Mr Jefferson is Coming Home (Jamilton)

Chapter 15

By the end of the summer, Thomas was the happiest man in New York. After his first visit, they had found many other occasions to meet and, as soon as Alexander had been strong enough to walk, he'd made up a couple of excuses – that he would go to Mulligan's or to his office – and he'd spent many perfect afternoons and evenings with Thomas, just the two of them at last. Since Alexander was still recovering, they'd spent a lot of time reading in Thomas's library, sitting in the garden, when the evening was warm enough, and playing some duets – Alexander played a bit of piano and Thomas was skilled enough with his violin to transcribe whichever song Alexander's wanted to play. They'd carefully avoided talking about anything that could make Alexander upset, since the doctor had strongly recommended him not to participate in political debates and not to stress in general. However, Alexander was still working on his plans, he sometimes sat at Thomas's desk and wrote pages and pages of essays about the future of manufacturing. Those times, Thomas would look at him snorting and telling him that it was unbelievable to think that he, Jefferson, was lending his desk to Alexander Hamilton to work for the project he despised the most.

"You won't despise it when our manufacturing power will be stronger than Britain's," Alexander would reply, "when we'll be free to have textile products without trading with them anymore."

"Why do you always seem to love Britain when you make your public speeches, and to hate it when we're alone?"

"Because you never really listen, honey."

In the end, Thomas would always drop their arguments – he didn't want to stress him out. He still hadn't told him about his change of feelings, even if they seemed to be plainly written in every look, every gesture and every word Thomas addressed him with – how could Alexander be so blind to his love?

One morning, he went to his study to write down some counter argument to Alexander's plan – he was slowly dropping behind and didn't want to stop fighting for what he believed it was the right thing to do, even if that would mean to oppose the man he loved. He suddenly noticed a book, lying on the floor next to a beautiful ceramic vase he'd bought in France; he picked it up and looked at the cover, remembering the day when he'd retrieved it – it was Machiavelli's Il Principe. He hadn't noticed it the day when he threw the book away in desperation, but there were letters stuffed among the pages. He let the papers fall on the desk and hesitantly started to read the first one. It was dated July 1782, it'd been written during the war, and was signed by Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens. The more Thomas read, the more confused he felt – it seemed as if he was peeping into someone's private love letters and, when he reached the end of the first letter, he couldn't believe what he was looking at.

Adieu, my dear friend; while circumstances place so great a distance between us, I entreat you not to withdraw the consolation of your letters. You know the unalterable sentiments of your affectionate Laurens

Thomas put away the letters signed by J. Laurens and looked at the ones that brought Alexander's handwriting – why would he keep his own letters, if they'd been already sent to someone else?

April 1779

Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you. I shall only tell you that 'till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you.

September 1779

I have written you five or six letters since you left Philadelphia and I should have written you more had you made proper return. But like a jealous lover, when I thought you slighted my caresses, my affection was alarmed and my vanity piqued. I had almost resolved to lavish no more of them upon you and to reject you as an inconstant and an ungrateful —. But you have now disarmed my resentment and by a single mark of attention made up the quarrel.