As this was all happening, Eliza found herself alone at home—as she often did nowadays—managing the children, who haunted the house with a grave air, feeling unfit to do their juvenile little duties, for the very heart of their home peace was disrupted.

Most of them tried to look unconscious of this fact and put on jovial airs, but their eyes were dismal. Their discomfort was only heightened when each day, they saw their father—a man who used to convulse them with laughter by way of his droll imitations of Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and on occasion, King George III—creep out of the house with a face so disconsolate that they nearly asked what the matter was, that is, until they remembered their vow of unassumingness and watched him go in silence.

Eliza noted that there was one child who could not put on the guise of serenity. Philip now seemed to observe everything and everyone with a perturbed solemnity that contrasted greatly from his usual brash and riotous nature. What bothered her most was that the boy knew nothing of his mother's affair and was still under the impression that he was the son of the great—although now notorious—Alexander Hamilton. So why was he drifting about the house as if he were an anxious wraith?

It brought her no comfort when, as she sat with the baby on her arm in the parlor, Philip laid his body upon the couch where she sat and nestled his head onto her lap. As a mother, she found it a blessing when her eldest boy—already fifteen and considering to prescribe to the boyish notion that holding fast to one's mother was a sign of weakness—sought her out as a solace, but after detecting the distress in his eyes, she was not sure if she, who played a part in his trouble, was a proper site of refuge.

Eliza said nothing and tenderly ran her free hand through his curls, holding in a hiss when she remembered from where he had inherited such a coily crop, and waited for him to speak. When he did nothing for a long moment except sigh, she continued to wait patiently, only turning her gaze to the baby she held in her arm.

Baby John cooed at her and beamed his toothless smile, and she returned it with every iota of brightness her body would allow. Despite this, her eyes remained dim, for why had she thought it a good idea to name her precious infant John? Her eldest's appearance and personality (although he did his best to mimic Alexander to an eerie degree) was always a reminder of her sins, and now her youngest's name was, as well.

She groaned. If anyone had asked her if she was sorry for the incident that had led to Philip's conception fifteen years ago, she would have cried yes, oh yes! She loathed to remember it, and once John Laurens had died, she had planned on taking the knowledge of Philip's true parentage to her grave, but alas for the "Reynolds Pamphlet!"

When Eliza had first read it, all she knew was that she felt incensed and heartbroken and so, so, so helpless. Her wits took their leave that day, and all she knew was that she wanted to hurt Alexander just as much as he had hurt her with this news, and robbing him of his beloved firstborn had, at the time, seemed to be the best way to go about doing so.

Oh, if she could only go back in time and stop herself from doing the thing which had caused pain for so many; she would have had nothing to admit to, then. Noticing that both the baby's and Philip's breathing had evened out in sleep, she leaned back and allowed herself to reminisce that terrible day.

✦ Fifteen Years Earlier ✦
1781

Being bred to be a gentlewoman, Eliza Hamilton had a decided lack of talent in needlework, but now, as a poor man's wife, she had no choice but to learn the necessary skill of sewing, for tailors were more expensive than she had anticipated. Besides, clumsy male fumblings over buttons undid even the most adept seamstress' stitches in no time.

Still, sewing remained an afterthought once the rest of the domestic duties were completed, and it was always late at night when Eliza remembered that she still had many bits of needlework to do.

Tonight was a particular trial, for her task was to resew every button on her husband's one greatcoat, which, for any beginning seamstress, was quite daunting. She had already completed two buttons earlier in the week but, pulling and pushing needles through the thick woolen fabric was so tiring that she couldn't find the energy to do the rest until now.

She normally would have found it quite lonesome to toast her feet by the fire and complete the uninteresting sewing, especially without Alexander to sip tea by her side and read aloud from the paper, but as it stood, she found solace in the man he had sent as a companion in his place, while he brooded over letters with General Washington—his most beloved friend, John Laurens.

Eliza would have been remiss if she did not admit to noticing how the man unconsciously drew her husband to him as easily as flowers did bees, and occasionally, she did entertain the thought that something beyond brotherhood bloomed in the two men's bosoms, but, she did her duty as an unassuming little wife and outwardly regarded their bond as nothing more than an "intense friendship," which she herself fancied to be apart of.

She watched now, threading her needle, as John stared absently at the fire from upon the parlor couch, where he had been sleeping for the past few weeks. His face, usually bursting with gayness and unconcealed bravery, was now contemplative, and his knit brows telegraphed that he was more than a trifle worried. She could only imagine it was because his dearest friend had been away for so long, and she felt a sense of kinship as her husband's dear scent wafted through the greatcoat on her lap.

For a moment, Eliza brought up the coat and nestled her face in the familiar fabric, longing for Alexander to return home, for he had been gone for too much time. In doing so, her needle slid off her lap, and upon hearing its tinny clang on the hearth, John awoke from his reverie and reached down to retrieve it.

He looked at her as he placed the needle back in her open palm. "If I was any good at sewing, I'd offer to finish that for you and send you to bed; you look so tired, Betsy, dear."

