The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  But though he continued to speak and pledge himself to her, his mind roamed far away, back to the expanse of the family estates at Firle and Highmeadow and the loveliness of them both. He wondered, briefly, if he would ever be able to take his bride back to England, let her see for herself the exquisite glory of the church of Staunton rising above thousands of acres of woodland, the swelling majesty of the distant hills.

  He came back to reality as he put the ring upon Margaret Kemble’s finger. She was his, for better or for worse. Then the most curious thing happened. Just for a moment it seemed as if time had hurried forward, as if he and she stood in a corner of it as yet to be experienced. He heard a voice say, ‘I have been betrayed,’ and recognised it as his own. He saw her eyes, her gorgeous dark eyes, slide away from his, unable to meet them. But when he forced her head round so that she had to look at him, he saw that they had become hard and cruel, glittering like a snake’s.

  “…those whom God hath joined together…” the clergyman was saying, and with an enormous effort of will Thomas Gage came back to reality. He looked at his wife and saw that she was smiling at him, her eyes as soft and teasing as ever. He bent his head and kissed her and with an effort put his terrible premonition behind him.

  *

  The wedding breakfast was held at the Kemble mansion and was as luxurious and resplendent as only one of the leading colonial clans could make it. Dozens of little tables had been set up round which gathered the guests; the officers splendid in their uniforms, the ladies dressed in the very latest fashions from London and Paris, for they had had a whole year to prepare for the great event and were now vying with one another. At the head table sat Tom and Margaret, surrounded by the best flowers that the gardens could provide for the time of year.

  He was madly in love with her, realising how lucky he was that the beautiful young daughter of one of the governing families should have given him her hand in marriage. But still the odd occurrence in church, that moment when time had frozen and he had seen into the future, haunted him.

  “Tom, what’s the matter?” Margaret said in her forthright way. “Nothing, my darling. Why do you ask?”

  “You looked at me so oddly in church. Just as if you didn’t know me. I didn’t care for it at all.”

  Tom hesitated, wondering whether to confide something of what he had felt. Then, realising how completely crazy he would sound, decided against it. His marriage was tremendously important to him, the last thing he wanted was to frighten Margaret off.

  “I must have been concentrating hard,” he lied. “I do it at really important events. That’s all it was.”

  Even as he spoke the words, he knew they sounded absolutely feeble, that he was making matters worse.

  “Listen,” he murmured urgently, “I love you, and that’s what matters. I can say, with my hand on my heart, that I have never met anyone like you in my entire life. Today, in church, I promised myself to you. And that’s a promise I intend to keep.”

  Her face softened. “You’re sure?”

  “As God is my judge,” Tom answered solemnly.

  And why then, at that moment of saying sincerely what he was feeling, should a frisson of fear possess him again? With a visible shrug of his shoulders, Brigadier Gage thrust the sensation away and turned to pick up his glass.

  “Let me drink to you, my darling.”

  “And I to you.”

  They clicked glasses and gazed, smiling, into each other’s eyes, his a vivid blue, hers the colour of good cognac. “To the future,” they chorused, and drank deeply.

  *

  Later, when all had had their fill, there was dancing in the great hall – or what passed for it in this massive colonial dwelling. Tom and Margaret, by this time both tired and longing to be alone, led the first set, then as soon as it was polite to do so announced their intention of withdrawing. This gave rise to much hilarity amongst Tom’s fellow officers, somewhat inebriated to a man. It ended with them carrying him upstairs, shoulder high, then stripping him off and making lewd remarks about his private parts, before dressing him in a new nightgown made especially for the occasion. They had all forgotten his recent elevation in rank and this night acted as boys together, with much laughing and rudery.

  However, there was a respectful silence when they finally led him down the corridor to the room in which Margaret awaited him, sitting up in bed. Dressed in white, a lace nightcap on her head, she looked so young and vulnerable that Tom fell even more in love with her, thinking of how well he was going to look after her; that she was, quite literally, a child bride compared with a man of his experience. He climbed into bed and sat solemnly beside her. Then Major Gladwin, with a great deal of winking, drew the curtains round them and there was a lot of noise as the merrymakers left the room.

