The 20th of June, 1790.

It was an ordinary summer's day-- the kind where the sun bathed everything in a warm golden glow and the air was thick with the sweet scent of blooming flowers. The day had been warring on with unmatchable heat, people's voices being heard throughout the city's streets and echoing along darker alleyways.

Eliza's 'dear' husband Alexander Hamilton was out to have dinner with his political rivals, James Madison and Thomas Jefferson. He left both her and their three sons and one daughter alone at home.

By now the street lights had been lit by the local lamplighters, somewhat brightening dim streets where children were still outside playing and men worked.

On the other hand, Eliza Hamilton, daughter of prominent political figure Philip Schuyler, mother of four, and wife of Secretary of Treasury Alexander Hamilton, was sat at her home in New York City, New York, with a dear friend.

Eliza had just brewed a fragrant pot of tea, the steam curling like wisps of smoke as it escaped from the spout. Now, in her charming tea room—a little haven filled with the golden glow of soft lamplight—she settled into her inviting armchair, its upholstery warm and velvety against her skin. The rich aroma of tea mingled beautifully with the subtle perfume of jasmine wafting in from a nearby vase, enhancing the intimate ambiance of their shared moment. You had been over for around an hour now, primarily helping with jobs and tidying up after the children. You had been a remarkable patron saint to the Hamiltons; it was a shame that so many overlooked your presence when you were around.

"Thank you for helping me today, dear, I may not have finished the chores without you," Mrs. Hamilton's voice cut through the comfortable, ambient silence that the room had gained, picking up her tea cup with calloused but gentle hands only after brushing off whatever dust may have lingered on her dress.

"I do hope you know that, despite the work we've done today, you look absolutely stunning," Eliza complimented after taking a short sip of tea, her eyes locked on yours, full of an emotion that one could not play down was simply "friendship between women." It held so much more than that-- it held the kind of devotion you find in the eyes of a woman at her wedding, seeing her husband in front of her at the altar.