The house lay in silence. Not a comfortable silence, not the kind that settled over them when everyone in the house was at peace, absorbed by their own tasks; no. It was unnatural–stifling, heavy, like a thick cloud of ash that blocked out the sun.
Only three days had gone since-
Since.
Every time the thought crossed her mind, the bitter reminder of what had happened, a needle made of ice speared itself right between her ribs.
Alexander had stopped crying after the first day, had fallen silent when the pounding agony that tore at every part of him was dulled by the numbness she had known would come.
Martha was aware of what she had to do now. She had sat down four times and counting to pen the letter she knew was necessary, and every single time she'd been determined that it would be the last time she did, that she would put the words to a page and hand them over to the courier the next morning, and then at least that would be taken care of-
Most times she didn't even get so far as to dip her quill in ink.
She had ruined many pages over the past two days, just sitting at her desk and shaking apart again, her head in her hands as her tears soaked the parchment laid out below.
Her grief was voiceless. It overcame her often, but she wouldn't make a sound, she couldn't, she had to be strong for her son; her son who barely even acknowledged her anymore, who wasn't eating, who spent most of his days curled up on the sofa in his father's study, blank gaze fixed to the bookcase opposite him–they couldn't both lose themselves. Martha had to be strong. For him. For herself. For her husband, who wouldn't even be able to offer the slightest bit of comfort to their son, and who would hate himself for it.
As if all that hadn't been enough to make her quill slip from limp fingers and her vision swim with hot tears, her mind kept wandering back to those blue eyes.
Her eyes. His eyes.
The eyes Alexander had looked into with a smile as he'd talked about how Ellie would probably resemble John, she'd already had his eyes, after all-
George would have to tell him. He may not like the man, but he wouldn't be cruel. They had lost their little girl as well, and George wouldn't make it any harder on John than it already was.
Still, a part of her worried that he wouldn't be able to find the right words when the time came. Part of her worried George would simply hand over her letter, tell John to read it himself.
Most of her couldn't bear the thought of that young man finding out his baby was gone and the man he loved a wreck for it from the words she'd written.
It would be another two days before she managed to put ink to the parchment, and a whole week until her words came out legible, finally untainted by her tears.
Later that day, after she had recovered from her attempt to write to her husband about recent developments, after she had washed her face and practised her smile in the mirror until it didn't look entirely fake, she ventured into George's study.
Well, as of now, it was more Alexander's study than anyone else's.
She was surprised to see him sitting up–his head was in his hands, unkempt and neglected hair obscuring his face, but he was up.
It was something. She would take it.
"Hey, my sweet," she began softly. Alex didn't react to that, but she hadn't expected him to.
Martha gingerly sat beside him and smoothed his messy hair down a bit, hoping the touch would convey a bit of warmth into the freezing cold that was Alexander's world right now.
"I-" she paused to clear her throat, willed the sharp prickle of tears away again. "I had a talk with the reverend earlier. We- well, I was thinking we could put Ellie to rest next to Patsy? So she won't be alone."
Her words trailed off, and the silence stretched. Alex gave no indication that he'd even heard her for a few slow heartbeats, the moments creeping along like fog leisurely rolling out from the sea–and just as Martha closed her eyes, resigned to the fact she wouldn't get an answer from him, he drew a shuddering breath.
Her own breathing stopped short and cut out completely when her son raised his head and let her see his sickly, pale profile; he didn't turn to face her, but at this point, she couldn't say she minded.
"Yeah," he croaked, little more than a whisper. "Alright. Put her with Patsy."
Martha forced a smile to her face even though he probably couldn't see it and smoothed her hand down his back, rubbing it softly.
She knew the next thing she was going to say would hurt. Him and her alike, but she loathed the idea of making this decision for him.
Ellie had been his. He should get to make these calls.
"Alexander… what do you want us to put on the headstone? Eleanor Hamilton?"
Alex flinched violently, and Martha had the impression he would have stumbled away from her had they been standing.
"Don't-" he snapped, a sudden venom in his hitherto toneless voice.
Martha retracted her hand, ignoring the way her heart twisted and bent itself out of shape at that visceral reaction.
He drew another deep breath and sagged into himself, whatever fight she had just witnessed gone as quick as it had appeared.
"Don't," he repeated, soft and unsteady. "I can't- I just can't. Put Laurens. Don't brand her with my name."
Martha sat in silence and nodded her head after a short consideration.
She would have liked to argue. To tell him his name wasn't a mark to bear, that he was her father, that Ellie would have loved to have his name.
But she held herself back. This was why she had asked in the first place–it was his decision, and she would respect it.
"Eleanor Laurens it is, then," she said.
