Wednesday, August 24, 1814

4:30 P.M.

The white sandstone walls of the President’s House disappeared behind the trees, and Dolley heard in her mind the whisper of Aaron Burr’s beautiful voice: Has it ever occurred to you that Sophie Hallam might be a British spy?

Hast thou quarreled? Dolley had asked Burr at once, and immediately felt herself blush for the suggestion that Sophie might be his mistress—which of course Dolley was virtually certain Sophie was, that summer of 1803. Her certainty was confirmed when Burr had grinned, like a wicked older brother to whom Dolley could say anything.

“We have not,” he retorted. “Because a man shares a woman’s bed doesn’t mean he has to be blind to all besides her beauty. And no lovers’ spat would excuse a man for inventing such a rumor about a woman. I merely wondered, that’s all. She’d make a fine spy.”



Stifling in the closed carriage as she fled the capital, one arm draped over the jolting stacks of boxes and bundled papers that threatened to avalanche over her every time the wheels struck another rut, Dolley could see her old friend’s face as clearly as if the conversation had occurred yesterday instead of eleven years ago.