The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale

by Regina Kammer

  Thus they lived as protectors of the reclaimed New York colony. Clara hated the colonies, so far removed as she was from civilization. She was comfortable enough, yes, as she lived in what passed for an elegant house. It was new, stone and wood, but the ceilings were much too low. Although the general outfitted the rooms with mostly imported proper English furnishings, what was not imported was sham and common befitting simple gentry as the Cuylers were. The fireplace had a mantel painted to look like marble; the woodwork was skilled but never gilded. The food was rustic, the fashions austere, and the people unsophisticated.

  The Americans—loyalists in Chesterton, certainly not English-hating rebels—were all charming and nice to her in pointed contrast to her husband’s indifference. He had not allowed her to bring her own lady’s maid or any other servants from Cirencester. Instead, he hired the entire household staff himself. They were in the middle of a war, he reminded her, and the colonies were filled with spies. Their staff was kept to a bare minimum.

  Her new maid, Annabella, was spirited and the only person Clara knew who could be called a friend. When Annabella wasn’t around chattering away about village life or her betrothed, Redmond, or Clara’s hair and clothes, Clara was lonely. She tried to amuse herself with her husband’s library—which was certainly insufficient as he left the most valuable books back in Gloucestershire—or some gentlewoman’s expected task like embroidery. But what she really missed were the long talks with Mama or the ambling walks with Oliver. Her husband took no interest in her. Had he done so, it might have lessened the pain she felt being away from her true home and family. The general’s neglect only served to heighten her despair and remind her that it would be a long time before she could return to England. She desperately wanted to be pregnant, especially pregnant with the requisite sons.

  The general visited her bed once a week, on Wednesday nights, but there was never the emotion of their first encounter, never the tension, desire, or even the fear. His actions were perfunctory, a chore he had to perform. They both wore their nightdresses, never revealing their bodies. Try as she might, Clara could not charm her husband into her bed on a night other than Wednesday, and not just a few times he was unable to perform due to exhaustion or drink.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, one Monday night, the general went to Clara of his own craving. He had won a little money at the gaming table, had joked and relaxed earlier with his friends, and smelled like tobacco and Madeira. He was in a playful and seductive mood. That night the general took off her nightgown and his own and, for the first time, touched her naked body. His lips and tongue covered each nipple in worshipful kisses, then trailed to her belly. Before he entered her, potently erect, his fingers played in the curls of her mons, dipping lower to spread the honeyed slickness to the sensitive nub, a feeling so rare and intense her body jerked and she let out a little cry. He calmed her with soothing words, then melded her mouth with his as he penetrated her slowly, letting her experience every inch in her eager, aroused state. For one night, their lovemaking was exhilarating, exhausting, and it was never to be such again.

  That was the night, she was absolutely certain, she became pregnant.

  When she told her husband, he merely thanked her with a casual air. She, however, was elated. She considered how far along she must be and counted the days, the weeks, the months the baby was inside her, and how many months she had left. She prayed to God it would be a boy, and secretly hoped it would be twins.

  Clara spread her hand across the slight swell of her belly and looked down onto the yard. The reds and golds of the leaves were a reminder of summer turning into fall, of time marching forward. For once in this horrible backwater of a place, she was happy. Every day her child grew stronger, and every day brought her closer to home.

  Chapter Two

  Annabella gaped at her lover as he pointed to the hayloft with a quirk of his brow. “Not there either, Redmond,” she complained, her hands on her hips.

  Redmond laughed and pulled her to him, a twinkle in his blue-green eyes. “I can think of no place more secluded to enjoy your luscious body, my sweet.” He greedily kissed her mouth.

  For a second, she complied, until the whinny of a horse reminded her where they were. She shook herself free. “I will not go into a hayloft and mess my hair and dress. Lady Strathmore and I will be going to Chesterton this afternoon and I will not look like a harlot.”

  Redmond grabbed her at the waist, securing her easily as he tantalized the sensitive skin of her neck with a slow stroke of his tongue.

