Porter wrote a subplot about a serial killer on the loose in Philadelphia and blended it into the story. Brian has written several books about Jack the Ripper, and this was right up his alley.

“The Reynolds Affair,” the country’s first sex scandal, would last for two years.

 Universal link to SHARING HAMILTON on Amazon

Here's Scene 3, for Third Scene Thursday:

Maria

Phila., Wednesday, August 3, 1791

“Hell’s bells, Maria, ye think I’m made o’gold?” James thundered as I entered our parlour laden with packages: a bottle of Madeira, a satin bonnet to match my new pelisse, and kid gloves, having left my old pair at the White Rose Coffeehouse.

“These are hardly extravagances. After all, you boasted you made three hundred dollars last month.” I relished reliving the moment when he showered coins and notes all over our bed, foretelling how I was “coming into money.”

            I dumped the packages onto our new Rococo settee. “Do you want your wife looking like a slattern?” I flicked his gold watch fob, which he’d bought because “Hugh Dugan has a new one.”

            “Nay, but you ain’t Mrs. James Monroe, either, so dinna try puttin’ on airs like her.”

            “Mrs. Monroe couldn’t get a rise out of you if you downed three scores of oysters. She’s frigid—so I hear.” I smirked, slapping his thigh with my new gloves.

            “At least she reads all the books she owns. Did you ever read any of these flub-dubs?” He swiped at my row of leather-bound books, knocking Volume I of Shakespeare to the floor.

            “Of course I’ve read them. Twicet and thricet.” I picked up my well-worn Bard tome and replaced it on the shelf. “I read the Bard’s plays over and over. But I never discuss England with strangers. Too dangerous these days.”

            “You know more about Macbeth than about me,” James scoffed. He stood the new Madeira bottle on our table and uncorked it with the screw he wore on his key chain.

            “All you read are those tittle-tattle sheets,” I accused, and rightly. He paraded his brotherhood with the scandal mongering Thom Callender, whose weekly tabloid tarnished many a sterling reputation, from senators down to their stable boys.

            “Aye, and mayhap our names will appear in them someday.” He poured wine into his pewter tankard he’d named Douglas. Hard-swilling males named their tankards and their members. James bestowed “Canute the Great” upon his member—but I hadn’t the heart to tell him it was less than accurate.

             “I keep our private life private. So don’t blabber to Callender about what a tigress I am,” I teased as he poured me a goblet of wine.

            “Nay, I shan’t. But ah’m glad you brought it up. Sit down, Maria, we need to talk.” He clasped my fingers and walked me to one of our matching Chippendale chairs—his last splurge from a profitable venture—and pushed down on my shoulders till I sat.

            “Brought what up? Talk about what?” I trembled. I never knew from one day to the next what—or who—James would bring home.

            “Have you more ‘golden geese’? I hope so. We can use some more plate and furniture.” We moved “up” thrice since settling here. We now dwelt in a three-story brick townhome on Pine Street with one outbuilding. We always rented. “Or can we finally buy a house of our own?”    I fixed my gaze upon my husband of seven years. Our passion and lust matured into love and devotion, but the desire lingered on.

            He’d been an apprentice and journeyman goldsmith until the Revolution, but he hadn’t the capital nor the patience to rise to master. He made a gold chamber pot for his most famous client, Thomas “all men are created equal” Jefferson, and his reputation grew from there. But goldsmithing wasn’t enough for James. He lived by his wits and one scheme after another. He groomed and dressed as a dandy, but when he opened his mouth, he made it obvious he hailed from a Glasgow slum.

I harbored mixed feelings about it—I admired his shrewdness, yet he courted disaster, speculating in land deals and currency. With my urging, he ran for the Continental Congress but lost to his friend Dayton. No hard feelings. James didn’t want the job. Too much traveling. As I gazed at his muscular figure ’neath his tight britches, a familiar surge of desire warmed me. With his swarthy good looks and persuasive charm, he made a fitting match for politics.

            With his political run over, he served a brief sentence for counterfeiting. He posted bail, but our landlord evicted us. I stayed by his side as we trawled the streets of New York in the dead of winter, scrounging for lodgings.        

“No golden geese this time, my pet. Not yet, anyways.” He took a sip.

Disappointment crushed me. “I fear this announcement more than all your other schemes. What is it?” I gulped the fruity wine, hoping to be tipsy for this.

            He scraped his chair back and sat, fingering his watch. Whenever he fiddled with his watch or rings from Ben Franklin’s estate auction, I knew something vexed him.

            “Maria…” His eyes pierced mine. My heart sank farther. “We were well on our way to being gentry till this morn. I lost it all on a land deal.” His eyes dropped. “For the now, we stand on the line between hard up and impoverished.”

