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icanneverbesatisfied · 5 years ago

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My Hands Are Not Clean

Wow. Okay. I feel like I’m about to write an Oscar acceptance speech or something. Let me just give you a quick run down on how this fic started, and then I’ll give all the typical before fic info things that I usually give.

So, I started this fic in May of 2018. A long time ago. I started writing it with Angelina, AKA @livinchancey, and she was an amazing help. A lot of things you see in this fic wouldn’t have happened with out her. Seriously, this girl is the best.

I hit writers block pretty badly around July of 2018, and I didn’t start on this fic again until, like, March/April of this year. Crazy, I know. But now it’s done. And it’s long. And I cried a little while writing it, and a little more again once it was finished. So if you cry while reading it, you aren’t alone.

I want to thank Taylor, AKA @secretschuylersister for reading it and saying the word “fuck” more times in the comments than I have ever seen her say in the whole time I’ve known her. I also want to thank Mickey, AKA @peculiar-persephone for also proofreading, and literally making me both laugh out loud and shed a tear with how kind she was about it (and for correcting my shitty grammar, you are a lifesaver). Thank you both so, so much. It wouldn’t have gotten done without you. Also, thank you Rebekah AKA @gabesgoldwings for your info on medical treatments in the early 1800��s and for saying the most hilarious thing I ever could have expected you to say.

Without further ado (and a lot of format fixes), I present to you this whole thing. Warnings, word count, and other things available under the cut.

Word count: a whopping 19K (19288 to be exact)

Warnings: cheating, swearing, period typical sexism, light mentions of childbirth, duels, major character death, very brief abuse, and mentions of alcohol

Tags: @queerenbian @steiiarrs @bisexualsparksfly @lemonadebi @thatoneimaginesblog @kingofsantafe @arreaga-avenger

---

She had been twenty-five the first time she had kissed him. Or he had kissed her. She could not remember anymore. She did not even really know if she had wanted to. Not after this. Not now. Not with his wife standing in front of her, a grief impossible to explain on her face, her tears heavy with it. She had never seen her like that. But she had never before been the reason for her grief. Her heartbreak.

“It was you,” she said, her features distorted and turned in, her tears catching in the lines around her mouth, changing course. “All along, it was you. The late nights at work. The–the pretending not to hear me when I asked about his day, the lies, the half-truths.” She gasped, sudden realization. “Leaving for London.”

“Eliza, I am so—,”

“I do not want to hear it.” She closed her eyes, pushing out her hands and spreading her fingers wide like they were a shield, “I do not need your apologies, Angelica.”

There it was, cold and laid out bare in front of her.

And there was nothing, now, that she could do to change it.

——

November, 1781

“Angelica,” Alexander said to her politely, inclining his head. She knew what every single gesture he gave meant‍. At least she thought she did, she had no way to know otherwise. He opened his mouth to say something, but was whisked away suddenly by someone that Angelica didn’t know.

She frowned. He was her closest friend besides her sisters, she wrote to him constantly, and she had been looking forward to speaking with him. She was unhappy with her husband— John was aloof and vapid and somewhat egotistical, though he never showed it in public. Looking back now, she didn’t know why on earth she had married him. Perhaps it was to distract herself. Perhaps it was the flute melody of infatuation masquerading as young love. Or perhaps it was just pure stupidity. Rebellion, too, was one of the possibilities.

She couldn’t lie about what she thought of Alexander. At first she had swept it aside, ignoring and denying it altogether. Then, somewhere through letters and conversations and quick dances, she had accepted it. And then let it overwhelm her.

She almost didn’t know who she was anymore.

Her sister appeared in her view, and she brightened at the sight of her. Eliza was several months along in her pregnancy, and the word ‘glowing’ had never fit anyone better. She looked elegant, and carried herself with grace still.

Angelica embraced her sister, kissing her cheek softly and grabbing onto her hands once she had pulled away from the hug. “Look at you,” she said, smiling as she looked her sister up and down, confirming that she was doing well, “you look so beautiful. Are you nervous? Excited? Tell me.”

Eliza smiled at her in that way that only Eliza could. “I am both excited and nervous, as one could expect to be,” she said, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “Alexander and I both think that I am to have a boy.”

“I agree with you both,” Angelica said, and let one of her hands join her sister’s. A small kick startled her, and she almost pulled her hand back, but then reminded herself that that was how babies behaved. “A very sweet and very handsome boy.”

“I shall hope,” Eliza told her, looking back up at her sister. Her cheeks were rosy. “If he is anything like his father, then he shall go on to do great things.”

“That he will,” Angelica agreed, laughing softly. Alexander showed up suddenly, resting a hand lightly on Eliza’s back. Eliza smiled up at him, pure love on her face.

“Who?” He asked, a teasing smile on his face. Alexander had a strong sense of humour, and he could well make anyone laugh.

“Your future son,” Eliza said, just as much teasing in her voice. “Angelica and I were just talking, and I was telling her about the baby.”

“Ah, I see,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to Eliza’s cheek. She leaned into him, and Angelica felt an unwarranted pang of jealousy. He was not hers to be jealous for.

“Angelica,” his voice pulled her out of a reverie that she did not even realize she was in. “Would you care to come speak with me? I have some matters I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course.” She nodded, and let him lead her away.

——

“When did it begin?” Eliza demanded, and her anger was not making her as brave as it seemed to be, because she took a step back.

Angelica looked at her, and shook her head softly. Eliza seemed to understand more from it than Angelica had wanted her to.

Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling a sob, and her eyes closed involuntarily with it. More tears fell from her eyes.

“It was the party,” she said, moving her hand from her mouth and wiping one of her cheeks quickly. “It was the party, when I… no,” she breathed, looking at Angelica. “Tell me you are lying. Tell me that I am wrong.”

Angelica took a deep breath, pushing back her tears. She knew she did not deserve to be the one crying. “I cannot do that, Eliza.”

The sob that came from her sister and the small protest hidden within it, finally made Angelica’s tears fall.

——

He had discussed some business with her, asking her for her opinion on a few plans of action.

She was standing close to him at his desk, and he rifled through papers, attempting to find what he needed. His desk was small, but somehow he made it a large mess. Letters, opened and unopened, were scattered around the desk, as well as empty envelopes. He had a crooked stack of books in the corner, and different page corners were folded down, pages marked with scraps of fabric and leaves from the trees outside.

“Here it is,” he said, pulling a letter from the pile and beginning to explain it to her. She nodded in appropriate places, interjecting at others. She loved this type of work, this type of talk; she had an intellectual mind through and through, and she loved challenges. She had tried to help John with his work, mostly in a desperate attempt to find some quality she could redeem with him. He had shooed her off, saying that this was not the place for a woman.

“I believe that is all I have to discuss for now,” he said, setting the letter back down and taking a step towards her. “I shall have to ask your opinion more often.”

“And you shall,” she said, mostly teasing.

She hadn’t been expecting it when Alexander leaned forward, cupping her cheeks with his palms and pressing a kiss to her mouth. She gasped slightly, before reaching her hands up to grasp at his arms, kissing him back sweetly.

Suddenly and all at once, she came back to herself and broke away, dropping her hands. Her skin tingled, and her heart was racing.

“I—I have to go,” she said, and hurried from the room, neglecting to give him an excuse because she could not think of one.

She ran into the first room she could find, and upon looking around, she discovered that it was the room they had set up for the baby. A cradle sat against the wall, a rocking chair next to it, with a few small toys and children's books stacked on a shelf. This was everything that Eliza had ever dreamed for herself. For her life.

And then here was Angelica, standing in the middle of the room set up for her sisters biggest dream. She felt evil. It was wrong of her. She never should have come.

She looked down at her hands, and suddenly hated them. She pushed everything she had done— the wanting, the desperate, ridiculous wanting and hoping and dreaming— into her hands, and decided to hate them. My hands are not clean, she thought, and knew it was true.

“Angelica?” Her sister pushed open the nursery door, and Angelica dropped her hands. She was good at hiding what she felt, good at keeping secrets. If she was careful, then Eliza would never know. “What are you doing in here?”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought this far ahead, and she didn’t know what to say now that Eliza was in front of her. “Alexander was giving me a tour, and then someone called him away. You just missed him,” she lied easily, and instantly hated herself more for it.

“I see,” her sister said, and walked to the shelf. She straightened a book that had fallen. “I love it in here. It makes this house home, and it makes everything real. At least to me.”

“It is lovely,” Angelica agreed, and smiled at her sister.

“I am so very excited to be a mother, and for you to be an aunt,” Eliza said, looking at her stomach and resting a hand there. “I am glad I have Alexander to raise this child with.”

Angelica smiled and nodded, swallowing the disgusting taste that had risen in her throat.

——

“Tell me more,” Eliza demanded, and Angelica wiped her tears away. “Tell me the truth, Angelica. You owe me that.”

“I don’t think you want the truth.”

Eliza moved forward, grabbing Angelica’s wrist. Her fingers were digging into her skin, and Angelica ignored the sting it brought. “Tell me,” he sister breathed, her enunciation deadly.

It was not Angelica’s place to refuse.

——

January, 1782

Angelica went on a long trip to London after that, and came back just in time for Philips birth.

She was the fourth to hold him. Angelica and Eliza’s mother, who was acting as midwife, held him first. Then Eliza held him, then Alexander. Then her.

She felt an odd mix of emotions. Pride. Happiness. Love. Then, out of nowhere, when she noticed how much Philip resembled his father, she felt shame. The weight of her deceit to her sister, to her family, landing on her shoulders.

Philip beginning to cry— a high pitched, reedy sound— and she handed him back to Eliza gingerly, feeling thankful that there was a reason to let go of him. She stretched her fingers, spreading them wide.

She watched Alexander and Eliza coo over Philip, Eliza running her index finger over his forehead, smoothing his thin baby hairs. It felt like a puppet show, similar to the ones that her and her sister had put on. Poorly sewn puppets with button eyes and crooked smiles.

Angelica had always been taught that having a child with someone meant that you loved them unconditionally. Her mother had once said that a child was the ultimate representation of love between two people. But, here she was, standing against the wall and watching the man that had kissed her in his office, the man that had initiated it, the man that had had a pregnant wife downstairs. The man now standing over his child, his son that looked so much like him, and he spared a small glance at Angelica.

She knew all of his small gestures. She was his best friend. She knew his smiles. She knew his mind. She knew the meaning of the look in his eyes, the tilt to his lips.

She felt sick. She didn’t belong here.

——

“That’s why you left,” Eliza said, realization dawning on her face. Dear God, she didn’t know what was yet to come. “But you left—”

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, her voice heavy and thick, cutting her off on purpose, and Eliza shook her head hard.

“I do not want your apologies.”

——

June, 1782

Angelica stayed for quite a few months, and slowly pushed away the hate for herself. For her feelings. For her actions. For her hands.

She heard Philip blabber his first word (a stuttered ‘mama’ in Eliza’s direction, after much trying and a lot of spit), and as he started to develop teeth, Angelica let him chew on her fingers to help.

She stopped by one day, to give them some bread she had baked, and had found only Alexander at home.

Her friendship with him had become relatively normal since the incident in his office, and she leaned against the wall in the kitchen. She was glad to have her friend back, and the conversation— light, easy, funny— felt right. She finally felt like herself again.

