by Lake, Deryn
Just for a fraction of a second she melted against him, then she drew back, not in disgust or anger, but because she must.
“Goodbye, Joseph,” she whispered.
“Have I offended you?”
“You could never do that. Now hurry. There’s much to be done this night.”
“It shall be as you say,” he answered solemnly, and bowed to her before slipping out into the dangerous darkness and taking what action he must to start the great struggle for independence.
PART ONE – MARGARET
Chapter One
Christmas, 1756
It had not been an easy journey. The stage coach had departed on its three day trip to New York in reasonably good weather, but by the time the horses had negotiated the horse ferry, situated at the most southerly point of Manhattan Island, it had started to snow. Thomas Gage, a moderately tall man who had not enjoyed the cramped conditions in which he travelled, made this an excuse to rise to his feet. Apologising to a small, nervous lady into whose virginal lap he had almost fallen as the coach jolted over the track leading from the docks, he stuck his head out of the window and announced cheerfully, “It’ll be a blizzard soon. I’ve seen this kind of weather before.”
His friend and travelling companion, Robert Hunter Morris, looked up from the two-day-old newspaper he was studying. “The eternal optimist as ever,” he replied drily, smiling to himself at the extreme Englishness of Tom’s accent, which contrasted so vividly with his own Philadelphian tones.
Tom sat down again, carefully avoiding the spinster, who was now regarding him with something of an uneasy interest, her gaze wandering over his well-cut military uniform and the highly trained body it clothed. Gage, feeling her eyes upon him, gave a bow from the waist which made her grow pale, purse her lips and look rapidly away. Robert grinned more than ever and announced to the assembled company, “Just ignore my friend. He’s an eccentric Englishman.”
Most of the other occupants of the coach’s interior – for further unfortunate passengers were travelling on the roof – nodded at this and even smiled a little. After all it was Christmas and the year was 1756. Though there were murmured complaints about the Parliament and King George II who tried to rule them from London, the colonists were pleased in the main with the way their new and exciting country was developing.
A merchant returning to his home in New York, eyed Tom reflectively. “My father hailed from England. Where were you born?”
“In Sussex. Was he also?”
“No, in Devon. Is that close by?”
“I’m afraid not,” Tom answered, straight-faced.
“Ah.”
The merchant relapsed into silence, then a voice spoke from the corner. “Are you by any chance Colonel Thomas Gage, Sir?”
“That’s correct,” Tom answered, peering in the direction of a bundle wrapped in a black cloak that had joined them at the last coaching stop and so far on this leg of the journey had not revealed whether it was even conscious. “Have we met?”
“No, Sir,” the bundle replied, “but I too am English. Rupert Germain. You were at Westminster with my brother Lord George. He has a sketch of you at home.” The bundle stretched and revealed itself as a pale young man with no wig and over-long fair hair.
“My dear friend,” said Tom, giving another bow from his cramped position, “I’m delighted to meet you. George and I were close friends.”
“So he told me. A small world, is it not?” Rupert answered, returning the salutation.
“Very. So what are you doing making your way to New York City?”
“I have friends there and am to spend Christmas with them. I’ve just come down from Oxford and thought I’d try to make my way in the Colonies. Younger son and all that.”
“Have you considered the army?”
“I have considered and rejected. I’m far too puny for any such venture.”
“Let us speak of it another time,” Tom answered. “Where will you be staying?”
“With some cousins of mine, name of O’Rourke. The Irish side of the family. And you?”
“With my cousins, the Peacocks,” put in Robert. “We shall probably run into you. Everyone knows everyone in New York’s small community.”
“If they have money,” said the merchant, sombrely.
“That’s certainly true,” added his wife. “But the poor know one another as well. They have a strong sense of fellowship.”
“We’re all colonists, Mam. Rich and poor alike,” the spinster said meekly.
“Well voiced, Madam,” Robert answered. “I’d like to think that the American territories are breeding a nation of equals.”
