by Lake, Deryn
The Governor’s Ladies
Deryn Lake
© Deryn Lake 2006
Deryn Lake has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2006 by Allison & Busby Limited.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Acknowledgements
Historical Note
For Mark Dunton – star archivist, and for Judy Flower – star astrologer.
Prologue
April 18th, 1775
He sat in the dimness, not a candle lit in the room, watching the moon rise through the window; at last putting an end to that terrible and frantic day. The moonlight made a path to his feet and he noticed, almost absentmindedly, that it was reflecting in the silver buckles of his best shoes. Why, he found himself thinking, had he bothered to put them on? Why, on this night of all nights, when the future of the country that he loved so well lay in the most almighty jeopardy, had he bothered to change from his sensible boots and don his fancy footwear? But he was aware of the answer without thinking further. It was because he was to see her within the hour, risking her future to get the information he so desperately needed. For she would know the final details, that much he was certain of. She would be able to provide the missing part of the jigsaw.
He pictured her as he sat in the moonshine, turning his feet this way and that so that his buckles reflected a million diamond shafts. Saw in his mind’s eye her dark hair, full of light despite its midnight shade, the luminous, almost transparent, quality of her skin. Above all, though, he pictured her eyes: their dreamy dark amber in which a man could lose himself and drown. These were the reasons why he, the most practical yet visionary of men, had changed his clothes. Because in her presence he must always attempt to look his best.
Shaking his head at his own vulnerability, Dr. Joseph Warren stood up and crossed to gaze at himself in the gilt-edged overmantel mirror, an elegant piece given to him at the time of his wedding to his frail young bride, only a few sad years ago. The glass was full of moonlight, dazzling him, but still a grey image of himself gazed back. He looked a little mad, Joseph thought, light blue eyes staring and tie wig askew. He straightened it, fingered his cravat like an anxious suitor, then went to sit down again, still as a statue in the shadows, thinking of the momentous times that lay ahead and the part in them that it was his destiny to play.
He had risen early, as had many others of that nervous town’s inhabitants, but this day he had not worked, cancelling patients so that his appointment book had become empty and he had been free to use his office as a clearing house for information. There he had received messages and rumours of such an alarming nature that, at noon, he had gone to the harbour to take a look for himself. He had strolled there with nonchalance in his very gait, not wishing to draw attention to the fact that he was out and about. For his was a well-known face, that of a marked trouble-maker, of that most dangerous of things, an intellectual free thinker.
At the waterfront there had been a great deal to observe. It seemed to Joseph, watching closely, that the British must have been active all morning long, though the word British was a misnomer as far as he was concerned. He was British, as were all the people of Massachusetts. It was the troops sent from London, even the Governor himself, who were the interlopers.
Leaning on a mooring bollard, his hat shielding his face, Joseph had stared out over the water. Moored in the harbour were the towering warships HMS Somerset and HMS Boyne. From them, distinctly audible on the flirty April breeze, came the thin whistle of boatswains’ pipes, while sailors bustled about the longboats moored beneath the great ships’ mighty salt-stained sterns. If ever there had been a scene of preparation, Joseph thought, this was indeed it. The Regulars were getting ready for some kind of action. The question was, what exactly?
He had shifted position slightly, his light blue gaze taking in the Long Wharf. A great many Redcoat officers were striding about and the observer noticed that a knot of them had gathered on the far end, the part of the jetty that extended right out into the water of Massachusetts Bay. Dr. Joseph Warren smiled ironically. It was the one place in town where they would be totally out of earshot, away from those damned inquisitive Yankees, as the Regulars thought of them. The very fact that the officers had chosen to meet there indicated quite clearly that a game of enormous magnitude was afoot. Grim-faced, the physician had turned and walked slowly homeward.
As the day progressed, the town of Boston had reached boiling point. During the afternoon sailors had come ashore, ostensibly to run errands, but in reality to visit the taverns and the whores. Their careless talk only confirmed what the inhabitants had already guessed: that the boats had been ordered to stand by in readiness. Joseph, sitting in his office, had received nothing but visits and messages from fellow members of the Long Room Club, the secret society which flourished as an inner wheel of the Whig movement in Boston. But not only they had called. Ordinary folk, knowing his position as a declared revolutionary, had come to see him, expressing their alarm and agitation. The hostile preparations taking place had sent a frisson of fear throughout the entire township.
Finally Paul Revere, the silversmith and avowed patriot, had come through the door, his broad, stocky frame momentarily blotting out the light before he had hurled himself into a chair. He had regarded Warren from beneath the high arched brows which gave him a permanently quizzical expression.
