Eliza got ready for bed, plaited her hair, and pulled the bedclothes around her shivering body. There was no sign of her husband. She laid in the bed, already getting warm, and sighed. She could get up, find Alexander, and hope that he'd agree to join her in bed, or she could simply go to sleep and hope he'd get some rest before morning.

She sighed again and stood, wrapping her robe around herself tightly. She walked throughout her too-big house and paused in front of her children's doors. She tried not to listen for the sound of Philip's snoring, and she couldn't help the shudder that went through her when she didn't hear it.

Finally Eliza arrived at Alexander's office. The door was ajar and she stepped through the doorway, noticing the blankets on the couch inside. Clearly, her husband had planned to sleep alone. His quill scratched across the paper. "Alexander, come back to sleep," she whispered. The quill paused and Alexander's shoulders straightened, just perceptively.

"I have an early meeting out of town," he replied, turning slightly towards her. Eliza stepped to his side and glanced down at his writing. He covered the words as she read his signature at the bottom. AH. So simple, yet so elegantly scripted.

"It's still dark outside," Eliza said, motioning to the window. He glanced up at the window, then at her.

His eyes were darker than usual. Dark with shame? Anger? Grief? "I know. I just need to write something down." He rustled with the paper, folded it into thirds. He looked back up. His eyes begged her not to ask what was wrong.

She rested her hand on his. "Why do you write like you're running out of time?" she asked, not expecting an answer. She really never got an answer to this question, throughout the years.

"Shh," he whispered, like he was trying to soothe baby Phil. Normally, their last child was calmed by a simple whisper, and it proved him to be even more of a blessing than Eliza could have hoped for. He could never replace their first Philip, but he allowed them to move past the pain.

Eliza stared at him. Why was he fighting this? "Come back to bed. That would be enough."

"I'll be back before you know I'm gone," he said, turning back to his desk and staring down at the papers.

"Come back to sleep," she tried again.

Alexander tried to chuckle. "This meeting's at dawn." He glanced outside, at the street below and the darkness of the sky.

"Well, I'm going back to sleep." Eliza turned away, finally tired of arguing. If he was determined to pull away from her again, to let them grow apart like they did when Philip died, she wasn't going to stop him. She had done her part. Much as it would hurt her, she would let him pull away.

Alexander's hand stopped her. He stood and looked down at her. His eyes were so sad, but still full of love, like they were as he married her. He smiled slightly. "Hey." He leaned down and kissed her hand. Such a small motion, yet so deep. Her heart flipped in her chest. "Best of wives and best of women."

Eliza walked back to bed, her heart light. She placed her robe on her chair and curled back into the blankets. Within a few minutes, she heard Alexander walking down the hall. She heard him open the doors to the children's rooms and step inside. He paused for a long moment in each room, probably in front of each bed.

Finally he arrived at their bed. He unbuttoned his vest and pulled his jacket off, leaving the rest of his clothing on. She felt him slide into the bed and pull her close. He buried his face in her hair, which had started to come loose from the braid.

"Alexander? What is it?" she asked. She wouldn't let herself panic, even as she felt Alexander shake with muffled sobs.

There was a long pause while Alexander mastered his breathing. "I don't want to go, Betsy. I don't want to go."

"Where are you going?" she asked, turning around in his arms. She wove her fingers through his hair as he pressed his forehead to hers.

He shook his head. "I have to go, Eliza. I can't tell you where, either. You'll try to convince me not to go, and I have to. I have to go." His sentences were broken and disjointed, such a far cry from his usual eloquence. "To deserve you, and the children, I must go. Please don't ask me where."

"As you wish," she whispered. What more could she say? She had never pushed him, never would push him. So she did all she could and held Alexander as he shook. Together, they waited for dawn.

Eliza woke up as the sun was bursting through the window covers, and she was alone. And, holding baby Phil, she waited for her husband to return.

The bullet struck him right between the ribs.

By the time the men returned him to the house, he was barely conscious. He was muttering, "Eliza, Eliza, Eliza," until she was at his side. He relaxed, finally. The doctor worked feverishly over him, but there was nothing to be done.

They said that he had arrived at dawn to duel Aaron Burr. Alexander had aimed his pistol at the sky. Bur had not, and he was in hiding.

Angelica left the children to stand at her side when she cried out for her sister.

He grasped her hand as he gasped for breath. Alexander's eyes never left hers, and his eyes said all that his lungs couldn't let him. I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I love you. Angelica promised to take care of her and the children, and Alexander nodded. Eliza said all that she could, whispered her love and her forgiveness. There was a faint smile on his lips when he died.

The next week was a blur of activity and black and sorrow. She buried him in Trinity Church. Angelica was always there for her.

They gave her Alexander's letter a few days later, when everything was quiet. When she read it, she heard Alexander's voice. My love, take your time. I'll see you on the other side. And she felt him again, his arms wrapped around her, his legs tangled with hers, his mouth pressed to her hands.

And Eliza smiled.

New York, July 4, 1804

This letter, my very dear Eliza, will not be delivered to you, unless I shall first have terminated my earthly career; to begin, as I humbly hope from redeeming grace and divine mercy, a happy immortality.

If it had been possible for me to have avoided the interview, my love for you and my precious children would have been alone a decisive motive. But it was not possible, without sacrifices which would have rendered me unworthy of your esteem. I need not tell you of the pangs I feel, from the idea of quitting you and exposing you to the anguish which I know you would feel. Nor could I dwell on the topic lest it should unman me.

The consolations of Religion, my beloved, can alone support you; and these you have a right to enjoy. Fly to the bosom of your God and be comforted. With my last idea; I shall cherish the sweet hope of meeting you in a better world.

Adieu best of wives and best of Women. Embrace all my darling Children for me.

Ever yours

AH

July 4. 1804

Mrs. Hamilton