Alexander wrapped visibly trembling arms around his middle and pitched forward, his posture hunched over and akin to the position he adopted when he was going to be sick. Martha waited for another moment or two in quiet apprehension to see if he would lose the too meager breakfast she had forced into him again, but nothing happened.
A wet breath puffed past his lips, and he tipped himself back over to lay on the sofa once more, curled into himself. He was done with the conversation, that much was clear.
Martha gave his calf a brief pat and rose, lingered for another few seconds as she smoothed out her skirts.
"Alright. I'll leave you to it. Just remember, Alexander: I love you very much."
Alex buried his face in a much abused throw-pillow and swallowed thickly.
She once again didn't expect an answer, so Martha just turned to leave, made her way over to the door; and wasn't quite out of earshot yet when her son did mumble some words. Words he had most certainly not meant for her to hear, words that made her blood run cold and squeezed her heart until everything had been forced out of it.
"Eleanor Laurens," he whispered, so muffled by the cushion she didn't recognise it for what it was at first. Martha stopped dead in her tracks, the door already eased halfway open, frozen on the spot. "Ellie Laurens. Ellie Laurens. E- Ellie-"
He broke off into a wounded noise, his whole body rigid as he fought to keep the sobs in, and Martha longed to turn back.
She wanted to be at her son's side through this, be the support to him she had so desperately wished for when she had gone through this same thing, hold him and let him cry and take care of him.
Alex had made it unquestioningly clear that if he desired her company, her empty consolace, he would seek her out himself.
She wouldn't be welcome. So, she bit her lips until she tasted copper, her grip on the doorknob turned white-knuckled–and she left.
The funeral had come and gone. Alex hadn't attended, which was perhaps for the better.
Martha herself had barely been able to stand the sight of that tiny coffin.
Funerals- funerals were odd. They were exclusively for the living, the ones left behind, and they were sombre for sure, but they didn't have to be.
Martha had had attended enough, from deaths in the family when she'd been a child herself, to acquaintances, friends of her parents, her own friends, later on- her children. A husband. Another child.
A grandchild.
Over all those years she had learned that funerals… didn't have to be sad. They could be about celebrating the life lived instead of the one lost, and many a time she had found herself with tears running down her cheeks and a smile on her lips during a toast to the deceased's memory.
It was different when it was a child they had to bury.
There were no stories to tell. No life to celebrate.
Just the sense that something precious, something loved unconditionally, something bursting with possibility, had been lost.
As if a little star on the canvas of the night-sky had extinguished without warning.
The average person wouldn't notice–but the stars closest to it would. They would mourn that little star while the rest of the firmament remained unbothered.
Only the ones closest could know what had been lost, and that the night would be a little darker for it.
She wondered, sometimes, why Alexander had picked his father's study.
He barely left it. Barely even left the sofa he had chosen for himself.
Perhaps it was because he missed George, she thought. He had always been closer with his father than he had been with her, not by much, but by enough for her to notice; she'd never minded, of course. The children loved their father, and she was glad for it, glad that George was so in his element with them, that he'd always been so involved and cared so much.
When Alexander had been little–before he had become Alexander, even–he'd liked to keep George company when he'd been working. She'd found it rather sweet, and she knew her husband had as well, even though he'd never uttered a word about it.
Perhaps that was what her son saw in the bookshelves he stared at all day. On the ceiling, written into the plush of the carpet.
Simpler times, when he had already been through so many horrid things, but knew they were over now. Knew that neither of them would ever let another bad thing happen to him.
When the only thing he'd had to do to feel safe and make all the bad feelings go away was find Papa and have him take care of it.
There was nothing even George could do now.
Alex… knew, probably. That there was nothing his father could do. Nothing Martha could do. Not even something his John could have done, had he been there.
It would have broken her heart, had it not been thoroughly shattered already. At this point it was nothing more than a pile of shards somewhere in her ribcage, matching the broken pieces of Alexander that lay scattered all around his father's study.
Ever since the funeral of which Alex had only been vaguely made aware, when Martha came to check on him, he was holding something. She never quite managed to make out what it was–he held it either pressed to his chest, or tucked it under his neck when he was asleep, always cradled close.
The reason she had come to see him that particular afternoon–apart from seeing how he was doing–was the letter. She had- well, the letter was done. Martha hadn't mentioned her previous attempts to write it, hadn't mentioned any letter to him at all, but she was sure he knew in some corner of his mind that she would write one. So, she just wanted to let him know-
It wasn't a good idea, probably. By the time she actually pushed the door open, she had thought better of it.