“What are they up to?” he had said briefly.
“They are clearly going on the offensive,” Joseph had answered, stating the obvious.
“Yes. But where, how, and what for?”
“God alone knows that.”
Revere had barked a laugh. “God and your highly placed informant, no doubt.”
“Even they might not know.”
The silversmith had shaken his dark head. “They? There’s only one God and one spy close to the high command. Are you referring to both of them?”
“Of course not.”
“In other words your choice of the plural noun is an attempt not to reveal whether your informant is male or female.”
“This is old ground, Paul. You know I am sworn to silence. You won’t prise it out of me.”
“Not even in circumstances as grim as these?”
“Not now, not ever. It is a trust I will never betray. Now leave the subject alone,
I beg you. It is a secret that will go with me to the grave.”
Even saying the words made him shiver suddenly.
The fleshy face of Joseph’s visitor broke into a broad grin. “Have it your own way. But let me say this much. You must meet with your spy, whoever he might be. It is essential that we know what is going on.”
The doctor had nodded solemnly. “I realise that.”
“Have you sent a message already?”
“No, I hesitate on the brink. They would be putting themselves in such grave danger.”
Revere had sprung lightly to his feet, moving swiftly for a man growing heavy. “You make it sound as if it is the Governor himself.”
“Perhaps it is,” Joseph answered, and laughed without any humour at all.
*
After Paul Revere had left, the physician had finally made his decision. He must arrange to meet her. In the present uncertainty it was imperative he use every means at his disposal to discover the plans of the enemy. Reluctant though he was to place her in such peril, he had no option. Slowly and deliberately, as if he were tolling a funeral knell, the doctor had rung the bell on his desk.
His Negro slave, Jacob, had answered almost immediately, his dark face so intent that Joseph wondered whether the servant had guessed already why he had been called.
“You want me, master?”
“Yes. Jake, you must go to the lady. You know who I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes, master.”
“Make your way to the trademan’s entrance and give this note to her maid. Say it must be placed in the lady’s hand and hers alone; tell the maid those are your orders or you will be whipped.”
“Yes, master.”
As he had been speaking the doctor had been writing, putting the address of a well-known glove maker at the top of the paper, together with the date, April 18, 1775. The message had been short and simple.
‘Your gloves are now ready for your approval and we would appreciate that you call at our shop at nine-thirty or thereabouts.’
They had worked out this simple code between them long ago, half jestingly deciding on the wording that would bring her to him when the need was sufficiently desperate. Joseph had always hoped that he would never be forced to use it, having made the mistake of falling madly in love with the spy to whom he attached the greatest importance of all. But now the situation was too critical, the tension in Boston too overpowering, for him to hesitate longer. With a sigh, the doctor handed the slave the sealed piece of paper.
“You’re to run, Jacob. Go like the wind. But be calm when you get there. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”
Jake rolled his large dark eyes. “Should I put on my livery, master?”
“No. Go as you are. If anyone asks where you have come from, you work for Quincy the glove maker. Do you understand?”
The Negro nodded. “Yes, master.”
Then he had left, his long-limbed body moving as swiftly as only one of his ancestry could. Watching him disappear down the street, Joseph had prayed that the message would get through, that nothing would stop the slave in his tracks. There were Regulars and sailors everywhere but why should a fast-moving black man attract particular attention? Unless fate were going to play a cruel trick on them all.
*
By the time Jacob returned, breathless and in a sorry state, the doctor had changed his clothes and washed himself. Then he sat in his chair and watched his buckles wink and gleam in the path of moonlight until the black man, gasping but triumphant, had come to his room.
“Well?” Joseph had said shortly.
“Yes, I done well, master. I delivered the letter into the maid’s hands, directly so.”
“And?”
“And nothin’, master. I turned round and come away.”
It had been too much to hope that she would answer immediately but still Joseph experienced a slight thrill of disappointment.
Jacob looked at the floor. “Did you want me to wait, Sir?”
The doctor shook his head and stood up. “No, Jake, you did right to leave and not hang around. Go to the kitchen and have your supper. I’m going out now”
“Very good, master.”
With the slave gone, the doctor took one last look round his room in case he never saw it again, then putting on his hat and cloak he left swiftly, hurrying through the dark streets of Boston, aware of the atmosphere of danger which accompanied his every step.
