Free Dreams of Glory by Thomas Fleming Page B

hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
    Sing willow, willow, willow
    The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur’d her moans;
    Sing willow, willow, willow;
    Her salt tears fell from her, and soft’ned the stones;
    Sing willow, willow, willow … .

    That’s better, whispered Caesar from the icy darkness.
    â€œWhat a lovely voice,” the congressman said. “I wish you preferred a happier song.”
    Congressman Stapleton sat down beside her on the harpsichord bench. “Is there nothing I can do to assuage that sadness?” he asked.
    â€œI fear not,” she said, her head bowed.
    He turned her face to him and softly kissed her on the lips.
    Kill him, Caesar said. Tell Cato to kill him in my name.
    â€œNo!” she cried, and fled across the room. She found herself face to face with the last thing she wanted to see, a portrait of Caesar and Henry Kuyper as boys. Each was dressed in an elaborate velvet suit, with lace cuffs and a ruffled collar. Caesar gazed up adoringly at his young white master, who sat on a pony. It was madness. Hugh Stapleton would be melting in her arms, if it were not for that dead voice out there in the winter night.
    The congressman was baffled by her conduct. “Madam,” he said, “Have I said or done something that disturbs you?”
    â€œNo,” she said. “You must take me—I can’t offer myself. I’m not a woman of fashion. There are scruples, memories—”
    It was very close to the truth and it penetrated his rake’s mask. He drew her to him with unexpected gentleness. “My dear, I’m not a mere cocksman. I feel a power, a hope of affection in you, beyond anything I’ve ever known.”
    â€œShow me,” she said. “Rescue me—from the past.”
    He took a candle off the harpsichord and led her upstairs. Her bedroom fireplace was aglow with coals, banked by Cato with his usual skill. Before it was a tin tub, filled with water
scented with attar of roses. “I must bathe,” she said, “in spite of winter.”
    â€œIsn’t it dangerous?” he said, amazed. Few Americans bathed between October and June.
    â€œEverything is dangerous,” she said. “Help me.”
    He undid the buttons on the back of her gown and she stepped out of it. Together they unlaced the stays that had added firmness to her soft, plump waist. She slipped the pannier belt that held the little half hoops on her hips and threw those fashionable encumbrances on a chair. Turning, she gave the congressman a swift challenging kiss. She always felt freest when she escaped the confines of the feminine mode, free and wild, equal to the most confident man. She let him unbutton the petticoat and underpetticoat. They slid down her body to a soft heap at her ankles. Mounting the tiny three-step ladder beside the tub, she descended into the warm, scented water.
    Memory flooded her. She saw Caesar beside the tub in the hot summer night, the black soap-flecked hands sliding down her flesh, his own body gleaming like oiled metal. Bitch , he roared at her from his cold coffin. But she had control of her fear now. You are dead, she whispered. I would do anything, give anything, to restore you to life. But it is not possible.
    â€œI need—a little drink of that,” she said, pointing to the laudanum on her night table. Faithful Cato had left a glass of fresh water beside it. She put five drops in the glass and drank it down. Soon Caesar’s voice became more distant; she no longer felt any need to answer him. The congressman’s hands were massaging her back, her breasts, exploring beneath the water the silken hair of love: She smiled and let his tongue probe her mouth. It was the best way to say good-bye to Caesar.
    With no warning Caesar changed into another ghost, Henry Kuyper whispering in Dutch: “Ah, myn Flora, myn Flora.” For a moment she relived the old struggle against