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The mirror was broken. The jagged shards of glass framed an empty hole in the centre where her fist had collided. Eliza looked down, vaguely registering the scarlet liquid dripping from her knuckles, the broken fragments of the mirror still embedded in her hands.
She had felt angry, mere seconds before, when her fist had collided with the surface. So blindingly angry that she felt as if she had gone up in flame with those blasted letters, every inch of her body incandescent.
Now all she felt was numb. And tired. So achingly tired, exhausted in a way that sleep could not heal.
Where was he now?, she thought, her hands shaking as she fumbled with a bandage. Where was the man she had loved?
He would be at work, perhaps, staying late in the office. Eliza could picture the dark smudges under his eyes, prominent against his pale face, quill scribbling away frantically as the sky darkened.
Maybe he was walking back home, his head bowed, posture heavy with guilt as he shouldered the looks of disgust and judgement thrown his way in the streets. Someone would call out his name tauntingly, and he would stiffen for a second, before continuing onwards.
He was in a bar, the alcohol in his glass doing nothing to slow the racing in his mind. He was arguing with a colleague, voice as sharp as the vicious insults that spewed from his mouth, defensive despite everything. He was in a shop, by the river, laughing with Laurens in the square, sitting on his horse as he charged into battle, crouched in a cellar shaking in terror as a hurricane ravaged his home, standing in the bedroom as he cradled their newborn son, eyes bright with wonder. He was anywhere. Anywhere but here in this house, anywhere but by her side as the world turned its eyes to them.
Oh, Alexander, what have you done?
The silence stretched like a candlelit shadow, the minutes dragging into hours. She busied herself about the house, collecting the shards of the mirror and brushing the ash-stained scraps of paper from the floor. Doubts began to creep into her mind, the scenarios keeping her husband from returning home turning steadily darker. Ambushed, stabbed, shot, hurt, bleeding out somewhere in an alley alone, the spark in his eyes dimming as the life drained from his body.
It was late, the windows of the surrounding houses dark. The children had been sent to stay with the Hamilton’s neighbours for a week, Eliza not wanting them to witness the arguments that were surely to come. The horror in Phillip’s expression as he clutched the crumpled pamphlet haunted her, the utter disgust as he realised what his father had done.
The door creaked, a soft beam of light illuminating the dark hallway, accompanied by the soft shuffling of footsteps. The blood in her veins ran cold, the cutting words on the tip of her tongue dying as he rounded the corner.
His face was sallow and gaunt, creased like a discarded piece of parchment. His hair hung limp and unwashed, falling into his eyes, which peered from behind the bangs with a haunted expression.
No-one spoke.
Eliza tried to open her mouth, to say something, but her throat burned, tears pricking her eyes. Instead, she pressed her lips together tightly, watching with a blank expression as Alexander’s face fell further.
They stood like that for an eternity, just a few paces apart, stock still, the shallow rise and fall of their chests the only indication that they were alive at all. Perhaps if they had stood there longer the stabbing hurt in her chest would fossilise, the wounds covered in mossy bandages, cradled like children by the tendrils of ivy. Perhaps they would stand there longer enough to fade into obscurity, for their heavy hearts to stop beating all together, and turn to stone. But the merciful fate of a statue was not theirs, as the man in front of her shattered the tight silence.
“Eliza-“
“Don’t.”, She sucked in a breath, “Just Don’t. Don’t try to justify it, or explain it, Alexander.”
His face crumpled, and she felt a momentary pang of guilt, before it was engulfed by anger. How dare he stand here in front of her, after splashing the darkest parts of his heart across the newspaper, displaying their ruin for the whole world to see, how dare he play the victim.
He opens his mouth, and closes it again, his expression like that of a cornered animal - desperate, defensive. Scared.
“You cheated. You cheated on me, while I was visiting my father.” Eliza’s eyes smarted as she choked the words out, the betrayal stinging like a fresh wound.
“But clearly that wasn’t enough. No, you had to tell everyone what you had done, tell everyone how you had betrayed your family.”
Her fists clenched, but she swallowed back the scream that was building in her chest, instead forcing herself to look her husband directly in the eye.
“You have ruined our lives, Alexander. You, Me, that girl - our reputations have been obliterated, and for what?”
He flinches back, bowing his head in shame.
“To prove a point? To show some scrap of honesty within you? No-one will care if you are a trustworthy treasurer now that all they think of when they hear your name is disgrace.”
Eliza swallowed, her breath hitching. The anger slowly drained out of her, leaving only confusion and hurt. Where was the man she had married? Where was the man who had written her letters, who had taken her in his arms and promised her the world? Dead. Her heart supplied, killed in the war for their freedom. That man died years ago, and has been haunting his body ever since.
Perhaps death doesn’t discriminate, but instead favours the broken. How could Alexander come out unscathed as those around him suffered, if not for some form of divine nepotism?
And it showed. Years of isolation purely by luck, years of watching the world rip away those closest to him time and time again had made its mark, and left him a shadow of the boy who had first lay his eyes upon New York in the beginning, wide eyed and eager.
Death cannot kill Alexander physically, but the man she had loved had died long ago.
“This will be your legacy, Alexander. We are your legacy. Not money, not power, us. The trail of dead and wounded people you leave in your wake, all the men and women that have been pulled towards you like whirlpool, only to be spat out on the beach, broken and alone.”
The words ring true in the silence, the quiet tone hurting Alexander more than any weapon ever could.
“Perhaps we are to tell your story, but you are the one holding the quill.”