Hi again! so, um, this isn't a new year's or a Christmas one shot, sorry! still, um, there are three letters that Alexander Hamilton was not proud of, three letters in his entire life, which went to all three of the Schuyler sisters. Here we go!
Peggy:
Peggy was sixteen years old and had the worldly experience of an infant. Sure, she was versed in etiquette, French, literacy, she knew how she could secure a good husband. It never felt like enough; for heaven's sake, she had barely stepped from her father's property as many times as she had fingers on her hands! It was those thoughts that flurried through her head at an alarming pace the day after the fateful winter's ball, where she learned more from the intelligent, charming young soldier, Laurens, about the world than she had in all her years at the tutor's classes.
The dark mahogany desk was a hard, unyielding surface against her head when she got up from a rest she shouldn't have been indulging in, there were too many letters from hopeful suitors she needed to shoot down, and not enough time in the short amount of sunlight she was sure to get in the dead of winter. The ruffles in her dark blue gown swished together when she rose for the first time in what seemed like weeks. Her bones popped as she stretched. Now, Peggy wouldn't say she intentionally scanned the desk looking for a letter that sounded even remotely interesting when she came across one from a soldier who had been tripping over his own feet after Eliza. Oh no, she would have simply tallied that up to pure coincidence.
Dear Margarita Schuyler,
Came the first letter
In obedience to your sister miss Schuyler's demands, I have enclosed this letter to you. I endeavor to ask for your permission to assure you that the nature of our, hopefully recurring, correspondence, will have an uncommonly amiable nature. Set apart from other motives many men would jump at to be in your graces, my purposes have a more pointed nature: your dear sister, Elizabeth Schuyler.
In some peculiar happenstance, she seems to have mastered the art of keeping me enraptured by her every word, and all concerning herself. This being said, Eliza keeps a pretty picture of yourself and the accompanying mind, which have rendered me to feel a partiality not often seen for you, though we have not yet formally met. I hope you will feel that my forthcoming frankness will lend a good opinion of myself to you, so that we may become acquaintances. Many seem to infer to myself as though my irrational confidence with the unforgiving world, and more often than not, with the opposite sex to be heinous. So, I do hope you will take my frankness as a sign of honesty, nothing more nor less.
Your sister carries with herself the elegance of the noblewoman that she is, and has more than once favoured me with a glance. Eliza is most unmercifully beautiful, and she turns many heads. Notwithstanding her beauty, she posses none of the vanity, the frivolousness, of others her status and rigour, which sets her conspicuous from the other fools who will always take the path more travelled.
Such a strange specimen she is, carrying all the beauty and nature of her sex without the mindless baselessness, those defects so amiable. Many seasoned young men will find these qualities as lacking, and I cannot stress how much it takes my breath away that your sister should be so wonderful.
Nevertheless, I must solicit your aid in the process of, for lack of other phrasing, wooing, this perfect sister of yours. I was hoping, with the certain unattainable knowledge you have of her, you could help me in making sure that I could keep up the correspondence between ourselves before I must leave for South Carolina, where the battle is calling us. On my behalf, if you would ask her to send a letter my way, and if you could find the time, enclose yourself a letter, to aid myself?
With sincere hope and chivalrous intent, I hope to hear from you again,
Alexander Hamilton
Peggy, who had been snuffling giggles from the start of the letter, let out a sudden whoop.
'Hey Liza!' She yelled, heedless of the maids that were undoubtedly going to come rushing in any minute.
'I think one of your letters got mixed up in my pile!' She heard the pattering sound of feet above her head.
'Give it to me, Peggy…' Peggy saw the blond curls bounce at her door, accompanied by a pout and a yellow dress. Leave it up to Eliza to switch colours did she ever even think of wearing Eliza's trademark blue.
'On second thoughts…' Started Peggy, loving the colour drain from her sister's face,
'It was addressed to me…'
'Who was it?' Asked Eliza, as though she had been holding her breath for the entirety of Peggy's dragged out statement.
