A/N: I finally finished writing this chapter yesterday, so thanks for being patient with me! I don't feel like it's written as well as the three chapters before this are, but I still have a bit of a schedule I need to follow, so here it is anyway.

Please leave a review once you've read this (especially if you think there's anything I can improve on in my future writing) and also, let me know if there's anything you want me to write about in the future, because I do take requests.

Here goes nothing... :-)

Chapter 4: Quarrel (Alexander)

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I should never have voiced them. Yes, throwing away one's first fire was and is an honorable course of action when one would rather yield than risk harming his opponent, and yes, I was almost entirely certain the Vice-President would act honorably and follow suit when the time came, but my dear wife would almost certainly not see this choice in the same light as I.

In the quiet of the next few seconds, I studied Betsey's expression in an attempt to ascertain what exactly she was thinking. When she heard my words, a look of surprise crossed her face, but that expression had been a fleeting one; had I not paid attention in that instant, I might have missed it entirely. For a little while, she then took on the look of one thinking about what she had heard, perhaps wondering why that may have seemed familiar or whether she ought to be even more distressed than she was at that point in time.

Then, in the next instant, her countenance darkened dramatically and her eyes widened for just enough time for me to witness, for the briefest of moments, the storm—nay, the hurricane—brewing within them.

"HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING FROM WHAT WE'VE GONE THROUGH?!"

The suddenness and vehemence with which Eliza shouted her response propelled me back a step or two in surprise, causing me to collide with the chair behind me and fall backward over one armrest, resulting in my landing in the chair in a rather awkward position.

As I made my way out of the chair, I began to reply, "Betsey, you need to calm yoursel—"

"No, you need to listen to what I am about to say!

"If this had occurred before the previous time a member of this family engaged in an interview," she continued, her hands balled into fists at her sides, her face a mask of rage and shock and fear all melded into a single expression, her voice at a similar volume to what it had been when she began, "I might have been slightly less terrified for you because I would have understood that if you wasted your initial shot, your opponent would follow suit and both of you would come away alive and well!"

I couldn't help but recall as I stood back up that in the other rare occasions where Betsey and I had quarreled over anything, she had almost never become nearly so upset during those times as she was at this moment. Then again, these circumstances were considerably dissimilar to the ones that had spawned our other occasional disagreements.

"Betsey, listen to me, this won't—"

"Now, though...you know as well as I that throwing your shot away is by no means any sort of foolproof method to survive this colossal mistake, this—this potential disaster in the making—that your departure just might allow to occur!" She still shouted her words, but her voice itself had begun to sound less enraged and more like the voice of one attempting to refrain from tears.

"I am certain my opponent will—"

"I cannot be certain how this will proceed, but I do know I have no desire for a second November twenty-third on our hands—"

"Betsey, he will be honorable, I—"

"You believed the same about—"

At that moment, a child's voice entered the fray: "Mama, Papa, what is the matter?"

My wife and I both fell silent as we turned to the open doorway, where William and Elizabeth (two of our younger children, aged six and four, respectively) were standing next to each other inside the opening.

"William, Elizabeth," I began, "what are you doing up and about at this hour?"

My daughter was the first to reply: "We woke up to yelling and didn't know what it was about."

Immediately, her older brother picked up the story where she had left off: "So we both came down here to see what the matter was."

"Children," I responded, calmly but firmly, "This matter started between your mother and myself, and it will stay that way until—or unless—the two of us choose to inform the rest of the family. Is that understood?"

"Yes," William mumbled, his face downcast. His younger sister did the same.

"Good. Now go back to bed, both of you. It's far too late for you to be up anyway."

"Yes, Papa," William replied. "Good night." With that, he turned and began to walk away from the study.

"Good night Mama, Papa," Elizabeth said as she proceeded to follow her older brother.

Once the children left, Betsey and I turned to face each other again, both of us visibly calmer than before. The interruption, impolite as it had been, had worked wonders when it came to soothing the building tension in the room.

"Alexander, I..."

"Betsey, I understand that you do not wish to see that day's events repeat themselves, and I can assure you they will not. My opponent will act honorably in this interview, I am certain of it."

"You cannot be fully sure of that, can you?"

For the most part, I was fully certain that my words would show themselves to be true. There was one small fragment of me, however, that still harbored doubt as to whether my opponent would do as I largely believed he would. In our correspondence immediately preceding the Vice-President's challenge, the letters I had received from him seemingly seethed with barely checked rage—the type that gradually increases over several years of being trapped inside; the type that, when released, has the potential to be expressed in an explosion of immense proportions; the type that could quite easily develop into a black, all-consuming hatred of the supposed instigator of the cause of his fury. The type that can lead some men to kill.

Still, the larger share of me believed what I was saying to myself, that my opponent would act honorably despite his fury.

"Even if he does not, which I highly doubt will occur," I heard myself say, "it is already far too late to extricate myself from the matter. I have already accepted the challenge; I have no choice but to go."

A momentary pause.

"If only you could stay," Betsey murmured, breaking the silence.

Yes, if only I could...but I cannot. Not while preserving my honor.

"However tempting that may be," I replied, "staying here would be far worse than departing for the interview."

My wife blinked, startled; I could not determine then whether it was because of my response or the fact that I had responded in the first place to words she hadn't expected to be heard. "Do you honestly believe that risking your own life over some insult is better than staying here in no immediate peril?"

"With regard to reputation, yes."

A/N 2: I noticed as I was writing this chapter that Eliza seemed to be going through the five stages of grief due to the situation. At this point, she's probably at the beginning of the third stage (all in a matter of minutes).

And the "second November twenty-third" bit refers to November 23rd, 1801, the date of Philip Hamilton's first—and last—duel. Eliza can only see the situation at this point as the events of that day about to happen all over again.