Alexander,
I question your analytical intelligence when it comes to judging the human soul. Your friend, Hercules, who I mentioned in my last letter, is a bit more than a character. I put the children to sleep late last night, Hercules came home, more like stumbled, completely drunk. Let's just say more than crying happened over his deceased best friend, and I now have a hole in our dining room wall. It grows tiring pacing around the house only teaching the children and sitting politely, not smiling nor frowning. Just as a proper lady should, but I don't want to be proper, I yearn to break free of the shell, it's like your death it spread through me and changed everything. Twisting it and morphing all the little broken pieces into someone sharper, more... defined.
Aaron Burr besmirches your name in the market place, shouting to everyone who will listen tidings of horror that would have Phillip quivering with rage. It ails me to let him stand there, to walk by with a composed face. But the reason behind your death was that you were quick to anger, quick to judge, qualities that I, frankly, blindly overlooked in our marriage but I can't do that now. I'm living by your life husband, you would be proud. A hunger has consumed me, a hunger to avenge you, to raise your name from the dirt and grime that insolent fools like Burr, Jefferson, and Maddison have kicked on it. I won't fail.
Forever and always,
Your Betsey
YOU ARE READING
They Tell Your Story (Hamilton)
Historical FictionAlexander Hamilton died. He raised his pistol one last time but dropped dead before it could fire, leaving his dearest wife Eliza (Betsey) and their children hopeless and in despair. As we know Eliza then dedicated every last day to raising his name...
