buried in trinity church (near you)

Angelica hadn't expected death to come so quickly. As women with no war for many years now, she had always thought that once you dodged the bullet of dying in childbirth, you were entitled to live a long, happy life. Clearly, for once, she had been wrong. Wrong that little girls could grow up with their father's fairytales in their minds, and actually see their happily ever after come to fruition. Wrong that all her children would live, like Richard and Alexander II, God rest their tiny souls.

But she had been right, that she would never have to know a world without her sister, Eliza. Right that she would reach death's doorstep first.

Her breathing was laboured, her skin losing warmth and colour. The sheets of the bed she had always slept in whenever she visited her sister's home should have felt soft, but were rough and itchy, swathing her in white cloth. Beads of sweat lined her brow, until a cool, wet cloth was laid over it, gently dabbing.

"Angelica."

Eliza's voice sounded far away, but Angelica tried to ground herself to it anyway. "Yes, Betsey?"

"How are you feeling?"

"D-dreamlike," she managed, even if the truth was closer to a nightmare. Who knew death could be so slow? She craned her neck, forcing her eyes open, and looking around the familiar room. Sunlight was filtered in through the window, and there were a stack of books, volumes about politics, resting on her bedside table, when she noticed that her husband was gone. "John?"

"He's gone to fetch us some food," Eliza explained. She dragged the wet cloth across her sister's forehead.

Angelica had always been good at recognizing opportunities, even if she hadn't always seized them, but she knew she had to now, with whatever strength she had left. "Eliza, there is something... I need to tell you."

Eliza's brow furrowed, her long black hair falling over one cream coloured cheek. "Then speak," she said softly.

"Do you remember when Alexander died?"

Eliza's eyes immediately closed in grief, even after almost ten years since her husband's passing. "Yes," she said quietly, the single syllable trembling. Angelica knew her sister would never forget that day, even if she wanted to try.

"And the night we first met him?" A faint smile crossed Angelica's face, mirroring Eliza's. God, had that really been thirty-four years ago? They had all been so young, so full of hope, for that brief, shining night in winter. Or at least, she had been, in the first few minutes she'd met him. Before she had realized the truth of her circumstances, her responsibility to her sister. "Eliza, I..."

"He always spoke so fondly of you," said Eliza, and Angelica went quiet, not only because her throat hurt, but because she had waited, perhaps, her whole life, to hear these words. "Whenever a letter arrived from you from England, he would stop in the middle of working to read it. And you know how quickly his replies would come, despite their length."

She still had the letters he'd written her in a box tucked under her and John's bed. Along with some from Eliza (she needed the reminder, sometimes). After the Reynolds Pamphlet, she had nearly followed her sister's lead and burned them, but hadn't managed to bring herself to do it. She couldn't lose what had never been hers, and she couldn't manage to give up what she did have.

She was so grateful for it now.

"When we had our first daughter, he was the one who suggested for her to bear your name," Eliza continued. "And I thought it was a brilliant idea, it... was one of the things we instantly agreed upon."

"I'm glad," Angelica managed, her voice thick. "But Betsey—Eliza—"

"He loved you dearly, you know."

Her voice failed.

"I know in your last few years things were wrought with strife." Eliza was wiping away tears now. "At least until Philip died, and then... but I know you were fond of him as well."

"I loved him," Angelica burst. "Not like a brother, like—from the moment I met him, he enraptured me, but then I saw you, and you were—you were helpless. So I—" Tears pricked in her eyes. "I loved him from afar. Eliza, I'm sorry—"

"For what?"

"I loved a man who was your husband."

"You lived a life, unsatisfied, so that I could be happy." Tears were rolling down both of their cheeks. "And I do not know if I have ever thanked you, for always being there to rely on. For introducing him to me in the first place. My life would not be mine without you, Angelica. You have nothing to apologize for."

Angelica slowly closed her eyes, a teary smile of disbelief spreading across her face as Eliza reached over with a warm thumb to wipe away her elder sister's tears, for once. "Please don't tell John," she whispered. "I... have never wanted him to feel like the second choice."

"Of course." Eliza studied her for a moment. "I always suspected, you know. Your eyes when he died... you were the one who looked just as helpless."

Angelica puffed out a laugh. "I only wish I had told you sooner."

"Did you ever tell him?"

"Not in exact words, no. But in the toast I gave at your wedding... I don't think I ever had to tell him."

"You always were intellectual equals," said Eliza admiringly.

"You had the emotional capacity he needed. You were good for each other." Angelica coughed, her voice growing weak. "Through everything, I... I am glad you loved one another."

"I am glad you loved each other."

There was a long stretch where she could only hear her pounding, failing heartbeat. She didn't have long now. Was there a point of holding on until John back, if only to spare him guilt for leaving? She had loved him in her own way, after all, had raised their children together, even if he had never set her heart aflame.

She had been so cold for so long, and she suspected, her heart sinking, that Eliza had even longer to wait to see their beloved Hamilton again.

She turned her head towards the window, to look at the sky for the last time, a mild March day streaked with grey and blue, the sun poking out between two clouds. A church rose up on the horizon, in the distance, but she could still see the tallest spiral amid the grey sky.

"I know..." she began, and then cleared her throat. She was running out of time to get this out. Perhaps it would be easier to write with a quill? "I know family... is buried nearby. To one another. Do me this honour?" Angelica took a deep breath, reaching for her sister's hand. Eliza's skin was hot to the touch, as she grasped at her fingers, or was that her burning up instead? "I would never take your place—" Because her sister had to understand, she had to—

Eliza shushed her, pressing a kiss to her boiling forehead. "I know."

"Bury me... near him. Please. I do not want to be as far away from him in life... as I was in death..."

Eliza nodded, and Angelica quietly slipped away.

Two days after her sister's death, Eliza was going through Angelica's things. It was not the first time she had mourned a sister's death—Peggy had been taken so soon, so quickly, it still made her lungs close up and her heart ache with grief—but it was not any easier. She had long suspected that Angelica had loved Alexander; that hadn't been a surprise. But to have it confirmed, to have known that Angelica had carried what she considered to be a deep dark secret for so long made her want to weep in itself.

Alexander had been a very difficult man to love at times, but Eliza could understand perfectly well how easy it was to give your heart to him.

John had presented a few photographs of their children, a piece of their mother, Catherine's, jewelry to be buried with Angelica. The funeral was in another two days, so time was of the essence, which was how Eliza found herself gathering up loose items from her sister's room, which ones should be preserved, wondering if there were any books that should be buried with her as well. Thomas Paine's Common Sense came to mind, as she thought of their younger, more reckless years.

She was checking under the bed, seeing her sister's old, worn slippers and a book that must have fell underneath, collecting dust, when she saw a periwinkle coloured box. She reached out and pulled it out from under the bed, hauling it to her knees, covered by a soft blue gown.

The box, it turned out, was full of letters and envelopes, yellowing with age. Some, she recognized as having her own handwriting, her sister's name written in neat print, but most were Alexander's, thick with blue seals stamped over the front. One letter was lying on top, flattened out because of how many times it had been read, the subsequent envelope tucked into the side of the box, separate from the others. What was so special about this letter, Eliza wondered, trying to decide if she should read it or not.

She recognized her husband's hurried but careful scrawl, and caught sight of the address before she could stop herself.

My dearest, Angelica

The letter was buried with her sister two days later.