The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  Calico Joel gave a rare grin. “No, mon Gouverneur, I could not do that. I only write French.”

  “Then you will have to say it slowly while I do so. Now, start again.”

  Calico Joel waited until the Governor had a sheet of paper and a pen, then he said the prayer once more, this time with many pauses. The Governor scratched away until the Indian fell silent. Then he looked up.

  “Thank you, Joel. I am deeply touched.”

  The Indian remained impassive. Then he said, “Do you want me to ride to Portsmouth and find out what Revere is up to?”

  “How long will it take you to get there?”

  Calico Joel shrugged. “A day. But if I set off now and go through the night I can be there tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well. Go like hell but take care.”

  The scout shrugged, turned and was gone, as silent and impassive as ever.

  Gage sat for a moment, looking at the prayer, then, taking it, he left the study and went to the first floor bedroom. Entering quietly he saw that Margaret was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and that she had put on deepest black. She did not turn her head as he came in.

  “My darling, how are you?” he said tentatively.

  “I am distraught,” she answered him.

  “Why?”

  “I cannot get over the fact that our son died without seeing me again. That I deserted him.”

  “Margaret, how could you know what was going to happen? You came to Massachusetts and brought our youngest child with you. You did what you thought was best.”

  “If I had had an inkling.”

  “Don’t reproach yourself, sweetheart. You are but human.”

  “I wish I were dead,” she said bitterly.

  Instead of arguing with her, Tom said, “Yes, I sometimes wish that too.”

  She looked at him, not expecting that response. “Why?” she asked.

  He sat down on the bed and started to remove his boots. “Because I get heartily sick of the whole bloody business here. Whatever I do seems to no avail. Yet somehow I must contrive to convince these rebels that British rule is best. That is often what makes me think to end it all would be preferable.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” Margaret asked, sitting up. “Because that is how I genuinely feel.”

  “Oh Tom,” she said, and subsided back on the bed, weeping once more.

  He lay down beside her and took her in his arms. Then they wept together until every tear had run dry. Finally out of their despair there arose a need for each other. Fully dressed as they both were, Tom first kissed her, then, raising her skirts, lifted her on top of him, meanwhile undoing the flap of his breeches. She slid down on him and then rose and fell in a rhythm that drove them into a frenzy, forgetting William, forgetting everything except their desire for one another. Tom controlling himself as best he could, eventually could hold back no longer and coursed into her just as she, too, cried out in ecstasy. Then, lowering herself down beside him, the two of them fell asleep, arms around each other, until they were woken by the gong which announced dinner.

  Tom got to his feet. “Do you want something on a tray, my dear?”

  She smiled at him. “If you can delay proceedings by half an hour, I’ll join you. Are we alone tonight?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Good. I won’t be long.” She rose from the bed and rang for her maid, looking at him over her shoulder. “Tom…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you still love me?”

  “You know I do,” he answered.

  And he did love her for all the years she had been his wife and for all the things they had shared together. Yet the love had changed from that first spellbinding delight which had held him in its grip. Now his love had almost become a habit, even though he was ashamed to admit it. Unbidden, the memory of that stolen kiss with Sara came back to haunt him and he mentally upbraided himself for being an old lecher.

  With an effort Tom straightened his uniform and slowly went down the stairs.

  *

  What became known as the Portsmouth Alarm was a heavy defeat for Governor Gage. Even though Admiral Graves, a rough sea-dog with an uncontrollable temper, ordered the sloop HMS Canceaux, with a company of Marines on board, to sail to Portsmouth, the ship could not leave until December 17th. Meanwhile, Paul Revere had done his work and four hundred New Hampshire men had gathered and attacked the Fort, paddling eerily down the Piscataqua River through the gentle white snowflakes that were falling. Others marched overland to the Fort.

  They had no opposition to speak of. Six men, all invalids, guarded the place. The New Hampshire men swarmed over the ramparts, took everything they needed and ran down the British flag. When the Captain of the Fort tried to resist and drew his sword, he was wounded. Another British soldier going to his aid had a pistol snapped in his face and was knocked senseless by the butt of it.

  By the time the Scarborough sailed from Boston, backing up the Canceaux, it was all far too late. The commander of the expedition landed to find the Royal Governor furious, a looted garrison and the news that a thousand men had marched on Portsmouth but had now gone home again. Admiral Graves, hearing the turn of events, almost had a seizure. Governor Gage, despairing of ever succeeding in his quest to tame the colonists, felt resigned to his fate.

  Yet, interestingly, he made no move to arrest Paul Revere, believing strictly in the rule of law. Even Percy, who supported his superior through thick and thin, wrote home, ‘The general’s great lenity and moderation serve only to make them more daring and insolent.’ He, who had arrived so open-minded and almost pro the colonists, was learning to hate them.

  So, with passions running high and feelings never more acute, the town of Boston began to prepare for Christmas.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Christmas, 1774

  They met in the small, secluded coffee house he had mentioned on a previous occasion. He, as usual, fresh-faced and eager, his own hair powdered; Margaret, desperately trying to conceal who she was, even down to wearing a veiled hat on her dark head. It was the day before Christmas Eve and Joseph Warren was bearing a small gift for her, even though he realised his behaviour in giving it might be considered excessive.