  Not certain that they were entirely alone, Tom put his finger to his lips, crawled down the length of the bed and cautiously looked out. Everyone had gone. He turned back to his bride and saw that she had removed her nightcap, letting her luxuriant hair spread over the pillow. Then, before he could say a word, she had slipped her nightgown off and lay there naked. It was the first time Tom had seen a woman nude since the death of his frail mistress and the effect on him was profound. In one move he removed his nightshirt and knelt up so that she could see his toned and muscular body. Then he lowered himself slowly onto her.

  But first they kissed and caressed. Gage, with infinite love, kissed every part of her, including her feet, which made her plead with him to enter her. Finally he did, trying to be gentle, knowing this was her first time, yet in the end carried away by his own feelings, so that he pushed hard and exploded inside her with a great shout. But afterwards, knowing well what women liked, he fondled her, using his hands, until she, too, let out a great cry, then died a little in his arms.

  A long time afterwards he said, “Did you enjoy that?”

  “Enjoy isn’t the right word. I flew to heaven.”

  “So did I,” he whispered, close to her ear.

  She turned to look at him, propping herself up on her elbow. “Do I please you, Thomas Gage?”

  “Enormously.”

  “More than any other woman you have known?”

  “Far more.”

  “Do you like being married to me?”

  “I love it,” said Thomas, closing his eyes.

  “And will you always?”

  “Of course I will.” He was dropping off to sleep.

  Margaret snuggled down beside him. “Think of years and years like this. With things between us just getting better.”

  Tom opened one eye. “Do you mean what I think you mean when you say things between us?”

  She giggled. “Yes, I do.”

  He stretched out his arm and pulled her head into the crook. “Will you always love me the way you love me tonight?”

  “Yes, I swear it.”

  A smile played round his mouth. “No, don’t do that. You might go off me and then where would you be.”

  “I could never go off you,” she answered, and yawned.

  “Tired?” he asked, waking up again.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Then kiss me and show me how sure you are.”

  She moved her head so that her mouth was opposite his and then, quite slowly and deliberately, she put out her tongue and slid it between his lips.

  PART TWO – SARA

  Chapter Eight

  May 17th, 1774

  It was a wet morning, the rain lashing across his face as he came up from his cabin below and stepped onto the deck of the Lively. Before him, amazingly long and decidedly intricate, stretched Boston harbour, a myriad of wharves and jetties, filled with great ships, and, more ominously, further out to sea but very much present, British warships. General Gage, commander-in-chief of the British forces in the American colonies and newly appointed royal governor of Massachusetts, returning from a pleasant sojourn in Eng
land, was about to take his first step into the city over which he had recently been given total authority.

  The rain was coming down in torrents, forcing him to take a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his eyes so that he could see the crowd awaiting him on the wharf. The town, heaving with revolutionaries he knew for a fact, certainly seemed docile enough. In fact, with the bosun’s pipes whistling a greeting and the drums on board rolling, to say nothing of the bells of Boston cheerily ringing a bright carillon, Tom felt a lump in his throat, a moment of emotion which hit him unexpectedly.

  He eyed the crowd once more as the ship slowly slid into its mooring. Standing stiffly to attention was the Independent Corps of Cadets, his personal guard of honour. Gage stared at them, all buttons and finery, well aware that they had been responsible for taking possession of the tea ships during the infamous Boston Tea Party, when tea had been dumped in Boston Harbour by locals disguised as Indians. It had been an ignominious affair and the British government had duly responded. Gage had been chosen to take the severest measures and close the port of Boston. He had been told to rule with an iron fist.

  The gangplank was being moved into position and secured and in a few moments it would be up to him to descend and be greeted by the town officials. Tom composed his features, aware that he looked fine in his uniform, red, heavily embroidered with gold. He would cut a dash, he thought, more than conscious that literally dozens of pairs of eyes were upon him.

