Chapter Text
Alexander blinked. His train of thought had been punctuated as abruptly as the still quiet in which he had submerged himself who-knew-how-long ago by the wailing of his youngest daughter. The sun had gone down without his realizing and he noticed a lit candle at his desk he did not remember lightening. It must have been his wife, he thought, before she left. She truly was the best of wives and best of women.
Having been three months pregnant by the time of their eldest son's tragic, untimely death, the birth of their eighth child had been quite harsh on Elizabeth's anatomy, and so the family doctor recommended she retired upstate with her mother and father for a few weeks with their infant son so that they could both recover. And so, Alexander was left alone with their other six children. His wife had been wise enough, however, to hire a woman to assist him, especially with their eldest daughter Angelica, still troubled in the head by her brother's passing.
The crying turned to shrieking. "Good Lord," he whispered to himself.
He looked down at his desk and realized the tips of his fingers had dyed black from the ink of the quill he had been unknowingly toying with. The page before him was blank. He remembered a time when peace and quiet were his greatest enemies; before, thoughts raced like hurricanes in his mind, rushing to flee that mortal prison of flesh that was his head, longing to be put in writing so that they could instead belong to eternity, so they could trace a legacy.
Before, he remembered, he would write with the certainty that tomorrow was never promised. The death of his son had only confirmed how futile and limited life really was, how nothing was guaranteed. Nevertheless, rather than rushing even further, his train of thought had slowed down instead. Instead of galloping to escape him, his thoughts became his most comforting company, especially now that his beloved wife was away and his children fast asleep— well, all but one, it seemed.
"Mr. Hamilton," said the nanny apologetically as she greeted her patron, who had approached the bedroom, holding the wailing Eliza —names after her mother— in her arms. "I am so sorry for the noise, sir. I've done everything in my power, sir, she's restless."
Alexander raised a gentle hand to put her mind at ease, indicating that he was far from being displeased with her services.
"Run along to bed, Theresa," he reassured her as he approached the two of them. "Come to me, my precious night owl," he then cooed, picking up his daughter in his own arms. "Would you make sure Angelica was not awakened? The doctor left instructions that she should rest."
And so, Hamilton returned to his study with his daughter in his arms. There was a fashion, he had learned during his time in New York, amongst wealthy families in which the children were hardly ever welcomed in certain rooms outside of the dining and living room, especially if their father should be present. Alexander himself found that fashion laughable and could not imagine a life in which he would apply it. It could be difficult getting any work done with his children running about, so much was true, but why would anyone deny themselves the bliss and tenderness only the company of one's child would provide? He remembered having written in a letter about his first-born how his soul felt starved whenever he was away from him for too long.
Moreover, little Eliza was so pure, so innocent, so oblivious to all the heart-breaking surrounding her. While her family mourned and cried, she pouted and played, she could speak for minutes despite not being yet able to properly enunciate a single word, simply because she wanted her voice to be heard. She was only two years old, going on three, and despite the fact they shared a name with her, her mother insisted that of all their children she took after her father the most.
"What is it, my dearest?" he murmured patiently as he took a sit on his armchair in front of the fireplace, settling the toddler upon his lap. By that point, her yelling had stopped; instead, she only sobbed violently, face wet with tears. "Hardly a proper argument, my love," he teased as Eliza replied only with an upset groan. "You sound just like Jefferson at a cabinet meeting."
He cradled her head to his chest and began to rock from side to side. His own eyes closed and for a moment, he wondered who was benefiting the most from his gesture, the child or himself. The grief of losing a child was indescribable, something he would not wish upon the most ruthless of his enemies, the one thing he had never been able to put properly into writing, for words could never be enough. In moments such as those, however, when he held his children, when he watched them read or play, when they run about as his wife and him sat on the garden for hours on end… that indescribable, excruciating pain seemed to fade, however faintly, enough for him to breathe without feeling as though there was a dagger lodged between his ribs.
Little Eliza herself must have found the gentle movement soothing as well, for soon enough she was blabbering, speaking syllables with no meaning whatsoever and yet pronouncing them as though engaging in proper conversation.
"Is that so?" said Hamilton with a faint smile —the most sincere one he had pulled off in months— as he loosened his hold around her so that she could turn and face him while continuing to speak her mind. "Oh, my precious little night owl, what a burden I've passed onto you."
He realized now that his wife was in fact right and that Eliza had most definitely taken after his mannerisms. Even though he joked when making such comments about the torments of being like him at mind, he did silently pray that his daughter should be gifted with more peace of mind than he ever had, for his conscience was never at ease, not in the quiet, not with his family, not until, he believed, he should be at the very doorstep of the Heavens.
The little girl smiled and Alexander felt his heart melt. He would later write in a letter to his wife that a thousand refrains would never do justice to such marvelous sight nor to the love only a parent was fortunate enough to experience that it awakened. As the toddler raised a hand to trace her father's features, he wished he could live in that moment forever. All his life, he had believed that his childhood had been but a challenge to overcome, a test for him to pass so that he could prove to the world and to himself he was in fact destined for far greater achievements than leading an orphaned life. Now, he thought to himself that if such was the price to pay so that events should align as to gift him with his eight children, he would surmount that challenge a million times over.
"Come, little pet, let us rest," he said after Eliza had yawned, taking that as their cue to head off to bed for the night.
At first, he had fully intended to return the toddler to her own bed. However, as he felt her tight hold around his neck while he carried her back to her bedroom, he realized he would not be able to summon the nerve necessary to put her down and walk away. Therefore, he brought her to the master bedroom with him instead.
Eliza fell fast asleep the second her head leaned on her father's chest as he lied on his back. Alexander brought a hand up to her curls and whispered an Our Father, praying for her well-being and safe keeping.
"Take your time, my precious little night owl," he then whispered to her as he caressed her hair, for he could only think about his son, for every day he was the last though in his mind as he fell asleep and the first one as soon as he awoke. "Don't you dare join me on the other side a second sooner than you must. For you, I'll wait a million decades." And with that, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and succumbed to sleep himself.
Eliza spent the rest of her days believing that promise and that kiss had been all but a blissful dream. By the time she'd joined her father on the other side, she was 59 years old.