She couldn't have told him anything at all anyway, it turned out, because he was fast asleep. Asleep on his back, chest rising and falling gently, as though he was at peace–Martha knew he wasn't. How could he be?
She heaved a soft sigh and stepped closer, just to study him for a minute without having to fear being snapped at.
He looked… unwell. More so than a few days ago. No surprise in that.
The bags under his eyes didn't even fade with sleep, his lips were bitten bloody in places, his hair hadn't seen a brush in so long, she dreaded the time when they would have to comb out all the twisted knots, and his skin was almost waxy with paleness.
She closed her eyes for a moment, dizzy with helplessness, sick to her stomach with the force of it.
When she opened them again, her gaze caught on a worn bundle of parchment, folded twice over and for the most part hidden in the one hand that rested on Alexander's chest, the other dangling off the sofa.
Ah. That was it, that was what he had been clinging to. Pages-
Martha's breath hitched when the realisation crept in, her fingers digging into the plush cushion of the headrest, and she bent over the back of the couch to get a closer look at the writing, just to be certain.
Her throat grew tight.
She had read that letter before. Given it to her son when he'd asked for it. Almost forgotten about it.
There it was, the ink faded with how often Alexander must have run his fingers over the elegant letters.
His father's words written in his lover's hand, cradled against his bleeding heart.
"Do they know?" he asked one morning, poking his eggs around his plate with an almost disgusted twist to his lips.
Martha took a sip of her tea to thaw the block of ice that had spontaneously appeared around the ruins of her heart. She knew what he was asking, of course she knew, but-
"Does who know what, sweetheart?"
God, she was such a coward.
Alexander's every movement stilled, empty eyes fixed to the eggs she knew he had no intention of finishing.
"Does Pa know? Does- does John?" he croaked.
Martha hesitated for a short moment and set her cup down on the saucer with a soft clink of porcelain against porcelain. The breath she took tasted like ash, and her throat was dry enough she thought she could have coughed out dust.
"I wrote to your father, Alexander. Some time ago now. They- they do, probably. They do know."
Alex gave a slow nod, but didn't react otherwise for a long while, long enough for the steam that curled up from her tea to lessen and disappear.
He sucked in a sharp breath, and the sound cut through the heavy tension that had settled over the table like a knife would slide through warm butter.
"He would have loved her," Alex choked, his eyes glassy, and paused, covered his mouth for a moment to muffle a raw sob. Martha pressed her lips together and waited, not sure if Alex wanted her comfort or just her ear. "John. John would have- he's-"
The tears spilled over his lashes, and his shoulders shook with the force of his suppressed cries.
"It would have been love at first sight for him. Not like it was with me, he would have loved her, he, he would have adored her, and he never even-" the rest of his rambling was lost to the sobs bursting from his throat, ripping it apart on the way out, and Martha was up and at his side in an instant.
"Oh, my love," she cooed and gathered him into her arms, rubbed his back as his arms immediately came up to cling to her in turn.
"It's all my fault, Mama, this is- it's because I didn't love her, but John would have, I swear, he- he would have, and now he can't-"
"Don't say that, Alexander," she interrupted gently and brought her other hand up to massage her fingers along his nape. "Don't ever say that. These things happen. It's cruel and it hurts more than anything has ever hurt before, but it wasn't your fault. Your John doesn't blame you, I promise, my sweet."
"I know," he choked. From the way those two words sounded in his mouth, Martha knew he wasn't breathing right, not getting enough air. "But he should. He should."
Martha closed her eyes and held her son tighter, concentrated on the strong if too quick thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips, and nothing more.
It had been a month now. Exactly thirty days.
It was like no time had passed at all, and yet she felt like she had aged decades.
Alex had not been in the mood for company the whole day, which was understandable, of course, but she couldn't help but worry. So, as evening settled over the house, as the setting sun painted the Potomac a washed out orange, she went to find her son. Perhaps she could offer a kind word or two, even if it would hardly do anything.
The door to George's study was ajar when she arrived there, but she didn't think much of it. A lot of things were on Alexander's mind, and he had been notoriously bad at closing doors behind himself ever since he'd been a child.
She made it only a handful of steps into the room before she froze in her tracks–Martha was alone. The room was empty.
The fear came on unbidden and paralysing, cold dread twisted with boiling panic, because where would he go? He hadn't left this room for anything except sometimes meals in a month, what could have moved him to do so now? Whatever it was, it couldn't have been anything good, not on a day like this-
Martha turned on her heel and rushed back out the door, hurried down the corridors, up the stairs, checked every room to no avail until she found herself back downstairs again.
