Please excuse all the 18th century lifestyle crap, I'm a sucker for historical fashion.
thanks for all your reviews by the way, it makes me really happy to get them!
Alexander gathers himself after only a few minutes of this rare, uncharacteristic indulgence in his emotions. He stands and lights an oil lamp, more than once dropping the taper stick and having to re-light the wick. His hands are shaking too violently for any degree of dexterity to be maintained, even for a task so simple as lighting a lamp with a hand so used to steadiness and care.
He leaves his office, locking the door to his study behind him and double checking that it is secure. What has just transpired has left him with a certain paranoia in his mind, like an itch only excessive precaution can scratch. He cannot afford to have anyone else discovering his private affairs.
Alexander's carriage awaits outside on the street, the horse tosses its head restlessly and he must resist the urge to pet its head. He had spent much time with the horses at camp, the stables had been the safest place to meet John and they were quiet enough in the early mornings for him to write unhindered. He is fond of horses.
He nods to the coachman and climbs into the back of the carriage, setting his briefcase down on the empty seat opposite him.
The ride is not a particularly long one, fifteen minutes or so one way. New York is relatively quiet, though occasionally they halt to make room for a larger buggy or cart on the narrower streets.
He watches the night as they ride, an activity he is normally too busy working or writing to engage in.
His thoughts turn to those of his children. Philip is to leave to boarding school next year, having just turned eight years old. Angie is six years old, Alex is four and James is two.
He wonders what would happen to his family if this scandal was to become public knowledge. Most likely they would move upstate to Albany and rely on his father in law's kindness there. Alexander has no qualms about believing that they would be well cared for, but how he would miss them.
James might not remember him if he were to leave now. If he was indeed sent to New-South-Wales or Nevis like Jefferson threatened, James would be left with nothing but nebulous, only half-formed memories of him. It is possible the same might be said for Alex, he is not yet five.
Philip, however, would suffer his absence hardest of all his children. They are together often, he his eldest son, his pride. He is so clever these days, so mature. Already he plays some piano and waves his hands in a manner that announces that of a future orator.
Alexander can not fathom what he might do if they were parted.
They spend Sunday afternoons together, Hamilton teaches him spelling and writing as Eliza's skills there are solid, though somewhat lacking. Philip laughs in a way that makes Alexander fall apart.
John is fond of his eldest son too. Alexander had worried when he was born, that John would resent the child. After all, he was a physical manifestation of his and Eliza's union.
Thankfully, John delights in teaching him to draw when he has the time. Philip may prove to be quite the young artist yet.
They pass through a larger, busier area of the city, near central park. The noises of street vendors, hooves on cobblestones and drunken yelling are cacophonous but welcome upon his ears. He has always loved large cities, and New York is ever growing and expanding, bigger by each passing day.
He always feels as though he is a part of something so vast here, something so grand on a scale he cannot even comprehend. He knows history is happening around him, happening to him, Washington made sure he was aware of this years ago, but it does not fill him with the same paranoia and dread it seems to His Excellency.
He has always felt spurred on, heartened by the knowledge that his name will appear in the history books of America, that he will have a legacy, that he will have made something from the ashes if his childhood. He knows the world is watching him, and to an extent, this scares him, yet until now no sordid affairs have sullied his public image.
Until now he has had no reason to be anything but delighted with the vast theatre of the universe at which he is centre stage.
He puts his face in his hands and closes his eyes. Tears are not falling, nor even welling up in his eyes, but his chest is tight and pained, like a rope being pulled tighter and tighter in opposing directions.
He knows they are approaching his home by the brightness filtering flesh pink through his fingers, from outside the carriage window. His street is better lit than the majority of the city.
Lanterns flicker in every window and some are hung on the branches of trees, so as to better guide the way for night time wanderers.
He steps out into the night with a nod at the driver and pays him quickly, tipping his hat. The coach clatters off down the street and disappears into the dim until it is not even a vague speck.
He walks to the front door and enters his home, noting that the candles in the kitchen have been blown out. Emily, Constance, Noah must have retired and Isaac will have gone home. He does not begrudge them for this, he has told them many a time not to wait up for his sake.
He lights an oil lamp left in the entrance way and guides a path carefully upstairs, making sure to step on the places he knows will not creak. The entire house is deep in their slumber, he does not wish to wake them.
