Free Dreams of Glory by Thomas Fleming

am beginning to hate. For a moment behind her
smile she was virtually paralyzed by a spasm of grief. She could see Caesar in his coffin in the icy barn, his angry eyes closed, his proud mouth slack with death’s nothingness. This American, who stood here paying her compliments, may have been one of his killers.
    The congressman was admiring her furniture. “It makes me wish this damned war would end somehow and I could regain my house in New York. It was furnished much like this. I, too, am fond of Chippendale.”
    â€œWill the war ever end?” Flora asked.
    â€œSome people think it could last another ten years, provided the British remain as inert as we are.”
    â€œWhat if the British roused themselves?”
    â€œI prefer not to think about that, although circumstances seem to be forcing my mind in that direction. I’ve just spent four days in Morristown. Washington’s army is a collection of half-starved scarecrows.”
    â€œThe thought of a British victory fills me with horror,” Flora said. “I know I have nothing to fear from it. I suppose it’s my French blood.”
    â€œAllow me to disagree with that kind of national antagonism, madam,” Hugh Stapleton said. “I’m inclined to think we have a perfect right to like or dislike individuals, but it makes no sense to dislike an entire nation. Such prejudices cut us off from a vast range of potential friendships. You think of yourself as French. Should I dislike you because my father fought your countrymen in the north woods twenty years ago?”
    â€œI would hope not,” Flora said, letting her voice surround the negative words with a positive invitation.
    â€œJust so. We have idiots in Congress who think that way. But I am not one of them. I have friends in England whom I hope to see and love again, though I have opposed the greedy, aggrandizing policy of their government which gave our New England fanatics the excuse they wanted to start this stupid war.”

    â€œI’m amazed to find such detachment of mind in a politician,” Flora said.
    Hugh Stapleton liked that. He liked to think of himself as educating—perhaps even creating—a woman’s mind in his image. Flora decided that she would have to appear naive without becoming stupid.
    â€œIt’s a product of philosophy, Mrs. Kuyper. Without reflection, what are we? No better than beasts. Detachment enables us to find our way through life with a maximum of pleasure and a minimum of pain. To enjoy our liberty, madam, that’s the important thing.”
    â€œI’ve never felt the exhilaration of such freedom,” Flora said. “Perhaps because I’m a woman. Or because I’ve been unfortunate.”
    â€œBut now your fortune has turned, madam. You sit here, sole heiress to the Kuyper estate, the finest three hundred acres in New Jersey. I’m surprised this parlor is not thronged with suitors all the day long.”
    Flora smiled, acknowledging the compliment. “I felt a year’s mourning was required.”
    â€œSo you’ve gone to church every Sunday and let old Dominie Demarest put you to sleep?”
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œWe have an even bigger bore in Hackensack, Dominie Freylinghuysen. My wife insists on my going, for the children’s sake. But I’m not a believer.”
    â€œNor am I.”
    â€œA woman after my own mind,” Congressman Stapleton said, tossing down the last of his wine. “You’re in danger of making me regret I married young. If I were free, madam, you might find me at the head of that throng of suitors you’ll soon be facing. And I assure you that my interest would not be in your three hundred acres.”
    â€œIf you insist on teasing me with these compliments, the regret will be more on my side,” Flora said.
    Cato summoned them to dinner. The dining room’s cut-glass
chandelier glistened in the candleglow from the