“I doubt there could ever be such a thing,” said Tom thoughtfully. “You’re a cynic,” replied his friend.
“Not at all, just a realist.”
They lapsed into silence, watching the dense swirl of snowflakes. The carriage had left the docks behind it and was currently making its way up Broad Street when it suddenly lurched to a stop at the corner of Mill Street, dominated by a huge mill. The spinster stood up, looking apologetic.
“By prior arrangement,” she announced to the assembled company. “I live here with my brother. We were both born in this house,” she added with a touch of pride.
Tom lowered the window and putting his arm through, opened the door. “Allow me to escort you, Madam.”
“I’ll carry your luggage,” said Rupert Germain, rising to his feet. She looked almost girlish. “How nice to be attended by two English gentlemen.”
“A pleasure,” answered Tom, and jumping down into the snowstorm, lifted her out of the coach, placing her on her feet and escorting her to her door before bowing and returning to his seat.
Some twenty minutes later the coach had reached its final destination and was depositing its passengers at the coaching inn in Broad Way. A small black carriage was drawn up outside its doors awaiting Rupert Germain, and a slightly larger, grander equipage for the other two men. The merchant and his wife, who clearly lived very close by, were met by a bevy of black slaves who hoisted their luggage onto their backs and set off through the snow. The passengers who had travelled on the roof staggered into the hostelry in a body to warm themselves before proceeding to their final destinations.
Rupert, looking very pale and slender in the white surroundings, shivered in the depths of his dark cloak.
“Gentlemen, farewell. No doubt we shall meet again.”
“No doubt,” said Robert Hunter Morris. “I take it you have been invited to the Van Cortlandts’ Christmas Eve Assembly? The whole of town seems to be going.”
“My cousins wrote to me that my name was on the guest list.”
“Then we shall see you there.”
“I look forward to it.” Rupert turned to Tom Gage and bowed very low. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Colonel. George speaks of you often and with great affection. Your servant, Sir.”
With that he climbed into the waiting carriage and was gone, waving a pale hand which he rapidly withdrew because of the freezing conditions.
“A bit of a lily, that one,” said Robert, watching him depart. “Probably, but likeable for all that.”
“I’ve nothing against them as long as they leave me alone.”
“Now you sound like my father,” said Tom, and chuckled. “When you’ve been in the army as long as I have, you learn to accept everyone. If you fight and pee alongside ’em, you’ve very little choice in the matter.”
“I might add that in my experience being the head man also brings you in touch with humanity in all its glory.”
“I thought you didn’t want that mentioned, that you were travelling incognito.”
“So I am,” answered the handsome and brilliant Governor of Pennsylvania as he stepped into the coach that awaited them.
*
Though New York City was very far from large, it had several fine buildings to its credit; a city hall, a library and the beautiful Trinity Church being amongst t
he most imposing. At the other end of the scale to these gracious structures lay the darker side of the new developments; the public slave market where human beings were auctioned off like so many cowering cattle. Thomas, like many others of his time, was ambivalent about the slave trade, considering it part of normal living. However, he at least treated black people with a gruff politeness, addressing them by their names, that is if he had made the effort to discover what they were called.
But tonight, Christmas Eve, nothing could have been farther from his thoughts as he settled back in the coach, once again in the company of Robert Hunter Morris, this time heading for the Van Cortlandts’ vast estate which lay close to the Hudson River.
He was in an odd mood, half homesick, half longing to put the past behind him. Two years earlier, in the autumn of 1754, he had sailed for England’s American Colonies with his regiment, their purpose to fight the French who had started sniping once more at British forces scouting in the interior. But he had left behind more than his country of birth when the ship slipped out of harbour. Tom Gage had been convinced that he also left in England his heart, buried in the grave of his fragile, enchanting mistress, who had been snatched from his arms by a tragic and untimely death.