So she should have known that Alexander would ruin it.

He mentioned the incident— Angelica had always called it that. The incident. Alexander called it their kiss— and all at once, Angelica fell back into a former self. The self she hated. But she was better now. She was good.

Was she?

It didn’t feel like she was when she moved forward, putting her hands on his cheeks and kissing him hard, sliding her fingers into his hair and carding through it. She had always wanted to know what his hair felt like, even though she had pushed that want down deep, just like all of them.

Alexander’s hands met her waist, and her back hit the wall. Alexander bit at her bottom lip softly, and began a trail of soft kisses down her neck, nipping at her pulse point. She gasped, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes.

Alexander tracked kisses around her neck and shoulders at random, anywhere that her dress left uncovered. He was pulling at the back of her dress, where her bodice met her skirt, and it was only then that she realized he was trying to figure out how it came off.

“Alexander,” she finally said, and pushed him away with her hands, soft. Her touch had always been determined, powerful. She had never been that gentle with anything except her younger siblings and Philip. “We cannot.”

He rolled his lips in, running his hands down his face. He looked exhausted. Strangely, he seemed much more tired now than he had during the war. “I know. Eliza and Philip will be back soon, we could be caught.”

“What?” She asked, blinking.

“Another time,” he said, and Angelica blushed deep at the thought of it. Then she shook herself.

What was she doing? How could she do this to her sister, her closest and best friend? And, yet, here she was, the memory of Alexander’s lips still resting on her neck. And she found herself nodding, a wicked, dark hope and excitement for the day she would find herself alone with Alexander blooming in her chest.

She didn’t think twice. And wouldn’t until much, much later and after it was far too late.

——

“That is not all, Angelica,” Eliza said, after Angelica had taken a long pause. “I am not a fool. I have seen the pamphlet.”

Angelica wondered faintly what was in it, what secrets he had left out, before starting back at her story again.

——

March, 1783

It continued on for months and months. Angelica found herself keeping many secrets from her sister, and she wondered how many lies Alexander had told Eliza.

Philip took his first steps just after his first birthday, a little bit later than most babies, but Eliza and Angelica were proud nonetheless. Alexander missed it, too busy at work with Washington, and only got to see once he came home. Philip gripped tight onto Angelica’s index and middle fingers, and she helped him walk across the length of the sitting room. Alexander had been just as delighted as them.

Eliza had been so, so happy to see her baby— not her baby anymore, really, but she still called him that— grow up and improve on everyday skills. Angelica had been happy, too. So was Alexander.

Weeks passed— Philip got better at walking and soon was running about, bumping into things and covering his small legs and arms in bruises.

Then, something Angelica didn’t think would ever happen did, and she didn’t know if she could go back now.

Eliza and Philip gone for the weekend, up to visit Eliza’s father, and Alexander home alone. A weekend that Angelica spent at Alexander’s, sneaking around and lying to her husband, keeping secrets.

She didn’t know how it had escalated until it had; her gown and petticoat discarded across the back of a chair, her corset lying on the seat of it, Alexander’s coat and trousers and shoes lying scattered across the floor.

Angelica laid flat on her back, the dark red blankets covering her. Alexander slept soundly, lying on his side to face her, their fingers intertwined loosely. Angelica wondered faintly if she was lying in the spot that Eliza usually did. She pushed it out of her mind.

Instead, she thought about what they had done. Angelica had not been that happy in a long, long time, and for once she didn’t worry about her husband. About her sister. She didn’t worry about anything. At the time, she had loved it. She had let go.

Now she worried.

She worried about what would happen if her sister found out. She worried what would happen if John found out, or if her mother and father found out, if Peggy found out, or if…

No. Absolutely not. She pushed the possibility out of her mind. But, thinking on even the off chance that it could happen, she said a mental prayer.

Please, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut and holding Alexander’s hand tighter. Do not let the consequences be severe.

•••

October, 1783

Angelica had been lucky. At first.

They took their time, playing this game carefully, sometimes waiting months before they found an excuse to be alone together.

Thus, the first time they were lucky, the second and third, as well. The fourth time, however, the consequences she had prayed to avoid fell upon her.

They had been so careful. They had taken every precaution possible, and Angelica thought she had known what she was doing.

If she had been right, if she had known what she was doing, then she wouldn’t be where she was now; holding onto her stomach on the floor of her washroom, her nightgown pooled around her, and her curls hanging in her eyes. She didn’t know what time it was, but the sun hadn’t yet risen, and the sky was still dark.

God, Angelica thought, moving her hair out of her eyes in anticipation of the next wave of nausea. How could we have been so stupid? So careless?

The next thought came to her sudden, and she sat up straight, eyes flying wide, ignoring how it heightened the sick feeling in her stomach. John would know. He would know, immediately.

He would know that her baby wasn’t his.

How would she be able to keep this secret? How would she be able to convince him of their lie? Of their many, countless lies? At the very least, he would not be able to tell who this baby’s father was. Not unless…

No. No. This was Angelica’s child, just as it was Alexander’s. She had a chance, if a slim one at all, for this baby to show no resemblance to him.

After all, she looked just like her mother. The same thick curls, same eyes, same nose, same mouth. And she was her mother’s first child, just as this child would be her first.

She looked towards the ceiling, imagining that the roof was gone. That she could see the sky and all its stars.

Please, she thought, in the grey area of her mind that was between prayer and hope, please let this child look and be nothing like Alexander Hamilton.

•••

Angelica went to bed after the nausea subsided, unsure of how long she had sat on her washroom floor, holding her own hair back from her eyes as she retched into her toilet.

She told Eliza a few days later, while Alexander was in the next room. She didn’t know if he had heard her, but he had most definitely heard Eliza's exclamation of joy at the news.

“What have you told her?” Alexander asked, teasing.

“Angelica is expecting a child,” Eliza said, pure joy. There were even stars in her eyes. She pulled her sister into a hug quickly, and Angelica was thankful for it.

It made it so Eliza missed Alexander’s sudden drop in smile, and the colour draining from his cheeks. She missed the way his mouth opened slightly, then closed, the way alarm ran unrestrained across his features.

Angelica returned the hug, holding onto her sister tight until Alexander mastered his expression. Finally, Angelica released Eliza, but not before squeezing her tight.

“I am so very joyous for you,” Eliza said, looking at Angelica in the eye. The truth of her words was evident, and it made Angelica feel sick to her stomach. “Oh,” her sister suddenly exclaimed, eyes bright. “I will give you some of Philip’s baby stuff. He has quite a few toys he no longer uses. It will be so nice to see them passed down to his cousin.” Eliza’s innocent comment sent a pang through Angelica’s heart. She knew the truth, that the baby would be Philips sibling, but Eliza did not.

Eliza left the room in a hurry, disappearing down the corridor. Alexander grabbed Angelica’s arm, pulling her closer to him. She looked him in the eye, an immediate challenge. She didn’t like being grabbed or jerked around, and Alexander seemed to remember that, and released her. Her face smoothed out.

“This child is mine,” he whispered. It was not a question but was not an observation, either. “Is it not?”

Angelica took in a deep breath, and closed her eyes. She did not know what she expected from him now; to throw her from his house, call her a whore, disgrace her and ruin everything she had tried so hard to bring to fruition with her life.

So she set aside all worry and said, “Yes, this baby is yours.” All on exhale, the words audible to his ears and the wind only.

He pulled her into a hug, a pure and known break of propriety. But, then again, they had done much more already to break the boundaries of what was proper and improper.

Angelica relaxed, wrapping her arms around him and pulling on the back of his green jacket. When she pulled back, wiping at her eyes to find an absence of tears, he caught her gaze and said, “I’ll be there in whatever measures I can, but this baby can never know its true father.”

Angelica nodded. “I know.”

“What has John said?”

“He has believed me,” Angelica said, and caught herself in the subconscious habit of running a hand over her stomach. There was no evidence there of the life that had begun within her yet, but since the moment she had known, it had felt right. “Saying something about how he has no reason to disbelieve.” She blinked her eyes against the disgust she felt at his second remarks. “He said I had better have a boy, if I knew what was wise.”

Alexander frowned, the fine lines of his face bending in and down. “You have no control—”

“I know,” she said, and silenced him. “I know.”

Eliza voice sounded from the hallway. “He has his toys and books scattered about his room,” she said, and Angelica took two steps away from Alexander in habit. Eliza was holding a wooden box. “But I have gathered what I could.”

Eliza passed her the box, and Angelica wanted to cry at the kindness of her sister’s gesture, despite its simplicity. She opened the lid gingerly, and examined the contents. There were some stuffed toys in the shapes of animals, and a few that had been carved from strong wood, the sharp edges smoothed out. Designs had been etched into the surface, and details had been painted on, though some were softly worn, paint chipping. A few books sat in the bottom, their leather coverings worn and pressed thinner than they had been when Eliza had purchased them.

“Thank you,” Angelica said, closing the lid of the box. She felt undeserving of her sister’s kindness, though deeply appreciative of it.

“You’re welcome,” her sister said. “I would do anything for you, and I promise that I will do much more. I will be there every step of the way.”

Angelica wiped at her eyes again, certain that she would find tears. They were still dry. “Thank you. Thank you so, so much, Eliza.” Angelica gave her sister an awkward, one-armed hug from the side, holding the box in the other.

“I love you,” Eliza whispered, and Angelica smiled. If she stopped thinking, for even just a moment, then she could imagine that this was normal. That it was realistic. That she hadn’t been lying and keeping secrets from her sister for years, and that her baby was Johns, and that she had never spent the night in Eliza’s bed with Alexander.

“I love you, too,” Angelica finally said, and made some excuse about needing to be home in time to cook lunch for John.

She did indeed go home, but not to cook for John. Instead, she looked over the toys in the box, turning them over in her hands, just to marvel at them. She rubbed her thumb over a flower design carved in a toy bowl, little flowers painted purple, feeling the grooves.

She looked down at her stomach, the place she knew that would soon grow to accommodate her child, and placed one of her hands there, rubbing her fingers back and forth.

This time, when she thought about everything she had done, and everything that would happen, tears did fall.

•••

December, 1783

A month after Angelica’s stomach began to grow, Eliza made a call to her house.

John was out and Angelica was reading, sitting in a rocking chair that her mother had passed down to her, and flipping through the fragile pages of one of the children’s books that Eliza had given her.

“I am with child,” Eliza blurted, before Angelica even had the chance to stand up. Eliza was smiling in a way that could light up the world, and Angelica hoped that she was as well.

Really, she was experiencing a whirlwind of emotions, with joy and worry fighting for dominance. She said, “Oh, Eliza, I am so happy for you!” and got up from her chair, setting the book aside, and moving to embrace her sister. “Are you nervous? Excited? Tell me,” Angelica said, echoing her words to Eliza when she had been pregnant with Philip.

“I am less nervous and more excited,” she said, “though that is liable to change as this baby grows.”

“I am most definitely more nervous,” Angelica admitted, glancing down at her stomach. Evidence of her baby showed now, and Angelica rested her hand there. “But you have done this before.”

“Did you think that I could forget?” Eliza asked, laughter in her voice. “But, that is why I am going to be here for everything. We can go through this together, Angelica. It will make it so much easier, I promise.”