His and Eliza's bedroom is dark when he enters, the curtains are only open a crack so nothing but a small sliver of light falls upon the bed. It rests upon Eliza's hand, delicate and soft.
He changes quietly, stowing his shoes neatly in his armoire and draping his suit over the back of a chair. The buttons on his jacket and waistcoat take some time, as does his cravat, yet even though his fingers are trembling, the movement is mere muscle memory nowadays.
He pulls the ribbon from his queue, runs a brush harshly through his hair to remove the powder, then ties it all back up again. He does hate this routine, how he wishes he could wear his hair loosely tied and unpowdered like the labourers and workmen he sees yelling and lifting crates at the dock every morning.
Though, there are factors that lessen this blow to his comfort and patience. John's fingers always feel like bliss when ran through his hair, or pulling teasingly at it while they kiss.
He is now only left in his undershirt, slightly cold in the spring chill of the house with goosebumps blooming across his arms. Seeking warmth, he climbs quickly under the bedclothes and pulls the the blankets tightly around himself. Eliza seems to have sensed his presence and rolls closer to him in her sleep, draping an arm loosely around his shoulder and tucking her chin into his chest.
He stays in this position, allowing her to hold him like this, though he does not reciprocate the movement. He bestows a single kiss to her forehead, lit by golden light from the street outside, and closes his eyes.
He is not surprised that it takes him over an hour to succumb to the tempting lull of sleep. He has never been able to properly rest when his mind is working so frantically, and even when he does eventually tire and give in, it is to a fitful, tossing and turning sort of slumber.
Dawn breaks far too soon for Alexander's liking, throwing bright beams of light in through the curtains and onto his face, awakening him. The fire has been lit, by either Emily or Isaac earlier in the morning. Even though spring is well underway these days, it is necessary to have the fire lit. The house can become quite drafty. New York is not nearly as warm as Charlestown in Nevis was.
The room is warm now, though, because of it. The tips of his toes where they poke out from beneath the quilt are not cold.
He stirs then and rolls onto his other side to face Eliza.
She is already awake. Her dark hair pools around her face on the white cotton pillow, soft and freshly washed looking. Her eyes watch him contentedly, large and doe-like. He forces a smile and kisses her forehead gently, moving slightly closer to his wife. He cannot let on that anything is out of the ordinary.
"You retired late last night, did you have any supper?"
He sighs and she plays with a strand of his hair, dark red against the white fabric of his undershirt.
"I confess I did not. It had been too late, I did not wish to wake the house with any noise and the servants were asleep."
She frowns slightly but says nothing, nodding in weary acceptance and pressing her face into the crook of his arm. He allows her to embrace him in this way and lets his own arm rest over her shoulder, yet feels none of the warmth he usually would in a moment like this. He is far too preoccupied with his buzzing thoughts, swarming around in his head like a cloud of summer midges.
"Will you accompany the children and myself to the park this afternoon? Alex is incessantly climbing the trees there and James often copies him. I would not want them to fall and think a second set of hands might be of some help."
Alexander nods and Eliza rolls over, sitting up and stretching, her arms and face are golden in the morning light.
"I would delight to."
She smiles and steps lightly over to her armoire, withdrawing her under things and perusing her different dresses in preparation for Emily to change her.
Isaac will bring the clothes he asked to be laundered up soon, along with his shaving things.
He slips on a loose banyan robe and warms his hands by the fire while Eliza examines the lace sleeve of a dress. He hears footsteps on the stairs, it is either Isaac or Emily.
There is a knock on the door to which he opens it slowly, forcing a smile upon seeing Isaac stood in the hallway, holding his clothes and other various required items.
"Good morning, sir. I have the things you wished cleaned. Do you require any assistance at all?"
Alexander sighs at the formality of it all and shakes his head, taking the things from the young man and smiling.
"No, thank you, Isaac. How is the family?"
The man's face splits into a wide smile and his goes slightly pink with excitement. He is young to be married with a child already, though Hamilton supposes he was only twenty-five when Philip was born.
"They are very well, thank you. William is just starting to teethe now."
Eliza calls then from inside the room, her tone is light and playful.
"Oh, horror! You should prepare to be up at all hours of the night!"