Yet, it seemed to him, and he acknowledged the fact with a certain reluctance, that, at last, time, the great healer, was at work. For Tom had started noticing women again, indeed was ready, though even to admit it to himself seemed disloyal, for a love affair. Sexual needs were, of course, catered for by the host of women, some of considerable rank and fortune, who followed the army wherever it went. Yet these feelings were different. The Colonel was ready to be swept off his feet and fall in love once more.
“You’re very quiet,” said the Governor of Pennsylvania with such a knowing air that Tom thought for one disconcerting moment that he must have spoken his thoughts out loud.
“I’m sorry. I was preoccupied.”
“Well, come back to earth. We’ll soon be there and you will be one of the main attractions. There’s nothing like an English aristocrat to boost a hostess’s guest list.”
“Oh, come now. I’m hardly that.”
“Your brother is a Viscount and these rich Dutch settlers adore a representative of the old British order.”
“Now you’re making me nervous.”
“You? The most elegant man in the army? And don’t pretend you don’t know it.”
Robert’s flat Philadelphian tones were starting to make the Colonel smile even without the content of his words.
“My dear chap, you are overdoing it.”
The Governor pealed with mirth and slapped his thigh. “Say that to them, just like that, they’ll love it. Your accent is preposterously wonderful.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Of course I am. You’re so delightfully old school.”
“That young man in the coach was the same.”
“He’ll be as big a draw as yourself, mark my words. Now brace up and straighten that amazing red uniform of yours. There are going to be some beautiful women there tonight.”
Despite himself, Tom felt his interest quicken. “Oh?” he said non-chalantly.
The Governor grinned. “Believe me, the wealthy Dutch spend a fortune on their daughters: gowns, friseurs, jewels, everything. Even the ugly ones contrive to look lovely.”
“All this in order to marry more money I take it?”
“That or an English title.”
Tom chuckled in the darkness of the coach’s interior. “Then I’ll hardly qualify.”
“Nonsense. You are very well connected.”
“If you say so,” answered the Colonel, pleased despite himself.
*
They had left Manhattan or New York Island – that long, thin, streak of a place – by way of the King’s Bridge, a stout wooden construction built near Blue Bell Head, on the island’s most northerly tip. Now they plunged through forests, making their way along the valley beside Tetards Hill, to where, close to a place called Younker, lay the Van Cortlandts’ mighty estate. Turning in through the biggest set of gates he had ever seen, Tom reckoned they travelled another four miles before the house came into view.
It was enormous, a great pillared spread almost twice the size of Firle Place. In fact, the Colonel found himself gaping like a child at the sheer enormity of the building.
“Impressed?” asked Hunter Morris.
“Very much so,” Tom answered. “These people must be as rich as Croesus.”
“Oh, they are,” his companion answered seriously.
Within, the house was equally grand; suites of rooms leading on all sides from a central entrance hall of vast proportions. At the end of this hall rose a magnificent staircase which branched into two at the top. And there, bedecked and bedazzling, stood the family, graciously receiving their guests. Somewhat over-awed, Thomas Gage joined the queue of people slowly ascending the stairs, Robert Hunter Morris beside him.
“My dear Governor,” gushed a woman standing just in front of them. “What a pleasure to see you again. What brings you to New York, pray?”
“I’m here for the festivities, Ma’am. And yourself?”
“Likewise. We came in from Philadelphia last week. We’re staying with our cousins, the Schuylers.”
Thinking that rather like the English aristocracy all the colonists seemed to be related, Tom bowed and introduced himself.
“Thomas Gage, at your service, Madam.”
She regarded him appreciatively for a moment before dropping a polite curtsey. “Mrs. Van Heffler, Mr. Gage. Allow me to present my husband.”
Mr. Van Heffler bowed and made a gruff noise of greeting. He had very short legs and looked rather like a little fat dog begging. To make his appearance even odder, his face was disproportionately large and heavily dewlapped. Small, suspicious eyes gazed over his pudding cheeks, while his jowls swung, occasionally slapping one another as he moved.
