The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  But dominating all was the joyful sound of bells. From Christ’s came a royal peal, from King’s Chapel a sonorous, sad sound. Every church could be identified by its individual tone. Markets were opened and closed to their peal; on the Sabbath they called in the faithful to pray. And underneath their huge cacophony came the sound of smaller bells. The local hostelries had hand bells to indicate that they were about to serve dinner. Shops rang bells to muster trade, doorbells rang, schoolmasters called in their pupils by their use. And above all came the wild sound of the sea, forever pounding onto the headland, and the high uninhibited shriek of the gulls.

  Margaret turned left into Queen Street and from there made her way to Hanover Street where, opposite the entrance to Elm Street, stood the house in which Joseph Warren was bringing up his family with the aid of a housekeeper. Looking to right and left, hoping and praying that no one would recognise her, Margaret rang the bell.

  It must have been the housekeeper who answered the door because a tall, spare woman whom Margaret did not know, stood there.

  “Yes?”

  “Is Dr. Warren in, please?”

  “Are you a patient?”

  “Yes,” Margaret lied wildly. “Yes, I have a very sore throat.”

  “Well come in and sit down, Ma’am. He has somebody with him at present and there’s one person ahead of you.”

  “Very well. I’ll wait.”

  She was ushered into a small waiting room in which sat a respectable looking woman, conservatively dressed, with a pained expression on her face.

  Margaret sat down opposite her, hoping that she would not be identified. But there was scant chance of that, for the woman was emitting a series of small groans and moans, closing her eyes in apparent agony, then shivering. Eventually she spoke.

  “Forgive me, please. I feel so ill. I keep coming over faint.”

  “I’m sorry,” ventured Margaret, terrified of being given a list of the woman’s ailments. But there was to be no avoiding that. Fixing her with an eye that defied resistance, the other launched forth.

  “It all started with the death of my husband, you know. Poor soul, I nursed him till he passed over, then I was left, alone to face the world. No sooner had he gone that I felt this searing pain in my knee. Of course I immediately bound it tightly but it swelled up and grew worse. I had to tear the bandage off, layer upon layer of unendurable agony. Then I got these acute pains in my stomach. To be honest with you, I thought my end had come. No sooner had that cleared up than I got the sniffles. A permanent cold, if you understand me – I’ve had it for nigh on two years now. Then I started sweating in the night, and that, together with my lack of sleep, has fairly finished me. I have taken now to settling down on the day bed whenever I feel the need. Of course I have the most beautiful hand-crocheted coverlet which…”

  It was at this moment that, mercifully, she was cut short by the patient before her leaving and the housekeeper calling out, “Mrs. Paine, you are next if you please.”

  The woman, who had become quite animated during her monologue, now assumed an expression of acute suffering and made her way into the doctor’s consulting room. Margaret, wondering what she was doing there and beginning to regret that she had come, shrank into her chair and meekly awaited her turn.

  It came half an hour later; a half hour during which she had twice risen to go, then thought better of it. For she really needed someone to talk to, someone to whom she could communicate her feelings, or rather her version of them. Finally, though, there had been the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the surgery door which had opened to reveal Mrs. Paine – could any name have been more suitable? – leaning heavily on Dr. Warren as he escorted her.

  “Mrs. Bradlee,” he was calling, “could you go to The Orange Tree Tavern and bring back a hackney for Mrs. Paine? She is feeling unwell and needs to lie down at once.” There was some muttering but the housekeeper, pulling a shawl round her shoulders, hurried out. “Next patient,” said Dr. Warren, without looking up.

  He led the way to his consulting room, courteously standing to one side to let his visitor pass. As she drew level with him he recognised her, despite the thick veiling, and she heard him draw in his breath in astonishment.

  “Margaret,” he said, as soon as the door was closed. “What are you doing here?”

  Sitting down opposite his desk, Margaret drew back her veils. “I’m sorry, I felt I had to see you. I have so much to tell you.”

  He sat down opposite, his fair skin flushing with the pleasure of her company. Then he put his hands over the desk and took hers. “Tell me,” he said.

  Strangely, when it came to it, Margaret told him the whole truth, even down to details of her own hypocrisy. How, despite her cooling feelings for the Governor, she had still been wildly angry with Sara. “Yet I was condemning him for something I’m not sure of.” Joseph Warren sat silently, considering.

  “Are you certain there was anything untoward in the Governor’s relationship with the slave? Surely it was as the girl said. He taught her to read, that is all.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I have always considered the Governor an honourable man. I totally disagree with everything he says but that does not take away from the fact that he is a man of integrity.”

  “So you don’t believe he and Sara shared a bed?”

  Joseph looked at her, realising that he had a golden opportunity, an opportunity to win her affection quite solidly. But he, too, was a man of integrity. “No, I don’t.”

  Yet Margaret left out the final detail, that she was jealous of Sara’s youth and beauty.

  “Then I’m content,” she said, making to get up.

  He came round the desk and put his hands on her shoulders. “Stay a while and have coffee with me.”

  “Yes,” she said, raising her hands to touch his. “I would like that. Thank you for listening to me, Dr. Warren.”

