February 6, 1857
11:00 PM
My name...
My name...
Angelica Hamilton. I am Angelica. Angelica. Named after Aunt Angelica. Angelica. I am Angelica.
***
Elizabeth Hamilton raced through the late night fog, finding her sister's doorway cloaked in mist and surrounded by people speaking in low voices.
"She's nearly gone now."
"Most likely won't last the night..."
"She's the one, isn't she?"
"Seventy-three and locked in the brain of a child..."
"The poor woman. Completely mad."
"It'll be a mercy when she goes..."
Tears brimming in her eyes, Elizabeth pushed past the lingerers and stood in front of the cracked wooden door. Picking up the worn brass knocker, she looked up at the weathered number on the door: 7. Always seven. Taking in a shuddering breath, she let the knocker fall.
***
I do not know why I write. So many things, so many people... they come, they go... and I do not remember them. I do not... I cannot know them... and I am so tired. So very tired...
***
The door creaked open slowly, revealing a tired and disheveled looking man in nightclothes. He held a lantern out in front of him and smiled when he saw Elizabeth's face.
"Come in, Eliza."
"She is very bad, then, Dr. MacDonald?"
He nodded wordlessly, tired eyes cast to the floor.
Elizabeth ran her fingers through her greying hair.. "I thought as much." She sighed. "Poor sister, what a happy release will be hers. Lost to herself half a century!"†
***
I have felt so alone... I see faces, countless faces, but know none of them. My father comes to me... I hear him sing. I hear the piano... we play together...
***
Elizabeth followed the doctor cautiously up the stairs, watching the light from the lantern cast long shadows on the wood panels of the floor. He stopped in front of a closed door at the end of the hallway, handing her the light.
"This is her room."
***
My dear Philip stands with me now. I am not afraid... no longer afraid. He is there for me... there, always... he beckons now.... Where does he wish for me to go? Mustn't we stay... stay here with Mama... and Papa...
***
Elizabeth opened the door cautiously, holding the lantern out in front of her and peering into the room.
Angelica was there, sitting up in bed and scribbling furiously by the light of a candle. Her white hair was matted and tangled as if she had been tossing and turning all night, and her wrinkled hands shook with the effort of holding a quill. Death was in her very presence. But still she wrote, not looking up as Elizabeth entered.
***
Mama is here now too. Papa and Philip say I must come with them... I do not feel alone... and everything is so light. The dark is... away. It has been here for so long... and now it leaves. Philip takes my hand... I love Philip. Philip, my brother. Always there for me. Mama used to say he was not here, but he is. He is always with me. I was confused. But now they are all here, taking my hands....
***
Elizabeth walked to her sister's bedside, sitting beside her, trying to block out the memory of death in her mind.
YOU ARE READING
Who Tells Her Story?
Historical FictionLittle is known or remembered about her, the unfortunate eldest daughter of Alexander and Eliza Hamilton. Suffering a mental breakdown when her brother Philip was killed in a duel, Angelica Hamilton never recovered her mind. Instead, she lived her l...