  “I will not lie with you in a horse stall nor a hayloft.” This time her protest was a bit more subdued. If it weren’t for the fact that she would not have time to bed her betrothed and fix her hair and dress before doing her duty for her mistress, Annabella would have lain with Redmond anywhere, in any position, damn the hay and smells.

  “I have brought a very large, well-shaken, comfortable blanket for you, my love,” Redmond said, his mouth now at her cleavage. “And you may be on top. Your dress will not get mussed.”

  He did not wait for an answer but grabbed the aforementioned blanket hanging over a stall partition and proceeded up the ladder to the hayloft.

  “Oh, damnation!” Annabella muttered before following him.

  By the time she reached the top, he was already lying on the blanket, his hands laced behind his head, his desire apparent from the bulge at his crotch, his lips spread in a devilishly inviting smile.

  It was precisely that look that had captured her heart six months ago.

  Before she met him, Annabella was just beginning to realize she had something men wanted, and that she wanted something from them in return. From their whispers and entreaties, she discovered her auburn hair, blossoming womanly figure, and new-found coquettishness gave her a certain power with the men in the village, and especially with the soldiers quartered there. And then she caught the attention of General Strathmore. He had come to the village to hire his household staff, his eyes betraying an ulterior motive the moment he espied her. He asked her intimate questions and she responded willingly, ensnared by his seductive charisma. She admitted she was a virgin, and he immediately paid her mother a handsome sum to live in the Strathmore home as the lady’s maid.

  It was the general himself who gave Annabella her first kiss and taught her how to provide particular pleasures to a man with her mouth and tongue.

  Annabella quickly realized she could get whatever she wanted from a man if she promised him a kiss or allowed him a grope or especially if she offered the services of her newly acquired oral skills. She could also withdraw her attentions to punish the men who worked for the Strathmore house. Annabella held sway over the footmen, butler, and boy-of-all-work—who was really a man at eighteen. Never, though, did she part with her virginity.

  Then she met Redmond Moncrief. He was a groom in the Strathmore stables, strong and charming, with chiseled good looks and sandy blond hair, a little older than she—and at first not very interested. Redmond knew the general amused himself with Annabella and grumbled to her that he wanted no part of an illicit affair. Annabella flirted for a bit, then grew indifferent after his unwavering rebuffs. There were plenty of other men to play with.

  But Redmond’s very presence weighed heavily. He was always, simply, there—saddling horses for the general and his men or harnessing a team to the coach for Lady Strathmore, laughing heartily, complimenting freely. She grew very fond of him, and his smiles let her know he responded in kind. One afternoon he announced he utterly burned for her and could no longer resist her, which was just fine as she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  His kiss was genuine, affecting, so different from all the others. It was not a kiss to satisfy a man’s curiosity as to what it was like to taste her full lips, but a kiss meant to be as pleasurable for her as it was for him. She learned from him that a man may kiss a woman in other ways, a kiss that would keep her virtue intact, but imparted unimaginable pleasure.

 
But it wasn’t enough. It didn’t take long for her to give in to their mutually pressing desires. It happened in the utter darkness, in the dead of night, amongst a grove of trees far away from the main house. Redmond promised Annabella he would marry her as soon as the general decided he no longer needed her services.

  They had to keep their relationship secret, although Annabella accidentally told Lady Strathmore. With that admission, Annabella found herself in the middle of a little intrigue. Lord Strathmore must not know about her and Redmond, and Lady Strathmore must not know about her and the general. For a girl of seventeen it was all very exciting.

  And now, here she was with Redmond in the hayloft. She had gone to tell him to prepare the coach when they both realized they were alone in the stable. Nowadays, they took every opportunity they could get, sometimes making love more than once a day, sometimes not for several days.

  This time, it had been at least a day since their last amorous encounter and she was on edge.