  News of the loss of William had reached his ears and his heart had bled for her. He had three children – Elizabeth, Joseph and Mary – bringing them up by himself, and he had imagined how he would have felt if one of them had died. Devastated was the only word that seemed to sum up his emotion. Now, he felt her sadness as if it were tangible, and leaning forward across the table, he put his hand over hers.

  “I’m sorry about your son. It must have been a grievous blow for you.”

  “It was for both of us,” she answered quietly.

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure it was.” He kept his hand where it was. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Just tell me why he died. You’re a medical man, surely you must know.”

  “Did the Viscount not say?”

  “He just said he got a fever and never recovered.”

  Dr. Warren shook his head slowly. “The description is so vague. It could have been anything. Several of my friend Paul Revere’s children have died, to say nothing of his wife.”

  Margaret withdrew her hands from beneath his. “Don’t mention that man. Why my husband hasn’t clapped him in gaol long ago I truly can’t imagine.”

  “You refer to his part in the Portsmouth Alarm?” asked Joseph gently. “I most certainly do. He seems to me to be a rabble-rouser.”

  “As am I,” Joseph answered with a slight touch of humour.

  “I never think of you as that.”

  “But, Mrs. Gage, that is exactly what I am. I rouse the people of this country to exert their rights. Because I truly believe they have such rights. I cannot think how you, an American born and bred, could hold opposing views.”

  Margaret sighed deeply. “Because I am married to who I am. But, deep down, though you shou
ld be the last person to admit this to, I do have a feeling that you could be right.”

  Because he loved her so much and because he was an emotional creature, Warren’s eyes filled with sudden tears.

  “God bless you,” he choked out.

  Margaret extended her hand and took one of his, beautiful and clever, in her own.

  “Not totally right,” she hastened to add, “but I admit you do have a point.”

  The doctor, producing a sensible workaday handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes.

  “Forgive me. An excess of emotion.”

  Margaret laughed softly. “I never realised you felt so deeply.”

  The brilliant blue eyes sought hers and held them. “I feel deeply about many things, Madam.”

  She knew at once what his hidden message was and a wave of fear tinged with excitement coursed through her. That she still loved her husband was beyond dispute but here was this man, younger than she, clearly telling her that he, too, cared. Margaret deliberately placed her hands over his.

  “Do you, Doctor?” she said quietly.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, I love my country above all things – well, almost all things. I love my children more, of course. And…”

  He paused and his cheeks flushed brightly.

  “Yes?”

  He dropped his voice to a murmur. “And I love you.”

  It was a fraught moment and Margaret was at a loss for words. To gain time she repeated what he had just said.

  “You love me?”

  “Yes. I have right from the time I first saw you. It was just one of those amazing things. I fell in love at first sight. I’m sorry if this has upset you but the fact remains.”

  She remained poised and calm though her heart was thudding wildly. “Dr. Warren, I don’t know how to answer you.”

  “Are you furious?”

  “Furious? No, of course I’m not. I am amazingly flattered.”

  “And will you continue to see me?”

  “You know I will.”

  His grip on her hands tightened. “Mrs. Gage, might I be allowed to call you by your Christian name?”

  She laughed. “Yes, certainly you may. May I call you by yours?”

  “I would be honoured.”

  “Then, my dear Joseph, why don’t you buy me another coffee.”

  He laughed and wept again, relieved that she had not been angry, relieved that she had not resorted to feigned dignity and silly phrases.

  “Of course. At once.”

  He signalled to the waiter and as he turned away Margaret studied him. He was fine-looking, there could be no doubt of that. Indeed, had he not been so serious and intense he could have been one of the most handsome men in town. But his expression was set and earnest, giving his features a sullen look in repose. Yet when he turned back to her, he transformed, and she decided that it was all to do with the expression in his eyes.

  “Margaret,” he said, his voice low, “I have a Christmas present for you.”

  “How very kind.”

  “Please accept it and think of me when you open it.”

  She looked down. “I have nothing to give in return I’m afraid.”

  “I expected nothing. Nothing that is except your friendship.”

  “You have that always.”

  And she really meant it. The revolutionary doctor was proving to be a considerable influence in her life, an influence that in some mysterious way was starting, very subtly, to make her think like an American.

  *

  On Christmas Day the Governor called the entire staff into the withdrawing room for them to have a glass of hot punch with him and his wife. This they did, toasting his health and that of Mrs. Gage, and admiring little Charlotte, who was in her best clothes and behaving angelically. In fact all would have been serene had it not been for an odd underlying current of sadness.

  Tom and Margaret had decided that they must now put the death of William behind them and concentrate on the future. Yet, secretly, they still grieved, despite the show they were putting on for the benefit of the servants and each other. The Governor was, to add to his problems, growing increasingly worried about the situation in Massachusetts. Further a report had come to him only yesterday, Christmas Eve. It had been Calico Joel, his most trusted man, who had brought it to him.