  “It is my job to do so,” he answered, and wondered why his heart had started to speed up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  December, 1774

  The Governor worked hard all the morning, trying to lose himself in writing reports and reading others. He had taken the minimum time off for Christmas, three days in fact, and was now busy catching up with what scant information had come in in that time. There had been one or two cases of drunkenness amongst the soldiers, three had deserted, and another deserter had been captured and shot at the foot of the

  Common. In short, it had been a quiet time.

  Shortly after ten o’clock the Governor had heard a quickly-hushed commotion in the hall but had not bothered to investigate its source.

  Therefore when at eleven he rang the bell on his desk he had not been surprised when Robin had answered punctually, though with a long face.

  “What’s the matter?” he had asked, giving the servant a quick glance.

  “Nothin’, Governor.”

  “Um. So what was that racket I heard in the hall about an hour ago?”

  “That was Beulah, Sir. She let out a little scream.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Cos she was upset, Sir.”

  Tom put down his papers and said rather irritably, “That much is obvious. Why was she upset?”

  “Because of Sara, Governor.”

  “Oh for Heaven’s sake, man. Don’t go on beating about the bush.

  What has happened?”

  “The Lady sacked her, Sir. Told her to get her things and get out of the house. Beulah was in the hall to see her go. They both cried.”

  Tom sat staring at him. “Sara has gone?” he said.

  “Yas sir.”

  “But why? What did she do wrong?”

  “I don’t know, Governor. Apparently she was playing with little Charlotte and the Lady took against her. Anyway, she’s gone.”

  “But where? Has the girl any relatives in Boston?”

  “No, she ain’t, Sir. She’s on the streets and that’s all there is to it.”

>   Tom sat motionless, trying to take in what he had just been told. The more he thought about it the more he felt he must take action. For how could he let Sara spend even one night sleeping rough? He must find the girl and get her into lodgings. That was the least he could do.

  He stood up. “Send Andrew to me, would you?”

  “Yes, Masser Governor. At once, Sir.”

  When the coachman arrived, Tom, who had crossed to the window and stood looking over the garden, turned and said, “Andrew, I’ve got to go out but I don’t want to take the coach. Prepare the chaise as swiftly as possible. I’ll join you in five minutes and get inside in the coach house. The less attention we draw to ourselves the better.”

  As soon as the slave had gone he ran upstairs, straight to his room. He half expected to find Margaret there, angrily lying in wait for him, but the place was deserted. Quickly he stripped off his uniform jacket and put on plain black, then he covered everything with a dark cloak and a plain tricorne hat.

  Andrew was still saddling up the small grey horse that drew the chaise when he got to the coach house. But five minutes later all was done and the Governor swept out of the side entrance leading from the stabling block.

  “Andrew, we’ve got to find Sara and put her into lodgings,” he called.

  “Where is she, Governor?”

  “That is what I don’t know. It is up to us to locate her.”

  Yet where in those crowded streets was the girl?

  They decided to sweep the town, going backwards and forwards. First Andrew took the chaise to Boston Neck where enquiries revealed that no one answering Sara’s description had passed through to the countryside beyond. Then they careered up Orange Street, to Newbury Street and Marlborough, looking in all the little alleyways and wharves that led off the main thoroughfares. There was no sign of her.

  Andrew was sent into the many inns and coffee houses – The Blue Anchor, The Indian Queen, The Bull’s Head, The Sun, The Blue Ball, The Orange Tree – all to no avail. Thomas, fearing recognition on so delicate a mission, went into the churches. But it was in The Feather Store, which was in fact the apothecary’s shop, that the Governor got his first clue.

  “Good morning, Excellency,” said John Stanbury, son of the man who had built the shop. “What may I do for you this morning?”

  “One of my slaves has run away,” lied Tom, gallantly covering up. “A girl, name of Sara, rather beautiful. Have you seen her by any chance?”

  “Yes, Sir. I have.”

  The Governor stood staring, having expected yet another negative reply. “You have? Where?”

  “As a matter of fact she came in about half an hour ago. Came to remind me to send up some stomach medicine for Beulah. Brought me the money for it. Not really the action of a runaway, eh Governor.”

  “Very odd behaviour,” Tom answered, but his heart had quickened its pace. Half an hour meant that Sara must still be in the vicinity. “Anyway, thank you Mr. Stanbury. Good day.”

  “Good day, Governor. Call again.”

  Outside stood the chaise but there was no sign of Andrew. Tom waited for a moment then obeying some strange instinct cut down Crooked Lane into King Street. Then he set off to walk the length of the Long Wharf, filled with the feeling that this was the way she had gone. He was halfway along when he spotted her in the distance, a desolate little figure staring out to sea. It was all he could do not to break into a run but he quickened his pace and walked firmly towards her.

  She heard his booted feet approach and turned to see who it was, her face undergoing a rapid change of expression, from fear to a kind of joy, rapidly hidden by the lowering of her head. She bobbed a curtsey as he drew nearer.

  “Sara,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Excellency,” she replied. “I was only playing with Charlotte. Mrs. Gage entirely misunderstood.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” he answered. “Naturally I can’t go against my wife’s decision but I don’t condone it.”