Eliza smiled. "There's no need, Jack—I'm almost done."

She was not almost done. In fact, in the past hour, she had only finished fastening one of the remaining six buttons onto the coat, and the leftovers jangled traitorously in her workbasket as she reached into it to grab more thread, which had snapped in her inept fingers for the fourth time that night.

As she squinted to rethread her needle, John merrily watched her numerous failings in the prospect before saying, "Let me try."

She gave the needle to him in an instant, and to her eternal disgrace, he threaded it with an expertise that was astounding. "You do that so well!"

His response was only a small smile and a modest shrug, which shocked her more than the needle display, for it showed that John's usually boisterous spirit had been quenched.

She did not know if it was her place to ask if he missed Alexander as much as she did, so she stayed quiet, but before the silence could stretch into infinity, John cleared his throat and noted glumly, "He's been gone a long time."

"He's busy with the General," was the only solace she could proffer for both herself and him.

He then turned to her from the sofa with a look so familiar—for she had worn it herself many times—and hot and miserable and which displayed a dire need of comfort, that flushing, she immediately stood up, and shoving the needle and greatcoat into her workbasket, turned to scuttle off to her bedroom. "You're right—I am tired. I should go to bed. Good night, Jack, dear."

The night might have been salvaged if this kind, but foolish little woman hadn't torn a page from Lot's wife's book and turned to look back at the Sodom that was her parlor, just as she reached her bedroom threshold.

John's troubled stare had not changed a mite, as he quietly said "Please, come comfort me, Betsy" in a most decorous manner.

Feeling forlorn and encouraged by his tone—which betrayed no desire for dishonorable conduct—she turned to sit by his side on the couch.

In the moonlight, the two engaged for several minutes in conversation that did nothing but eulogize the acts of one Alexander Hamilton, and they talked as if he were among the dearly departed, instead of in another part of town. Both were scrupulous in remembering every quality in him that was good and noble and kind (conveniently forgetting that he had many faults, for just now, to them, he was more divine than human) and had not many bursts of sadness escaped out of both, it would have been well into dawn before they had run out of things to say.

But, alas, the two were sensitive souls and neither could repress the sniffles that punctuated every sentence.

Eliza found herself leaning upon John's breast, as she stared at the greatcoat which lay in her workbasket and sighed. "I wish he were here."

"Me, too."

"This hole in my heart wouldn't be so gaping if my Alexander were home."

"Mine, as well."

"If only the revolution could spare him for a day, all would be good."

"Ditto, Betsy, ditto."

She pressed one hand upon John's chest and turned to look at him with thankful eyes, for knowing that someone felt the same way as she did was such a comfort. "You are kind to stay with me, John." Feeling better, she gave his hand one final squeeze before rising off the couch to go to bed.

His eyes, which were clouded still with such misery that she forgot her own momentary alleviation, met hers, and he stared at her meditatively before saying, "Will you, then, be kind and stay with me tonight, Eliza?"

It was too great a demand, she realized, but she knew herself and her strong morals well, so she allowed the quiet whisper, "I will."

This did not seem to ease the pucker between John's brows, but he nodded and slid over on the couch to make room.

There were no blankets, so she rolled herself up in Alexander's greatcoat. His scent surrounded her at once, and she let out a sob that was near-mute, for she was still highly aware that she had a bedfellow.

Said bedfellow came to attention when his vigilant ears heard her cry, and John murmured, "Am I not enough of a comfort to you, dear?"

Eliza swallowed the successive sob and shook her head. "No—no, I just—"

"I know—I know," replied John when her voice failed. He laid upon her forehead a few amiable and compassionate kisses, before pausing. "Shall I stop?"

Completely overcome by loneliness and gratitude at the friendly gesture, she let the tears roll down her cheeks and said, "No."

At this invitation, John's lips lingered against her skin for longer intervals, but they lacked the all-consuming passion one usually had when kisses drifted from the forehead to the lips. She found her own responses to be dulled and lethargic, yet the feeling of another person's skin was so nice that neither could stop themselves, as their touches became less and less cordial and more and more sensuous.

Undressing was a burden that not one of the pair wanted to assume, but as they had already started the deed, they figured they might as well finish it. Off went their clothes as Eliza bit her lips, and, knowing that when John Laurens did a thing, he did it sprightly, suggested they move to the bedroom.

✦ Present Day ✦
1797

At present, Eliza realized that that proposition alone should have been the blow that brought the two back to their senses, but at the time, it had seemed better to divest themselves of loneliness together rather than apart, which is exactly what they had done that fateful night.

She couldn't look back at it without feeling a clot of disdain for herself, but, after seeing the sleeping boy on her lap, she refused to think the night a complete loss, for, after all, it had bequeathed her a most precious gift.

Oh, but if only the gift had been given to her by her beloved Alexander!

Author's Note

Every tenth chapter will be a longer one ranging from 1,000 to 2,500 words, just so y'all know. Feedback is always appreciated, and if you enjoyed, please let me know!