Dear, Hamilton

The Duel

THREE YEARS LATER- July 10th, 1804

"Mr. Burr," I greet, trying to lighten my tone as he stops before me on the sidewalk in downtown New York City. 

I'm wearing a somber black dress as a widow would, but in truth, it's for my son's death. Although he died three years earlier, I've found myself thinking about him and the duel that had transpired between him and Mr. Eaker recently. It has made my mood gloomier, and the somber mood is reflected in my dress today. 

Mr. Burr smiles wanly and dips his hat to me before straightening and saying, "Mrs. Hamilton, a pleasure to see you about the city. How are you faring?"

"Quite well, sir," I reply stiffly. Burr doesn't need to know about my daughter's madness after Philip's death or about Alexander Hamilton's dispirit and slow decline into mild depression. 

Burr returns my answer with a stiff smile of his own and replies, "I suppose there is a lesson to be learned of the rather unfortunate events that have come to pass in your family. It is important to cherish the time you have with your loved ones." 

He  gives me a small, bland smile, but I swear there's a double meaning to his words.

I narrow my eyes slightly before nodding slowly in agreement. "That's correct, Mr. Burr," I reply slowly. "Your wife's death has reminded us of that, too." 

His wife, Theodosia Burr had died years ago. 

Burr smiles again, his expression carefully controlled, but I see the brief flash of pain in his eyes at the reminder. "Indeed, Mrs. Hamilton. To lose a spouse is a terrible thing," he replies quietly. For a moment, I swear I see pity in his eyes as he gazes at me, and I can't help but wonder why.  

But then the pitying look vanishes from his dark eyes, and I wonder whether I even saw it in the first place. A feeling of sickening dread washes over me as I look at Burr, and I find myself suddenly unable to stand his chilling presence any longer. 

"I must go," I tell him hurriedly. "My children are waiting for me at home."

He dips his hat slightly in farewell, and I smile with forced politeness as I brush past him. Yet, as I walk down the street back home, I can't help but feel that he had given me a warning.

***

I open my eyes to find Hamilton sitting before his desk, a candle lit upon his desk, revealing the contours of his face in a sharp light as he writes quickly, almost frantically, upon a piece of parchment.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice raspy from sleep. 

I sit up a little so I can see him better, my eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness of the room. He stops writing and twists in his chair just enough to regard me. 

He smiles softly and replies, "I have an early meeting out of town tomorrow."

I pat the empty spot beside me and say, "Why can't that wait till morning? Come back to sleep."

He smiles regretfully and there's a strange look in his eyes as if he's soaking in the image of me, or perhaps this moment, and committing it to memory. 

"I just need to write something down," he finally says in a whisper.

"Why do you write like you're running out of time?" I murmur into the dark, my words only for my ears. 

I lay back down with a sigh and draw my hand away from the empty spot beside me. I bring my hands near my chest as I curl myself against the sudden chill. 

"Well, I'm going back to sleep," I say sadly, just loud enough for him to hear, and my eyes shutter closed. I think he says something in response, but I can't make out the words before sleep tugs me down.