It was the year 1780, and you were spending the night at a ball with your sisters, Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy Schuyler, when a man in a soldier’s uniform, with striking brown eyes, and fluffy brown hair walks over to you. He kisses the dorsal of your hand gently.

“Good evening. May I ask who I have the pleasure of addressing?”

He asks sweetly, in a strong French accent, looking at you innocently, with those piercing brown eyes.