by Lake, Deryn
“Meaning?”
“Something I can’t explain to a lady. Just take it from me that he’s not interested in women.”
“Oh really? I hadn’t thought that at all.”
“Why? Don’t tell me he’s made overtures to you. I find that hard to credit.”
“Stop it, Philip. Your hideous innuendos are completely without foundation. He’s as good a lover – better – than most men of his age.”
“And how do you know that, my dear?”
“I know it because I do. How dare you? You are to consider any understanding we might have had as over.”
Philip lost control. “You arrogant girl. I’m not only your cousin but heir to the Schuyler fortune, I’d remind you.”
“I don’t care if you’re the richest man in the Colonies, Philip. Our understanding is over.”
And with a tremendous rustling of her skirts, Margaret Kemble swept from the balcony and back into the house.
Gage stood motionless, terrified lest Schuyler should discover his presence. But after a few moments, during which Philip cursed wildly under his breath, he, too, returned to the house.
So that was that. She had been engaged to her cousin, at least unofficially, but had ended it this very night. With something like hope in his heart, Colonel Gage went back into the mansion.
*
He woke suddenly and quite automatically reached for his pistol, which he always kept beneath his pillow. It wasn’t there and after a few seconds he remembered where he was and that his gun had been stowed away safely for the duration of the Christmas festivites. It also occurred to him that it was Christmas Day and the sound he had heard could well be someone creeping along with presents. He lay utterly still and listened for the noise again, and sure enough, heard it once more. Somebody was scratching faintly at his door.
Swinging his legs out of bed, Tom, very aware of the fact that he was naked except for his nightshirt, crossed to the door and opened it a crack. It was pushed, quite hard, so that momentarily he lost his footing and staggered backwards. The person outside took advantage of this and came in, closing the door behind them silently. The Colonel stared at Margaret Kemble, wearing nothing but a nightgown and rail.
“Miss Kemble!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
“I have broken my engagement to Philip Schuyler,” she said, and promptly burst into tears.
He did the only thing he could to comfort her, taking her into his arms, realising that without heels the top of her head only reached to his shoulder, all the while making soothing noises, much as one would do to a child.
Eventually the weeping abated and she looked at him from eyes awash with tears. “Oh, Tom, have I done the silliest thing?”
“Probably,” he answered, sighing despite himself.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Philip Schuyler is rich and going to get richer. He is what is known as a good catch, Margaret.”
“But I don’t want to catch him,” she answered, and started to weep once more.
“Listen, be quiet,” he said comfortingly. “If you don’t love him, there’s your answer.”
“I used to love him, at least I thought I did. But now…”
“Yes?”
“But now I know I don’t.”
Gage felt his heartbeat start to speed up. “And why is that?”
She looked at him, eyes glistening. “Haven’t you guessed?”
His heart was now so loud that surely she must be able to hear it.
“No, I haven’t,” he answered huskily.
“Because, Colonel Thomas Gage, you came into my life, didn’t you?”
And with that she fled from his arms and out of the room, leaving Tom to stare after her, feeling the first thrill of pure joy as he gazed at the place where, but a moment before, she had been standing.
Chapter Five
January, 1758
“Did you have a good Christmas, Sir?” asked Major Henry Gladwin, somewhat amused by the faraway expression on his Colonel’s face. “Um?” said Thomas.
“I said, did you have a good Christmas?”
Tom Gage returned to reality, though not without a certain struggle. “The best of my life,” he answered expansively, and then grinned broadly.
He was sitting in the living room of a private house in Brunswick, commandeered by the army as a recruiting headquarters, the freshly hand-painted sign outside the front door, complete with arrow to indicate exactly where the applicants should go. So far that morning they had received one person who was already drunk despite the earliness of the hour. Nevertheless, the man had looked fit and had been young, the two main criteria, and they had signed him up on the spot. The fact that the fellow couldn’t write but had signed with an X had also been disregarded.
As for Gage himself, he still hadn’t returned to reality following the festivities. He was by now deeply in love with Margaret and had high hopes that she had the same feelings for him. On every possible occasion they had slipped away from the others to be alone together. And then the ardour that they aroused in one another had been almost uncontainable. Yet, by sheer will power Tom had controlled himself, knowing that this girl was special, that she could not be treated like one of the hordes of women who followed the army wherever it went. In other words he was behaving like an officer and a gentleman – and hating every second.
He sighed aloud, knowing that the gap in age between him and Margaret was his main cause for concern, and Henry Gladwin looked up from the bundle of papers he was reading.
“Anything wrong, Sir?”
Gage smiled a little sadly, taking himself to task for being a besotted old fool. “Only myself, Henry.”
“How do you mean, Sir?”
Gage teetered on the brink, wondering whether to confide or not, then, because he longed to talk to someone else about his problem, blurted everything out in a rush.
“It’s Margaret Kemble. The trouble is I’m falling in love with her. But she’s considerably younger than I am; fourteen years to be precise.”
“So?”