Isaac laughs and nods, his grey eyes hold a certain brightness in them that momentarily fills Alexander with a warm sense of nostalgia. He is by no means a worn, seasoned parent, he is young yet and knows will have more children in time, but has passed the youthful days of fresh, paternal excitement.
Then, Isaac nods politely, still smiling, and turns, walking back down the stairs to the kitchen.
Eliza smiles after the man as Alexander closes the door and holds out the skirt of a dress so as to more closely examine the stitching.
"James has 16 of his teeth now, he seems to have passed the stage where he keeps us up every night."
Alexander hums in agreement and nods, setting his shaving things on the dresser and unfolding his clothes.
"Indeed."
He changes then, into green breeches, a matching waistcoat and jacket with the lace-edged cravat Angelica sent him as a gift from across the pond. She had written that they were the height of fashion in London.
He places his shaving things next to the bowl of hot water and flannel on the dresser. It does not take him long, he wets and lathers his face with soap (it is jasmine scented, John likes it very much on him) then uses the straight razor to shave the stubble growing around his jaw, wiping the foam away when he is finished and lastly, powdering the now smooth skin.
Because he has not got to go to work today, he decides not to powder his hair. To powder one's hair is standard procedure for most men of his status, yet himself and many other veterans of the war, John included, seldom subscribe to fluid fashion trends. Himself, The General and John prefer their hair done simply. Powdering it is bad enough, he cannot fathom how some men wear wigs.
Besides, if he is to visit John today, having his hair powdered will hinder certain activities.
Emily has just knocked on the door, arrived to help Eliza change when he finishes brushing and tying his hair.
He nods to her as he leaves the room, she is wearing the standard attire of a lady's maid. Fashionable, neat clothing though understated and proper enough not to draw attention away from her mistress. Eliza enlisted her help recently after Sarah, her last lady's maid, fell pregnant.
The rest of the house is awake and Alexander glances at the grandfather clock in the hallway as he passes, it is ten after six.
Constance can be heard making breakfast in the kitchen below and Noah has most likely gone to the market, as is usual in the morning.
He fetches the paper from where it has been delivered on the veranda and sits in the parlour reading. He wonders if John will call today, he often does on Saturdays as they share similar work schedules and also has the day off.
He has no family to attend to, at least not in the country, as Hamilton does, so often spends his free hours with Alexander. Today, however, Alexander is not sure if seeing him would be prudent.
It is important he acts as though everything is ordinary, yet Jefferson had asked, no demanded, that he end their relationship.
Yet he yearns to see John. He misses him, for they have not crossed paths in a perhaps a week. They are both so busy with their work.
Perhaps he will risk it. He has not negotiated or agreed upon Jefferson's demands yet, he has not confirmed anything resolute.
Perhaps there is a loophole through which he can worm his way.
He hears a pair footsteps on the stairs, signalling Eliza's arrival. She smiles at him as she enters the parlour, clad in the new pink dress she had made for spring's warm arrival.
It suits her, embroidered with swirling floral patterns around the neckline and edged with soft looking lace. He finds himself thinking that John would look well in the same colour.
"Anything of note in the paper?"
She sits beside him, lounging gracefully on the sofa and pulling the broadsheet over towards her with small, delicate fingered hands.
"When is there not? Yet more dialogue on the first census and increasing tension in France."
She nods and reads the first page fervently, as hungry for news and information as he is. She is like her sister in that respect, himself also. Though, he knows the difference in them lies with what they would use that knowledge for. Whether it be for personal interest or career.
But her reasoning matters little. Eliza is intelligent, curious and witty. He has had the fortune to marry a woman like him in those respects, and they often discuss his work and current affairs with each other. Eliza is not a woman to be underestimated, despite the rather demure first impression she may present.
"Burke is a fool." Eliza puts down the paper and sighs, her expression mirrors his thoughts on the article she has just read.
"He says now he will publish a pamphlet of his opinions, as if Parisians will succumb to his sanctimony. What does he hope to accomplish?"
Alexander sighs and shakes his head, folding the paper in two and recrossing his legs.
"Men like him need not reason to boast their own agendas. He must enjoy the feeling of having political sway. Parliament will no doubt adore what he publishes, anything that extinguishes libertarian sentiment they will hold as gospel."