Perhaps he had gone out? To the grave? But Martha couldn't know for sure, God, perhaps she should send for someone- Davis? He would at least know what to do if they were to find him- hurt-
She came to a halt in front of the archway that opened into the sitting room, and tears of relief flooded her vision.
Her now blurry gaze had caught on a figure, hunched over out on the porch-steps, clearly visible through the big windows facing the river.
He was fine.
Her boy was fine.
Martha took a moment to let the panic subside, felt the tension seep from her exhausted bones, and wiped a couple escaped tears from her cheeks.
A few deep breaths later, she made her way through the door–this one, too, slightly ajar–and stepped out into the sunset.
Alexander didn't turn to acknowledge her even though he must have heard her, but Martha didn't care. The relief that he was alright and whole and not requiring a doctor outweighed any annoyance or frustration she might have felt with his overall behaviour.
She made her way over to where he sat on the steps and raised her brows at what she spotted–he had a bottle next to him, shining amber in the orange light of the fading day, and as she arrived beside him, she could see the whisky tumbler clasped loosely between his fingers.
Martha tutted softly, but her lips pulled into a small smile as she crouched and settled next to him, rearranging her skirts as she went.
"What have we told you about going through your father's liquor cabinet, Alexander?" she said, a gentle tease, hoping it would give him some sense of normalcy back for just a moment.
Against all her expectations–and her wildest hopes, if she were to be honest–her son cracked a small, tired smile and glanced over at her.
"First of all," he said, voice scratchy; from disuse or the alcohol, she couldn't be sure. "That was Jacky's idea. Secondly, I'm not sixteen anymore, Ma. I'm twenty-one, I can handle my liquor, thank you very much."
"Yes, blame it on your brother when he isn't here to defend himself," she retorted, her smile becoming realer by the second. She had missed this, oh had she missed this, just a lighthearted conversation, reminiscing about times long gone, when they'd had all their children under one roof still and new shenanigans to deal with every single day.
Alex chuckled softly, and Martha's heart stopped for a full three seconds.
She hadn't heard him laugh in- too long. It had been too long.
"I'm sure Pa wouldn't mind," he mumbled and swished the whisky around his glass. The way the liquid glowed in the light reminded her of his eyes; at least when they weren't dulled by grief and hopelessness. "I just really missed- well. Having a drink."
He took a small sip and let his eyes slip shut as the whisky burned its way down his throat. Martha hummed in vague agreement and reached over to pluck the glass from his fingers.
Alexander cracked his eyes back open and watched her in mild confusion as she raised the glass to her lips and took a sip as well.
Strong, but not sharp. Mild. Almost gentle. It was good, she thought.
She handed the tumbler back off to her son and enjoyed the relative silence for a few minutes, her boy at her side, finally out of that room and getting some sunlight for a change, however fleeting it might be.
The frogs croaked along the banks of the river, accompanied by the chirping of the cicadas. It was an exceedingly nice evening, despite the circumstances.
"Ma," Alex said after some time, rotating the glass between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the liquid swirling inside it. Martha turned to him, but she didn't say anything yet–his quiet felt like a pause, a moment to gather his thoughts, and she didn't want to interrupt. "When Patsy- when we lost her. How did you keep smiling?"
Martha opened her mouth and closed it again, blinked a few times as a whole other distinct kind of memory threatened to overwhelm her.
Their sweet girl–when they had just lost her, when it had been so fresh, George... had taken it harder than she had. It had been a first for him, to lose a child; George had a nasty habit of blaming himself, he always just blamed himself for everything, even though there had been nothing he could have done, nothing at all.
She had smiled for him. For their boys.
"Years and years of practise," she responded, quiet.
Alex swallowed thickly and gave a choppy nod, clenched his jaw.
"You- you did this three times," he said. Whatever brief reprieve he had managed to find out here was gone, his voice shaky, the words trembling off his tongue.
"Yes," she said.
Alexander drew a deep breath, but even that sounded off to her ears.
"Does it- does it ever stop hurting?"
Martha stayed silent for a heartbeat, worrying her lip between her teeth. She wouldn't lie. She couldn't lie.
"No, sweetheart. No, it doesn't," she choked out.
Alex nodded, resigned, leaned his forehead to the cool glass between his fingers, and let out a broken sob.
Over the course of the next few weeks, Alexander started eating more and more. Martha would like to think it was a sign that everything would go back to normal, but she knew better.
Recovery was a long and winding road, and for every two steps forward, there was one back.
He smiled, some days; read books, went outside on occasion. Others, he spent curled into a little ball in George's study, sobbing soundlessly into a pillow.
It had been three days now since the last breakdown, and Martha slowly regained her sense of careful optimism.