  “Greetings, Excellency,” he had said as he had walked into the study.

  Tom had looked up from his usual mound of documents. “Greetings, Joel. Compliments of the season to you.”

  “Thank you. I come to report something.”

  “Oh ves?”

  “It is about Dr. Warren, the rebel medicine man.”

  “What about him?”

  “He is meeting someone.”

  “So?” said Tom, losing interest and starting to study his papers once more.

  Calico Joel had stood silently, observing the man to whom he had sworn allegiance, knowing perfectly well who the mysterious woman was but not daring, not even he, to tell the Governor her true identity.

  “That is all, mon Gouverneur. He meets a woman. You must be careful.”

  Tom had looked up. “Why? Why should I be careful?”

  Everything hung in the balance but the Indian chose the path of discretion and said nothing.

  Tom had persisted. “Why? Is this woman important? Tell me.”

  “I believe her husband is close to the British high command.”

  “An officer’s wife?”

  “Possibly, yes.”

  Tom had stared at him, then had finally shrugged and returned to his papers. “Keep an eye on the situation in your usual way.” He had looked up again. “What are you doing for Christmas, my friend?”

  “I shall be around, mon Gouverneur.”

  “Then come and have a drink with us tomorow at noon. You will be most welcome.”

  And now the scout had entered the room, dressed as extraordinarily as ever but bearing himself well. He removed his hat on entering and his black hair, which had been tucked up inside, cascaded to his waist as he did so. He bowed solemnly to Mrs. Gage, then he turned to the Governor.

  “Excellency,” he said, and put his hand to his heart.

  One glance at Margaret had been enough to confirm that she was the woman secretly meeting Dr. Warren. But this was a matter on which he must keep his own counsel. Bowing again, he accepted a drink. And then he saw Sara. He had never observed anyone as beautiful before. Today the girl seemed burnished, a glow about her skin and hair that came from within. Standing very still, Calico Joel noticed the way she looked at the Governor and knew at once that she was in love with him. Then he saw the little glance that Tom gave her and realised that they shared a secret of some kind. He also knew, instinctively but certainly, that they had never been to bed together.

  Mrs. Gage was speaking. “Charlotte, you are to behave yourself.”

  But the child was reaching for Calico Joel’s hair, wanting to stroke it and play with it. Instantly he sat cross-legged on the floor and picked the girl up in his arms. He heard Margaret’s slight intake of breath but ignored it. Then he and Charlotte stared at one another, he most directly, she too at first, before she grew shy. Finally she put out a hand and touched his hair and then, laughing, seized great handfuls of it and ran them through her fingers. Sara, who had been watching, gave a laugh of pleasure and, squatting down, joined in.

  Margaret gave a sound of annoyance and bent to put an end to the child’s game. Joel caught her eye as it grew level with his and said, “It is Christmas, Madame. She enjoys herself.”

  “Yes, of course. I just did not want her to annoy you, that is all.” She straightened up as did Sara, who blushed and looked away. Margaret gave the girl a very odd glance then turned her attention back to the rest of the room.

  Calico Joel, imperturbable as ever, remained on the floor with the little girl and played quietly, speaking to her in bad French, telling her Indian stories of wh
ich she did not understand a word but listened enraptured to the sound of his voice.

  Tom bent forward. “She’s not pestering you, is she?”

  “No, Excellency. I am content.”

  “That’s all right then.”

  But Calico Joel, playing with the child, was also observing and thinking, wondering where it was all going to end, not only the political situation but also the other, more personal, drama that was destined to unfold within the walls of Province House.

  *

  She had been delighted with her gift which she had unwrapped secretly. It had been made of silver, a little mirror, and she suspected that Joseph had ordered it from his friend Paul Revere, whose trade it was to fashion that particular metal. Yet she felt guilty about using it, knowing it came from revolutionary hands. But as she sat on the bed in the silence of her room, Margaret fell to thinking about everything that Dr. Warren had said to her since her arrival in Boston.

  His declaration of love, of course, had both thrilled and excited her. Indeed, though her first loyalty lay with her husband, and always would, she loved him in a fashion. The fashion of infatuation, which, together with the delicacy of secrecy, was almost overwhelming. Yet it was the broader message that he was telling her that she was presently considering, the message that America had outgrown the yoke of British rule and was ready to govern itself. So much he said made perfect sense to her, American-born herself, that it was hard to know these days who was right and who was wrong.

  Peering at herself in the little mirror Margaret saw that she was frowning and immediately changed her expression to a smile. Did she look forty? she wondered. She traced the lines at her mouth and eyes with an extended finger, pulling the corners upward. Next she examined her chin, raising it high and staring fixedly at the consequent sharpness of her jawline. Finally she stood up and turned to right and left before the big cheval mirror in the room. Her figure was still fine, that was certain, but her face did look a little older, there could be no denying it.

  Suddenly she burst out laughing and twirled round. However she looked, Dr. Warren had fallen in love with her and it was the greatest secret of all time. She was giggling away to herself when there came a sudden knock at the door and without waiting for a response, one of the slaves entered.