The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  “There’s no need to be. It shows that you’re human.”

  “And my human behind is beginning to ache. Do you mind if I get down?”

  “Not in the least. If I jump, will you catch me?”

  “I’ll try, Miss Kemble.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” she answered solemnly.

  Tom lowered himself onto the coachman’s box and put his arms up for her, and a minute later she was in them, all the warmth and beauty of her closer than she had ever been before. Unfortunately, he wasn’t standing completely true and toppled backwards as she landed so that they both ended up on the box, she virtually on top of him.

  “Well,” said the Colonel, “it’s a good thing your father can’t see us.”

  “Why?”

  “He might get the wrong impression.”

  “Yes, I suppose he might,” she answered, but made no effort to move herself.

  “If you stay like that I will probably kiss you,” he went on.

  “Will you?” she answered provocatively, and closed her eyes.

  Just for a second Tom studied her face, noticing the curve of her lashes, the way her nose was just a fraction too short for classical beauty, the sculpted look of her cheeks, then he kissed her on the mouth, revelling in the sweetness of her.

  Very gently she moved away from him, so that she sat beside him.

  They stared at one another for a minute, neither speaking. Then eventually he said, “Did that upset you?”

  She shook her head, saying nothing.

  “Then why are you so silent?”

  “Because it was wonderful, that’s why.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom said nothing, realising in that moment that since the death of his fragile beloved his first kiss had been given to Margaret, exactly a year previously, and there had been no encounters with women since. Suddenly he felt drained of confidence and decidedly middle-aged.

  “I’m too old for you,” was out of his mouth before he had had time to think of the full import of the words.

  Margaret Kemble sat up straight. “Are you now? And how old might that be, Colonel?”

  “I’ve just celebrated my thirty-eighth birthday?”

  “Oh, when was it?”

  “December the fifteenth. How old are you?”

  “Bluff soldier indeed! That is a question you should not enquire of a lady. But as it’s you I’ll answer. I shall be twenty-five in August. And before you ask the date, it’s the fifteenth.”

  He smiled. “An odd coincidence.”

  “Very. Worth celebrating, don’t you think?”

  She moved closer to him and Gage felt himself respond despite his sudden lack of self-esteem. “How would you suggest?” he asked. “By kissing me again, just for good luck of course.”

  She was an inch away from him and he could see her amber eyes and the mocking expression in them.

  “Oh, to hell with age,” he said suddenly, and embraced her once more.

  The intensity of her response surprised him, unprepared for it as he was. It told him many things about her. Firstly, that she had been kissed on many occasions before. But, more importantly, that she genuinely liked the way he kissed her and was happy for him to continue. Tom Gage opened his mouth and let his tongue explore her lips which, after a moment or two, parted. Thus, they were kissing deeply when a voice from outside called, “Margaret? Where are you?”

  They drew apart reluctantly, both of them rather flushed.

  “It’s my mother,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Then you’d better go.”

  “Yes. Follow in about five minutes. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve been in here with you.”

  “Very well. But Margaret…”

  “What?”

  “I’m not too old, am I?”

  “In my opinion, Colonel, you’re as young as you feel.”

  And with that, and a swift peck on the cheek, she swung athletically down the side of the coach and reached the floor beneath, turning to give him a smile before she left the building.

  Fond though he was of Stephen Kemble, a young ensign in his own regiment, Tom Gage was hardly in the mood for him. Yet it was almost as if Margaret had mentioned something to him, for he hardly left the Colonel’s side from that moment on.

  Gage had waited the necessary five minutes then, having taken the precaution of buttoning his jacket and trying desperately to look presentable, he had sauntered back to the house in time for breakfast, at which he had been joined by Stephen, brimming with enthusiasm and obviously delighted that his commander should be a house guest for the festive season. Much to his annoyance Tom had been forced to make polite conversation when all he had wanted to do was be alone to marshall his thoughts. For this was the first time since the death of his mistress that he had felt a stirring of the blood. And how deeply it had stirred when Margaret kissed him.

  “…marvellous news about your new regiment, Sir.”

  With a mighty effort, the Colonel wrenched his thoughts away from Stephen’s sister to the conversation in hand.

  “Yes. It is indeed,” he said, over-heartily. “We’re to set up recruiting headquarters as soon as Christmas is over.”

  “And where will they be, Sir?”

  “I thought here in Brunswick to be as good a place as any,” Tom answered in the same hearty tone.

  The young man looked astonished. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

  Oh no you don’t, Tom said mentally, though aloud he said nothing.

  “Yes, a dashed good spot, Brunswick,” poor Stephen blundered on.

  “I expect you’ll be inundated with volunteers.”

  Tom permitted himself the luxury of a laugh. “Hardly rushed off our feet, I would have thought.”

  Stephen seemed lost for words but eventually said, “Why did you pick Brunswick, then?”

  “Perhaps because of the proximity of your good selves,” Gage answered truthfully.

  The ensign took this as a compliment to himself and glowed a smile.

  “Well, thank you, Sir.”

  Gage made a suitable face and at that moment Margaret walked into the breakfast room, changed and ready to go out.