That was, until she was startled awake in the middle of the night by a loud bang from somewhere across the hall–Alexander's room, her sleep-muddled mind immediately supplied, and she was up and at his door in an instant.
Martha entered, prepared for the worst.
The room was a mess; clothes lay strewn all around, covering the floor, the bed, even his desk in the corner; a drawer was pulled clean out of the dresser, which had probably caused the bang that woke her, a few books had tumbled off the desk when the precarious stacks they'd been arranged in had been knocked over–and in the middle of it all, in the eye of the hurricane, her son.
Alexander looked around with wild eyes, picked up random articles of clothing and stuffed them into the bag he held in his hand, hurried and without even a semblance of order.
"Sweetheart," she said, and Alex froze, whirled around, and stared at her from behind a curtain of frizzy curls that covered his eyes. "What are you doing?"
"I'm leaving, Ma," he responded, raw as if he had been crying earlier, and resumed throwing random things into his pack. "I'm going, I'll take a horse and go, I- I can find back to them on my own, it's easy when you know who to ask-"
"Alexander," she cut in. He stopped, but he didn't turn around to face her. The oil-lamps that lit the room flickered; it felt like a dream. She wished it was one. "You are not going anywhere."
"You don't get to make that decision," he whispered, but he remained stock still.
"You are still too unwell-"
"Well, it's not going to get any better, is it now?" he shouted in a sudden explosion, whirling around and chucking his bag at the far wall. Martha retreated a few steps and crossed her arms in front of herself, and Alex's manic eyes cleared a little.
"Sorry, Ma. Sorry," he croaked and raised a hand to rub at his forehead, as if his head was giving him trouble. He took a few wonky steps and collapsed down to the edge of the bed, his hands braced on his knees and his head hung low. "I'm sorry, I don't mean- I just, I don't know how long I can stay here. I need to, to do something, I need to get away from here, I can't- Jesus Christ, Ma, I had her in this bed."
Martha pressed her lips into a thin line and crossed the room, came to stand in front of her son. She didn't say anything yet, just because she wasn't sure if there even was anything she could say.
Of course she knew that his stay here wouldn't be indefinite. It wasn't in his nature to idle, and he never quit anything he had started; this war was no exception.
Still. He was her son, her youngest, and he had lost his baby just over two months ago, and every fiber of her being strained against the thought of letting him go.
"I'm sorry I scared you, Ma," he said quietly, peering up at her through his eyelashes, crusted together with dried salt, and Martha lowered herself to her knees and took his shaking hands in hers.
"You could never scare me, love," she said and offered an uninspired smile.
He sniffled and averted his gaze. "Still. I'm sorry, I'm- I'm not acting right, I know, I can't help it, I- I feel like I'm going insane here."
Martha heaved a soft sigh, knowing exactly what she had to do and hating the mere idea. "You are not going anywhere tonight, Alexander," she said and reached up to cup his cheek. "But I will not keep you here if you feel it's detrimental to you." His eyes snapped up to her face then, and she shot him another smile, this one even faker than the last. "Let me write to your father. Then, we'll see."
One of his hands rose to cover hers on his face, and he squeezed gently. "Yes. Yes, please."
It was another month before her husband's answer reached her. Martha held the letter in her hands for a long time and just let her eyes drift across the expanse of crisp parchment, knowing full well that her heart would break all over again once she snapped the seal.
She would lose her son, one way or the other, and she was powerless to do anything about it.
They went to visit Ellie and Patsy on the day before Alexander's departure.
It was the first time he saw the grave.
He knelt in front of the headstone for a long while, just staring at it, maybe praying, before he raised a hand and let the tips of his fingers trail along the edges of the smooth stone.
He dragged his knuckles over the inscription, traced his fingers over Eleanor Laurens until Martha was afraid he would bloody them, and then, he put his forehead to the stone; just sat there.
Martha didn't say a word throughout any of it, just let him do as he pleased.
He wouldn't be back here for a long time, after all. This was goodbye.
Alex was silent the entire time, but when he stood and turned to leave, his cheeks were wet with tears.
Martha linked their arms and just walked with him, squeezing his bicep gently, a wordless reminder that she would always be at his side.
The next morning dawned with no regard for the silent plea she repeated over and over, begging it not to, just this once.
Martha checked Alexander's pack to make sure he had everything he needed, handed it to him when the two of them stood in the fronthall together, framed his face in her hands and kissed his forehead and cautioned him to be safe.
He smiled at her when he told her he loved her, and she knew how much effort that took for him, so she forced herself to smile back.
Martha stood in the doorway as she watched her son get into that coach, and she remained there until it had disappeared over the horizon–after, she went back inside and sat down in her husband's study.
And then, she cried.
