Finally, the Helpless to Choices and Changes' Satisfied is here. (You don't need to have read that to read this one though. They're both completely standalone stories; they just cover the same events.)
Also wanted to say, I'm now on AO3, with the username GeorgiaWritesStuff. Everything posted here from now on will also go up there, so if you want to look me up there, go ahead. I'd love that. I've also got a couple fics there that aren't here. I think the fandom skipped FFN entirely, but if you like Red, White & Royal Blue, I've done a couple fics for it.
Summer, 1797
The summer morning Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton's life changed forever, the only thing amiss was the shocked look on her eldest son's face when she walked into the dining room.
"Ma," he slid that day's paper across the table.
"What's this?" she asked.
Philip didn't answer, so Eliza, curious to see what could've elicited such a reaction from her son, simply took the paper and opened it. There she was met with the title:
Observations on Certain Documents Contained in No. V & VI of "The History of the United States for the Year 1796," In which the Charge of Speculation Against Alexander Hamilton, Late Secretary of the Treasury, is Fully Refuted. Written by Himself.
She was confused. She hadn't been aware that Alexander had been under any sort of speculation. Of course being who he was, people loved to gossip and look for things were there weren't any. But she couldn't recall anything big enough that would require a response as dramatic as whatever this was.
But she wanted to support her husband in every way possible, no matter the circumstances. She kept reading.
The charge against me is a connection with one James Reynolds for purposes of improper speculation. My real crime is an amorous connection with his wife for a considerable time, with his knowing consent…
She felt sick, and didn't know how she managed to continue reading. Was Alexander admitting to what she thought he was? Had her husband had an affair?
And if he had, the paper in her hand indicated it hadn't been only once. Surely it would explain exactly how long this tryst had lasted later, but Eliza wasn't sure she'd make it that far.
…if not originally brought on by a combination between the husband and wife with the design to extort money from me.
He'd paid hush money for this? He'd wanted to sleep with another woman enough to pay her husband so he could continue to see her?
She didn't think it could get any worse. And then it did:
This confession is not made without a blush.
Eliza's cheeks went bright red. But it wasn't from nerves, or any attraction to her husband, as had happened when they first met, over fifteen years ago.
No; this time, her cheeks were red with anger.
Alexander had published – in black and white, for the entire world to see – a confession of an extramarital affair, including a comment that, in not so many words, said his wife would understand his reasoning.
Well, she didn't. She couldn't fathom why he would do this.
What right had he to blush?
"Are you alright?" her son asked.
"I – I…"
"I can look after the others," Philip told her.
She could only nod. Even that was hard.
Looking back, there were some signs that something had been happening that year, back in Philadelphia.
She and the children had ended up staying at the Pastures that summer for longer than they'd planned; and now she realised it was, in part, because of Alexander. He'd insisted, multiple times that she not leave her parents' house yet.
I am so anxious for a perfect restoration of your health that I am willing to make a great sacrifice for it.
Don't alarm yourself nor hurry so as to injure yourself or the children.
Apparently, she'd been feeling poorly.
Their money had been tighter that year as well. James had needed to take Xander's old coat, even though it barely fit, and John had gone without one a new one completely.
But she would never have guessed that it was an affair. Foolishly she had brushed it aside, chalked it up to the same thing she always did. Work. His job. Whatever the President's latest request had been.
She wasn't naïve. From their first meeting all those years ago, she'd seen how women behaved around him. Her friends had gushed about his looks and manners and charisma, and most of them hadn't cared that he had no money.
But she'd been blinded by her love for him, and forgotten that such things went both ways. She'd forgotten how he had flirted right back.
She didn't think she'd ever left that starry-eyed, honeymoon phase of loving him. It had seemed so wonderful. She knew that many women weren't that lucky.
Now she realised that wasn't a blessing. It was the worst of all possible curses.
He'd told her not to marry him if she couldn't live like a pauper. Can you in short be an Aquileia and cheerfully plant turnips with me, if fortune should so order it? If you cannot my Dear we are playing a comedy of all in the wrong…
Her family was one of the richest and most well respected in the colonies. He was a penniless orphan with huge drive, but no guarantee of that changing.
She'd given up so much for him. For this life. She could've been like Peggy and married some semi-distant cousin, and continued living the lifestyle she'd grown up with. But she didn't.
She'd chosen turnips. She'd chosen him.
And he'd chosen someone else.
She heard the door creak open. She'd asked Camilla to help Philip get the younger children packed and ready to leave for the Pastures as soon as possible. And as quick as their faithful housemaid was, they couldn't be ready yet. So there was only one person it could be.
Alexander.
She spoke before he even had a chance to open his mouth. He didn't deserve a chance to explain himself. Maybe one day. But not today. She couldn't let him.
"Don't," she said firmly. "Don't take another step in my direction."
She couldn't be trusted around him. Her own husband.
"You can stand over there," she ordered.
If they were going to talk about it, it had to be on her terms.
He complied, moving to stand by the window; as far away as he could get while staying in the same room.
"You know," he said, completely matter-of-fact. It wasn't a question. He sounded resigned.
"Do you know what hurts the most?" she replied; her voice just as passive.
"What?"
"Not that you had an affair. But that you felt it necessary to tell the entire world. That I found out the same way everyone else in the country will."
She finally looked at him. Aside from his expression, he looked exactly the same man she'd seen yesterday.
And yet, so completely different.
"I wish I had known about it back then," she admitted sadly; realising as she said it that it was completely true. "Then things might be different."
"Really?"
She had reduced him to one-word responses. It was as heartbreaking as it was empowering.
"Really," she replied. "But it's not. And now I – I don't know who you are, Alexander."
"I'll give you all the time you need Betsey," he said, desperate. "You and the children –"
"No," she interrupted. Her voice was firmer now. "You are going to be the one to explain everything to them. Do you understand? When the time is right YOU will be the one who tells the children why their mother's heart is broken and why everyone is looking at them with pity. I will not be the one to do that. This is on your hands."
He nodded slowly. "Yes. I understand."
"They are your legacy, Alexander," she was all but screaming. Her voice had been more or less steady since he walked in, but now – now she'd had enough. The children had been brought into it.
"You had no family growing up," she continued. "Now you have one. And you've thrown it away because… people whisper things behind your back."
He stared back at her mutely. It seemed he'd finally realised talking at all was a bad idea.
"I hear them too," she said. "But I ignore them. I put them out of my mind and focus on what matters most: our family."
"But you…you have to scream!"
"Eliza, please, I –"
"I don't want to hear anything from you," she said firmly. This conversation was over. "I'm going to my parents. Don't follow me."
She resumed her packing once her husband had left.
Eventually she pulled out a box. She didn't think there was anything in there she'd need to take with her, but she opened it anyway.
Letters. Every letter she'd ever written to Alexander, from the first one, almost two decades ago, addressed to Colonel Hamilton and signed Miss Schuyler, to the one she had written to My beloved Alexander last week and signed Your Betsey.
She didn't know why she stuffed them into her bag.
The children were waiting by the front door when she came downstairs. Alexander stood by the door to the dining room.
Philip looked sadly at his father. "Pa," he whispered sadly. "How could you?"
Alexander looked broken. Eliza knew he wasn't faking – he genuinely was, for whatever reason, devastated.
She looked away before that face could break her, and ushered Philip out the door.