Angelica felt guilty. She did not deserve her sister’s kindness or her help. She did not deserve everything that Eliza would do to help her, all the love she would be showering her with.

She forced herself to nod anyway, and said, “I would love that, Eliza.”

Her sister smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

•••

June, 1784

Eliza and Angelica spent all of their spare time together, and Eliza did everything she could to make her sister feel more comfortable with her pregnancy.

But, what she was truly worried about, Eliza could not help with. She could not even know the truth, let alone comfort her for it. Her biggest fear was that this child would look like Alexander. Would match him the way that Philip does.

Angelica was walking to Eliza and Alexander’s house, which took only ten minutes at most, when she first felt the flutters of pain beginning in her back that Eliza had told her about. A sign that the baby could come soon. Instantly, she panicked.

She had felt prepared before now, before this pain, and she didn’t notice that she had stopped walking until a boy shouted at her to step out of his way. She turned to him to mutter an apology, but he looked embarrassed at the sight of her, realizing that he had been rude. He apologized instead, and waited for her to start walking. Determined, she pushed the pain out of her mind, and made it to Eliza’s.

She sister scolded her the moment Angelica told her about her pain, saying that she could have her baby soon, and that she should have stayed home. Angelica ignored her sister, said that she was fine, and stayed for the handful of hours that she had planned to, pushing aside the pain in her back.

She walked home by herself again, leaving before her sister could talk her into letting someone walk with her, and made it home safely.

She went to bed before the sun went down, and woke up hours later, in unimaginable pain.

She knew, immediately and suddenly and realistically, that there was no going back now. No returning to who she was, to who Alexander had been, before the affair. Before the baby.

Before everything that she— they— had done.

•••

Angelica looked down at the small bundle in her arms, wrapped in a white blanket, and found herself relieved and unimaginably happy.

Her daughter looked just like she had when she was a child. Her mother had described her, and had shown her a pencil drawing they had done, and the baby lying against her was almost a copy.

The only noticeable difference was her skin tone: it was a perfect medium between hers and Alexander’s, but seeing as John had much lighter skin than her, it would be easy to overlook. The only obvious, noticeable resemblance to Alexander was a small birthmark on the corner of her nose. Angelica ignored it, disregarding her worry over it.

She didn’t know where John was, actually. No one had mentioned his presence in or around the house at all, and it had been several hours since the birth.

Alexander, however, was there. He had come with Eliza a few hours ago, and now they were downstairs, supposedly helping to fix up the baby’s room. Angelica had a sneaking suspicion that they were doing much more, but she was not going to argue.

She looked back down at her daughter, and smiled at her, kissing her soft on her forehead.

“Hello, sweet girl,” she whispered, and was certain that she had never loved anyone more. Her name was only fitting. “I love you, Elizabeth.”

•••

September, 1784

Angelica was starting to worry. Eliza had been in labour for at most a day, and no one had come yet to give her an update. No one had come to tell her if her sister was alright. If the baby was alright.

She distracted herself, cleaning things she had already cleaned before, opening a book to stare at the same page before closing it again, and sorting through Elizabeth’s— they had come to call her Betsey— toys.

She was holding Betsey in the rocking chair, trying to get her to nap by singing to her softly and rocking back and forth, when someone knocked on the front door.

She hurried down, holding her daughter in a bundle in her arms, and pulled the door open. Alexander stood on the other side, disheveled, his coat not on, and his shirt stained with water.

Immediately, Angelica feared the worst. He looked like he had ran here. He was breathing hard, holding a hand against her door frame to steady himself.

“Eliza,” Angelica breathed, holding Betsey closer to her. “Is she…?”

Alexander swallowed, and nodded. “She is well.”

Angelica exhaled, and felt every muscle in her body relax. She kissed Betsey’s forehead in relief, and Alexander smiled.

“I have not gotten a chance yet to hold her,” he said, inclining his head slightly towards Betsey. “She looks like you. But she has the Hamilton birthmark.”

Angelica stilled. “Be quiet,” she whispered. “The neighbours could very well hear, and what could happen then?”

Alexander nodded, turning red. “My apologies.” He looked Angelica in the eye, and smiled like he was remembering something. “I miss you. So very much.”

Angelica didn’t reply to his remark, instead saying, “take me to see my sister.”

Alexander didn’t say anything, but gave a curt nod in reply.

They walked in silence, Angelica trailing behind Alexander, bouncing Betsey in her arms to keep her quiet. Time felt slower, and as Angelica followed Alexander to his home, she felt like she was wading through water in heavy fabric. Carrying dead weight, sinking under, drowning in everything she couldn’t say.

Finally, they reached Alexander’s house, and he pushed the door open. Angelica followed behind him, and was immediately bombarded by Philip.

“I have a sister,” he said, but muddled his letters, and sister sounded more like slither. He was smiling, his whole freckled face being taken up by his toothy grin. He was hugging her leg, the material of her pink dress gripped in his small fists.

“Let her be, Philip,” Alexander said, and gently eased Philip into letting go of her.

“A girl?” Angelica asked, and looked down at her own daughter. Betsey was awake, grabbing at her blanket, only able to hold the soft fabric for a few seconds at a time.

“Yes,” Alexander said, and beckoned Angelica to follow him. She obliged, and he lead her into the room with Eliza.

Eliza looked hollowed out, and for a split second, Angelica feared the worst— there had been enough time for her to... but then she opened her eyes and pushed herself up and smiled. Angelica relaxed.

“Angelica,” she said, and held her hand out to her. Angelica looked down at Betsey, and then at Alexander.

“I can take her,” he whispered, and she nodded. She passed Betsey to Alexander, and turned back to her sister, taking her hand.

“I’m glad you came.” Eliza squeezed her fingers. “Mother is watching over the baby, so I could get some rest.”

“Then you should be resting,” Angelica scolded, and Eliza shook her head.

“I can’t,” she admitted, laughing softly and releasing Angelica’s hand. “I would rather see you, anyway.”

Betsey started to cry, and Angelica looked in her and Alexander’s direction. She turned back to Eliza and said, “I would like to spend time with you as well, but Betsey seems to have different plans.”

“No,” Eliza whispered, and motioned towards Alexander. “I think he can handle it.”

Angelica dared to look at him, taking a deep breath. He was rocking Betsey, rubbing his thumb on her cheek, and she seemed to be calming down. After a few moments, she stopped crying, and grabbed onto his finger with her hand.

Angelica blew out the breath she had been holding. She had never seen Alexander like that— whenever Philip cried, Eliza would swoop in and handle it, never giving Alexander a chance.

This was different, and if Angelica looked too long, she could almost lose herself in it. She could almost forget that she was deceiving her sister. She could almost forget the choices she made at the winters ball. She could almost forget that John Church had put the ring on her finger, not Alexander Hamilton.

She loved him. She knew it now, as cracked and crooked and imperfect as it was, it was undeniable. She loved him, and had since long before he had kissed her in his office.

She wanted a life where her daughter could call the right man her father, but she would never have it.

“Thank you, Alexander,” Angelica finally said, and he looked at her, expression unreadable, and nodded.

Their mother pushed the door open, carrying Eliza’s baby in her arms. She looked tired, and Angelica felt it was well deserved.

“I got her cleaned up well enough,” their mother said, and passed her to Eliza. “I thought that you would want to see her, and that maybe she would like to meet her namesake.”

Angelica looked at her sister. “You named her after me?”

“Of course,” Eliza said, and ice spread through her. She looked to Alexander, holding the elder of his daughters, and her mind turned to a hurricane.

In a matter of months, Alexander Hamilton had two daughters. One born of his wife, and the other born of the woman his wife trusted most, but that had most betrayed her.

——

The corners of Eliza’s mouth had turned down, and the sadness that had first overwhelmed her features had receded. Now she looked burned with anger, her cheeks and ears red with it.

“Alexander suggested it, you know,” she said, and Angelica blinked hard. Tears escaped from between her eyelashes. “He suggested that we name her after you. I agreed immediately.”

Angelica dared to look up at her sister, and she caught her eye. Eliza looked powerful, like the heroes of story books.

“I will always regret it,” she said, and something deep inside of Angelica shattered.

——

July, 1787

Betsey had celebrated her third birthday last month, and Angelica was terrified. She resembled Alexander far too much. She had Angelica’s curls and nose and deep dark eyes, something reminiscent about her smile, but everything else she inherited from Alexander. She had the shape of his eyes, his cheekbones, the structure of his mouth. Even her ears looked like Alexander’s. She was sure that‍ John suspected something, and she was beginning to worry that Eliza would as well. But, Eliza was distracted with her and Alexander’s third child, named after his father.

Angelica had rarely spent time alone with Alexander, but when they did, it was with much more care. Angelica did not want to risk another pregnancy with him, and thus they did not do much.

Her worries about Betsey, in truth, began with a remark from him. Betsey’s birthday party was small, with only her aunts, uncles and cousins attending. Alexander had been standing by her, both of them watching as Eliza retied the ribbons holding Anne’s, the nickname picked for her daughter to avoid confusion, braids in place.

“Betsey looks like me,” Alexander said, suddenly, his voice a whisper. “It’s so odd. Anne looks so like Eliza, Betsey looks like me, but they are both my daughters.”

Angelica stayed quiet for a moment too long. She didn’t know what to say, seeing as Alexander had voiced her greatest fear aloud. “I am sure that no one would notice,” he said, rubbing the back of his hand against hers for a moment. “It is not very obvious unless you know the truth, and unless she and I are standing side by side.”

Angelica could not stop thinking about what he had said, even a month later, and her worry was beginning to show. She was losing sleep, bags showing heavy under her eyes.

When an opportunity to leave the city showed itself, she took it gladly. John was offered a promotion at his work, with much higher pay, and he took it without even asking her.

She was overjoyed, but hid it well. The relocation to London, mandatory to accept the promotion, was exactly what she had needed. Putting distance between herself and the obvious.

They packed quickly and took the earliest trip to London that they possibly could. Betsey cried as she said goodbye, hugging Anne tight. The departure felt bittersweet, and Angelica missed her sister the moment she pulled away from her hug.

She knew it was right. She knew it was the only thing to do. The right thing to put distance between the obvious, the right thing to separate herself from Alexander.

She boarded a boat, waved goodbye to her sister, and did not look back.

•••

September 19th, 1787

My dear sister,

It has only been a matter of months, but I miss you desperately. I have been dreadfully bored without you, with only the children to keep me entertained, as Alexander is always at work. He tells me everything he had been up to, and sometimes I think that there is not even one secret between us.

I am expecting another child, the doctor estimates April for their arrival. I hope to have a girl— Anne needs someone to play with. She finds Philip vexing and Alex is too small to run around with yet. She misses Betsey, and keeps asking me when her pretend sister will come home. I don’t know yet what to tell her to keep her spirits high, but I hope an idea will come to me soon. I hope you will return to New York soon, whether for a visit or permanently, but I know that traveling is not easy, especially with a small child.

I must cut this short, as I believe I hear Anne crying. I hope that Philip has not pushed her again.