“So it fills me with doubt. I can’t decide whether she really cares or whether she is playing some intricate game.”
“Why don’t you ask her. Straight out. Tell her you’re unsure of the situation and would like it clarified.”
Tom pulled a face. “The trouble is I don’t want to end it.”
“But why should it end? She is probably waiting for you to say something.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, for heavens sake, Sir. Ask her to marry you if that is what you want.”
Gage grew quiet, thinking about spending the rest of his life with such a delightful girl as Margaret and wondering if he was man enough. Something of what he was considering must have shown on his face, because Gladwin said “You do want that, don’t you, Sir?”
Tom hesitated, beset by doubts about himself, then answered, “I would love it, if I thought I could make her happy.”
“Give her plenty of children, Sir. That’s the way to keep her occupied,” Major Gladwin answered, then, realising how bold he was being with his commanding officer, blushed. But Tom, suddenly happy at the thought that other people did not frown on the age gap, laughed uproariously.
“I’ve a mind to do as you say, Henry. I think I’ll propose.”
“It will bring things to a conclusion, one way or the other, Sir.”
“It certainly will.”
There was a noise in the doorway as a man appeared, looking hopeful. “Are you the recruiting sergeant?” he asked Tom, his accent clearly of the Colonies.
“I suppose you could call me that,” Gage answered, and with a smile motioned the young fellow to take a seat.
Despite his show of bravado, Tom found it almost impossible to bring himself to the point of proposing. During the next few days he called at Margaret Kemble’s house with as much frequency as possible and finally managed to slip out with her into the gardens, cold t
hough the weather was. Walking beside her, he took her small, gloved hand in his own, but said nothing, instead walking onwards, his eyes firmly to the front. Eventually, though, she stopped and turned to face him.
“What have I done to upset you?”
“Nothing. Why?” he asked, surprised.
“You’ve been so edgy the last few times we have met.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Can we continue this coversation in the summerhouse? It’s damnable cold out here.”
“It will be damnable cold in there as well.”
“At least we’ll be out of the wind.”
“There isn’t any wind.”
“Margaret,” said Tom, and this time his voice did have an edge to it, “do as I want for once, will you.”
She gave him a deep look from those incredible eyes of hers but, without further argument, strode before him to the summerhouse, locked up and desolate at this time of year. However, there was an old and somewhat well-used key in the lock, which she turned. Inside it was dim, full of metal garden furniture, stacked carefully in a perilous pile, but pushing this slightly to one side she made room for herself and Gage to sit on the wooden seat.
“Now then,” she said.
The Colonel was completely nonplussed, not having an idea what he should say. Eventually, though, he managed to blurt out, “You know that I hold you in the highest regard.”
She muttered something which sounded like, “A bit too damned high.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘A bit too damned high.”’
“And what is that supposed to mean.”
The wondrous eyes turned on him again. “I know that you hold back sometimes.”
Gage gave a bitter laugh. “Well, what else can I do? You are the daughter of my host; you come from a good family. I can hardly treat you as if you were a camp follower.”
“Did you not tell me that some of them are ladies of rank and fortune?”
“Possibly.”
“Well, then.”
Half angry with her, Gage, turning, took her in his arms. “Margaret,
I’m serious. I can’t take you to bed, much as I want to.”
She gave him a look that melted his soul. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t,” he answered crossly, aware that even while she was speaking to him he was becoming aroused.
“But I want you to.”
“Is that what you said to Philip Schuyler?”
She drew away from him. “That never happened with him. Oh, you foolish man. It’s you who awaken these thoughts in me, don’t you understand? For some reason, God alone knows what, you have made me wish that I was one of those women.”
“What do you mean?”
“A camp follower. I want to be your mistress, Tom. I want you to make love to me.”
In distress he answered, “I mustn’t, Margaret. Don’t you understand? I would dishonour your father’s hospitality if I did.”
She wept, genuinely upset. “Then what am I to do?”
“Marry me,” he said, and the words came out of his mouth so easily he wondered that he had been afraid to say them.
She took his face in her hands, holding it tightly so that he could not look away. “Repeat that slowly.”
He laughed, suddenly knowing what the answer was going to be, suddenly sure that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. “I said, marry me.”
She kissed him, very gently, first on the nose and then on the lips. “I thought you weren’t going to ask me,” she said, and looked as vulnerable as a child, her old laughing, teasing self completely vanished.
“Do you love me?” Tom said seriously.
“Oh yes. I think I loved you right from the start, when I heard your funny English accent on the stairs.”
“Going to meet Mrs. Van Cortlandt?”
“Yes, then. You looked so dashing in your uniform, I found it impossible to resist you.”
“Is that why you wrote to me?”
“Yes, you know it is. But what about me? When did you fall in love with me?” Her face changed. “You do love me, don’t you.”
“You know damned well I do. Anyway, you haven’t given me an answer yet.”
“What answer? Oh, neither have I. Well, I’ll have to think about it.”
“For how long?”
She was her old tantalising self again, shooting him brilliant looks. “I don’t know. Five minutes.”
