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1780, Winter Ball
Sometimes, it takes time and growing up for people to realise certain things about themselves. And as Angelica grew up, she realised that, amongst the many things she was, she was a deeply practical woman. She supposed that it was natural, being the eldest sister in a family without any sons of age yet to do the heavy-lifting, the name-carrying and the business-running. And growing up she'd always been "the intellectual one", initially much to her chagrin, but later she'd naturally grew into it and carried it with pride.
Hamilton. Of course she'd heard of him. The upstart, making waves in society, pushing forward the tide of revolution, and, of course, tipping and rocking the ladies wherever he went. She knew that he was going to be at the Winter Ball, and, despite herself, she had to admit she was eager to get a glance of this man, if only to give him a few snubs, both intellectual and romantic, before turning away in a swish of her pink (homespun, of course) gown. Little had she counted on her heart, always heretofore in sync with her mind, to rebel and break into song, to break into pieces, when she met him.
"An honour to meet you, Miss Schuyler," he pressed her hand to his lips as he made a small bow and she curtsied lightly in return. He had made a beeline for her as soon as was socially appropriate; of course, how expected, she thought, a man in his position paying homage to the Schuylers. But she'd not counted on how brightly his smile played on his lips, his tone that made it seem like it was all a joke, a game, and the mischievous glint in his eyes as he looked up at her now. It was like he was following all the rules yet breaking them all at the same time, and she hated him for it.
He asked after her father's health, and she asked him how he would see the military campaign proceed when spring came. He glanced at her, slightly startled at the audacity of her question, but began to outline his plans the same way he did so a few weeks ago, when he was pacing up and down in front of George Washington's desk. She smiled appreciatively at his confidence. "Thank you for that," she said, meaning thank you for taking me in your confidence, for speaking to me as an equal, not brushing aside military talk as unsuitable for ladies' ears.
"Well, the calibre of the answer has to match the calibre of the question," he simply said and smiled with a small shrug.
"And what about the calibre of the person?" she said challengingly, her eyebrows raised teasingly, to hear what he had to say of her.
"Well, that depends on the calibre of the person's speech and deeds, doesn't it? I don't see why it has to depend on anything else." He looked at her steadily and intently, his dark walnut eyes churning, challenging her and her preconceptions of him right back.
She smiled in acquiescence and took his arm in spite of herself. With her arm in his, they were now standing in such close proximity that their shoulders were lightly touching. In her heels, they were almost exactly the same height, eye to eye. His eyes, his gaze was too close for her to reciprocate and breathe normally at the same time. "I agree," she said softly, breaking eye contact and looking towards the centre of the hall. "That's why we're fighting this, aren't we?"
"We're all fierce idealists at heart. England has the weight of history of them. But for us, a blank slate, a young nation– we have everything ahead of us." Now it was her turn to look at him as he gazed straight ahead into the crowd, eyes blazing, but his mind in different place. He was going to be successful, she knew it. He knew it. Feeling his potential and seeing the arcs of their respective futures, she suddenly felt a strange tug of envy. He turned back to her with a wry smile "they say, as you get old, it takes a lot of courage to still be two things– an idealist, and a romantic."
An excited hush had spread across the lively chatter of the hall as everybody, including the two of them, turned their attention to the centre of the hall as George Washington and Lady Knox danced the first minuet, the opening dance to start the night.
"So, which one are you?" Angelica whispered in his ear after Washington and Lady Knox swooped past them.
"I thought I was only an idealist. But after meeting you I've realised I'm a romantic as well."
Angelica rolled her eyes at the obvious bait he took, but, flushing, she didn't dare trust herself to look at him.
***
There were sixteen women and over fifty gentlemen at the ball that night and Angelica had to share her attention with the other (many) interested officers at the ball. Hamilton, sought by the other ladies at the ball, also had to divert his attention fairly, and they danced with other partners for the few first dances.
She didn't want to, but as she danced and laughed her way up and down the old wooden hall, she found herself, out of the corner of her eye, being very aware of who Hamilton approached, who approached him, and whom he danced with. It frightened her– her attraction to Hamilton, how he aroused such intense feelings in her– and she didn't like it. She wanted to be in control, and she couldn't do that with him, with her feelings in regards to him. Her heart did a painful twist as she realised he did the fifth dance with Eliza, and judging by Eliza's face, she was completely taken by him. Eliza found her after that dance and gushed about him to her. Angelica's heart sinking, she came to the most practical and the safest solution.
He approached her for the seventh dance, striding quickly over to her, slightly out of breath. He kissed her hand and smiled at her. A warmth spread across her chest despite herself.
"Angelica dear, I see you've been kept busy all night. May you finally spare some time to allow me to have the honour of dancing with you?"