Write me soon, my sweet sister,

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton

•••

November 8th, 1787

My dearest, Angelica,

Has your dear sister shared the contents of our friendly wager on her pregnancy? I know she shared the news of her pregnancy, but the bet is of importance as well. (I hope it comes along correctly in the letter that that was just a joke), but I hope to win. I know Eliza wishes for a girl, and I hope for one for Anne, but I worry that a daughter could be too much like me. She could inherit my vices, and what people deem acceptable as vices for men, they would not for women. I only hope that Anne turns out like her mother, and that Betsey turns out like you. I had always admired you for your intelligence and wit, as well as your independence and your beauty, even before our intimacy. But that is enough for now. I shall write again soon, as I have business to attend to.

Sincerely

A Hamilton

•••

London

December, 1787

Angelica discarded the envelope that Alexander’s letter had been in, and set the letter in the bottom drawer of her desk, covering it with different papers and a book. The letter contained information that could ruin her life, despite its innocent appearance, but she could not bear to get rid of it. She had kept every letter written from her sister and Alexander, and she reread them often when she missed them too much.

She hated London. She hated the rain and that the sun didn’t tend to shine often. Betsey seemed to always have a cold or feel unwell, and Angelica knew it was due to the weather. She hoped the weather would improve as winter passed, but she felt as if it would not. It had been warm when they arrived in late July, but the weather had changed quickly, and not for the best. The rain and snow, which never stuck to the ground and always turned to dirty sludge, was still present, and she had almost fallen often while walking down the sidewalk.

The letter did not upset her, and it did not make her upset that he had written it, but the truth hidden within it did. Betsey would never know her true parentage, and she would never get to call the correct man her father. She closed the drawer, just a bit too hard, and ran from the room. She wanted as far away from the letter as she could, at least for now.

Sometimes, she hated herself, and Alexander, for all the lies and secrets. But she could never hate him for Betsey, could never hate herself for Betsey. Her daughter was the best thing that had ever happened to her, and she could never regret her. She would never regret the events that had lead to Betsey.

And so, she kept the letter, and kept all the secrets it contained.

•••

March 29th, 1788

My dear sister,

Any day now, and I will be a new mother all over again. Alexander guesses that the baby will be a boy, born before April 15th. I guess a girl, born after April 15th. I know I have told you this before, but I hope for a girl for Anne. She misses Betsey, and wishes that you would bring her to visit. I can only imagine Betsey misses her, and I hope that she has made many friends in London. Do you have any plans to have another child? I do not blame you if you choose not to, you never were the mothering type, though you are doing wonderfully with Betsey.

Sincerely,

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton

•••

April 17th, 1788

My dearest sister,

This letter will be extremely short, but a healthy boy, James Alexander Hamilton, was born on the 14th of April, 1788. I am slightly disappointed to not have had a girl, but am overjoyed that James is healthy and happy and here. Alexander is proud of himself for winning the guess, and he is just as prideful of his son as he was when Philip was born.

In other news, we have taken in the youngest child of a close friend of Alexander’s, Colonel Edward Antill, in the wake of his wife’s passing. She is a sweet girl, two years old, and Anne is thrilled to have someone to play with that is not one of her brothers. Her name is Frances, but we are calling her Fanny, just as her father and siblings did. We intend to put her through school and treat her just as our own child. Secretly, I’m thrilled to have another little girl to pick flowers with, seeing as Philip is more interested in flattening flowers, and Anne loves her piano and books more than anything in the world.

I will write about more than babies and children, hopefully soon.

Sincerely,

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton

•••

May 15th, 1788

My dear sister,

Congratulations on your newest baby. I know you are beyond thrilled to have another baby around the house, you have always been a caring and nurturing person.

As for your inquiries on the prospects of my having more children in the future, our doctor has estimated that I am three months along in pregnancy. I am as excited and nervous as I was when I was expecting Betsey. I just wish I had you here with me. You kept me calm with your advice. I miss you terribly.

Sincerely

Angelica Schuyler Church

•••

May 28th, 1788

My dear sister,

Oh, I am so beyond excited for you and John! Have you thought of what you might name your baby? Perhaps John would like a say in the name this time, I know that you picked Betsey’s name, and her nickname. Mama says you were ready to put up a fight, in case John did not want you to name her Elizabeth. I was honoured.

Fanny is doing quite well. Anne loves her, and Philip pulls her hair just as much as Anne’s, which means he cares about her. Fanny also loves flowers. Anne is trying desperately to teach her piano and how to read, despite my telling her repeatedly that Fanny is much too young to learn just yet. She told me that she learned young, to which I changed the subject and told her that learning lullabies on her piano and reading books to Fanny will do good, so she has been doing that with fervor.

Fanny’s siblings come and visit sometimes, one of them nearly every week, but her father has only visited once. Her older sister, Mary, is afraid that she will never recognize them, but I have tried my hardest to convince her otherwise. I do not know if it worked, but I promised to always tell Fanny that her family cares deeply for her.

Write soon, please. I miss my sister and closest friend

Sincerely,

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton

•••

June 22nd, 1788

My dear sister,

I am writing to wish the happiest of birthdays to my precious niece, Betsey, on her fourth birthday. Anne wishes that she could be there to celebrate with you, and says that Betsey will make a wonderful older sister to her younger brother or sister (Anne hopes for her to have a sister). But, I must go, I hear Alexander calling for me. I love you dearly, and will write soon.

Sincerely,

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton

•••

September 19th, 1788

My dearest, Angelica,

How long a time has it been since you left? It feels as if decades have gone by, and I fear I am beginning to forget the more intimate details about you. I miss you. I miss your mind and your witty remarks, I miss your voice. I miss the way you felt against me, the softness of your skin, the sweet scent of your perfume. I miss you, and I am craving the times we spent together. I hope you will visit. I need a distraction, one that is worthwhile, and you have always proved to be proficient in that regard.

I love Eliza, but she does not challenge me in the ways you do. She does not push me to think harder, and she does not have your wit. I think, sometimes often, about how our lives would be different had you not been married before I had known you. I do not have the words needed to describe it, to describe how we could have been. How Betsey could have been. There is not a day that goes by that I do not wish that I could do more for her.

I think of you everyday, from every waking moment. Do you think of me?

Sincerely,

A Hamilton

•••

September 21st, 1788

My dearest Alexander,

Your most recent letter reminded of how much I have missed you. I miss everything. I can’t stand it here, with John and without you. I don’t feel with John a fraction of what I feel—felt— with you. John does not treat me as you have, and I often wonder if he has had his share of trysts.

John does not challenge me, just as Eliza does not challenge you. As much as I love my sister, I know that she has never leaned towards intellectual pursuits. She is intelligent and lovely, but she has always been more of an artist than a scholar.

I do, Alexander. I do think of you.

Sincerely,

Angelica Schuyler Church

•••

New York

June, 1791

“Angelica,” Eliza breathed out, pulling her older sister into a tight hug. Angelica’s lungs expanded. “I am so glad you have made it back safely.”

Angelica pulled back from the hug and took in her sister’s appearance. Eliza looked older, but Angelica was certain that she looked older as well. “I've missed you so much, Eliza.”

“So have I.” Eliza stepped back, pulling Angelica into the house. “Come. I’ve had trouble convincing Alexander to come along to our father’s.”

“Really? After all this time,” Angelica said, furrowing her brow, “it has been planned for so long.”

“I know,” Eliza said quietly, leading her sister to Alexander’s office. She pushed the door open, and Alexander looked up.

“Eliza, Angelica,” he looked back to his desk, then stilled. “Angelica?” He stood up, hugging her quickly. It set her blood on fire. “When did you arrive back?”

“Early this morning,” she said, stepping back. “I wrote to you concerning it, and I never got a reply.”

“That would be because the reply is sitting on my desk, half written,” he replied, his mouth turning up. “How long are you staying?”

“For the summer.” She looked to her sister. “You should be able to spend time with your family and I, if you take a break.”

“I cannot.”

“Angelica,” Eliza said, “tell this man that John Adams spends the summer with his family.”

“Angelica, tell my wife that John Adams does not have a real job anyway.”

“You are truly not joining us?” Angelica asked, sadness filling her heart.

“I am afraid I cannot join you upstate.”

“Alexander,” she said, “I came all this way.”

“She came all this way,” Eliza pleaded, taking a step forward and grasping his arm, “take a break!”

“You know I have to get my plan through Congress,” he said, stern, and stepped away from his wife. His arm slipped out of her grasp. “I would lose my job if I do not get this plan through Congress.”

“Please,” Angelica said, “run away with us—”

“Angelica,” Eliza said, taking her sisters arm, “he will not agree.” Eliza lead her sister from the room, and Angelica stopped in the doorway.

“I hope you are happy, Alexander,” she said, and left.

•••

July, 1791

Alexander set his pen down, running a hand through his hair. He had lost track of the nights he had spent, sleepless, in his large and empty house. His wife and Angelica had left for the summer to see their father, and he was longing for them. Longing for Angelica, for the way his mouth felt against hers.

He heard a frantic knocking at the door, and at first, he thought he had imagined it. When it continued on, however, he rose from his desk and made his way down the stairs. He opened the door, and was greeted with a tear streaked and fearful looking woman, her hair hanging over her face and her red dress standing out against her skin.

“I know you are a man of honour and I am so sorry to trouble you at home, but I have nowhere else to go,” she pleaded, wringing her hands, “I came here alone, sir.”

He was struck by her, her candor and the desperation in her voice.

“Come in,” he said, ushering her inside and closing the door behind her. “Why have you come here tonight?”

“My husband is doing me wrong,” she said, taking a deep breath. Her face was nearly as red as her dress. “Beating me, cheating me, mistreating me. And suddenly he’s up and gone, and I haven’t the means to go on.”

“Oh,” Alexander said. “I have some money I have kept, just in case it became necessary. I could give it to you, and then I could take you home.”

“You’re too kind, sir.”

He inclined his head. “Wait here.”

He retrieved the money and she thanked him profusely.

“Would you…”

“Walk you home?” He filled in, and she nodded. “Of course.”

•••

“This one's mine, sir,” she said, and he lead her to the door. She unlocked it, and lead him inside.

“Now that you are home safely, I should be on my way,” he said, and she grabbed his hand.

“No, please stay,” she said, her face turning a deep shade of scarlet. He allowed her to lead him towards her bedroom, the gears in his head spinning. “Stay,” she whispered, hiking up her skirt and leaning into him.

He thought of Angelica as she kissed him, and thought of her again when he woke up in a bed that was not his own.

He would later find out that her name was Maria Reynolds, and her husband, James Reynolds, when a letter arrived at his home.

“Dear sir,” he mumbled to himself, reading it aloud as he paced in his office, “I hope this letter finds you in good health, and in a prosperous enough position to put wealth into the pockets of people like me, down on their luck, you see it was my wife you decided to…” he trailed off, running a hand worriedly through his hair.

“You have made the wrong sucker a cuckold, now it’s time to pay the piper for the pants you unbuckled. In fact, you may continue to see my whore wife, if the price is right, and if not? I’m telling your wife.”

Desperately, he shoved the letter into the bottom drawer of his desk, throwing open the door to his office and storming out.

He was at Maria’s doorstep before he knew it, pushing the door open.

“Alexander, now isn’t a good time,” she said quietly, her dress hanging half off her body.

“How could you,” he screamed, and she took a step back, running up against the wall.

