Chapter Text
August 1797
Candlelight flickered on the bedside table, throwing odd shadows onto the floral canopy over the bed. The vines seemed to be moving, the flowers swaying in a dizzying, disconcerting way. Eliza squeezed her fists into the blankets and closed her eyes.
When she was young, she’d had a terrible accident during one of her riding lessons. The horse had spooked before jumping a creek in the woods, unseating her in the process. She’d sprained her ankle and knocked her head in the fall. She vividly remembered lying prone on the rocky ground, stones rough under her scraped palms, head reeling. Time had seemed to slow to a crawl as she’d laid there, stunned. She’d understood something was wrong, that she was badly hurt, but she’d been wrapped in a protective cocoon of numbness.
That’s how she felt now. Numb. Her mind, sensing a pain so bad it would overwhelm her with its power, had shut down all sensation instead.
Only now, the blows didn’t stop coming after the initial fall. Time hadn’t done her the favor of slowing down, either. Scenes played out around her at a distance, sporadic and disjointed.
“I hate him,” Pip had hissed, cheeks damp as he’d nestled into the pillows at her side. His eyes had been aflame with betrayal and confusion. Her poor darling boy, mad with pain. “Don’t you hate him, Mama?”
“My poor dear Bess. John told me weeks ago,” Angelica had confessed as she’d petted her hair. The knowledge should have stung, should have made her angry, but she had laid there, silent, unable to process what was happening.
“I’ll give you a divorce,” Alexander had said, voice raspy. “I won’t make it hard. I can draft the agreement and file it with the court. Just say the word, Eliza.”
“No.”
It hadn’t sounded like her voice responding.
Everything was happening too fast. She couldn’t think. Stop, she wanted to scream. Just stop.
She blinked, eyes painfully dry from staring too long at nothing. Tea. The word floated across her blank, yet racing mind. She pushed up from the bed, swung her legs over the side, and stood. Nightfall had brought a tense, quiet stillness to the house. Shuffling down the darkened corridors, she made her way down the stairs towards the kitchen.
She set the water to boiling, and stood watching the flames for a long moment. A cup, she thought. She’d need a cup.
She felt like she was walking through a dream. A terrible dream. How she wanted her husband to kiss her awake, hold her close, tell her that it wasn’t real.
How could it be real?
She opened the kitchen cupboard. Her fingers ran over the rim of a plate inside, tracing the familiar pattern of the china. She pulled it out. She couldn’t say why. With the same strange distance she’d experienced all day, she watched the plate fall from her hands and land on the floor with a resounding crash.
She reached for a second dish.
In a flash, the protective numbness disappeared.
A blind rage stole over her.
She smashed the plates, the tea cups, the saucers, the glassware, all of it. Tears blurred her vision as she grabbed at everything within reach and broke it into tiny, irretrievable pieces. She was wild with fury and pain, wrenching sobs clawing their way out of her around raw screams. She yanked out the drawer of silverware and upturned it over the floor, sending the knives, spoons and forks all sprawling over the sea of broken china. Then she threw the drawer itself. It skidded across the floor and thunked into the kitchen island.
She imagined the heavy wood hitting Alexander, imagined the satisfying crack it would make as it made contact with his chest or his skull. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to claw out his heart and smash it on the ground with everything else.
Maybe then he’d understand what he’d done.
The water for the tea started boiling over in the midst of her rage. The flames below the pot crackled and hissed as the water dribbled down. She crouched down, leaned against the bones of the bare cupboard, and sobbed.
“Eliza?”
She tensed violently at the sound of Alexander’s voice, his footsteps light on the stairs as he approached. Her jaw clenched. She couldn’t stop crying.
“Eliza?” She heard him take a sharp breath as he came to the bottom of the stairs. “My God. What happened?”
She turned her head slowly, glaring at him through the tears.
“Are you hurt?” He came closer, stepping gingerly over the shards of their finest plate. Her skin crawled at the tender concern shining in his eyes. He reached out to her, his hand hovering near her shoulder.
“Don’t.”
“I just want—”
“Get away from me.” The words came out in a snarl.
He recoiled from her as if burned. Satisfaction surged through her. Honestly, the demand had been as much to protect him as to hurt him. She didn’t know what she was capable of at the moment.
“I’m so sorry, Betsey,” he said, several paces away, his voice soft and thick. “So sorry.”
She shook her head, a low whine of pain slipping past her lips. “I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I hate you!” She rose and shoved out at him, her hands making hard contact with his chest.
He absorbed the blow, rocking back on his heel from the force, and repeated, “I know.”
“Why? Why? Why?” She punctuated each question with a shove, each weaker than the last, her energy fading as quickly as it had come on.
“I don’t know,” he said. He was crying, too, now. “I don’t know.”
She collapsed against him, drained, sobbing into his shoulder.
His arms closed around her.
She remembered that magical night in the river, when they were young and in love. He’d spun her around in the water, and she’d felt so safe in his arms. Delirious with joy, she’d gazed up at the sky, and felt like she was tumbling into the stars.
His embrace held none of that warmth and safety now.
The whole world felt cold and unsteady, like the foundation had been ripped out from underneath her. All those years, she’d been willing to share him with the country. She’d sacrificed, let America borrow that brilliant mind, certain that she alone held his heart.
Finally, at long last, he’d come home to her. This was supposed to be their happily ever after. And he’d smashed it to pieces more thoroughly than she’d smashed the contents of the cabinet.
As the rage ebbed, she felt only a deep, consuming grief.