  “Where are you off to?” Stephen asked.

  “Mama, Judith and I are going to visit the poorer people and take them some gifts,” she announced. “And what will you and Colonel Gage be doing in the meanwhile?”

  “I expect we’ll go for a ride. What do you say, Sir?”

  “A good plan,” Tom answered. But already his thoughts were elsewhere, back in the coach house, with her in his arms and the sweet surprise of her response.

  “I’ll see you tonight, then,” he said.

  “Yes, tonight,” she answered and turning on her heel, went out.

  *

  It got dark early, but in the gloaming the men of the household went out to fetch the Yule Log, which had been specially chosen on Candlemas Day and stored to dry out during the summer months. This was lit, with much ceremony, with the unburnt parts of last year’s log which had been saved especially for that purpose. The females, meanwhile, brought holly into the house and wove it round decoratively, and when they were finished hot glasses of Yuletide punch were served. Then everyone went to change because the Schuylers, yet more cousins, were coming to dine.

  Alone in his room, Tom sat on the edge of his bed and remembered for the hundredth time the feel of Margaret Kemble in his arms, lived again the moment when his mouth and hers had met. He was certain now that he was falling in love with her and he wondered dismally where the future lay. He was thirteen, nearly fourteen, years older than she was and no doubt she was only playing with him, leading him on for her own amusement. But, dammit, he could not treat her as he would a camp follower and take her to bed. The very rules of hospitality decreed that he must tow the line and behave like a gentleman. But it wasn’t easy when she was giving him all kinds of signals which indicated otherwise.

  “Damn th
e woman,” he said aloud, and reluctantly shrugged his shoulders into his dress uniform.

  Downstairs everyone was at fever pitch with excitement and Tom felt his spirits rise. At the very least he could have a good Christmas and a pleasant flirtation – and leave it at that. But even as the thought came into his mind he knew that he stood on the brink of something far more serious. That Margaret Kemble had that indefinable something that could quite easily lead him into deep water.

  She was late, the last to arrive, and when she did it was with such style and splendour that Tom caught himself staring and blushing. She chose the moment to descend the stairs when he was attending to the Yule Log, so that his back was averted. But when he turned and saw her, dressed in dark green and red as if to echo the colours of the holly that decorated the place, his mouth fell open like a schoolboy’s.

  Her gaze swept everyone and finally alighted on him. Pulling himself together, Tom gave a small, ceremonial bow to which she replied with a deep curtsey, smiling at him in her beguiling way as she straightened again. It was going to be difficult to resist her, the Colonel thought. He deliberately turned to her younger sister, Judith, to make conversation.

  The room was full of people, all related one to the other. Mrs. Kemble, a woman of skinny frame and delicate health, had borne seven children, five boys and two girls. The two eldest, Samuel and Richard, had recently married but had arrived to spend Christmas with their parents. The rest of the brood, Peter, Stephen and William and their sisters, were single, though Peter was courting seriously. Tom, who had only one brother, thought of the advantages of plenty of children and felt slightly envious and out of place in the midst of such a happy family gathering.

  Then, quite literally, the worst happened, and he found himself smiling wryly and taking himself to task for being a besotted fool. With a peal of the front doorbell the man he had envisaged for Margaret – only this one was no New Jersey farmer but a buck of the very first order – came into the room and looked about him.

  He was stunningly handsome, his black hair tied back with a bow, his dark eyes lustrous, his tall figure superb. Further, he was dressed by a London tailor, while his white shirt must have been new on that evening. Tom Gage found himself violently disliking him for no obvious reason. But, deep down, he knew that he was jealous of so much youth and beauty, and was aware that in a straight choice between him and the newcomer, he, Tom, must bow out of the picture.

  Peter Kemble Senior was making the introductions. “Thomas, I would like you to meet Philip Schuyler Junior. Philip, this is Colonel the Honourable Thomas Gage.”

  Tom bowed to the limit of formality and said, “A pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

  Philip gave a studied bow and answered, “How dee do, Sir. What a fine English accent. I was at Oxford until I came down two years ago.”

  “Really?” said Tom, affecting an interest which he did not feel. “Which college?”

  “Magdalen, Sir.”

  Philip waited expectantly for the Colonel to tell him whereabouts he had attended but instead Tom said. “I did not go to university. I went straight into the army.”

  Schuyler made the very slightest of faces. “How commendable.”

  “I don’t know about that. All I can say is that I became an ensign at seventeen and have been in military service ever since.”

  “Very interesting I’m sure,” said Philip. His eyes wandered round the room and alighted on Margaret. “Excuse me, Colonel, if you would. I see my cousin Margaret and must go and pay my respects to her.” He gave another small, elegant bow and left Tom standing alone.

  So that was it, thought the Colonel. The minx had led him on, probably for something to do, but now her real lover was here. He decided to get very slightly drunk and took his glass back to the punch bowl where a Negro slave, dressed in livery, was silently serving.

