The Age of Hamilton

Chapter 11

Elizabeth is perched across from Alexander. There were evident bags under her eyes illuminated by the clementine light of the candles. A quill is placed carefully in between Alexander's thumb and index finger. It scratches carefully into the parchment. Elizabeth snaps her gaze away from her husband. She finds herself fidgeting, like a schoolchild, with the hem of her blouse. What nagging emotion made its presence known today. The quill scratching on parchment halts. His fingers deftly twirled the quill around his thumb and index finger. Another hand was rested under his chin as he glares at the paper. 

Had he noticed Elizabeth? 

Perhaps not, but Elizabeth did notice how his leg bounced to the rhythm of a silent melody. A stack of leaflets for his candidacy again occupied one corner of his desk. 

"Alexander?" 

The tenderness of a lover quickly disappeared into a harsh impatient wind. HIs name fell from her lips delicately despite the complexity of the tone behind the simple word. She notices his lower lip twitch slightly, his eyes ever so slightly raising to meet hers despite the reflections the glasses bring. The lower lip quivering sparked the realization that he was not intentionally ignoring her. Elizabeth continues to fidget with the hem of her blouse. The incessant stillness grew intensely palpable. The area increased its warmth, the sound of the crackling fire in the hearth only fueling the heat of the room. Alexander seemed unfazed by the rapid heat. To cease Elizabeth's impatience, despite the molasses like consistency of her words, her voice cracks the stillness, shattering it abruptly as though it were glass. 

"I'll admit I hadn't noticed you were in here, mi amour." 

Don't do that. Elizabeth thinks frostily. 

"Where is John?" 

Elizabeth, much used to Alexander's silence, watches as he lowers the quill, glancing expectantly at her. It would seem her apparent disregard for their children vanished. Elizabeth notices how ink stains Alexander's hands like war wounds. Yet work continues its plague-like infection upon him. Elizabeth was not uneducated--she was an observer, a woman of few words. However, his job wrought havoc upon his mind. The pay is decent. Is the pay the reason he is overworking himself? 

"John is up in his bedroom, reading and writing. He has not taken a well-deserved break. He hasn't even eaten in three days." 

Neither have you.  She muses gently, feeling as her cheeks darkened to a light shade of crimson. Her chair squeals in protest as the legs scratches into the hardwood paneling of the floor. Amber liquid swirls in a glass in a forgotten corner of his desk. The quill is now perched beside its inkwell, motionless, begging to be utilized. Picking up the glass, Elizabeth observes him, mutely as he extends his arm, offering her hand that holds the drink. Once more, silence befalls the couple. Ducking her head, Elizabeth feels the slight sting of the alcohol burn the back of her throat. Nevertheless, she watches as Alexander lowers the glass to the desk. 

Soon, his footsteps click against the floor. Elizabeth listens as her husband's footsteps ascend the stairs. Elizabeth picks up the harsh repetitive knock emanate from John's room. She hears a flustered hiss and curse, then the door slams. Alexander's footsteps return to his office, a hand covering his mouth. Elizabeth, a woman of terse patience, rises, exiting his office. Their shoulders briefly brush, but Alexander's hand catches her wrist. Stunned at the sudden contact, Elizabeth stands silent and confounded at the simple caress. Alexander's head eases toward Elizabeth's, dipping slightly. Their lips brush hesitantly before she pulls back. His voice registers in Eliza's mind, barely above a whisper, but it holds a bass to it that Elizabeth fails to properly recognize. She, too, seems shocked at her leveled voice.