'A certain mister Hamilton, it seems,' she started off coyly, and Eliza's entire face lit up
'Really!?' She asked as Peggy handed over the letter with a snigger.
Angelica:
Angelica Schuyler Church had long since become used to the dull, gray lifestyle surrounding her at the Church manor in London. Though she still woke from dreams of bright colours and fresh American uniforms, of elegant balls and equally so men, of the feeling of warm wind against her face, it wasn't now with a jolt of sadness or loneliness, but dull gray resignation.
John Church was an ambitious man, and with every penny he brought in from the war profiteering market he engineered in America, he spent it on making sure he secured a place within the English House of representatives, or parliament. He was undeniably a good husband, he relented to her needs and wants, gave her freedom; he was a good man. Still, Angelica seemed to continue catching herself wondering how she ended up with such a drab life, how her ambitions seemed to have fizzled out with the touch of a gold band onto her finger.
She wasn't sure when, and she wasn't sure how, but Angelica Schuyler spent so many nights home alone, reading from Tolstoy to Paine, that she could be considered a scholar from subjects ranging from political science to psychology. Still, as lifeless as her existence was, a small flame flickered within miles of ice. Her family's letters. They brought with them not only snippets of her darling siblings, but a shred of hope for returning to her roots, to her home.
My dearest, Angelica
"Tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day," my tribute to the great Scottish misery comes not without reason, if you may allow me to rant. Mr Jefferson continues to plague the self and any member of our Congress daring to set foot from his office, in the hopes of raising support in dissent of my own financial plans for our country. Although I do not lower myself on the same level as his petty insults, these days I often feel as though, had I been Macbeth, Jefferson would have been the Mcduff, and Madison played the role of Bankwell.
I wish not to invite the monsters of the political world that already exist in my work life into my home, and therefore onto our Betsey, she has enough to worry about as it is. Still, as I have said before, and will continue to in near and far future, I trust your opinion with many of my own personal matters, so if you would be so kind as to partake in this deplorable situation. Mr Washington has been extremely liberal with speech of retirement as of late, and I cannot restrain myself from the chance that he would choose to retire early from his mantle. If he resigns, you can very well wish my aspirations farewell forever, as not any potential candidates either want my contributions (Jefferson) or have the head to understand my ideas (Adams sr.)
Though you might have been living for many years now dining with European royalty, it always seems to strike me anew when I receive your beautiful letters. Here in the states, we are missing the delightful company of yourself and Mr Church terribly. Speaking of, how is he as of late; I heard he has now a seat in the parliament, for which I do congratulate him. However, I did tell him, and still stick to the opinion that he would have been better suited to the suits of the new congress back across the pond.
Love from myself, Betsey and the children.
A. Ham
'Angelica!' Came a voice from downstairs, and Angelica wiped the smile off her face in a reflex action.
'Yes, dear?' She called back huskily from not having spoken for so long. Up came the reply telling her to get dressed for yet another political gathering where she would have to play the part of the dutiful trophy wife. She sighed, looking back at the letter that in all seriousness, could well have been her will to keep on going.
Alexander Hamilton and his family symbolised her hope for something more than what she had, for something that could put her down in history. Something where she could make a difference, where women would have options other than working twenty hour days for abusive companies or becoming trophies on the arms of rich men, who existed solely to bear children. Still, they were only baseless fantasies, and she was living in a dark, gritty, sometimes unbearable real world.
The thought did not stop Angelica from flinching when the maid came up, saying in her high, young voice how Angelica needed to hurry for the chauffeur had come early. This was her life, and she needed to get used to it.