  It would have been socially incorrect to have conversed with the man, but nonetheless Tom studied him idly He was a match for Philip Schuyler in every way except for the colour of his skin. Tall, supple, with an even better physique than the white man’s, the slave was handsome by anybody’s standards. The white wig which he wore set off his features, while his dark eyes – which met Tom’s for a second before looking away – were superb. The Colonel reckoned him to be about twenty years old and as full of vigour as any of the Kemble brothers whom it was his lot to serve. Then, quite suddenly, Judith, all eighteen years of her, approached the punch bowl and murmured something in an undertone. The Negro filled her glass and murmured something back. Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds but the look told Tom Gage all he needed to know. They were not lovers yet but by God they were going to be. Clearing his throat, the Colonel turned away.

  The call came to go in to dine and Tom found himself seated with Mrs. Kemble’s unmarried sister, Agnes, on his right and Margaret on his left. Next to her was the ubiquitous Philip, dripping charm, a diamond cravat pin sparkling in the candlelight as he turned between the ladies who flanked him. The Colonel, watching him covertly, found nothing to like about the fellow at all. Margaret, however, was very charming and seemed to find time for her companions on both sides, sharing herself equally between the two. Tom, not to be outdone, concentrated hard on Miss Agnes and managed to elicit a few whispered sentences from her. Eventually, though, it was time for the ladies to withdraw and he was left alone with the assembled masculine company. Despite earnest conversation with the various brothers Kemble, it was Philip Schuyler who leant across and spoke to him.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Colonel Gage?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “However, it must be difficult being away from your family at this time of year. Surely you would give anything to be back home.”

  Tom gave a short laugh. “My dear Sir, I have been here two years and am perfectly used to it.”

  “Still, it must be hard for you.”

  The Colonel fought back a rising irritation. “No, believe me, I am content.”

  “And Mrs. Gage?”

  “There is no Mrs. Gage.”

  “I see,” said Schuyler, and his look said it all.

  Tom turned away angrily, the inference that he was a bung-boy unspoken but made abundantly clear. He drained his port and refilled his glass, wondering whether to take Philip to task, then deciding that the laws of hospitality forbade him from doing any such thing. And he was still sitting thus, quietly fuming, when the ladies came back in.

  Margaret ran her eyes over the assembled company, then, for reasons best known to herself, came straight up to Tom.

  “Well, Colonel, we have some Christmas games ready and I am relying on you to give me a helping hand.”

  He had already risen to his feet but now he took her fingers and raised them to his lips, watching her all the time as he did so. She looked at him and he saw that she knew that something was wrong and was sympathetic.

  “It will be my pleasure, Miss Kemble.”

  “I hope you will be amused by our diversions, Colonel Gage.”

  “I can think of nothing more delightful than being diverted by yourself,” he said, and kissed her hand again.

  She removed herself from his grasp but not before he had seen an unreadable look cross her face. “Then please follow me,” was all she said.

  The Kemble family had laid on a splendid entertainment which included games and carol singing. Tom, his spirits restoring fast, joined in with enthusiasm. And when, finally, Miss Agnes sat down and played music for dancing, he approached Margaret confidently. His hopes, however, were dashed as she announced, “I always have the first dance with Philip, I’m afraid. It’s a family tradition.”

  Tom bowed and turned away, but immediately found himself cornered by Mrs. Schuyler. She was one of those women whose every wish must be pandered to, and so he made a set with various young Kembles, all of whom threw themselves into the dancing with gusto. Fortunately Philip’s mother ran out of breath and was escorted back to her seat with much use of her
fan. Thus Tom found an excuse to step outside and get some air.

  It was a bitter night lit by a huge silver moon, the trees, still snow-covered, etched blackly against the indigo sky. Tom, having taken several good deep breaths, a therapy in which he had a great belief, was just about to go back inside when he realised that he was not alone. Two dark figures stood beneath a tree, talking. Without meaning to, he drew back into the shadows and listened.

  “…let’s announce it tonight, sweetheart. It will make their Christmas if we do.”

  It was the dreaded Philip who had just spoken and Thomas realised that he was stuck where he was. If he went back inside now, they would know that he had been there eavesdropping.

  “Philip, no.” It was Margaret’s voice. “Let’s not do anything in a hurry.”

  “But why not? I’ve been asking you since the summer.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “But it is. I want to tell them of our engagement when everybody is together, enjoying themselves. Of course, the public announcement will have to follow later, but why not now as far as our families are concerned?”

  “Because I’m not ready.”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  “Just what I say, Philip. I’m not ready. I’ve got to do some serious thinking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have. Because I’m not sure what I want.”

  Gage heard Philip make a noise of exasperation and could picture him clearly, dark eyes narrowing in the moonshine, the elegant lips going into a hard line.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh.” Now she was getting annoyed but Tom steered his mind away from how she would look, finding it too painful to fill his thoughts with her.

  “Well?” Philip continued.

  “I’m just not sure about anything any more.”

  “Not sure you want to marry me?”

  “As you mention it, no. I really don’t know,”

  “It’s nothing to do with that Gage fellow, is it?” Philip’s tone was sharp with suspicion and, despite himself, Tom craned his ears.

  “You’re on a loser if it is,” Philip continued nastily. “He’s not interested in your type, my dear.”