“No, sir,” she pleaded, her eyes watery. Her dress fell down farther and she hastily pulled it back up, stuttering out an apology, and sliding down to the floor. She looked pathetic. “Please don’t go, sir.”

“So was your whole story a setup?”

“I don’t know about any letter!”

“Stop crying, goddammit,” he said, angry, fighting the horrifying urge he felt to kick her. “Get up.”

“I didn’t know any better!” She cried out, clutching at his untucked shirt from her position in the floor.

“I am ruined!”

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered, “I am helpless.”

“How could I do this?” He whispered to himself, cupping his face in his hands, turning away from her.

“Just give him what he wants, and you can have me,” she said frantically, her voice weak, clutching at his clothes.

“I do not want you.”

“Whatever you want, if you pay,” she pleaded, sitting up and grabbing his hand, turning him around, “you can stay!”

Alexander remained quiet. Lord, he thought, show me how to say no to this. How could I say no to this?

“There’s nowhere I can go,” he whispered, then faced Maria. He regretted it, regretted not going with Eliza and Angelica— Angelica, she did not deserve this. What would she say? What would she do? “Where is your husband?”

Maria hurried to her feet, fixing her dress back into place as quickly as she could. “James?” She called into the bedroom tentatively. “James, Alexander is here.”

Alexander heard a shuffling, and James Reynolds appeared. “You come with my money?” He asked.

“I do not have it yet,” he said, and James’s face turned in. “I will pay in installments, to keep my wife from gaining suspicion.”

James was quiet for a moment, before reaching out to shake Alexander hand. “Deal,” he said.

Alexander took his hand. “Nobody needs to know.”

•••

May, 1792

Alexander ran a hand through his hair. It had begun to gray recently, and Eliza had been playfully making jests about it for weeks now. He found it amusing, but knew that she would not when her hair began to gray.

A knock sounded quickly on the tall oak door of his office in the capital. “Come in,” He said, and looked back to his desk.

Whoever it was entered, closing the door behind them. “I—” Alexander started, but stopped when he looked up. “Mr. Vice President, Mr. Madison, and Senator Burr.” His voice took on a joking tone when he said, “what is this?”

“We have the check stubs from separate accounts,” Jefferson started, wearing a grotesque expression of somber glee.

“Almost a thousand dollars, paid in different amounts,” Madison added.

“To a Mr. James Reynolds, back in 1791,” Burr finished, the only one of the three looking as though he truly wished to be somewhere else.

“Is that what you have?” Alexander asked, expertly masking his sudden nerves. “Are you done?”

“You are uniquely situated by virtue of your position—”

“But virtue is not the word I would apply to this situation,” Jefferson interrupted, bouncing back on his heels.

“To seek financial gain you stray from your sacred mission, and the evidence suggests you have engaged in speculation,” Madison finished.

“An immigrant embezzling our government funds,” Burr summarized, still looking regretful.

“I can almost see the headline, your career is done.”

“I shall hope you saved some money for your daughter and sons.”

“It would be best if you go back to where you came from.”

“You have no idea of what you are asking me to confess,” he said, placing a hand on his desk. He had long ago lost track of who had been saying what, but he had gathered the theme.

“Just confess,” Jefferson said.

Alexander slammed a hand into his desk, and Madison jumped. “If I can prove that I never broke the law, would you promise not to tell another soul what you saw?”

“No one else was in the room where it happened,” Burr said, looking toward his accomplices.

“Is that a yes?” Alexander asked, his patience waning.

“Yes.”

He dug the letter out from his desk, and passed it to Burr. He began to read it aloud, and Alexander paced the length of the room.

“What,” Jefferson drawled, and then, softer, “oh.”

“She courted me and escorted me to bed, when she had me in a corner, Reynolds extorted me for a sordid fee,” he explained, glossing over some of the more tawdry details, “I paid him quarterly and kept a record of every check, you can check against your list and see the consistency.”

They were quiet for a moment. “My god,” Jefferson finally said. Alexander leaned against his desk, holding his head in his hands.

“Gentlemen, let us go,” Madison said.

“So?” Alexander asked, looking up from his desk.

“The people will not know,” Madison promised, and Jefferson agreed.

“Burr, how do you I know you will not use this against me?” Alexander asked, desperate to keep this secret.

“I am not one to spread rumours, Alexander,” he replied, “and we both know what we know.”

•••

November, 1793

He had wavered on the decision to publish the pamphlet for months. It had been sitting, written to its end, in the bottom drawer of his desk for weeks, and he had been avoiding it.

He knew that Jefferson would tell the world of his secret the first chance he had, promise or not, and Alexander wanted desperately to stop that from happening.

You cannot stop someone from talking about something shared in confidentiality, but you can prevent them from being the first to share it.

The first copies were available to buy in early November, and he avoided the scrutiny for as long as the public would allow.

He worried about his children, about his wife, about Angelica.

Angelica.

It would take the breath out of his lungs sometimes, when he remembered how he had wronged her. He had had time to adjust to the wrong he was doing Eliza, but the wrong against Angelica was new. It stung, the knowledge of what he had done. He knew how stubborn Angelica was, and he could only wonder if she would forgive him.

•••

December, 1793

Angelica had heard the news when her sister wrote to her. The pamphlet, called “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”, had not been published in England yet, but Angelica knew it would be soon.

She talked to her husband, and packed up her family, her children, and left London in favour of New York.

She arrived in three weeks, disembarking and heading straight away to Alexander’s home. She was hurt, angry, and torn apart, both for herself and for her sister. She knew that she had no right to feel this hurt, as she had been inflicting it onto Eliza, but she still felt wronged.

She pushed open his front door, storming into his house. “Alexander!” She shouted, going up the stairs as quickly as her skirts would allow. “Alexander!”

She pushed open the door to his office, and he looked up at her. He smiled wide, but Angelica knew he was attempting to hide how he truly felt.

“How dare you?” She asked, without right to ask it.

He face fell. “Angelica, I can explain.”

“No,” she said, “do not. I know who you are. My sister has heard many, many years of very careful explanations, and they will not work on me.”

“You were gone,” he said, “and I missed you.”

“I was there, Alexander,” she replied, her face turning in with the sadness that overwhelmed her heart, “I pleaded with you to come along with me— with your family— to visit my father. You refused.”

“My work—”

“Your work was more important than me, but not more important than her?” She asked, and he closed his mouth. “You have made that very clear.”

“Angelica, please.”

“No, no,” she said, taking a step away from him. “I am going to find my sister, and I am going to be with her.”

“She will not understand what you are feeling,” he said, “or why you are feeling it.”

“No, she will not,” Angelica admitted, “but I will understand her.”

•••

May, 1793

Eliza forgave him too quickly. She moved on from it, silently slipping back into her previous role and the life she had before, as if the affair had never happened.

Angelica did not forgive so easily.

She avoided Alexander whenever possible, only visiting his home to see her sister and their children. She never wrote to him, and tried with all her will to forget her love for him. She knew, however, that she never could.

She wanted to, wanted to hate him, curse him, to hope for his eternal damnation, but she could not make herself do it. She would dream of him, would wake up hoping that he would be the one beside her, would imagine him in John’s place.

That was why, on a rainy night that Eliza and the children spent out of town and John spent at his office, Angelica showed up at his door.

“Angelica,” he said, shock filling up the syllables, “what are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” she said, stepping inside. She took off her cloak, hanging it on a rack by the door. “I tried not to, and yet…”

“I understand.” He closed the door, shutting out the rain. “Angelica, why did you come here tonight?”

She felt her face turn red, and took a few steps towards him. She felt girlish, the same way she had felt when she was young and having her first kiss.

“Angelica, we don’t have to…”

“I want to,” she whispered, leaning her face up to his, “I've missed you.” She pressed her lips against his, and it did not repulse her as she had hoped it would. She welcomed the feeling it brought, letting it fill her veins and set her skin on fire.

“I missed you too, Angelica,” he whispered, letting her take the lead for a moment, “more than what I did when you were in London.”

She knew it was true.

•••

November, 1794

Time passed, and slowly, things went back to normal. She continued to see Alexander, and continued to lie to her sister and her children.

She attended her sister’s early Christmas celebration, a reminder of when her affair had begun. She moved through the rooms of the house, saying hello to her sister’s guests, and carrying on polite conversations. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Jefferson and Madison. She knew that Eliza had invited them only to be cordial to all of Washington’s cabinet, and she had already seen Alexander fuming about it.

“Thomas, hello,” she said, and his face lit up in recognition. She understood that Alexander didn’t like him, but she had always found him as polite as he could be. “James. How are you both?”

“I’m quite well, though I have fallen a bit under the weather,” Madison said, and Angelica smiled, wishing him well.

“I’m doing excellently,” Jefferson said, “and you?”

“I am doing excellent. My Betsey is thrilled to be back in America, though my younger children are a little bit… culture shocked,” she said, after a moment of searching for the right term. Jefferson and Madison nodded understandingly.

“I still do not understand why you decided so quickly to leave,” Jefferson said.

“John received a promotion in his career, and it required the move,” she said, and Jefferson nodded, “it made the most sense that we choose what was best for us and for Betsey.”

“And you returned because…”

“We both got homesick,” she answered, “and Betsey continued to get ill-- she never got used to the weather in London, and we simply could not watch her continue to get sick and never truly get better. The pamphlet also influenced our decision.”

“Then I suppose it is good that you came back,” Madison said, clearly unsure how to respond to her comment about the pamphlet. She was about to reply when she heard her sister call for her.

“It is,” Angelica said. “I hear Eliza calling, I should go help.” She walked away, and was almost to Eliza when she heard Jefferson’s words.

“She is nothing more than Hamilton’s whore,” he said, and Angelica felt her body turn cold, “I would assume that is the real reason she left for London, all to hide her true relationship with him. And I believe that her oldest child, the girl, is Hamilton’s. People talk, and I listen— but it makes sense, how the girl looks so like Hamilton. Someone will find out.”

Angelica turned back around, her body going from cold to burning hot as she felt her anger rise, stalking towards Jefferson. “How dare you?” she said, and Jefferson turned around. He started to realize what he had said, and that she had heard him, and he started to look afraid. “How dare you say something like that?”

“I--” he started to say, and Angelica saw his lips moving but could not hear him. The first thing she heard once her ears cleared was the sharp crack of her palm colliding with his cheek, and she could feel the sting of it, and could hear people’s surprised shouts and their whispers. Her ears started to make the sound of waves crashing, deafening her, and she could feel her chest rising and falling as she breathed heavily.

Suddenly, her sister appeared in front of her, her hands on her shoulders, and Angelica felt all the noise around her rush on her all at once, and she took in a deep breath. “Angelica? Angelica? A-Angelica!” Her sister was saying, and Angelica gathered her skirt in her hands, muttering something about how she needed to leave. She shook her sister’s hands off her shoulders and turned away, running down the hallway and out of their house, not even bothering to grab her coat. She didn’t feel the cold stinging her skin until she arrived at her home, closing the door and leaning against it.

“What have I done?” She asked herself, putting her face in her hands. “Oh god, what have I done?”