The strings started up and they took their places to start the dance. It was one of those country dances where all the dancers stood in two rows, facing each other, and met in the middle.
"I might say the same for you," she said, as they began to step towards each other, touching palms. "My sister is quite taken with you," she added, before they circled out again back to their row.
"At risk of sounding bold and brash, Angelica," he started as they approached each other again, this time she had to do a turn under his arm, "I do believe you know who I am most taken with tonight."
She almost stumbled when finishing her turn at hearing his words and feeling the warmth of his closeness radiating out from his arm and torso. Who, who, who? Tell me! she wanted to ask more than anything. They parted as they both stepped back into their respective rows, his eyes still on her expectantly. Though she thought her gown to be quite prim and modest, she felt like her exposed neck and décolletage was on fire from the heat of his large, dark eyes.
She had eight beats to think of an answer, but inside she already knew the answer she would give. Her brain always triumphed over her heart. Though she wholly believed in revolution for her country, in her inner world there was no question of a rebellion. Her brain ruled as absolute monarch, and it wasn't about to relinquish its control at the cost of her sister's happiness, her social status and stability, to, well, whatever hurricane of emotions her heart was feeling right now.
"Eliza's a good woman," she told him, as they circled around each other in the next refrain. "There isn't anyone like her."
He flinched slightly and a hurt, confused look passed over his face, but it was soon gone. She introduced him again to Eliza after their dance, took her dear sister's hand and gave it to him, and gave them her blessing.
***
Despite it being shortly past midnight, the party was still adamantly in full swing, its participants not knowing when such another night would come again. Ladies were falling about and men were catching them. Serious, impassioned conversations were sprouting up here and there amongst the candlelight and gaiety and the occasional cheer rippled through the groups, no doubt from revolutionary talk.
Too full of emotion to bear, Angelica stepped outside for a moment to wind down. The large heavy wooden door creaked open and a cold gust of air enveloped her. Outside, a line of carriages were already waiting, horses stamping their hooves impatiently, but no one was leaving. The carriage drivers and errand boys were huddled together in a corner, jeering and gambling, not paying any attention to her.
A horse whinnied, and she heard a rustle of someone getting down from a horse and a quick confident stride of boots getting closer towards her. She turned around. It was Hamilton; he had some business to attend to so had stepped out earlier for a while.
"Missing me?" he said, with a grin. Even in the dark she could make out that smile, that ear-splitting, life-affirming, heart-breaking smile of his. As if he knew its effect on her, he winked at her.
God, she wanted him even more in the dark.
"You have no fear in speaking your mind, don't you?" she said archly, deflecting his question.
They settled into a companionable silence, leaning against the stone walls of the warehouse, the cheers and laughter inside vibrating against their backs, gazing into the dark rolling fields in front of them. She was surprised Hamilton stayed with her instead of going straight back into the ballroom after what had passed between them earlier. She tried to breathe away the pain and excitement of seeing him now, beside her.
"I sometimes wonder if–" Angelica trailed off, lost in thought, "if it's worth it. The money we had to scrape together for the ball, the soldiers working for next to nothing... I mean, wouldn't it be much better if we'd redirected the money for, I don't know, extra ammunition, or a bonus for the soldiers? Instead of this frivolity...,"
She heard him chuckle beside her, a warm sound. "My dear lady, you obviously don't know what makes soldiers tick. This is the best morale booster for them. You are always so practical, aren't you? Making the safest, the most rational choice. Some day you'll learn that the most practical solution isn't necessarily the best one. You'll end up being quite unsatisfied."
Angelica felt herself blushing furiously, knowing full well what he was referring to. "Sir, you forget yourself." She crossed her arms rapidly then uncrossed them again. "Well, maybe my practicality comes from reading Adam Smith. Reading him would do you some good," she said, the words coming out somewhat defensively though she hadn't meant it to.
"Ah, the Scotsman?" he asked, sounding intrigued. "Haven't had a chance to read his work yet. Mainly just focusing on political philosophy in the wake of, you know, us being in a revolutionary war right now," he said jokingly.
"I think his economic policies will come into handy when building up a nascent nation. And his shrewdness. And practicality."
"Thank you for that," he said sincerely. Men usually turned their noses when she gave them recommendations on their reading, but Hamilton, on the contrary, only seemed more and more interested in her.
"You know," he started slowly, leaning towards her, "in the Caribbean, I, well, was fortunate enough to spend several summers there in my youth–," he covered up his past sloppily, knowing he didn't have to hide in front of her, "and, in a moment like this, a man would just grab the girl and kis–." He whispered the last words in her ear, and she felt a shiver go all the way down her body.