  Time had been kind to him in the fifteen years since he had married Margaret. Unstooped, he still presented a tall figure, and his waistline had stayed slim, as had his wife’s despite the fact that she had presented him with several children, all of whom were being educated in England. Indeed his latest child – a girl called Charlotte – had been born there. Yet despite his pleading that that is where they should remain, Margaret, in company with the baby and her brother Stephen, had set sail for New York on May 9th.

  “We belong together,” she had said when he had told her that America was no longer safe. “Anyway I am American. Nothing will happen to me.”

  And because, deep down, he needed her company and was warning her out of a sense of duty, he had given in and agreed that she should join him after visiting friends and relations in New York.

  The gangplank had been finally secured to satisfaction and Gage, drawing himself up to his full height, put his foot upon the top plank. At that moment the crowd burst into loud huzzahs, the guns from the moored men-of-war suddenly let fire in salute, and so with the sound of cheering and churchbells ringing in his ears, the General descended into the city of Boston.

  An official stepped forward. “Welcome to Boston, Governor. On behalf of the citizens, I greet you.”

  Tom’s light blue eyes, which had hardly aged, crinkled at the corners. “Thank you, Sir. I am looking forward to living amongst you.”

  With that he waved to the crowd, who were yelling lustily, and climbed into the carriage which awaited to take him to the Court House, where he would be sworn in. It was only a stone’s throw away, at the top of King Street, where Queen Street intercepted, but the coach proceeded slowly, passing through lines of cheering people. Tom thought, as he bowed and waved his gloved hand on either side, that he would have presumed the population of Boston to be the most loyal supporters of the Crown, had recent events not proved otherwise. Still, she acknowledged their greeting with dignity, keeping his face composed for the duration of the short journey into the heart of town.

  Outside the Court House there were even more people, and Tom noticed a group of blacks, standing together, clearly slaves, shouting their greeting, though in somewhat more subdued tones. And then, quite suddenly, one face leapt out at him, one pair of eyes caught his. Just for a moment he forgot everything else and simply stared.

  It was beautiful, its skin like polished amber, its hair long, dark and straight. But the eyes of the girl were totally arresting. Slanting and lovely, they were the colour of jet, shining and deep in her contrastingly light skin. That she had European blood was crystal clear, yet she stood with the slaves, quite unassuming. For a moment his light eyes and hers, dark as night, met and held and then, shyly, she dropped her gaze to the cobbles and would not lift them again. Curious as to who she was, Tom Gage swept into the Court House.

  Once inside all was formality. The General, playing his part, went up the stairs, climbing to the second floor, to where the Council and its President awaited him. With a bow, he presented his commission, after which he was sworn in by the President. This done, to the roar of cannons, he stepped onto the balcony and again acknowledged the cheers of the packed crowd. Looking down into their midst, he saw that the slaves, all of them, had gone.

  “Well, Sir,” said Andrew Oliver, the Lieutenant-Governor, “may I tempt you to a glass of champagne?”

  “Indeed you may, Sir,” Gage answered heartily, taking a glass and downing a good mouthful.

  “I would like to propose a toast,” Oliver added in a slight undertone. “To a successful outcome to all your endeavours.”

  Gage pulled a face. “There’s trouble brewing, I feel it in my bones.”

  Andrew Oliver gave a hollow laugh. “Trouble, I’ll say there is. There are so many of them, all members of the Committee of Correspondence. But the chief incendiary is a rag-and-snatcher man called Samuel Adams.”

  Gage looked genuinely surprised. “What do you mean? A rag-and-snatcher?”

  Oliver lowered his voice even more. “Not literally. But he’s a filthy bastard. His clothing is stained and rumpled, he forgets to wash. His one aim is to return Massachusetts to a Puritan community, black hats and all.”

  “Sounds a bit like Oliver Cromwell.”

  “There are similarities indeed. But beware of him, Governor. He can organise a riot in a minute – and does. He’s the most dangerous man in the Colonies, and that’s saying something.”

