Corset in Congress (A Hamilton Genderbend)

Chapter Twenty-Six: Take a Break

Elijah's POV

I sit with my son at the piano bench, lovingly teaching him to play. It's slow going and frustrating, but I'm not about to give up on him just yet. I remember when my mother taught me. I wasn't a very good pupil.

"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf," I sing, and Philip's clear little voice echoes mine. This way he gets French and music studies at the same time.

I smile at him, and he squirms happily, almost falling off the bench. "Good!" I say, then continue. "Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf..."

He repeats it, and I change the line slightly. "Sept, huit, neuf..."

Adjusting to the flow of the music perfectly, Philip answers, "Sept, huit, neuf..."

"Sept, huit, neuf..."

"Sept, huit, neuf..."

Then the both of us sing the numbers again, this time in English. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!"

Hamilton's POV

Strains of my husband and son singing bleed through the walls, but I barely notice them as I sit at my desk, composing a letter while simultaneously stressing about my debt plan. After I finish, I read through my work with satisfaction.

My dearest, Angelica,

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day." I trust you'll understand the reference to another Scottish tragedy without my having to name the play.

They think me Macbeth, and ambition is my folly. I'm a polymath, a pain in the ass, a massive pain. And Madison is Banquo, Jefferson's Macduff, and Birnam Wood is Congress on its way to Dunsinane.

And there you are an ocean away. Do you have to live an ocean away? Thoughts of you subside, then I get another letter. I cannot put the notion away.

"Take a break," says a voice, frustrated. I look up and see Elijah standing above me, arms crossed over his body and his forehead creased. Dismissing him, I turn back to my work.

"I am on my way," I mutter absent-mindedly, already back in my own little world. It's not that I don't love my husband, it's that he never seems to understand what I'm trying to accomplish. Some of us were meant for more than this monotonous lifestyle.

Suddenly I feel the earth shift under me, and I sway violently, instantly alert. My head whips around, and I notice that he's simply pulled my chair back. Bending down, he makes eye contact with me and says clearly, "There's a little surprise before supper, and it cannot wait."

Waving my hand, I say, "I'll be there in just a minute, save my plate." I can feel Elijah's stare boring a hole through my magnificent brain in a moment of silence that is absolutely terrible.

Then: "Alexandra..."

Conceding, I throw my hands in the air and rise from my seat. "Okay, okay," I laugh, but there's no humour in the statement. We make our way down to the living room, where my son is waiting.

"Your son is nine years old today," Elijah says, in a much lighter tone than before, and behind him, Philip blushes furiously. "He has something he'd like to say. He's been practicing all day. Philip, take it away!"

He steps forward, keeping his eyes down and rubbing anxious circles into the palms of his hands. "Mummy, mummy, look," he mumbles, before starting the portion he made up all on his own.

"My name is Philip. I am a poet. I wrote this poem just to show it. And I just turned nine. You can write rhymes but you can't write mine." Philip says this all without emotion, all the while shaking in his shoes.