"Oh! My goodness," Angelica gave a start and quickly walked away from him back into the hall before she forgot herself. "It's getting cold outside. I'd better go back in."
"You'll never be satisfied!" Hamilton called out after her.
And neither will you, whoever you end up with, she thought.
***
August, 1797
Angelica never swore, except that one time.
"You fucking bastard," she said, walking into his study and dumping the Maria Reynolds pamphlet on the desk in front of him.
Angelica had gone straight to the Hamiltons' country home when she'd received Eliza's letter, consisting of nothing more than a copy of the Reynolds pamphlet and a very short letter from her sister she could not make out because it was so stained with tears. After spending a week with her dear Eliza, their father, Philip Schuyler, had written entreating Angelica to come up to New York to see Hamilton as well. Her father had written that he, too, was in a bad way and that she 'was the best person that both husband and wife trust the most to help them turn things around.' And so Angelica had reluctantly made the journey up north.
She had never seen Hamilton like this before. He was hunched over his desk but staring ahead vacantly, looking defeated, somehow. His hair was loose and untied and he was running his hands through it. She would almost be sorry for him if she didn't know what he'd done.
After a long tirade of her scolding him and him nodding sadly into his desk, she was about to leave when he called out to her.
"Angelica–"
She turned around. He stood up in earnest and walked towards her, his next words racing like someone who hadn't slept in days and didn't know how to stop his mind.
"Eliza's more than everything I could have ever wanted in life. I know I don't deserve her. But sometimes I wonder, in marrying my dear wife... what if I'd made the wrong choice? What if there had been someone better than me, for her? What if there was another person that was more suited than her, for me? What if– we have made the wrong choice?"
Angelica stood there, dumbstruck. Never had they once talked about this since that first winter ball when they'd first met. He had grabbed onto her arm and was look at her with a fervour– not the fervour of ambition that she'd first seen him with, not even a fervour of lust– but a sickly fervour of man in an existential crisis, about to break apart any moment. And despite herself, it broke her heart. It also opened a pandora's box of feelings she'd kept suppressed for the past ten years.
It was then she found out she had another character trait– stubbornness. Her father once told her once you make a decision, you stick with it.
Angelica shook his arm off. "You've already done and said enough. Go back to your wife and keep groveling until she forgives you. That's right, you don't deserve her. Don't you dare say something like this again."
There was a deathly silence as she left the room.
***
Angelica decided to go back to England, where her husband was running for MP.
Things slowly returned to a fragile, but cherished new normal in the Hamilton household.
Hamilton always listened to Angelica's advice.
***
July, 1804
Eliza exited the room for a moment, her sobs fading behind the door she closed as she went down the corridor. The doctor had stepped outside for a moment to ask the nurse for more bandages.
Hamilton turned to look at Angelica. There were tears in his eyes.
"Angelica," he said simply, breathing a few heavy breaths, relishing the sound of her name ringing in the air and the syllables on his lips. Then he mustered the strength in him to give her a sad smile.
The smile– a mixture of openness, vulnerability and pure adoration– broke her heart. It was the giving up of pride, of pretense, of propriety. How many goddamn years had they toed this line– giving it up now– what she'd hoped and dreaded for so long– meant it was the end.
"Oh, dear brother, please, please don't–" Angelica cried, stroking his face and wiping away the tears on his face. She had no idea what she was saying now.
"No, no, shh–" he raised a trembling finger to his lips, then the hand trembled out to cover hers that was clasped on the edge of the bed.
"I want to say something," he said. She looked up at him.
"I– I love you," he said. He face contorted for a second, whether in pain or in emotion she did not know, before he continued, "And I have, all this time."
Angelica felt a torrent of joy and pain and panic wash over her but at the same time she knew, deep in her bones, the truth of his words. "I know, I know," she said, stroking his arm.
He took a painful breath that Angelica felt as well. He looked upwards towards the ceiling and blinked several times, as if recalling something. Then a small gleam came into his eyes as he turned back to her and said–
"'Not– through custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh. Well, maybe of mortal flesh," he couldn't let a cheeky grin escape him, even at death's door.
He turned serious again, taking another shuddering breath. "'I love you in the way that it is my spirit that addresses your spirit,'" they said the next words together, "'as we stand at God's feet, equal– as we are.'"
Angelica could not help shaking her head, slightly amused at his unconventional choice. But then again, when was he ever conventional?
"Really? Jane Eyre?" she asked in a low voice with a smile.
"But it is one of your favourites, no?"
"It is. Hamilton– I love you too."
"I know."
There were still tears in both Hamilton's and Angelica's eyes when Eliza returned. Angelica squeezed his hand and left the room to leave the two alone.