“Mummy?” She heard her younger daughter’s voice and looked up. She was wearing a nightgown, her hands knotted into the fabric. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” she said, taking a deep breath, trying to clear her head, “I am alright. What are you doing up so late? It is far past your bedtime, Catharine.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, moving away from the wall and standing next to Angelica. She leaned her head against her leg. “I had a bad dream.”

“A bad dream? Well, that is certainly not alright,” Angelica said, and then picked her daughter up, propping her on her hip. Catharine rested her head on her mother's shoulder. “Come now, let’s put you up to bed.”

•••

October, 1795

Angelica came through the door of her home, carrying baskets of groceries under her arm.

“John, I’m home,” she called out, “John?”

She got no answer, and began to worry. Quickly, she set down the baskets she was carrying and hurried up the stairs. “John!” She called out, turning into his office, their bedroom, and not finding him anywhere.

Finally, she pushed the door open to their library, and found John standing over her desk. There were wadded up balls of parchment and torn papers scattered over the top of it, and John was gripping the ledge of the table like it was the only thing holding him up.

She took a few steps closer, and saw that her bottom drawer was open. Her blood ran cold. “John,” she said again, and he finally looked up at her.

“Angelica,” he said, his voice sharp and icy. He looked back down at the desk, skimming his knuckles over the crumpled letters. Alexander’s letters. “I had guessed it once or twice, but only in passing. I never would have imagined that the girl I married years ago would become this.”

“What?” Angelica said, and her voice had never been quieter. “Would become what?”

“A whore. A disgrace to her father’s name, to my name.” He looked up at her, and slammed his fist onto the desk. Angelica jumped, instinctively taking a step back. “Don’t lie to me when I ask you: how long, how often, how did this coincide with your refusals in our bed— our godly bed, our marriage bed? How dare you?”

She took a ragged resemblance of a deep breath. Her lungs felt like they were collapsing in on her, giving out to make room for whatever came in after death. She was certain John would kill her here, right where she stood. And what would happen then, to her children? John would never allow Betsey in his home now.

She was silent too long. He moved towards her, cracking his palm against her cheek, and pushing her backwards against the wall. The air left her lungs and she struggled to take a breath. “Tell me!” He growled, pushing his fingers into her arms.

“So long,” she managed, stuttering out the words, tears rolling down her cheeks, “it started so long ago.”

He pulled her away from the wall, then slammed her back against it again. Pain shot up her spine and into her arms and legs.

“Keep going!” He shouted.

“The kids will be home soon, please,” she begged, “please stop. This will scare them, please. Please.”

“Tell me what I want to know.”

She told him everything. The first kiss, how she spent his late nights at work, the trip uptown, how it influenced her decision to move to London.

“Whore,” he said, releasing her. She dropped to the floor heavily, unable to hold up her own weight. “Is Betsey my daughter?” He asked, and she let out a sob. She had been trying to avoid any mention of Betsey, but now she had no choice.

“No,” she whispered. “She is Alexander’s. But she is also mine.”

“Bitch,” he snarled, deep in his throat, and kicked her in her stomach. She curled around the pain, trying to absorb the shock of it. “Get up off the floor,” John said, “the kids will be home soon, and we would not want to scare them, would we?” He left, slamming the door behind him.

Angelica laid on the floor, her face tearstained and her throat raw. She could never remember crying this hard, this openly. She had never had cause for it.

Her body felt like it was in pieces, her heart scattered around the room.

•••

October 20th, 1795

Her body was sore.

She felt hollowed out, empty, like something had removed everything that made her who she was and left it in a place unreachable.

She hoped her children couldn’t sense it. The twins were young, but smart, and Betsey was as clever and observant as her father.

Her father.

It hadn’t occurred to her yet, that Alexander knew nothing of what had transpired. He didn’t know about the dark bruises blooming along her abdomen, or the ones on her arms that distinctly resembled fingers. He didn’t know about the angry red mark that had stayed bright against her cheek like a vicious blush for hours. He didn’t know that she had been sleeping outside of her bedroom, for fear of what John would do to her.

Before she had even had a chance to truly think of it, she had made it to Alexander’s front door, knocking lightly. It was dark out: the sun had set hours ago, and Angelica would normally be sleeping now.

Luckily, Alexander opened the door. He looked disheveled, his shirt undone at the collar. His hair was beginning to gray.

“John knows.” She said, her voice hoarse and unfamiliar to her own ears. “He knows about everything. He knows everything, and now that he knows… I do not know what he will do.”

Alexander closed his eyes. “It all? How long, how often?” She flinched a little at his words, an echo of John’s, but then remembered who was in front of her. Alexander was different. Alexander loved her. “Love, does he know about Betsey?”

She swallowed, her ears clouding. “He made me tell him,” she said, “he slammed me against a wall and hit me, a-and he—”

“Angelica,” Alexander breathed out, sympathy in every syllable. He pulled her into his arms, and she rested her head on his shoulder as she cried, clutching onto the back of his shirt.

She trusted him then, holding her on his doorstep as she cried, making soothing sounds and rubbing her hair. It would be a matter of months, and she would never look at him the same way.

•••

March, 1796

The pamphlet had one hundred eighty-six pages, and Angelica read none of them. The title made her eyes hurt, her stomach churn. She should’ve known that Alexander would do something like this, but it had never truly crossed her mind. She had never considered it.

She set the copy of the pamphlet down, her name stamped boldly as the title, and ran out of her house.

——

She pushed open the door to Alexander and Eliza’s house, thanking whatever gods that be that it was unlocked, and stopped in her tracks.

Eliza was sitting at the table in the kitchen, her eyes red-rimmed, her face tear streaked. She looked up at Angelica, then stood up, walking towards her.

“It was you,” she said, her features distorted and turned in, her tears catching in the lines around her mouth, changing course. “All along, it was you. The late nights at work. The- the pretending not to hear me when I asked about his day, the lies, the half-truths.” She gasped, sudden realization. “Leaving for London.”

“Eliza, I am so—,”

“I do not want to hear it.” She closed her eyes, pushing out her hands and spreading her fingers wide like they were a shield, “I do not need your apologies, Angelica.”

“I…”

“When did it begin?” Eliza demanded, and her anger was not making her as brave as it seemed to be, because she took a step back.

Angelica looked at her, and shook her head softly. Eliza seemed to understand more from it than Angelica had wanted her to.

Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling a sob, and her eyes closed involuntarily with it. More tears fell from her eyes.

Angelica took a deep breath, pushing back her tears. She knew she did not deserve to be the one crying. “I cannot do that, Eliza.”

The sob that came from her sister and the small protest hidden within it, finally made Angelica’s tears fall.

She continued on, pushing back the tears and the choking sobs that threatened to interrupt. Finally, her voice broke when she began to describe the shame she felt, how horribly it hurt her to hear how overjoyed Eliza was to spend her life with Alexander.

“Tell me more,” Eliza demanded, and Angelica wiped her tears away. “Tell me the truth, Angelica. You owe me that.”

“I don’t think you want the truth.”

Eliza moved forward, grabbing Angelica’s wrist. Her fingers were digging into her skin, and Angelica ignored the sting it brought. “Tell me,” he sister breathed, her enunciation deadly.

It was not Angelica’s place to refuse. She explained leaving for London shortly, arriving again in time for Philip’s birth.

“That’s why you left,” Eliza said suddenly, realization dawning on her face. Dear God, she didn’t know what was yet to come. “But you left—”

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, her voice heavy and thick, cutting her off on purpose, and Eliza shook her head hard.

“I do not want your apologies.” Eliza let go of her, recoiling back like she was poisonous, and screwed her face up. “Continue.”

“Eliza, I don’t think…”

“I don’t care!” She exclaimed.

Angelica continued, stopping just before the moment that would reveal the truth about Betsey. A truth that Betsey did not even know yet herself. Yet. What was she going to do?

“That is not all, Angelica,” Eliza said, after Angelica had taken a long pause. “I am not a fool. I have seen the pamphlet.”

Angelica wondered faintly what was in it, what secrets he had left out, before starting back at her story again. She talked, continuing on until she lost track of the minutes and her words. She paused to take a deep breath. She felt like she should not know how to breathe anymore.

Angelica snuck a glance at her sister. The corners of Eliza’s mouth had turned down, and the sadness that had first overwhelmed her features had receded. Now she looked burned with anger, her cheeks and ears red with it. She looked back to the floor.

“Alexander suggested it, you know,” she said, and Angelica blinked hard. Tears escaped from between her eyelashes. “He suggested that we name her after you. I agreed immediately.”

Angelica dared to look up at her sister, and she caught her eye. Eliza looked powerful, like the heroes of story books and plays.

“I will always regret it,” she said, and something deep inside of Angelica shattered.

•••

“I’m sorry, Eliza,” she said, and her sister closed her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do. I… I felt so trapped.”

“Get out,” Eliza said, “get out of my home. Get out of my family. I never want to see you again, never want to see Betsey, never—”

“Eliza, do not say that,” Angelica begged. “Betsey does not know. She will never know, as long as I can help it.”

“She will know soon enough,” Eliza said, and turned back to look at the table. A copy of the pamphlet sat open on top of it. She turned back to her sister. “It is included in the pamphlet.”

Angelica's blood ran cold and the air left her lungs. She attempted to take a step back, and staggered, tripping over her feet. “No,” she whispered, and her sister began to look alarmed. She felt like her heart would stop. “No, it cannot be. He would never—”

“But he has,” her sister said, and Angelica felt herself fall before it even started to happen.

“Eliza,” she breathed.

Her sister moved forward, grabbing onto her arm. “Angelica!” She shouted, and for a moment, she could pretend that she had never betrayed her sister. That Eliza still did not know.

Eliza steadied her, and the moment passed. “I think you need to leave,” Eliza said, the cold returning to her voice.

Angelica turned out onto the street, gaining her wits back, and hurried down the streets, bumping into people and knocking over rowdy teenage boys that would not move for her.

When she reached her house, she hastily unlocked the door, and locked it again behind her. She turned on her heel, taking in the interior of her home. The world seemed darker.

“Betsey,” she called out, ready to frantically search through the house for her oldest daughter.

“Is it true?” A voice asked, and Angelica snapped her head up to look towards where it originated. Betsey stood there, her curls hanging loose and her face tear streaked. “What he has said, in the pamphlet… is it true?”

Angelica’s worst, most vivid fear was coming to life before her eyes. Since the moment she knew she was with child, the same moment she knew that the child was Alexander’s, was the moment she swore to never tell a soul but him. She could not remember why she had told him in the first place. She should have known he would share it, despite her wishes and all her best efforts. “I…”

“Do not lie to me, mother,” she said, her voice sharp, and Angelica closed her eyes against the pain her daughter’s words brought her. “It is clear that I have been hearing lies my entire life. Just once, I want the truth.”

“It is true, Betsey,” she admitted, opening her eyes and reaching for her daughter's hand. She pulled away, and it made Angelica’s heart ache. “I… I am sorry I lied to you. I wanted you to have a good, normal life. You could not have that if you knew the truth. You do not need to forgive me.”

“I understand,” Betsey said, squeezing her eyes shut. “I do not appreciate being lied to. I do not appreciate that the things I have thought to be true about me are not. But, in some form, I understand your need to make that decision.”

“I love you,” Angelica said, “that has never been a lie, and never will be.”

