She stares down at her tea. By her foot is John, pushing a large button around and around in circles. Around and around it goes, all around, 'round her foot and 'round his body, till it reaches its starting point and begins again.
She's tired. She's so tired of being unable to go anywhere without glaring reminders of her heartache ready to appear at any corner; yet at this point, she realizes she can't get away. She hates it, but she knows it's true. She's sensible. She won't turn the truth away when it knocks on her door.
Even if that very truth is wielding a knife, ready to stab her in the gut.
She gets up and walks to the window, past John and his button (which is still going around and around, around and around, rolling across the floor in circle after circle), past her old rocking chair that he used to sit next to while she rocked the children to sleep, past the portrait of them that hangs on the wall. She stands at the window, and looks out, and watches her.
She walks by in a red dress. She passes the house like this every day without fail; each time she clutches the same old basket. She hunches down, evidently trying to be invisible, which is difficult since she is clad in a crimson dress that everybody who reads (which is most people) knows to look for. She walks down the street, and she hears whispers everywhere she goes.
Eliza hears whispers, too.
Sure, perhaps they are not exactly the same. When the woman in the blue dress walks by, the whispers are those of intrigued commoners looking to share gossip; the kind that say "did you hear about her husband's infidelity?" or "that's Elizabeth Hamilton. I heard her husband left her for a twenty-three year old". But when the girl in red goes past, people watch her warily; they point and they stare and they cup hands in front of mouths before whispering things that should not be repeated. They toss around names for this young woman; they call her things that she pretends not to hear. But every day Eliza sees it in her face; she listens, and she hears, and she hurts.
The funny thing, though, is that Eliza is sorry for her.
She knows she shouldn't be. Eliza knows that she was wronged, and that he was taken while he belonged to her, but she can't bring herself to feel even a speck of anger towards this girl. She is not angry at the girl, and she never will be.
The reason is this; to her it is simple, to everyone else it is mystifying. Yet she understands herself with perfect clarity. She cannot bring herself to be upset with the girl because Elizabeth herself remembers falling in love with him- with Alexander.
She knows how easy it is. She remembers looking across the room at a ball one night and seeing his face in a sea of others that became unimportant the moment she laid eyes on him; she remembers how in one instant, the moment he looked at her, she was helpless.
And- though she had tried not to think about how her sister's eyes always traveled to Alexander's whenever they were together- she knows that it's possible for other women to also melt under his gaze. And she understands.
She doesn't blame Angelica. She isn't mad. She's tired, yes, and so sad, but she isn't angry. Once, on a winter's night so long ago, Eliza fell helpless under Alexander's stare... as did her sister.
And now, years later, she finds that another woman has dropped to the ground. Yet another unsuspecting soul made the mistake of meeting his eyes, and now she has lost her footing and toppled.
Yet another woman that Alexander can add to his list. Yet another woman charmed into oblivion. Yet another woman lost in those eyes. Yet another victim.
There is a distinct wetness on her face. Her heart is pounding too quickly, too loudly in her ears. Her breaths seem too shallow. She turns from the window and steps away; she accidentally kicks over John's button in the process. His exclamation dies on his lips as he looks up at her.
Before she can think about what she's doing she walks outside. The girl is passing her house; she looks up as Eliza runs outside and her brown eyes widen, then her gaze drops to the ground. There is a brokenness in the way she carries herself that Eliza knows all too well.
Eliza runs until she is standing right in front of the girl. Her chest is heaving; she's still sobbing. But she gathers the girl's hands into her own and holds them tightly.
"Welcome to the ranks," she whispers. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."
Maria's face breaks with Eliza's final words.
"You're just another fallen sister."