The explosive fireworks had only continued at the Robinson home on Houston Street, with her father threatening to cut her off from any inheritance. Samuel Robinson was a self-made man who was a successful shoe and boot merchant. Now in New York, he had formed a new partnership under the name of Robinson & Olds. He was wealthy, but not excessively so. Most of his money was tied up in his growing company. Eliza was the youngest and the only one of his four daughters not yet married. He was insisting she marry Sir Charles and wanted her to commit to the English gentleman as soon as possible. Sir Charles had even paid him a visit to make his case and look favorably upon his suit. Eliza would have none of it. She said she would rather live on the street than marry that old toad of an Englishman with his fat stomach and balding head.
“He’s dull as a butter knife and all he wants to talk about is his cotton mills and old English castles. I will marry Captain Morgan,” Eliza had replied defiantly. “He is witty and smart and adventurous, unlike the stodgy, lecherous Sir Charles whom you are so keen about.”
“Please reconsider, dear,” her mother had said solicitously, even though her glowering eyes revealed a considerably less tolerant frame of mind.
Eliza just shook her head.
“Why are you so mule headed about this?” her mother demanded, mystified by her daughter’s stubbornness. “Can’t you see that a marriage with Sir Charles is in your best interest? A British husband with a title is the best way to win social acceptability. A duke or a marquis would be a better catch followed by an earl or a viscount naturally, but Sir Charles has a significant estate. Why can’t you be reasonable?”
Her father had been emphatic and told Eliza that he had assured Sir Charles that he could sway her mind, but the standoff had continued for days with Eliza stubbornly refusing to listen to her parents’ pleas. They would have locked her up if they knew she was meeting him.
“So what do I do, Captain?”
The two of them were walking on the well-groomed pathways by the Battery alongside elegantly dressed gentlemen escorting their lady friends or wives with their colorful bonnets. Just off the breakwater, a tugboat steamed out to one of the incoming three-masted ships. Morgan had listened quietly throughout but remained silent, causing Eliza to continue on in a defeated whimper.
“Sir Charles has been invited over for tea the day after tomorrow and my mother says he is going to make his formal proposal.”
A steam whistle went off from the tug as it now began pulling the incoming square-rigger into port. Sailors were yelling off in the distance. Morgan tried to be as nonchalant as he could.
“As every sailor knows, when a storm’s threatening it’s always best to shorten sail and be prepared. I was going to wait, but given the circumstances I could, with your permission, talk to your father sooner than Sir Charles? Would you allow me to do that?” he asked with a hopeful smile.
That same day, Morgan penned a letter to Eliza’s father. Eliza had told him her father was very knowledgeable with accounting and financial matters. She described him as ambitious, hardworking, a risk taker, who just recently had decided to invest a good portion of his money into building a new boot and shoe factory on Water Street. He was an optimist, she said, who tended to stress the positive. Morgan knew the Robinsons objected to him because he was a sailor. Even worse, he didn’t have a place for her to live. As he wrote the letter, he thought of his own father, which helped him decide what to say. He described how he already owned a one-eighth share of the Philadelphia and how he wanted to invest in ownership shares in some of the other Black X ships. He talked about the growing trade between England and America. He explained his own plan, that the Black X Line would be reaping the benefits of transatlantic commerce. He spoke of his family and his part in his brother’s purchase of farmland overlooking the Connecticut River. He was careful not to mention he hadn’t ever seen the land, much less returned home in all the years he’d been away at sea. He decided not to mention the relatively sparse boarding house accommodations he rented just off Cherry Street. In conclusion, he wrote, he would greatly appreciate Mr. Robinson’s advice on matters of business. He never once mentioned Eliza, knowing full well that Mr. Robinson was quite aware of the real reason he was writing.
The next day he waited all day at the ship, but no message arrived. He knew Sir Charles was scheduled to come for tea at the Robinson’s house the following day, so he’d made up his mind he would go, message or no message. In the morning, he dressed in his best business attire, the long-skirted blue coat and matching pants, shiny black boots, a silk cravat, and his top hat. He walked up to the front door of the Robinsons’ brownstone at 219 Houston Street, where he was met by an expressionless butler. He gave his name, fully anticipating that he would be turned away. He already had plans to barge in and demand a hearing with Mr. Robinson. To his surprise, the butler seemed to have been expecting him. He was escorted through the house with its walnut, wainscoted walls to Mr. Robinson’s well-appointed library. There he was asked to wait outside.