To Make Sense of Your Thousands of Pages of Writings

Eliza couldn't believe how much her husband had written over the course of his life. As she sifted through the stacks and stacks of papers, all askew and disheveled and in haphazard piles all over his desk, the floor around his desk, the spare chair in the corner beside the desk, and even on the floor around the desk and pouring out of drawers, she couldn't believe her eyes. She knew he spent all his time writing, but she didn't know it was ever possible for one man to write this much.

Dearest Eliza, one letter began in his sweeping, neat script. The rest was written hastily, still beautiful but less ornate. She laughed quietly and wiped a tear away as she skimmed through the letter. He hadn't given her this one, though it was dated several years back. She smiled and turned around to face her sister, Angelica, who was searching through a stack that had been on a table closer to the door.

"Look at this," Eliza said softly, and she held the letter out as they walked toward one another.

Angelica took it and read a few lines. "He certainly did have a way with words," she replied with a soft laugh which sounded almost like a sob. She nodded and handed it back to her younger sister. "Beautiful. Not as beautiful as this one, however." In her hand, she held another letter, one with no signature or salutation, likely one of many pages. "'You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent. But as you have done it and as we are generally indulgent to those we love, I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on condition that for my sake, if not for your own, you will always continue to merit the partiality, which you have so artfully instilled into me.'"

"Who was that for?" Eliza asked, reaching for the letter. Her eyes scanned over it quickly and she turned it over to read further. "'Lieutenant Colonel'…'Aide de Camp'…'My dear J'…'Carolina'…" She read more and her eyes widened. "This was to…to John Laurens."

"No," Angelica said with a little laugh of disbelief. She took the letter back from her sister and read more. "I…I don't know. It certainly sounds like it. He never says his name, though."

"Even if it isn't, it's written to a man," Eliza said, looking a bit shocked. "A man he fought with in the war, which he was very close to. I can only assume it was John."

Angelica set the letter to the side and went on sifting through the stack of papers on the table. From it, she pulled one more, compared it to the first, and nodded.

"This is from the same letter." She read it to the end and then went to tuck it behind the rest of the stack discreetly, a nervous look in her eyes, the rest of her face set and unreadable.

"What did it say?" Eliza asked. "I have to know."

"You don't…"

"I want to," she insisted. "I want to know what my husband wrote. Please."

Eliza Hamilton, Angelica saw then, was so desperate, so helpless, so determined to know everything there was to know about her husband. And why shouldn't she be? The man was always working, and obviously there was a lot about him that he kept hidden from her. Angelica sighed and reluctantly handed over the letter.

"Oh," Eliza said almost silently as she read the final paragraphs. "Oh." She lowered the letter and looked off to the side, smiling ridiculously as she wiped her eyes. That smile didn't look happy; it looked to Angelica as though her sister was trying not to be angry, and for good reason. "He didn't want a wife? Really? What was I to him then? Did he even love me?"

"He did, Lizzie. He loved you so much, really, dear. He told me all the time how much he loved you," Angelica said. "Please believe me. This – this letter – was a long time ago. He was younger then; he was different, stupider. Alexander loved you so much. This letter doesn't mean anything. That was before he knew you." Angelica hugged her sister tightly as she began to cry harder. "You're alright."

"I wish he was here," Eliza whispered through her tears. "I wish he was here to tell me what you're telling me. I need to hear it from him."

"I know," Angelica said. "I know."

After a few minutes, they went back to reading, Eliza at the desk and Angelica at the table. They worked in silence, sometimes saying a word or two, reading a line aloud, or laughing quietly.

"'An itemized list of thirty years of disagreements,'" Angelica whispered, shaking her head and chuckling to herself.

"What?" Eliza asked.

"Something to do with Burr, apparently," Angelica said. "He mentions 'an itemized list of thirty years of disagreements.' He hasn't given the list, but I wouldn't be surprised at all to find such a thing in all this."

"I think I may have found that an hour or two ago. I didn't know what it was," Eliza laughed. "Just a list of dates with little notes like, 'Would not defend the constitution,' or 'Banned food and drink in the courtroom.' One said something about calling his gray shoes ugly."

"What?" Angelica asked, amused.

"He was a child," Eliza said. "I swear, he was only about fourteen in his head, but with the vocabulary and charm of a much older man."

"That is a wonderful description of him," Angelica said, picking up yet another sheet of paper. She read a line and then folded it and tucked it into her dress pocket, a look of discomfort on her face. She did this a few times without Eliza noticing before –

"Angie, what are you doing?"

"Um…they were my letters. I'd like to have them, if you don't mind that is," Angelica said.

"Oh," Eliza nodded. "Alright. That's fine."

Hours went by as they read and read. They exchanged a few yawns as they worked at opposite sides of the room. Young William Hamilton came in for a few minutes before going to bed to talk to his mother and his aunt and give them each a kiss goodnight. The stacks of papers became neater as the hours went by; they tried to organize them a little, based on whether they were part of his work or if they were just his own personal little notes, thoughts, lists, or letters.

"Angelica?"

"Yes?"

There was a silence that followed in which her sister said nothing. Curious, Angelica looked up from a letter from George Washington to see Eliza staring at her, jaw slack, eyes red, and face wet with fresh tears.

"What's this?" Eliza finally asked, her voice flat and tired.

"I don't know," Angelica answered carefully. "What does it say?"

"'One stroke and you've consumed my waking days,'" Eliza read aloud. She lowered the letter and let out a shaking breath. "'It says "My dearest, Angelica."'"

"'With a comma after "dearest,"'" Angelica said thoughtfully, her voice almost silent. Then she nodded. "I can explain."

"I-I think I'd rather you didn't," Eliza said, and she put the letter in the stack of other letters. "Spare me that heartbreak and bitterness. John is dead, and that was before me. So I can't very well be angry with him, even if he were here to defend himself."

"I never touched him, if that's any consolation," Angelica said.

Eliza raised her eyebrows and she looked as though she had some snarky comment locked and loaded, ready to fire back, but instead she turned and picked up another page. "It doesn't matter, Angelica."

"Eliza, I –"

"It's fine," she cut her off, her tone sharp and jagged as the rusty bayonet on old the rifle Alex kept on the wall.

"I'm sorry," Angelica murmured.

Her voice was low, but Eliza heard her nonetheless and she began to cry again, no longer angry with her sister; just hurt beyond belief. Angelica wanted to comfort her sister, to hold her and tell her she was sorry and that it would all be okay. But she knew that would do no good, especially considering the last letter.

"I'm going to bed." Eliza stood, sending a stack of papers falling from her lap and fluttering to the floor like loose feathers, and she left the room, leaving her sister alone with all of Alexander's papers in the fading candlelight.