The Age of Hamilton

Chapter 10

"Alexander?" Her voice, although timid and tender, shakes his mind from the scraps of paper. His gaze rose to meet Eliza's and he removes the glasses from his face. Elizabeth stood, propped up against the wall, hair seemingly damp from running wet hands through graying curls. 

Defeated, he spoke, "What did John tell you?" 

In her hand was a newspaper. The New York Post: a known Federalist leaning source, "This has nothing to do with our son, Little Lion." 

The sobriquet caught Alexander off guard as the glasses clattered to the desk. Elizabeth maneuvers her way forward, her footsteps muffled by the stockings that covered her lower calf and feet. Her arm extended, loosely gripping the crumpled sheets of paper connected by a thin strand of twine. Reluctantly, Alexander receives the newspaper and watches as Elizabeth folds her arms across her chest. Before glancing at the paper, Alexander rises and eases his way away from the desk. Staring into the all-knowing dark eyes of his wife, he raises an eyebrow. 

"Little Lion?" He scoffs airily, "Aren't I a bit too old for that epithet, my dear Betsy?" 

"You flatter me, but I assure you that reading the article would benefit you greatly. Even if it does vehemently infuriate you." Eliza answers back plainly. 

"You tempt me, distract me in all the wrong ways, my dear Betsy." 

Elizabeth pales but does not waver. "I see, however, you would be wise to read the article." 

With those ominous words, Elizabeth quickly departs from the office. The tagline is unmarked of the author. The headline immediately reaches out and tugs at his attention. 

Is Alexander Hamilton the Least Flawed Candidate

Gripping the paper, the words seemed to deliver a sentiment that he was not well-versed in. Said emotion boiled, roiling within him. He trembles. The paper quakes in his grasp as he reads each word, scanning, searching as though his life depended upon it. He lowers the paper for a moment, removing his glasses and locking eyes with the door. Behind the door, his voice radiates toward him. "Is it true?" It isn't Eliza's voice. 

John?

"Are you the man behind the riots?" 

He scoffs, chuckling at his son's insensible indictment to believe any word that the paper had uttered. I could even run--right? Alexander shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. This disturbing revelation in addition to the rapid and precipitous uprising of citizens had been peculiarly like the commotion caused by the duel--that damn duel. That duel has thrown everything I have known to the wind. 

For heaven's sake. 

Before he could properly exit the room, the door flies open as Elizabeth stands there, arms folded, awaiting an infuriated rant. However, much to her chagrin, Alexander stands up from his desk and saunters over toward the window. He clasps his arms behind his back. Elizabeth could feel the wheels turning in his head, could feel the retorts escape him. Softly, at last, he spoke up. 

"I am not behind the riots, my dear. Why would I betray everything I stood for?" 

Elizabeth states blandly, "That may be so, but the violence has not been quelled." 

Alexander shakes his head as he yanks back the maroon curtain. Once again, billowing black smoke leisurely rose into the sky, dancing and flickering like the two candles fighting for dominance with the clouds. Faint gunshots sliced through the tense air. For a moment, he ponders a thought that dances across his mind. Like Washington, could he lead a small gaggle of men to squash this riot? The militiamen were becoming more isolated, more of a rag tag group of exhausted and abused men. His gaze slowly returns to Elizabeth. His wife's eyebrows were pinned upward slightly in silent inquiry.