*
The stables were dark, the only illumination being two candles in tin holders which stood at either end beneath the windows, throwing a meagre light. He had crept through the hedge at the back of the house’s outbuildings, terrified lest he should be spotted in the bright moonlight. But nobody had challenged him, even though at the main entrance to the building two soldiers, formally dressed, paraded night and day. But for all that Joseph hung back, waiting a good few moments in the shadow of the coach house, until he cautiously approached the stables and slipping back the huge wooden latch, entered.
Immediately the smell of horseflesh assailed his nostrils, that and the stamp and whinny of beasts as they settled for the night. Muttering softly under his breath, Joseph entered the loosebox that contained the mount of the Governor’s wife. She was a mettlesome black mare who banged her feet on the ground as he went in, but he continued to talk soothingly and eventually she quietened and went back to munching softly.
Then two things happened simultaneously. He heard the heavy latch rise, then quietly be placed back, and the heady scent of hyacinths suddenly filled the air. She had come to him.
“Here,” he called, his voice scarcely above a whisper.
There was a movement, a rustling, as she quietly traversed the distance between them and then her cloaked figure appeared in the entrance.
“You’ve come,” he said in wonderment, then drew her into the shadows to stand beside him.
She glanced round swiftly. “You mustn’t stay long. The place is crawling with soldiers.”
Her great amber eyes were staring at him so earnestly that for a few moments he was rendered absolutely speechless.
“Besides I might be missed. I’m supposed to be getting ready for bed,” she added.
The doctor recovered himself slightly, gasping, “You have put yourself in the gravest danger. How can I thank you?”
“By telling me what you want to know,” she said, then suddenly smiled. “That came out more abruptly than I meant. Forgive me.”
“No, you’re right. The Regulars are on the move, aren’t they? Where are they going?”
She leant towards him, her perfume filling the air between them, then suddenly she froze. The latch on the stable door had lifted once more. Pulling him downwards she and the doctor crouched side by side in the shadows, not saying a word.
Somebody unknown had entered the stables and was walking slowly from loosebox to loosebox, peering inside each one. The same somebody was also whistling tunelessly and very softly to himself.
She laid a finger over her lips to indicate absolute silence. Joseph became terribly aware that she was just inches away from him and found himself considering the link between danger and the heightening of sexual tension. However, she remained totally unaware of his thoughts and stayed quiet, listening to the stranger’s movements. A mouse scuttled in the darkness, only a few inches from where they lay hidden.
“Who’s there?” called a voice.
It was a stable lad, that much was obvious from his tone, and Joseph felt her give an inaudible sigh of relief. But for all that she pulled him into the deepest shadows and not a moment too soon. A lanthorn flashed in the loosebox doorway and the intruder was upon them.
“Who’s there?” he said again.
With one final concealing push at the doctor she stepped into the lanthorn light.
“Good evening, Dick,” she said.
The boy jumped so violently that he almost dropped his light. “Oh, it’s you, Madam,” he stuttered. “I wasn’t e
xpecting you to be here.”
“I came to look at my mare. I think she was a little off-colour today. In fact I’m going to sit with her for a half hour.”
Dick regained courage. “Oh, there’s no need for that, Madam. That’s my job. I’ll see to her.”
She smiled beautifully. “No, though I do thank you for the offer. You finish your rounds and I’ll just stay here a while. I’ll be perfectly all right.”
“Are you sure, Madam? It’s no trouble to me.”
“I’m certain of it. Animals are just like people, you know. When they are not well they like to have their own close at hand.”
Dick bowed stubbily. “Very well, Madam. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
He moved away, rather slowly Joseph thought, and after what seemed like an eternity they heard him raise the stable latch and go out. The physician stepped out of the shadows.
“I can’t stay here any longer,” she whispered. “He might raise the alarm. Listen, the march is tonight. They’re going to Concord to burn the ammunition stores, and Lexington to arrest Adams and Hancock.”
“Are they travelling by land or by sea?”
“Sea.”
He cupped her face in his hands. “The warnings will go out this very night. We’ll be waiting for them, never fear.”
She smiled faintly but her gorgeous eyes were dark and troubled. “I beg you to feel no guilt,” Joseph added.
The spy he loved shook her head. “I’m afraid you have asked the impossible. I shall bear this burden till the day I die.”
“Let me shoulder the responsibility. Blame me for forcing your hand.”
His informant shook her head. “I’m sorry, Joseph, that excuse won’t do.”
“What can I say?” he answered helplessly.
Then all propriety, all decorousness, all standards of good behaviour and etiquette, flew out of the window in one brief and wonderful moment. Bending his head, Joseph Warren did what he had been wanting to do all day. He kissed her full on the lips, his intense love for her heightened to breaking point by the crisis in which they found themselves.