Eliza smiles and opens her mouth to respond, but is cut off suddenly when the door of the parlour opens and Constance appears with their breakfasts. Alexander stands, he is used to the movement in company of women, even if they are servants, and takes the tray from her with a smile.
"Much obliged, Constance. Have you dined yet?"
She nods with a small smile, eyes lowered. She is a new addition to their household, evidently unaccustomed to his and Eliza's warm treatment of household servants. She will get used to this with time.
Emily already has, he has heard her laughing with his wife while helping her dress in the mornings.
Breakfast is a quiet affair. He cannot force himself to eat much of what has been made, even though it is fresh fruit and bread with strawberry jam. Eliza says nothing of his poor appetite but eyes his nearly untouched plate with part disapproval and part concern.
"When shall I wake the children?"
Eliza finishes her tea and sits back as she speaks, her posture relaxed. He has only just drained the last of his coffee, liquid seems easier for his stomach to handle than food at present.
"Soon, I imagine they will want some more sleep, since it is early yet."
Eliza nods and moves to the window, watching their small garden with her hands folded elegantly on her dress.
"I would have imagined you to want additional rest this morning, you seem fatigued."
He looks away, biting his lip and pushing the plate in front of him further into the centre of the table.
"I am fine. I would not be able to sleep any longer than what I already have."
Eliza hums in disapproval and returns to her position next to him, holding his shoulders comfortingly and leaning her face closer to his.
"You work yourself too hard, Alexander. You should fall ill if you continue this way, it has happened before."
He grits his teeth, he would call this a slight against his often ill health, yet he knows it is the truth.
He has worked himself to the point illness before, years ago, after The General sent him to request troops from Gates in New York. He was held up for almost three months by a fever that nearly took his life, he still remembers how he seemed to flit between freezing cold and burning sweat. The doctor has said he would likely not survive.
He knows the fault there was partially the icy weather, yet must also admit that he had not eaten, slept or rested enough during the course of his mission. The fever had struck his companion Gibbs also, yet he had taken proper care of himself. He had recovered rapidly.
"I am in perfect health, Betsey. I am well able to take care of myself."
Eliza nods and pats down his cravat fussily, tightening the knot to her liking.
"What are your plans for today?"
He shrugs his shoulders and begins to set Eliza's empty plate and cup back onto the tea tray, so as to make it easier for Constance when she comes to collect them. He picks at the fruit in his bowl, hoping to appease Eliza by eating a few strawberries.
"I think I will visit John, perhaps browse the bookshop by Getty's square, then return here for two o'clock to accompany you to the park."
Eliza nods, once, not curtly or even in a bad-tempered manner, just slightly dismissive. She says nothing on his mention of John.
The situation between himself, Eliza and John is one of many layers, a particularly long and complex backstory and much misunderstanding and pain.
After the war, when Philip was born, it seemed certain that his relationship with John would end. And for at least nine months, it had.
Eliza had known about his peculiarity, his ability to love both men and women, since they'd married and though it had surprised her, she had not reacted with the same abject horror he had expected.
The relationship with John, however, she had been unsure about. He had told Eliza that it was over and that now he was wed to her, there would be nothing more between him and the other man, yet even at the time, he had known this was a lie.
He loves John. He has since he was a very young man, winded and knocked breathless by love, and knows he always will. John, perhaps, is what a romanticist may call his soulmate or his twin-flame.
Plato did not lie in his writings, for it takes the work of a God to split two joined as one apart.
He did not speak of these things before he met John, not think about love this way. Yet John continues to bring out the most passionate, ardent sentiments in him. Sometimes he does fear he is a romantic at heart. He blames John.
In the months after the war, parted from John, who had still been stationed in Charlestown, South Carolina, he had fallen deep into a sort of depression. Philip's birth had helped, but Eliza had known something was not quite right with him.
He remembers many a long, dark day in which he would do little else than write and sleep, often remaining in bed well into the afternoon and leaving the house only for lectures and important cases.
Eliza had once remarked that it seemed he was an entirely different person to the one she'd met during the war.
When John returned however, in '82, he had gone through a certain period of ambivalence regarding the man. The first time he'd seen John after the war, one late summer afternoon when New York was hot and alive with crowds and life, they had been intimate for the first time in over a year.
It had been euphoric, it had been bliss, it had been like manna in the desert when he was starving.
But it had broken some part of him.
