I take my leave of Jefferson, with an agreement to join him at his house at around seven. I have an estate case to audit, and as I enter the building I take in a deep breath. I head to my shared office and Alexander is already there. Perhaps he hasn't even been home yet, judging from his disheveled appearance.
He is asleep at his desk. As much as I want to shake him hard and berate him, I sigh and give his shoulder a gentle shake. He startles and as his tired, dark eyes focus on me, he draws in his bottom lip, and then he's up and his arms wrap around me, he clings to me, his tears falling to my coat. I wrap my arms around him in turn, allowing him to find some relief in his grief in my embrace.
When we part I go and lock the doors. He is in no condition to work. When I return, he is seated, still and this stillness alarms me.
"When was it published?" I ask, not yet ready to ask why.
"It was published Wednesday and released yesterday. I imagine that Eliza has read it, and Philip and my little Angelica, by now. I needed to secure my legacy, and in doing so I fear I have ruined their lives. It is my shame, and yet I realize too late that they will bear it as well."
I shake my head in the weight of his sorrow, and he looks up at me, tears brimming in his eyes, "When did you get a copy?"
"This morning, Jefferson came to tell us," I replied.
"Jefferson," he snorts.
"If it is of any consequence, he tried to prevent Callender from publishing. He kept his word from that night. This was not his fault."
"I'm certain it was Monroe, on his moral high horse," Alexander says with a snarl.
"What were you thinking, Alexander? Your legacy is as much the national bank and your place in our Nation's history as it is your children," I reply.
"I know that now, but I thought…. Every other time I faced a problem I wrote my way out of it. I wrote my way out of the Caribbean, I wrote my way into the Revolution, I wrote my way into marrying Eliza, I wrote my way into creating a national banking system. I wrote my way out of hell over and over, and yet, with so much at stake… I…"
"Have you faced Eliza yet?" I ask.
"No. I'm not ready to go home and face that yet," he says, and as the door rattles we look and seeing Eliza there, the pain in her expression enough to floor me, and I get up to get the door and let her in, and I leave the office to stand outside, far enough to give them some semblance of privacy, but close enough to hear their exchange.
"I've been rereading the letters you've written me over the years. Looking for signs of when you were mine and when you pulled away from me. You write palaces from paragraphs, and how much of it was true, Alexander? Every letter you wrote me made me burn and ache for you, fall more and more in love with you.
"Now this, you published the letters she wrote you, brought her into our bed, and you've told the whole world. In clearing your name you've ruined our lives, did you think of me at all, think of our children? I left the children with Angelica and before I left, she told me that I'd married an Icarus and you've flown too close to the sun."
"Eliza, Betsy… I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you or our children. What can I do to make this right?" he asks and I imagine he approaches her, and then I hear a smack, and I believe that Alexander has finally encountered that Schuyler woman fire.
"Eliza?"
"No more. You take and take, and sometimes you give us a piece of your time, but no more. You've taken all of my heart and you've broken it, and you've tried to put it out there for all the world to see. No, not this, not MY heart. I've burned your letters; I don't need them. We will remain married for the children, and maybe one day I might forgive you, but for now, you are done with the marriage bed. I am erasing myself from your narrative. I don't owe the world my heartbreak. Sleep here, or in your study at home, do not dare return to my bed. You have forfeited my heart and our bed, and I hope you burn, Alexander Hamilton, I hope you burn like all of your letters to me."
She doesn't wait for his response, she quits his office, sees me leaning against the wall in the hallway, and I see her tears, but I know she will retreat home and Angelica will care for her where I cannot.
I return to the office, see him in his chair, his elbows on his desk, his head in his hands. I clear my throat and he turns to me, a handprint on his left cheek. He still seems astonished, and I can tell his hurt from her words has injured him deeply.
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