Peggy O’Neall, a Washington tavern-keeper’s daughter, was trouble in a corset. Her dark eyes and quick tongue had John Eaton, Secretary of War, panting like a hound. Her first husband, a naval purser, was barely cold when she wed Eaton, nine months later. The capital’s matrons clutched pearls, whispering of an affair.
At a White House ball, Peggy glided past, her gown hugging curves that made Eaton forget treaties. “Dance, John?” she murmured, her breath a scandal. He complied, tripping over his boots as Vice President Calhoun’s wife snubbed her. Eaton’s heart raced, imagining Peggy in his quarters, not this viper’s nest.
The cabinet wives shunned Peggy, calling her a harlot. President Jackson, loyal to Eaton, roared, “She’s a lady!” but the feud split his administration. Peggy, unfazed, flirted shamelessly, her laugh a rebellion. One night, she cornered Eaton in a corridor. “Let them talk,” she whispered, her lips grazing his ear. He knocked over a candelabra, setting a curtain ablaze, and cursed his clumsy desire.
The scandal forced resignations, redrew alliances, and boosted Martin Van Buren. Eaton, exiled to a governorship, still burned for Peggy, who reveled in her infamy. “Washington’s too dull without me,” she’d say, winking. He’d nod, doomed to love a woman who danced through chaos.