The interaction had, needless to say, led to a fair portion of guilt on his part. Many a night he had spent sleepless, in contrast to the eleven or twelve hours he would slumber or spend in lethargy before John's return. He could not find any excuse for his infidelity, for his betrayal of Eliza.
But then, of course, there had been his betrayal of John.
He remembers feeling as though he was not good enough for either of them or the very earth they walked upon. Often, he still feels this way, he does not think he deserves either of them.
Eliza must have noticed a change about him following this event and not long after that hot, dusty day in late August, she had asked to speak with him regarding the situation.
It had been a long discussion, painful and awkward and uncomfortable for them both, but with one important outcome; that Eliza could not reconcile in herself parting the two of them. That she was willing to make a sort of compromise. He could remain with John, but no other man, or woman. He had to keep the relationship in utmost secrecy, and the children could never know.
So things have remained in a similar state since then. He and John spend much time together, though his home life with his wife is kept polarised and separate from his life with John.
It is strange, though he knows it is a situation which works closest to everyone's needs. Eliza understands that he loves her as much as John, that he values her equally and adores their children with all his heart. John is the same, and they all seem content, so he thinks there is no reason for any change in the arrangement.
Eliza, though, is, for lack of a better word, slightly prudish when it comes to relationships between men, so they tend not to talk about the matter very often.
Constance returns then, at Eliza's call and clears up their cutlery and tray. Alexander can not suppress the pang of guilt he feels when she takes his nearly untouched plate. It was not that the meal was not delectable, in fact, he is sure he would have enjoyed it immensely any other day, yet he cannot force himself to eat when he is in this state.
"It was delightful, Constance, I am afraid my appetite this morning is rather poor."
She shakes her head dismissively and smiles, perhaps not so stiffly as before.
"It did not take so much time to prepare, perhaps Emily will want the fruit."
Eliza nods and smiles, warm and comforting as ever. Constance takes the tray and nods respectfully, opening the door skilfully with her elbow and backing carefully out of the room.
"A sweet girl, Constance. I hope, in time, she will become more comfortable here."
Alexander nods again and picks up the paper from where it lies on the sofa. He thinks he will leave it in the playroom for Philip to read, the boy is old enough perhaps for certain parts of the newspaper.
"Will you walk to Morgan street or summon a carriage?"
Morgan street is where John lives. It would be only seven or eight minutes in a carriage but nearly twenty walking. Though, the day is a fresh, pleasant one. Perhaps some time outside with his thoughts will clear his head.
It is imperative he think of a solution to the issue hanging over him at present.
"I think I shall walk, the day seems pleasant enough."
Eliza smiles and nods, for a moment gazing towards the open door and in the direction of the stairs, behind which the children still sleep.
"If you do call at the bookshop, perhaps you could acquire some more instructions on the piano for Philip? It might prove useful for him to study them when I am occupied."
Alexander's mouth twitches into a slight smile, perhaps the first semi-genuine one of the day, and he nods.
"I shall do my very best."
The approach to Morgan street is a chilly, wind-bitten one. Leaves batter his cheeks and whip around him like bullets. When he first stepped outside, the sudden flash of movement around him caused the soldier in him to start and enter a heightened state of alert. They appeared at first like redcoats' musket balls.
John's home is a rather picturesque, comfortable one. A modest sized, two-bedroom townhouse with a quaint garden and veranda they often watch the sunset on. It is a far cry from the large, almost aggressively southern plantation home his father owns in South Carolina.
Though, it is not surprising that John wants as little to do with his childhood home as possible.
He walks up the steps to the veranda and pulls back the knocker, rapping twice on the crimson front door. Through the thick, frosted glass he can see a vague shape hurrying to answer his knocking.
It will probably not be John, more likely Rebecca or Robert. Like himself, John owns few servants. Neither of them see much use of employing excessively, John even more so than him as he lives alone.
Sure enough, when the door is pulled open, he is greeted with the freckled face of Robert, John's manservant who acts as a valet, a doorman and runs general errands all at once.
The man nods politely, stepping aside and holding the door open so that Alexander can step inside.
"Mr. Hamilton, sir. Mr. Laurens is in the parlour."
Alexander removes his hat and smiles stiffly at Robert, walking past him and down the hallway towards the parlour.