            My ire heated me head to toe. “What about the two thousand you invested?” I struggled to steady my voice. “The shares in the Bank of the United States?” Alexander Hamilton created the bank earlier this year, although James didn’t like the Treasury Secretary. He called him a snob to his face. “How could you be so irresponsible?” I grabbed the nearest object, a brass candlestick, but he snatched it away afore I could fling it.

            “It looked like a sure thing…but ah’ll make more.” Another of his promises. “Til then, we’re one hunk of bread, these wine bottles, and a dram of whisky from malnourishment. And five days from eviction. The rent comes due Monday.”

            I shook with fear. “There you go, pulling it out from under us, as you do time and time again! When will you learn, James?” I had some coin hidden. But after that—what? Too distraught to even look at him, I swept away tears of exasperation with my clenched fist.

“Money slips through your fingers like shucked oysters.” My voice shook. My entire body shook. “I know not how much more of this I can take. What’s next, the almshouse?”

            As he stroked my cheek, my rage yielded to pity. He’d become poor in an endless quest to be rich. “No, we’ll never resort to the almshouse. Before we met, I lived in a stable whilst seeking work, too proud to apply to the almshouse as a pauper.”

            I released a deep breath. “Oh, James, I love you so, but I feel trapped, with nowhere to go but up and down with you.” Desperate for a solution, I began spewing forth ideas about what I could do: “I can take in laundry. Or work as a cook. Or a whitewasher. Or a soap maker.” I paced the floorboards, wringing my hands. Then a much better source of income struck me. “I can give violin instruction to those toffynoses in the court end of town!”

He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Bah to all that. Listen. I know a brilliant way to make money—a lot more money—in a shorter time than ever before. And it involves Alexander Hamilton, Mr. Treasury himself.”

            At the sound of his name, I heated up. That recurring memory made me tingle all over: the first time I’d met Mr. Hamilton, his violet eyes nestled on my décolletage, his russet hair glinted in the candlelight, his lips kissed my hand—my heart surged just thinking about it.

            “What about Al—him?”

            “I dinna know the chap intimately, but I do know his weakness: beautiful women. Adams once said ‘Hamilton’s ambitions have their source in a superabundance of secretions he could not find whores enough to draw off.’” He clucked, as if in disapproval. “Tis not idle gossip. If a curmudgeon like Adams knows about it, tis true. Secondly—” He refilled Douglas to the rim. “Hamilton recently got embroiled in a payoff scheme, being seen with a trull. He favors paying hush money, rather than harm his reputation. Hence—we can chip away at that weak spot and wear it down farther.”

            I shook my head. “Already I do not like this. Underneath the bad metaphors, you are saying you can bilk Al—Secretary Hamilton out of some money.”

            “Tis not bilking, dear wife. He shall git something much more valuable in return.”

            I paused. “I’m afraid to ask, but . . . such as?”

            He cracked a smile and winked. “You.”

Character Descriptions: How Much of Their Appearance Do You Want to See?

I saw a reader poll on the "Romance Writers" Facebook group I belong to, which asks how much detail is enough for you to picture fictional characters while reading: every facial feature and hairstyle, hand gestures, body language, voice, clothes, race/ethnicity, or very little, to leave it up to your imagination?

Here's the poll:

How important is it to know exactly what the characters you're reading about look like?

a) I want to feel that I know the character, but only distinctive features, voice/scars/height/race.
b) Very important. I want to be able to have a fixed picture in my mind.
c) I want to know what they wear, down to their shoes and make-up, otherwise I'll keep flicking back looking for a description.
d) Just a mention of race/height/hair/eye color once in the story is enough.

I write historical novels about real people, but if there are no existing portraits of them, I try to find a real person I can imagine that character as--for instance, in my biographical novel Sharing Hamilton, his mistress Maria's husband James has no existing portraits. He was Scottish, and I pictured him as the Scottish comedian Billy Connolly. It made it SO much easier to write about him; he came alive for me.

Billy Connolly (James Reynolds in my book SHARING HAMILTON) 

Any All My Children fans still out there? Anyone remember actor Michael Nouri, who played "Mountain Man" Caleb, whose house Erica Kane's plane crashed into? (she walked away without breaking a nail, of course!)

In my biographical novel Eliza Jumel Burr, Vice Queen of the United States, I pictured her first husband Stephen Jumel as Michael. After that, he also came alive!

Michael Nouri (Stephen Jumel in my book ELIZA JUMEL BURR, VICE QUEEN OF THE UNITED STATES)

Also from All My Children, I pictured the actor Vincent Irizarry as my hero Fausto in my vampire romance A BLOODY GOOD CRUISE.

So, picturing the characters is most important to me. Also, good dialogue is important; every character should have a distinctive voice. But don't go overboard on the dialect--I once read a book with a Scottish hero, and his dialect was so distracting, I had to translate as I went along.

Comments anyone?

