they may claim,” Anatole Corbus said, taking a long draught of wine and staring pointedly across the table at Mr. Woodbury.
"No? Then what was it about?" asked Lord Marlowe blankly, who had enjoyed the excellent Bordeaux so well that he was having trouble following the conversation.
“As it happens, my cousin is right. It was not about taxes, it was about freedom,” Mr. Woodbury said, his slight smile becoming tighter.
“No, the war was about land ,” Corbus said, his face flushed. “You Americans are greedy for it. Admit it. The country is full of all you could wish for and yet you're never satisfied. Even before Yorktown your compatriots were swarming westward in violation of Britain’s treaty with the Indians. Now, any penniless wastrel with an ox and a plow can cross the mountains and have an estate as large as that of a duke or an earl. That's what you gained by treason against your king and motherland! You may as well admit it.”
Lord Marlowe blinked as his flushed head swiveled from one of his guests to the others. Despite his seat in Parliament, his interests ran no further than hunting and fishing, and he was not used to heated political debates at his table.
The gray-haired, plain-dressed American's face turned dark red. His daughter shot him a warning look. “Papa—”
“Greed?” Mr. Woodbury threw down his fork. “I am heartily ashamed so many of my countrymen have failed to keep promises made to the natives of our land and have no doubt that this sin will someday come down upon our heads. But greed is not a uniquely American vice. Look about you! Whose labor pays for a fine estate like this? For the wines, the servants?”
Anatole tossed aside his napkin before Lord Marlowe could react to this ill-considered attack on his generosity as host. “If you're referring to the sugar plantations I own in the West Indies—” he began.
“I do not need to look that far. Right here in England, there is a chasm between the rich and the poor so great the classes might as well be different species, rather than God's children, equally valuable in His eyes. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Lord Marlowe, but in America you'll find no beggars as I saw on the streets of London. Our country is made of honest, hard-working yeomen, who expect only what they can wrest by the labor of their own hands. To us, one man is as good as another. It is only upon such people that freedom can be founded, and thank providence, we have obtained it.”
Anatole' eyes narrowed. “One man as good as another to you, I presume, except the Indian and the black man?”
Mr. Woodbury's face flushed darker. “I acknowledge that we have made errors. But we are forging a new nation from a wilderness, a feat which has never been done before. Perfection will not be reached in one generation, or ten. But when my countrymen have finished, I shall wager my last penny that Europe will look at us with admiration and envy.”
There was a brief pause while Lord Marlowe took a sip of his Bordeaux and regarded it as if wishing it were something stronger. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he said soothingly, although no one appeared to hear him.
Anatole's smile revealed sharp teeth. “Spoken like a true brother-in-arms to your new president, John Adams. How was your presentation in court, by the way? Has the king fully recovered from his recent illness?”
Lord Marlowe looked relieved by the return to a topic he could follow, and he dug into his saddle of beef with new appetite as Mr. Woodbury acknowledged Anatole's change in subject with a bow of the head. The American's color returned to normal, and he seemed ashamed of himself.
“Your king was more gracious than I would have expected, considering the circumstances of our colonies' separation,” he admitted. “Still, nothing will suit me better than to return to my own home in Cambridge.”
“And when will that be?” Wine had made Maeve brave enough to join the conversation. Her hand
"No? Then what was it about?" asked Lord Marlowe blankly, who had enjoyed the excellent Bordeaux so well that he was having trouble following the conversation.
“As it happens, my cousin is right. It was not about taxes, it was about freedom,” Mr. Woodbury said, his slight smile becoming tighter.
“No, the war was about land ,” Corbus said, his face flushed. “You Americans are greedy for it. Admit it. The country is full of all you could wish for and yet you're never satisfied. Even before Yorktown your compatriots were swarming westward in violation of Britain’s treaty with the Indians. Now, any penniless wastrel with an ox and a plow can cross the mountains and have an estate as large as that of a duke or an earl. That's what you gained by treason against your king and motherland! You may as well admit it.”
Lord Marlowe blinked as his flushed head swiveled from one of his guests to the others. Despite his seat in Parliament, his interests ran no further than hunting and fishing, and he was not used to heated political debates at his table.
The gray-haired, plain-dressed American's face turned dark red. His daughter shot him a warning look. “Papa—”
“Greed?” Mr. Woodbury threw down his fork. “I am heartily ashamed so many of my countrymen have failed to keep promises made to the natives of our land and have no doubt that this sin will someday come down upon our heads. But greed is not a uniquely American vice. Look about you! Whose labor pays for a fine estate like this? For the wines, the servants?”
Anatole tossed aside his napkin before Lord Marlowe could react to this ill-considered attack on his generosity as host. “If you're referring to the sugar plantations I own in the West Indies—” he began.
“I do not need to look that far. Right here in England, there is a chasm between the rich and the poor so great the classes might as well be different species, rather than God's children, equally valuable in His eyes. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Lord Marlowe, but in America you'll find no beggars as I saw on the streets of London. Our country is made of honest, hard-working yeomen, who expect only what they can wrest by the labor of their own hands. To us, one man is as good as another. It is only upon such people that freedom can be founded, and thank providence, we have obtained it.”
Anatole' eyes narrowed. “One man as good as another to you, I presume, except the Indian and the black man?”
Mr. Woodbury's face flushed darker. “I acknowledge that we have made errors. But we are forging a new nation from a wilderness, a feat which has never been done before. Perfection will not be reached in one generation, or ten. But when my countrymen have finished, I shall wager my last penny that Europe will look at us with admiration and envy.”
There was a brief pause while Lord Marlowe took a sip of his Bordeaux and regarded it as if wishing it were something stronger. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he said soothingly, although no one appeared to hear him.
Anatole's smile revealed sharp teeth. “Spoken like a true brother-in-arms to your new president, John Adams. How was your presentation in court, by the way? Has the king fully recovered from his recent illness?”
Lord Marlowe looked relieved by the return to a topic he could follow, and he dug into his saddle of beef with new appetite as Mr. Woodbury acknowledged Anatole's change in subject with a bow of the head. The American's color returned to normal, and he seemed ashamed of himself.
“Your king was more gracious than I would have expected, considering the circumstances of our colonies' separation,” he admitted. “Still, nothing will suit me better than to return to my own home in Cambridge.”
“And when will that be?” Wine had made Maeve brave enough to join the conversation. Her hand
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