It is slightly smaller than his own at home, but just as beautiful. John has a keen eye for matters such as decoration and colour, so it comes as no surprise that not only his parlour, but his whole house, is very pleasingly decorated.
The sofas are embroidered with soft, swirling designs in rich navy and agean blue with varnished, tan wood arms. The walls are white with light blue fleur-de-lis details along the top plate. A small, polished table in the centre of the room is laden with books and papers, as well as what appears to be John's morning coffee.
On the walls hang pieces of John's own artwork, the subjects of which are mostly animals and landscapes; he has a certain affinity for nature. The whole thing gives off an aura not to dissimilar to that of a library or cosy study, rather than a parlour. Alexander likes it much better than the frivolous, cold ones he finds in many others' homes. It has personality; John's personality.
John himself is sat in the chair directly beside the window, facing the garden. The shrubbery and flora outside is blooming and flourishing under the season's attentive care and the entire room is cast in a vaguely green glow, almost like that of a greenhouse. Ferns curl in tiny, winding spirals directly below the window and hyacinths flower dark purple a few feet away.
John looks up as he steps into the room, his whole face breaking into a delighted smile. His hair is un-powdered, blond and tied loosely in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wears a simple, casual suit, though he has forgone the jacket and his cravat is loosened.
"Alexander, you are a sight for sore eyes."
He smiles and walks over to where John is sat, perching on the arm of his chair so the tips of his feet just brush the floor, and examining what he is reading keenly.
"The social contract, Rousseau. A re-reading?"
John closes the book and nods, ignoring Alexander's hiss of displeasure as he folds the corner of a page over to mark it. He places the book on the coffee table, atop a growing pile that seems composed of Kant, a Plato and what appears to be a pamphlet on the work of Fragonard.
"Have you read the article in The Journal about Burke yet?"
John shakes his head and allows one of his paint-stained, long fingered hands to rest casually on Alexander's mid-thigh.
"I have not had the chance, Rousseau proved as captivating as ever."
Alexander grins and traces one hand up John's chest, brushing his throat and reaching around to hold the back of his head delicately, leaning into to press their lips together.
"Ah!"
John tilts his head back marginally, his blue eyes so close to Alexander's that they encompass almost his entire vision. His voice is full of laughter, a mocking sternness in his reprimanding tone.
"The servants are still here, you are too eager for security's sake."
Alexander rolls his eyes and leans back slightly, though shifting closer to John's touch so the man's hand moves from his thigh to his hip, warm and comforting and grounding.
"Shall I send Robert on an errand? Perhaps Rebecca can do some shopping at the market."
John smiles devilishly and Alexander returns his grin, nodding and shifting to the side slightly so that John can stand.
The blond man walks to the door of the parlour and into the hallway, his footsteps can be heard pattering across the wooden floor towards the kitchen, where Robert and Rebecca will be.
Alexander hears John's voice speaking then, muffled through layers of plaster and wood so that he cannot make out succinct words.
He returns maybe two minutes later, Rebecca and Robert's footsteps follow him to the hallway and he hears the sound of fabric whispering and buckles clicking. Rebecca will have donned her cloak and Robert his boots.
It is another minute until the front door is heard slamming and John's footsteps draw closer towards the parlour once more. Alexander stands eagerly from his position on the armchair and steps lightly over to where John pokes his head around the door, smirking.
The shorter man stands on his tip toes to reach the other man's lips and they kiss in a frenzy, prefaced with a clash of teeth before they find a rhythm and settle into it, smiling into each other's mouths. Alexander lets John hold him gently by the waist, it makes him feel safe.
Suddenly, the taller man lifts Alexander a few inches off his feet by his waist and turns him around so that he is pushed firmly up against the wall. Alexander yelps in a mixture of indignation and mirth, wrapping his legs around John's waist for fear of slipping otherwise.
John then entangles one of his long-fingered, artistic hands into Alexander's hair, moves his mouth from Alexander's lips to his jaw, and then the soft plain of his throat, pressing kisses to the pale, freckled skin there.
Alexander forgets all that is happening with Jefferson, Monroe and Madison. He forgets the man whose lips he is kissing may be taken from him and that he could do nothing to stop it if he was, for he would be taken too.
With hands pulling at the buttons on his waistcoat and the ribbon in his hair, he forgets that this may all be over far too soon.