  “I see you’re ready for me, love,” whispered Annabella sweetly. As she crawled to him in the hayloft, her thighs chafed and squeezed her sex, already swollen and wet. She immediately set about unbuttoning his fly, swiftly and expertly, licking her lips as his thick eager cock sprang forth proudly once set free. No words passed between them as she pulled up her skirts and straddled him, holding the head of his prick at her entrance. She teased him, wetting the glans with her own slickness, then taking in just the plum tip. She nipped him with her now-expert muscles, clenching and releasing, watching ecstasy spread across his face as he closed his eyes and lolled his head on the blanket.

  But time was not their friend. Their encounters always had to be brief. Redmond gave her a chastising look and grabbed her thighs as the signal to stop her playfulness. She bent over him and gently kissed his lips in response. Then, in one motion, she engulfed his enormous hardness and sucked his tongue into her mouth.

  He encircled her with his strong arms, holding her steadily against him as he thrust into her from below, deeply, resolutely, a man in need of release. His ragged exhales matched his rhythm, while she gripped him with a syncopated beat until her first orgasm overtook her. His would soon follow, but he slowed his pace as he often did, generously allowing her to have as much sensual indulgence as possible.

  Annabella buried her head in his shoulder to muffle her puffs and pants. She had learned not to scream, to not make any noise whatsoever, even as wave after wave of wanton orgiastic joy thrilled her. She knew Redmond’s cues, knew the excited pace of his breathing and the lost look in his eyes that precipitated his crisis. He was there now.

  He let go of her, letting her sit up and take control, even while he continued thrusting. He nodded to her, his twisted expression reflecting the strain of holding out to the last possible moment.

  She rolled to his side then held his cock to the blanket as he came in abundant spurts. He allowed himself to exhale audibly.

  Annabella kissed his heated cheek. “I must be off to my lady, my sweet. I’ll see you when you bring the coach around.” She smoothed down her skirts and descended the hayloft ladder, unable to contain the smile on her face.

  * * * * *

  “…and tell Bridgers I want to talk to him. I have word that he is in Chesterton for a few days.”

  Clara overheard her husband speaking to his aide-de-camp as she took tea and tried to read poetry in the parlor. The sound of his name, Bridgers, sent a rush of warmth to roil her core, making it very difficult to concentrate on Oliver Goldsmith’s lamentation on English village life. Mr. Paul Bridgers was not the handsomest man she had ever met, but he was certainly the most alluring. He was solidly built, somewhere between her age and her husband’s—perhaps thirty—and just a little taller than she, which meant when standing face to face, Clara could look deeply into his lovely, light brown, almost golden eyes. Of course, she almost never gathered up the nerve to look into his eyes. When she was around him, her insides twisted and flipped, she grew overly hot, stammered half the time, and, when she did glance up at his face while speaking to him, had to quickly look down or away so he wouldn’t notice the utter turmoil she was in. Afterward, when they had parted company, regret and displeasure would nag at her, and she would relive every word of their encounter in her head, only then imagining what she should have said. She sometimes thought about him at night alone in her bed, thoughts a woman should only ever have about her husband. Then, if she saw him the next day, embarrassment would overtake her, afraid he could tell what she had been thinking the night before.

  A trip to Chesterton did not always present the chance to see Mr. Bridgers as he lived a little farther north, in the neutral zone. But his work warranted regular visits to the village. He was a sutler who supplied the British army, his myriad and far-reaching connections making him uniquely qualified to procure almost anything of necessity, or even of desire. There were rumors that he worked both sides of the war, as well as talk that his supplies were not simply of the material kind but encompassed transactions of a more venal nature. His indispensability, however, kept him inviolable, and General Strathmore, if he knew of any nefarious dealings, kept his opinions to himself.

  Once Clara knew Mr. Bridgers would be in Chesterton, she made certain to venture out.