“I know, mother,” she said. Betsey turned away, beginning to walk up the stairs, and paused. “Thank you for your honesty.”

Betsey walked away, leaving Angelica to stand there, questioning everything that had happened. How would she move forward? She had alienated her sister, and Angelica knew that she would never forgive her, or Alexander.

Alexander.

She hated him. She hated what he had done, how he had destroyed her life by telling the whole world what they had done. They had promised to never share this, to never tell anyone. But now, here she stood, the whole world now knowing who she was and what she had done.

She felt sick. She had no choice in whether the pamphlet was published, it had all been Alexander. Alexander had done this, had told the world, had ruined her life, had ruined Betsey’s life. Betsey did not deserve this, she did not deserve the shame, the constant knowledge of how she came to be. She did not deserve the looks, whispers she would get on the street and in school. She was only twelve years old, she had so much more life laid out in front of her, and now…

Angelica had to find Alexander, she had to talk to him, to ask him why. Why he would betray her, the woman he loved. Why he would tell their secrets. Why he would tell the world the truth about Betsey, their daughter, the most important thing in Angelica’s life. She had to know.

•••

To her great surprise, James Madison let her inside of the capital where Alexander worked, and lead her to his office.

“We had… all talked,” he said, and Angelica knew that he was mostly saying it to himself, “we all speculated, especially Thomas, as you know. After his affair with the Reynolds girl came to light, we all began to think it was true. Especially with that daughter of yours.”

“Mr. Madison,” she said, stopping. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I… I just did not know what to say,” he admitted, “the Reynolds girl did not have as much to lose as you do, so she almost meant nothing. But this is different.”

“Yes,” she said, and resumed her walking. James followed, and soon fell into step beside her. “It is.”

They were quiet for the rest of the somber walk, and James looked rather embarrassed. Suddenly, he stopped in front of a set of heavy oak doors. “This is your destination, Mrs. Church.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Madison.” She waited for him to walk away, and after he had disappeared down the hall, she knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Alexander’s voice said, and she pushed the door open, closing it behind her.

“Alexander,” she said, hoping to retain her composure.

He looked up from his desk, and his face changed. It was indescribable, the way his features turned from thought to distrust, and Angelica wanted to turn away from it. He had never looked at her like that, and he had no cause for it now.

“How could you?” She asked. She remembered the day that Eliza had told her of his affair with Maria Reynolds, and that he had released a pamphlet telling the whole of New York City about it. She had been much more angry for her confrontation of him then, had asked him how he dared do what he had done. But now, she had a horrible feeling of deep betrayal, holding more anger within her for the wrong he had done her-- their-- daughter. “We swore, we promised to never tell a soul--”

“You gave me no choice,” he said, and she felt herself take a deep, shaking breath.

“I gave you no choice?” She echoed, her voice reverberating throughout the office, bouncing off of the tall stone walls. “You gave me no option! No chance to decline, no chance to persuade you to keep these secrets, to keep our promises.”

“If you had not told John, then perhaps--”

“If I had not… If…” she felt her anger rise, felt the hurt, the rage, the betrayal she had begun to feel since the release of the pamphlet. She had lost so much: her sister’s love, her daughter’s trust, her husband's belief in her, and she had lost all the tenderness she had felt for Alexander. “I told you what John did.”

“You could have lied,” Alexander said, standing up from his desk. His chair fell backwards and hit the ground with a startling crack, and it echoed around the room. “You could have refused to say a word, you could have said it was not true, that he was imagining things.”

“He found the letters, Alexander.” She wanted to run, to never have to see him again. “He betrayed my trust and looked through my things, and found the letters you sent me.”

“Why did you keep them?” He asked, his volume rising. “It is your fault for keeping them. You should have known better than to keep evidence of this, where anyone could find them. Elizabeth could have found them.”

The use of their daughter’s full name stung her. She had never heard Alexander call her that, he had only ever called her Betsey. “She never would have found out. I never would have told her, but in the end, you were the one that gave me no choice.”

“Angelica--”

“We could have kept it a secret,” she continued, ignoring his interruption, “I… I would not have cared if you published that-- that horrible pamphlet about me if you had left her out of it.”

“The people would have figured it out,” he said, walking around his desk. “They would have guessed it.”

“But there would have been no way to know for certain!” Angelica cried out, feeling tears roll down her cheeks. “They never would have known if it was true, but now you have confirmed suspicions they did not even have.”

“She is my daughter, too,” he said, “I deserve a say in whether the people would know.”

“You had no right!” She shouted. Her anger had been mounting since she had arrived at his office, but this was the final breaking point. “You have not been there, you have offered her no support. I have raised her, I named her, I was the one there, with her, through every nightmare, every fever, every scraped knee. She is mine. She is a child, Alexander. This will follow her through every year of her life.”

“I did what I thought was best.”

“It was not best,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, “she found out the truth from a pamphlet written by a man she had known as an uncle her whole life. What you have done… it is wrong.”

“I will not apologize for the choice I had to make.”

“Of course,” she said, shaking her head and turning for the door. She pulled it open, and stopped at the threshold. “You know, I loved you once,” she said, and saw Alexander’s head snap up from the corner of her eye, “I cannot believe I was so foolish.”

•••

November, 1801

John paced the length of his office. He never would have expected Hamilton’s son to come to him like this, claiming he needed a favour. He had not spoken to Hamilton or his family since the release of that pamphlet. But now, his son had the audacity to show up, claiming his father had sent him.

“Let me get this straight, boy,” he said, rubbing a hand across his chin, “your father told you to come here?”

“Yes, sir,” Philip said. He looked uncomfortable. “He said you would have them…”

John sighed. He had dealt with so much through these past few years: a duel with Aaron Burr, his wife’s disgusting affair, and finding out that Betsey had not been his daughter. He could care less about Betsey, she had always been a fool. She was too sweet and caring, loving animals and flowers more than her studies. John loathed it, but he pushed it aside. At least, he knew, he was not responsible for whatever it was in her mind that pushed away academics and domesticity.

“I do have them,” he said, and turned, unlocking a cabinet set into a bookshelf. He pulled the box containing his pistols from within it, and handed them to Philip.

“Thank you, sir,” Philip said, inclining his head.

“You are welcome.” He turned back around, leaning against his desk. “Now get out of my office, boy.” He heard Philip leave, the door closing behind him.

He took a deep breath, expelling it out in a bone aching sigh. John had not divorced his wife. He would have long ago if the stigma of it would have died, and if he would not have been left with the children. He did not care much for them, and would rather have his home than his children.

He thought about all the pain his wife had caused him, all the looks and the poorly disguised whispers. The disgrace she had made him into. He knew how much she loved Philip, adored him, even.

Part of him knew that in doing this, he was committing a horrendous sin, a crime maybe. But if it would hurt Angelica, if it would cause her the same amount of harm she had caused him…

He would just have to live with it, the pleasure this would bring, whether it damned him or not.

•••

Angelica cleaned her hands. She had been shaking for hours, watching Alexander and Eliza worry over Philip. The doctor had told her that he was not going to make it, and she was unsure if he had told Alexander and Eliza yet.

She had been startled and horrified when Philip showed up at her door, clutching a bleeding wound at his hip, a boy he went to school with holding him up.

“Auntie,” he had said, and her face had paled. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind. “I have missed you.”

She had called out for John, and when both him and her children had come running, she had hastily pushed Betsey and the twins away. The look on Betsey’s face, as she covered Catharine and Jonathan’s eyes, had terrified her.

The rest, until now, when she stood outside her home in the dark, cleaning her nephew’s blood off her hands, had been a blur. She knew Philip would not make it, even despite her prayers and the doctor’s work, she knew he would die.

She stood outside until the sun began to rise, and she stayed there until the doctor came to inform her that Philip had passed.

“He made his peace,” the doctor had told her, his hand placed comfortingly on her back, “he held his mother’s hand, and he was well.”

Angelica closed her eyes, feeling tears fall slowly down her cheeks. She was unsure of how long she had been crying. She had been there for Philip’s birth. She was the fourth person to hold him. She watched him take his first steps, and heard him say his first word. She remembered his first haircut, his first laugh and his first smile. She remembered his first breath.

She was glad she did not hear his last.

•••

It was raining. Betsey said something softly about the angels weeping for Philip, and it made Angelica want to turn from the church and leave. She did not feel that she belonged, despite her mother's insistence that she must come.

She did not want to see Philip dead. She did not need anymore evidence that her bright, handsome, witty, freckle-faced nephew was truly gone.

The funeral, like his death, was a blur. She stayed, watching from the outskirts of the church graveyard, as dismal men shoveled dirt into Philip’s grave. Eliza stood over the grave, the dark hole in the ground where Philip now laid, and would stay forever. Alexander had left, practically carried away by one of Eliza’s brothers.

Her whole body ached. She remembered the baby she had held, the boy she had adored, and the man he barely had a chance to become. She missed him.

She missed her sister, as well, and wanted more than anything to be with her. She wanted to support her, to be there for her. She did not know how.

Her mother had told her, many years ago, that the best way to do something without knowing how, was to try.

Try.

She took a few steps forward, and stopped at the edge of Philip’s tomb. She knew Eliza would not look at her, and she did not want to face that.

“You know,” Angelica started, looking down. Philip’s coffin had been covered by dirt, and the meticulous shoveling sounds had begun to create waves in her ears. “I can remember when he was born… I leaned into him, and placed my ear against his chest, just to hear his heart beating. I think it was the most amazing thing I have ever heard.”

“Why…” Eliza breathed out, and Angelica heard her stifle a sob. “Why?”

Angelica did not know what she was asking, or who she was asking it of.

“Philip… he was the best thing that had happened to me until I had my own children,” Angelica said. “Eliza, I cannot truly know the depth of your grief, but I know the depth of your love.”

“Angelica,” Eliza said, and turned her face towards her sister. “I… I cannot do this. Not today. I do not want to hear—”

“I am not trying to fix anything that has happened between us,” Angelica said, and Eliza nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I just… I miss you.”

Eliza was quiet, and then she looked down to her son's grave. She placed a hand over her stomach. Angelica knew she was with child, and it hurt her to remember it. It was the second pregnancy that Eliza had not told her of.

“I miss my son,” she finally said, “unless you, by some miracle, can bring him to me then… please, go.”

“Eliza—”

“Go,” she said again, her voice thick, choked up. Angelica nodded, wiping at her cheeks.

“Alright,” she said, turning, pulling her skirt up enough to walk, “I understand.”

•••

July, 1804

She knew this moment. She knew what death felt like in a home. She had witnessed it when Philip had died, lying on a table while the doctor worked meticulously to save him. It had been futile, but there had not been a day without her thinking of him.

And now, Alexander lay dying in Mr. Bayard’s home, and she did not know what to think of it. He had asked for her, and she could not fathom why. He had barely spoken to her, or acknowledged her, since the pamphlets release, and it did not make sense to her why he would want to see her now.

Mr. Bayard let her in, inclining his head politely. His home was dark, very few lamps lit, and she wanted to turn away from it.

“Come along,” Mr. Bayard said, and he lead her to the room with Alexander in it. She stopped in the doorway, steeling herself for what she was about to see.