  Tom let out an involuntary sigh. “My God, I’ve got my hands full.”

  “Yes, Sir, you have.”

  “Well on the first of June I close the port of Boston. Let’s see how they like that.”

  “They’re going to hate it.”

  “Still, those are my orders and I am here to carry them out, hate or no hate.”

  It was Oliver’s turn to sigh. “I don’t envy you your task, Sir. Truly I don’t.”

  Gage squared his shoulders. “It has to be done and that’s all there is to it.”

  Andrew Oliver looked him straight in the eye. “We will await developments,” he said.

  *

  The next stop, with the formalities in the Court House done and the crowd dispersing, was the carrying of his goods to Province House, the mansion owned by the state in which the Governor and his family were to dwell. With the crates of personal possessions coming directly from the Lively, General Gage made his way by coach wondering what sort of building it was to be his fate to live in. He was pleasantly surprised.

  For a start it was large and imposing, standing back from the street in its own grounds, with stabling and a coach house behind. The house was railed off, with a porter’s lodge on either corner, between which marched sentries. But it was to the roof above that Gage’s eyes were drawn. For at the very top, above the cupola and dormers, stood a weather vane in the form of an Indian, with bow and arrow aiming at the spire of the Old South Church, executed in copper and gilt, with one glass eye looking down at the world below. Even seeing such a whimsy made a grin creep over the Governor’s features, and he stretched in the coach, putting his arms above his head and breathing out.

  The house was reached by passing through an imposing gateway and climbing a broad flight of stone steps to the grand pillared entrance. Very impressed, Tom Gage duly made his way up and found himself in a large hall, in which was standing a group of people.

  The steward, a black slave, stepped forward. “Governor, so glad you arrived safely, Sir. My name is Robin. Now, if you would like to meet your other servants.”
/>   Gage inclined his head graciously. “Of course.”

  “This, Sir, is Beulah…”

  Automatically Tom smiled but his eyes had already been drawn to the back row. For there amidst the slaves was the girl he had noticed earlier, this time firmly looking downwards, very mindful of her lowly station in life.

  With a conscious effort Tom dragged his eyes away and concentrated on the others. “Which is the coachman?” he asked.

  A grinning jackanapes, his face almost split in half he was smiling so broadly, broke the line and bowed so low that his tight curly hair touched the ground.

  “Hello Governor,” he said. “Welcome to Province House. The last coachman, he died recent. But I look good in livery. I can drive your coach for you.”

  “And your name is?”

  “I am Andrew, Sir.”

  “And these, Governor, are Isaac, Mildred and Sara.”

  Sara, so that was her name. As Robin mentioned each one, the servant concerned stepped forward and bowed or bobbed, and she came at the end. Again, there was tremendous decorum, keeping her glance to the floor, not meeting the Governor’s gaze.

  He repeated her name, “Sara”, and fleetingly she looked up. Just for a second she stared at him, her glorious dark eyes devoid of any expression except one of fear. Then again, she dropped them to the ground.

  “And now, Governor, if you would like to inspect the house,” said Robin, and led the way.

  It was indeed a magnificent building. A huge staircase rose up through the centre, grandly designed and carved. On each floor it terminated in a square landing, from which the ascent continued towards the cupola. Tom climbed to the very top and stood there, looking out through the windows. A magnificient view was waiting to be seen from every angle; the harbour, the gardens, Boston Neck, that thin promontory of land which joined the mainland by means of a causeway. Turning once more, the Governor studied the port.

  Soon, he knew, it would become deserted when his order to close was carried out. But now it was alive with ships of all kinds, though, he noticed, some were already sailing away, knowing that the future of Boston was numbered in days. His eyes swept the deeper blue of the millpond, the rolling of the great ocean, taking in the mass of piers and shipyards, warehouses and wharves, great platforms for drying fish. And there, out at sea, loomed the British men-of-war, ready to see off anyone entering the port once his order became law.