“Sarvant Sah,” he said.
Tom bowed. “How dee do, Sir.”
His Englishness clearly amused someone other than the Governor, who stood smiling at this exchange, for from behind the Colonel came a muffled giggle. Unable to resist seeing who it was, Tom wheeled round, then quite literally stopped in his tracks. For the girl he was looking at was neither pretty nor even comely, she was ravishingly beautiful and knew it. Large eyes, the deep rich colour of fine cognac, were slanting at him quite deliberately, while the toss of her midnight hair was surely so that he might see its sheen and quality.
“Miss Kemble, I do declare,” said Governor Morris.
“Good evening, Sir,” she answered, and Tom thought he had never seen a more desirable mouth, with its full lower lip and lovely curving smile. “You know my brother Stephen?”
Stephen Kemble, who was young and enthusiastic and brimming with good manners, bowed politely. “Governor, so delighted. It’s been an age since we met.”
He affected an English accent which didn’t quite come off and, at which, his sister laughed all the more. She looked directly at Tom and dropped the slightest curtsey. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Robert assumed a disconcerted expression. “How remiss of me. Miss Kemble, may I present a friend from England, Colonel Thomas Gage.”
This time she gave him a proper curtsey. “An honour, Colonel.”
“Tom,” the Governor continued, “allow me to introduce Miss Margaret Kemble.”
He couldn’t get his words out, stuttered over them in fact. “Miss Kemble, I am truly delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“And I yours, Sir.”
The exquisite creature was flirting with him, no doubt about it. Involuntarily, Tom straightened the high-necked cravat he wore with his dress uniform and cleared his throat.
She must have noticed for the slanting eyes glimmered with amusement. “How long have you been in the Colonies, Colonel?”
“Two years, Madam.”
“And do you like it her
e?”
“The countryside is magnificent.”
“But…?”
“I dislike the type of warfare that we are forced to conduct.”
“But you are a soldier. Surely fighting of whatever kind is your profession.”
“It is a profession I have never relished,” Tom answered, and momentarily turned away, seeing again, all too vividly, the violent and bloody carnage of the field at Culloden. It was a memory he would carry with him to the grave, he felt certain, and the very thought twisted his guts.
Her hand was briefly on his arm. “Have I annoyed you, Sir.”
“I would prefer not to speak of combat, Miss Kemble. Tonight is a night for enjoyment, after all.”
Margaret looked very slightly shame-faced and Tom thought that even wearing that expression he had never set eyes on anyone so gorgeous. “Of course. Do you forgive me?” she said.
This was his moment. “I do. Provided you partner me for at least one dance.”
“It will be my pleasure,” she answered, then whirled on her brother, tweaking a lock of his blond hair, tucking it beneath his wig, and telling him to present himself well to their cousins, the Van Cortlandts.
“I declare that you’ve made an impression,” said Robert, as the two men turned away.
Tom looked impassive but secretly found it hard to continue polite conversation with his friend as the queue moved upward and, upon reaching the top of the stairs, he was introduced with great formality by the Governor of Pennsylvania, who knew everyone and was known by all, to that most formidable lady of society, Mrs. Van Cortlandt. She regarded the new arrival from beneath her magnificent feathered headdress, recently sent from a milliner in London, the Colonel had no doubt.
“Colonel Gage, your reputation precedes you,”
He bowed. “Surely not, Madam.”
“But indeed. I have heard it said that you are a true gentleman, even on the battlefield.”
“Nobody is a gentleman on the battlefield,” Tom answered seriously.
Mrs. Van Cortlandt chose to ignore this and merely smiled as the Colonel and the Governor continued down the receiving line of husband and children to where champagne, all the way from France, was being served. Behind him, Tom could hear Miss Kemble’s delightful American voice as she greeted her cousin with much affection.