  As she climbed into the Strathmore coach with Annabella the next morning, a twinge of self-consciousness pulsed through her. The staff would know there was really no reason for the lady of the house to go into town. She had offered to pick up the few items the cook forgot to have delivered, and had said she needed to visit the seamstress anyway for the fitting of a new riding habit that would accommodate her increasing middle. Yet, the seamstress could come to the house and a boy could be sent for the groceries. Perhaps, she hoped at least, the staff would see that the errands afforded her the rare opportunity to be useful, to relieve the tedious bouts of ennui, to remove herself from her husband’s weighty disregard.

  And even without the prospect of meeting Mr. Bridgers, Clara liked going into Chesterton. The villagers were gracious, and most knew Annabella, so it usually meant, besides the requisite gossiping, learning news of the war. If the war ended soon, she could return home. Surely, her husband would not want to remain stationed in the colonies forever?

  She looked out the window as the coach pulled into the bustling yet rustic shopping street near the dressmaker’s, staring absently as a man cutting a dashing figure in a green frock coat waved at the driver.

  Mr. Bridgers.

  She jerked back against the cushioned leather bench, desperately hoping he had not seen her staring at him. The carriage halted and she struggled against the compulsion to look out the window again. She allowed herself a peek. Mr. Bridgers waited while the footman prepared the coach step, a light breeze coaxing tendrils of brown hair to dance against his temples. The footman opened the door, but it was Mr. Bridgers who offered his hand to help her out. Luckily both their hands were gloved, as she was sure she would burn at his very touch.

  His warm smile liquefied everything inside her. She had to remember to exhale in his presence. When she did, it came out as a humming sigh. “Mr. Bridgers,” she said in too high a pitch. “How lovely to see you.”

  “I saw your crest on the coach and wanted to say hello, my lady.”

  Clara flushed.

  His eyes followed her as she stepped down to the ground beside him. For an endless minute, they gazed at each other, their gloved hands still touching, dreams buzzing about in her head as she beheld a glimmer in his eye betraying something more than simple kindness behind his smile. Clara licked her lips.

  Annabella stuck her head out of the coach door. “Mr. Bridgers!” she exclaimed. “As the footman has disappeared, will you do me the honor?”

  Mr. Bridgers gallantly held out his hand for Annabella. Clara was envious of her maid’s ability to be chatty and personable around him. But, then again, without Annabella’s presence it would be unseemly for Clara to be seen talking to him abou
t anything not strictly business. And, as only her husband handled their business matters, she would never have a chance to speak with Mr. Bridgers without the guardianship of Annabella. It was, as always, Annabella who opened the conversation.

  “What are you doing in town, Mr. Bridgers?”

  “Oh, this and that, Miss Rogers,” he said evasively.

  Annabella beamed at his use of her surname.

  “And yourselves? What brings you to Chesterton on this rather chilly day?” Mr. Bridgers addressed Clara, although he probably knew who would answer.

  “Lady Strathmore is in need of attending to at the seamstress’s shop.” Annabella grinned, then leaned in as if telling a secret. “You see, she is with child.”

  Clara flashed a stern look at her maid. Annabella knew such things should not be discussed in polite company. Her rebuke, however, dissolved to abashment as Mr. Bridgers turned his attention to her again. For just the briefest of moments, she saw disappointment flit across his face, but it was gone so quickly she could not be sure.

  He took both her hands in his, his grasp warm and secure. “Then I am to congratulate you, my lady,” he said graciously, holding her gaze with his own, a gaze so penetrating she could feel the joy dancing in the amber flecks.

  “Thank you,” she responded demurely, trying very hard to control the flush suffusing her skin.

  He placed her arm around his. “I’ll walk with you to the dressmaker’s, my lady.”

  Her hand curved over his well-muscled arm, her fingers itching to stroke and explore, their compulsion provoking fantasies of his arms around her, while his closeness stoked the simmering heat below her belly. She steadied herself against him with their first step, shifting her weight, only to discover a luscious dampness between her thighs. She looked away, certain he could tell.

  “Yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” she managed.