Eliza:
It had been with a heavy heart and dry eyes that Eliza had woken to a cold bed and a vague idea that Alexander had left for some early meeting before dawn. Rising from the soft bed, she padded toward his study. Sunlight was already streaming in through half opened curtains though it had only just passed eight, Eliza was beginning to feel the head end of an oppressively hot day. She looked blearily through half-closed eyelids, searching for dirty crockery, you never knew with her husband. She smiled when the desk seemed in order for once, and, mumbling under her breath, she left the room.
Or rather, she would have, had she not then caught sight of a freshly sealed, expensive manila envelope sitting right in the middle of the newly scrubbed desk. The envelope which was addressed to her.
'What has he done now…' Eliza muttered under her breath, wary of what new horrors the day might unfold from her. The sun had not yet passed its midpoint and she felt her shoulders sagging. Eliza flopped onto the beautifully carved chair on the other side of the desk heavily, with a lack of dignity that would have had her late mother wailing in embarrassment, and opened the envelope.
My very dearest, Eliza,
This letter will not be delivered to you unless I have certainly ended my earthly career upon this world, and have risen above about to enter into a happy immortality. Had there been any possibility to avoid an early interview with death, I would have sought out the solution in a blink of the eye. Nevertheless, such sacrifices would have rendered me unworthy of your esteem, and I could not have brought myself to look you in your eyes.
I cannot bring myself to imagine your sorrow, for fear it will discourage me, shaky as my decision is already. The only, if any consolation that I may be able to offer you, is the knowledge that my soul is enjoying the fruits of the afterlife, and the mercy God has had upon me. May you, too, seek relief in his arms, and grief well.
Do embrace my children one last time for me, and as a last wish from the otherworld, I plead of you to keep my memory alive in the heart of the children whom I did not get to love, and cherish as I so wished. The misactions of my previous self have, in no uncertain terms, been great and many, but I wish for you to find it within yourself, to not let those pictures sully your memory of me, and let my soul go to rest in peace, knowing I have paid my dues upon the mortal world.
Adieu, Best of Wives, and Best of Women, farewell for the last time, may you and our children live a long and healthy life.
Forever yours in life and death, Alexander.
Alexander had written many things in his life, from shaky ABCs as an infant; paragraphs that turned into palaces inscribing his love for a thousand and one women; pamphlets, reports, articles and even, recent of all, memoirs. Still, throughout the entirety of his writing, there was one that he could not seem to get enough of. Letters. They had been what had gotten him off that dreadful island, St Croix, they had been what had gotten him his job with G. Washington, they had been what had landed him the heart of Eliza Schuyler, the daughter of the richest family on the Eastern coast. Letters.
She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. Eliza almost didn't believe herself. A letter. It was A letter that ended her life as she knew it. 'A letter,' she murmured to nobody, because it was a letter that Eliza Schuyler Hamilton read at daybreak on 12th of July 1804. 'What I expected, only the great lord above knows... he's Alexander Hamilton, with his singing, eloquent, beautiful words. He didn't even say goodbye…' She knew he wouldn't have. She knew this is what would have happened no matter the circumstances.
Because it would always have been a letter that killed Alexander Hamilton, if only to fulfill the dark irony at the whims of God.
Eliza didn't cry. She did not lose herself in a flurry of emotions and she did not start wailing in the streets as she had done once before. Because, Eliza Hamilton had a duty. She had a duty to her children, who would be left at the mercy of a cruel and unforgiving world without her. She had a duty to said world, who would be clamouring at her doorsteps to get the first words of a death that had the potential to shake the newfangled nation to its very core. She had a duty to her family, who was resting in blissful ignorance. So, Eliza did not weep and weep and weep as she longed to do, like she had wanted to do for so long she had forgotten what simple happiness felt like. No, she slipped into one of the worn masks she had an array of, and strode from the house, with only a slight glisten in her eyes that betrayed the tragedy that had struck the Hamilton household.
I'm back! the three letters represent three out of four parts of Hamilton's life, and I think that the last one was the best, so I am sorry, Peggy didn't get a very good one! If you have any suggestions or tips, please review!