“Then let me ask you again – properly.” With certain difficulties, given the very cramped space they were in, Tom Gage went down on one knee, disturbing a large spider as he did so. “Miss Kemble, will you do me the honour of giving me your hand in marriage?”
She smiled naughtily. “I daresay.” Then seeing his downcast expression, Margaret relented and threw her arms round his neck. “Yes, my darling, yes, yes, yes. Now please get up. That poor spider longs to return to its web.”
He stood up, pulling her to her feet with him, and they indulged in a long, deep kiss; a kiss during which he allowed his hand to caress her breasts, actually slipping one inside her bodice and bending his lips to kiss the small, round bosom thus exposed. She stood silently, eyes closed, enjoying this new sensation.
“You’ve never done that before,” she said eventually.
“We have not been betrothed before.”
“Does that mean…?”
“No,” said Tom firmly, removing his lips and tucking her back inside. “Now, let us go indoors. Your parents will think us lost.”
She loitered for one minute more. “A final kiss before we tell the world.”
“I must go to New York and get you a ring.” He paused, then said, “Margaret, you are quite sure you want to proceed with this? I am fourteen years older than you are, remember.”
She smiled her delightful smile. “My darling, that is the least of my considerations. The point at issue is that I truly care for you and I want to be your wife. Is that good enough?”
He looked at her seriously, then grinned. “It’s quite good enough for me, my dear.”
*
The Kembles, mother and father, bore such knowing expressions that Tom immediately guessed that they had been expecting something like this for days. None the less, Colonel Gage asked if he might make an appointment to see Mr. Kemble privately, expecting to be told to come back in a day or two. But yet again he was to be surprised by the fresh outlook of the colonists.
“Well, Colonel, if you have the time, I most certainly have. How about now?”
Tom bowed and clicked his heels, suddenly nervous. “Certainly, Sir. It is very kind of you,” and he followed Peter Kemble down the corridor, wondering what he would do if Margaret’s father were to say no, citing the age gap as his reason.
The house, which had been built some thirty years earlier, was square and tall, rising three storeys in height, with servants’ quarters on the top floor under the roof. Coming to the foot of the elegant staircase, Kemble motioned Gage upwards, passing many fine rooms as they made their ascent. The Colonel had seen the interiors of many of them but was still astonished at just how good a life the rich could have in the Colonies. Yet, by contrast, other, poorer people lived very plainly and worked very hard. But then, he supposed, it was ever thus, and all he was seeing was a mirror of England, though with a certain restless energy that the old country lacked.
They reached Peter Kemble’s study, a room Tom had not seen before, lined with bookcases and with extremely good Dutch paintings on the walls. A fire had been lit before which were two large and comfortable chairs. Tempted though he was to accept Margaret’s father’s offer of a seat, the Colonel felt it better if he remained standing.
Kemble, meanwhile, settled himself and looked at Gage with an enigmatic smile.
“Well, Colonel Gage?”
“Sir, I have something important to ask you.”
“And what might that be, pray?”
“T
he fact is, Sir, that I…”
“Yes?”
“That I wish to pay my addresses to your daughter.”
“I have two, Sir. Which one did you mean?”
“Margaret, of course,” Tom said rapidly.
“Ah,” said Peter Kemble, and steepled his long fingers, resting his chin on them.
“Would that be in order, Sir?” Gage asked, feeling decidedly tense.
Kemble chuckled, a reassuring sound. “I take it you have mentioned this to her.”
“Yes, Sir, as a matter of fact, I have.”
“And her answer?”
“Was yes. So now it is up to you, Mr. Kemble.”
Kemble laughed once more. “I had hoped for someone with better prospects than an English army colonel for my daughter.”
Philip Schuyler came into Gage’s mind but he stood silently, mouth firmly closed.
“But,” said Kemble, with a definite twinkle in his eye, “no doubt you have hopes of rising high.”
“Yes, indeed I do, Sir,” Tom answered stiffly.
“In that case, what can I say?”
“I hope, Sir, that you will give me your blessing. That you will give us your blessing.”
Kemble stood up and shook Tom’s hand firmly. “My boy, forgive me for teasing you a little. My wife and I have watched your growing attachment for Margaret with interest, wondering when you were going to say something. Naturally we are delighted that she will become part of such a well-established English family.”
Tom smiled at last. “I shall write to my brother forthwith. Though I must admit that I have mentioned my feelings for Margaret already in a letter.”
“Will the Viscount be pleased with the outcome?”
“He will be delighted.”
“And so am I. Pray have a drink in celebration, Colonel.”
“Tom, please, Sir. And, yes, I would love one.”
Outside night drew in over the New Jersey countryside, still mainly snow covered though men had dug paths and tracks for easy access for themselves and their carts. But inside the Kemble household that night fires crackled and people celebrated. Toasts were proposed and healths were drunk, and in the midst of the circle of happy faces stood Tom and Margaret, blissfully bright, very much in love, and totally unaware of the future that fate had lying in wait for them.