Historical Thriller SHARING HAMILTON - Love, Romance, Deception, Blackmail....Murder

I'm delighted to announce that my historical romantic thriller, SHARING HAMILTON, co-written with best selling author Brian Porter, is now on sale. It centers on the nation's first sex scandal in 1791 between Alexander Hamilton and the beautiful Maria Reynolds, whose con artist husband James blackmailed Hamilton. This became tabloid fodder of the time, known as "The Reynolds Affair." 

My British author friend Brian Porter writes murder mysteries set in England. I needed him to add his skills on writing about the darker side of life to produce the subplot about a Jack the Ripper-type murderer prowling the nighttime streets of America's first capital, Philadelphia. The challenge was to take my completed manuscript and seamlessly add the subplot as though the whole book was written in one continuous stream.

It's available for Kindle, and will be in paperback soon. 

Read Chapter One on my website.

Purchase SHARING HAMILTON

SHARING HAMILTON Now Available for Pre-Order--October 30 Release Date

I'm delighted to announce that my historical romantic thriller, SHARING HAMILTON, co-written with best selling author Brian Porter, can now be pre-ordered. It centers on the nation's first sex scandal in 1791 between Alexander Hamilton and the beautiful Maria Reynolds, whose con artist husband James blackmailed Hamilton. This became tabloid fodder of the time, known as "The Reynolds Affair."

My British author friend Brian Porter writes murder mysteries set in England. I needed him to add his skills on writing about the darker side of life to produce the subplot about a Jack the Ripper-type murderer prowling the nighttime streets of America's first capital, Philadelphia. The challenge was to take my completed manuscript and seamlessly add the subplot as though the whole book was written in one continuous stream.

SHARING HAMILTON will be released on October 30.

Click here to pre-order

My New Historical Romantic Thriller SHARING HAMILTON Coming Soon!

I'm delighted to announce that I just signed a contract for my new historical romantic thriller, SHARING HAMILTON, co-written with best selling author Brian Porter. It centers on the nation's first sex scandal in 1791 between Alexander Hamilton and the beautiful Maria Reynolds, whose con artist husband James blackmailed Hamilton. This became tabloid fodder of the time, known as "The Reynolds Affair."

My British author friend Brian Porter writes murder mysteries set in England. I needed him to add his skills on writing about the darker side of life to produce the subplot about a Jack the Ripper-type murderer prowling the nighttime streets of America's first capital, Philadelphia. The challenge was to take my completed manuscript and seamlessly add the subplot as though the whole book was written in one continuous stream.

SHARING HAMILTON is coming soon from Creativia Publishing and I'll post about it here. Stay tuned!

More on The Reynolds Affair

My New Historical Romantic Thriller SHARING HAMILTON Coming Out Soon

I'm delighted to announce that I just signed a contract for my new historical romantic thriller, SHARING HAMILTON, co-written with best selling author Brian Porter. It centers on the nation's first sex scandal in 1791 between Alexander Hamilton and the beautiful Maria Reynolds, whose con artist husband James blackmailed Hamilton. This became tabloid fodder of the time, known as "The Reynolds Affair."

My British author friend Brian Porter writes murder mysteries set in England. I needed him to add his skills on writing about the darker side of life to produce the subplot about a Jack the Ripper-type murderer prowling the nighttime streets of America's first capital, Philadelphia. The challenge was to take my completed manuscript and seamlessly add the subplot as though the whole book was written in one continuous stream.

SHARING HAMILTON is coming soon from Creativia Publishing and I'll post about it here. Stay tuned!

More on The Reynolds Affair

Discussion on Hamilton, Burr, and some other Colorful, Brilliant and Crabby Founding Fathers

I've been having a lively chat with historian Bob Johnson of Pennsylvania and sharing some of my insights that I've gleaned from studying our founding father
My knowledge of Tommy J (Thomas Jefferson) is rather limited, as he never captured my imagination as did my fav historical figures: Mozart, Richard III, and now Hamilton and Burr, but I do think TJ was rather hypocritical saying that all men are created equal as his slaves slaved away at M'cello.

Now that I've read everything I could get my hands on about Aaron, he definitely got a bum rap thru history. People hate him simply cos he killed AH, but don't know the backstory. AH busted his balls, to put it bluntly. It's only natural that Burr called him out, as barbaric as dueling is to us. I just read in a book yesterday that dueling was only for the upper classes; farmers, etc. never would have considered it. Well, la di da!
After a few years of researching AH and writing about him for a year, I got to know him pretty well, but have read so many conflicting reports about his character, I'm not sure even if I like him. But I do believe that he never speculated or embezzled Treasury funds, and since my book centers on his relationships with his wife and mistress Maria Reynolds I came to believe that his admitting adultery rather than let his enemies think he was ripping off the Treasury made him out to be of stronger character than the rest of them.
I just finished reading a few things about Sen. Wm. Maclay of PA, who's going in my Burr/Eliza book. What a character! He's worth a book of his own!