She gasped, covering her hand with her mouth. Alexander was pale, his eyes closed, his face ashen and gray, a clue as to what was to come for him. She could smell the scent of copper, strong whiskey, and gunpowder. Wet cloths, stained with his blood, were lying on a side table.

“Alexander,” she said, finding her voice. It sounded foreign to her ears, “Mr. Bayard said you asked to see me.”

He opened his eyes, and a ghost of a smile stretched across his face. “Betsey,” he said, and gestured for her to come closer, “please, sit.”

She stepped in the room hesitantly, and sat carefully in the chair next to his bed. “Alexander… why did you ask to see me? After everything I— I would assume you would ask for my mother, or your other children.”

“You are my first daughter,” he said, and Betsey took a sudden breath. She was. Anne was three months younger. “And the only of my daughters to resemble me.” He chuckled, and Betsey took in his face. She had never thought that she resembled her mother or John, and she had always wondered why. Now, she had her answer.

“Oh, I… I did not expect—”

“I did not think you would come,” he said suddenly. His voice was weak, and he sounded like he was truly going to die.

“I did not think I would be asked,” she said, “actually, I… where is aun— Eliza? Where is Eliza?”

“She is with the children now, explaining,” he told her, and shifted his weight. “I want to see them, but I wanted to see you first.”

“Yes.” Betsey nodded, leaning forward in her chair. “Alexander, why did you want to see me?”

“I wanted—” he started, and began to cough. Betsey stood suddenly, placing a hand on his back as he doubled over. He wiped his mouth, and Betsey saw it come away with streaks of blood.

“Alexander, should I get the doctor?”

“No, no,” he said, and relaxed. Betsey pulled her hand away, and sat back down. “I wanted to apologize.”

Betsey furrowed her brow, cocking her head. She felt her hair tickle her arms. “For?”

“The wrongs I have done you,” He said, smiling up at her, “I never should have done what I did. It was wrong of me.”

She felt a mix of feelings, her mind whirling with the list of things he had done, and what he could be apologizing for. “Alexander…” she licked her lips, “are you apologizing for what you did that lead to my mother carrying me, or are you apologizing for telling the world about me, about what you did? I do not think you understand what I lived through.”

Betsey could remember all of it, the taunts, every jab at her name, her family. Her father. Her mother, and the horrible rumours that had plagued her for all of her childhood. The bruises, the cuts, the ruined clothing from being pushed into the mud. The looks adults would cast towards her and her mother on the street, the whispers, the accusations. The only saving grace was her younger siblings being born in London, and she gave thanks everyday that Catharine and Jonathan did not have to live through that.

“They would call me,” she took a deep breath, looking Alexander in the eye, “Hamilton’s Bastard. Everyday in school, as I walked by, or sat at my desk, waiting for the lesson. I never got to be Betsey, I never got to become my own person, because from the moment you felt threatened, you made me into your bastard.”

“Betsey,” He said. “I did not intend for that.”

“Then what did you intend?” She asked. “I read the pamphlet. I did not even have to purchase a copy. Someone threw one in my direction, and I picked it up upon seeing my mother’s name.”

“I am sorry,” he said, reaching his hand towards her and attempting to take hers. She quickly pulled her hand away, and stood up, pushing the chair against the wall. “I hope you will forgive me.”

“I do not forgive you,” she said, taking a step away from him. “I did not ask for this. For this life, for this curse. Eliza did not ask for this. You wronged her twice, in hundreds of ways, and yet you have the arrogance to ask for forgiveness. You are lying here, dying, and asking me for forgiveness after years of denying me. I will never be able to say to you all the things I want to, and have wanted to since I was twelve years old.”

“Elizabeth.”

“No, do not call me that,” she said, “I stood by, and I understood my mother’s choices, because I know who John is and I know what he has done. But I will not forgive you for yours.”

She turned to leave, Alexander shouting after her, and she waited to cry until she left Mr. Bayard’s home. Rain was falling, just as it fell for Philip, but Betsey wanted to imagine that it was falling for her. For Eliza.

Eliza and her children may weep for Alexander, but Betsey hoped the angels never would.

•••

March, 1814

Betsey hated death. She hated the cloak it laid over homes, how it seemed to cover the world in a dark mist, making everything eerie and gloomy.

She had been given ten years to forget how it felt, yet she carried it with her constantly. Mr. Bayard found her the next day and told her that Alexander had died. He had called him her father, and it made her feel as though her lungs were unworthy of air. She was drowning within herself, surrounded by her mother's sin and Alexander’s curse of infamy he had handed onto her.

She looked up to the sky, then down to her hands. When she had turned twenty five and gotten married, her mother had told her everything about her affair with Alexander. For no reason at all, Betsey had focused on her mother’s hate of her hands.

“I always felt that my hands were dirty,” her mother had said, “that they were the leading fault for all I had done.”

Betsey snapped herself out of it, looking ahead of her. The last two times she had been at a deathbed, she had felt like an outsider. Her younger siblings had been twelve when Philip had died in their home, and she had spent most of that horrible night keeping them calm. She had managed to slip away in the wee hours of the morning, after Catharine had finally fallen asleep, and had seen Philip. They had talked, and Philip had told her he was sorry for dying now, before he got a chance to know her. He called her his sister. It broke her heart.

Alexander’s deathbed had been different, and she hated to think of it. The smell of whiskey made her sick now, and nights in July with rain made her think of it, letting her mind have no escape. She hated the memories, hated the picture of his face that had stayed in her mind, the haunting sound of his voice would sometimes wake her up at night, unable to breathe.

Every time she went to visit Philip’s grave, she was forced to pass both Alexander's home and his tomb. She hated it, and always looked away whenever she neared them. But now, she had to approach his home, and would have to knock on the door for the first time since she was twelve years old.

Eliza answered it, and the cold in her eyes made Betsey want to leave. The last time she had seen Eliza had been at Philip’s funeral, and she had been crying and draped in black then. Now she looked calm, almost happy.

Betsey had not called her auntie in many years.

“Eliza,” She said, and took a deep breath. “My mother is dying. She wishes to see you.”

Eliza’s mouth has turned down at the corners. “Angelica is dying?”

“She has been ill,” Betsey explained, “the doctor said this morning that there is nothing left to do for her.”

“She wishes to see me?” Eliza asked. “Why?”

Betsey twisted her wedding ring around her finger. She hated this, the look on Eliza’s face, the tone in her voice. “She has missed you, all these years.” Betsey looked at her hands. Were they clean? Was she free of all that her mother had done? “I have missed you.”

Eliza took a deep, shaking breath. Betsey imagined that it could move the earth. “Take me to her.”

•••

Angelica had often wondered what came after death, where she would go. She did not know if she believed in the strict rules of heaven and hell, but she did believe that something came after. Whether it was pretty or ugly, she did not know.

Betsey pushed open the door, and Angelica looked up at her. “There you are.”

“Mother, how are you feeling?” She asked, stepping into the room.

“I am dying,” she said, and did not elaborate. “I want to see my grandchildren.”

“Henry and Ruth are downstairs with Catharine,” Betsey said, “you can see them soon.”

“Good,” Angelica said. “Did you…?”

Betsey nodded. She turned around, stepping halfway out the door. When she came back into the room, Eliza followed.

“My sister,” Angelica said. Her voice was frail, and she almost did not recognize the sound. “How are you?”

“I have seen better days,” Eliza said, “I have missed you, Angelica.”

“I think I will leave,” Betsey said, “I need to check on my children.” She hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“Why did you wish to see me?” Eliza asked, walking towards Angelica’s bed.

“I am going to die, Eliza,” she answered, smiling. “I wanted to see your face and hear your voice, one last time.”

“Oh,” she said. “I…”

“I’m not asking for anything, Eliza,” she said, “I only wanted to see you.”

“I see.”

“After Alexander died, I told myself that I would find a way to make amends, and apologize,” Angelica said, pushing herself into a sitting position, “because I missed you, and I wanted my sister back.”

“Why didn’t you?” Eliza asked, her voice a whisper.

“I did not know how,” she admitted, and laughed softly. “But now I am going to die.”

“Well,” Eliza said, and sat down in a chair that had been pulled up to Angelica’s bed, “if you are going to die, then I am going to stay with you.”

“You do not have to,” Angelica said.

Eliza chuckled. She had begun to cry, and she wiped her hand over her cheeks. “I want to.”

Angelica smiled at her. “Thank you.”

Eliza took a breath, and smiled, leaning towards Angelica. “Betsey says you have grandchildren now,” she said, and Angelica laughed softly, “tell me about them.”

•••

Eliza stood in her home, looking at the bust of Alexander that sat on her fireplace mantle.

“I talked to my sister today,” she said, looking towards her feet. She felt foolish, talking to an object as if it could hear her. “For the first time in almost twenty years. Then, she died. She is gone, and I will never get to see her again.”

She paced. “Both of my sisters are gone, and I am left. My son is gone, my husband is gone. Anne has not been herself in many years and… what am I meant to do now?”

“You go on,” a voice behind her said, and it startled her. She turned around, and was faced with Betsey. “You go on because… you have no other options.”

“Betsey… I am sorry about your mother.” Both Betsey’s mother and father were now dead. There was no one left in the world for her now.

“I will be alright,” she said, hugging her arms around her.

“I am sorry for the way I treated you,” she said, stepping towards the girl that shared her name. The girl that never asked for this. “I was angry and hurt, and I was blind. I never should have treated you the way I did.”

“It is alright—”

“No, it is not,” Eliza said, “I was the one person who could understand, who understood your pain, and I pushed you away when you needed me.” Eliza stepped forward, taking Betsey’s hands in her own. “I am sorry. You deserved more from me.”

Betsey took a deep breath, and looked up to the ceiling. “Thank you, Auntie Eliza.” She looked back down at her, and pulled her into her arms. “Thank you.”

•••

Present Day

The Hamilton-Church Affair would become the subject of several works of American literature, would fuel studies on human nature, and would eventually inspire Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. Both Betsey Church and Eliza Hamilton would be alive for its publication, and neither woman would read it.

The affair would show up in the current day in Ron Chernow's Alexander Hamilton, an eight hundred and eighteen page novel of Alexander Hamilton’s life. It would eventually be put to music in Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton: An American Musical.

Unlike Maria Reynolds, Angelica Church never wrote her own pamphlet to tell of the events of her affair with Alexander Hamilton. She would die with only her sister and her daughter knowing her side of the story. Angelica Church would be buried in Trinity Church, near Philip Hamilton and Alexander Hamilton.

Eliza Hamilton and Betsey Cruger would then publish their own pamphlet, written together. Betsey Cruger would famously say, “I have never been Hamilton’s Bastard, I have only been ever been Betsey Church, Angelica’s Beloved Daughter.”

Eliza Hamilton would go on to establish the first private orphanage in New York City, where Betsey Cruger and her children would often spend summers helping to care for and play with the children.

John Church would move back to London after his wife’s death, and would die in April of 1818.

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton would die in November of 1854, at ninety seven years old, with her children and Betsey at her side.

Betsey Church Cruger would die in February of 1866, her children with her, her daughter Ruth holding her hand until the end.

They would be buried next to each other in Trinity Church. Betsey Church Cruger’s headstone reads “Angelica’s Beloved Daughter,” with a carved pair of hands surrounding the words.

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