  She looked up at him, her dark eyes holding back tears. “I’m sorry, Sir,” she said again.

  He took her by the shoulders. “There’s no need to apologise. I accept that there was a misunderstanding. However, to go back is impossible. I know my wife and she won’t hear of it. So, let’s to business. Do you have anyone to go to?”

  “No, Sir. You know I don’t.”

  “In that case you must find lodgings. I shall help you. Then, once you’re settled, we can make plans for you to get employment.”

  The tears descended and Sara wept silently. Tom, looking at her, felt himself torn with anguish. He tightened his grip on her. “Come now, my girl, everything will turn out for the best. Just you wait and see.”

  She fell against his chest, her hair clean and sweet-smelling, crying with relief. Tom remained holding her, standing like that for several minutes until she regained her composure and drew away from him.

  Determined to be kind but stern, he said, “Come along, Sara. The chaise is waiting. Let’s try and find you somewhere to live.”

  “I’m coming, Governor.” She stooped and picked up her little bundle of possessions, then walked obediently back beside him, looking straight ahead of her.

  Proceeding like this, he became aware of several things. Firstly, how much taller he was than she; secondly, how much he longed to offer her his arm to support her; thirdly, how much he cared for the child. For that was their relationship to be sure, father and daughter. And he was acting like a father in his attempt to see her safely settled.

  In Dock Square they caught up with Andrew, whose great grin almost split his face at the sight of Sara.

  “You found her, Excellency.”

  “Yes, Andrew. Here she is, safe and sound.”

  “Now we get her some lodging. I think there’s a woman in Salem Street that lets out rooms.”

  “Then let’s go there.”

  Tom handed the girl into the chaise and squeezed in beside her. It was originally built for one and he was pressed tightly against her. So tightly, indeed, that his arm could feel the curve of her breast. Fiercely putting down such alarming thoughts, he stared solemnly ahead of him, refusing even to glance at her.

  Andrew, with much whip-cracking and cries of “Get on, boy” to the horse, negotiated the narrow confines of Wings Lane and turned left into Hanover Street. Next they crossed over the Mill Creek to Middle Street, then turned into Princes Street, off which Salem Street lay.

  The house Andrew headed for was at the end, the door being opened by a middle-aged woman with a suspicious face.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’ve come about lodgings and I ain’t from the army,” Andrew stated.

  The woman stared at the chaise, trying to see who was sitting inside. Much against his better judgement, Tom got out, determined that Sara would be found somewhere to stay, and quickly.

  He bowed. “Madam, I have with me a young female of exemplary character. She is seeking lodgings and I believe you have a room to spare.”

  She curtsied. “Sir, all my spare rooms have been commandeered for the officers. I have nowhere extra.”

  Tom, delighted that he hadn’t been recognised, reverted to the oldest tactics in the world and produced cash from inside his jacket.

  “I will pay you well.”

  The woman’s expression altered, indeed became quite pleasant. “Well, I suppose my sons could share. As long as it wasn’t for ever, of course.”

  “Should I bring the young lady to meet you?”

  “Yes, if you would, Sir.”

  “I warn you that she is black. You have no objection?”

  Yet again those most mobile of features transformed, then the woman clearly thought of the money being offered. The Governor was subjected to a long scrutiny from a pair of extremely shrewd brown eyes, then she said, with a strange, secretive smile, “No. Not at all. Bring her in, Sir.”

  Wondering what she was thinking, Tom helped Sara from the chaise and took her up the fr
ont steps.

  Yet again those brown eyes flew up and down, taking in every inch of the girl’s general bearing. Then she said, “I am Mrs. Wells. I’ll show you the room. It is presently occupied by my son Benjamin but he can move out in half an hour.” She turned to the Governor. “May we discuss rent, Sir?”

  “When Sara has seen the room, yes.”

  “Of course. Come this way – Sara.”

  The room was small but it was comfortable and clean. The Governor left the black girl starting to pack up Benjamin’s things and went with Mrs. Wells into the parlour. Here that most canny widow drove a hard bargain which he accepted. Reluctantly Tom agreed to pay twice what the room was worth and gave her bills to the value of a month’s rent in advance. He went upstairs again and found Sara sitting on the window seat, staring out. She turned as he came in.

  “Master Governor, how can I ever thank you? You have done a very kind thing this day.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’ll come and see you soon, Sara. Take care of yourself and continue with your reading.”

  “Very good, Sir.” She hesitated, then added, “Will you return tomorrow?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse but then he saw her pleading expression and his resolve melted.

  “Yes, I’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Thank you.”

  He turned and went downstairs, bade farewell to the landlady, then left the house, climbing into the chaise which was waiting outside. Looking up he saw that Sara was waving and gave a salute in return.

  “Home, Andrew. And as quickly as possible,” he said.

  “Yassir.”

  He could not know that as soon as he was out of sight Mrs. Wells hurried out and round the corner to see her neighbour.

  “Well, my dear,” she began before the other woman had had a chance to speak, “you’ll never guess what.”

  “What?”

  “The Governor himself, dressed incognito, has been to my house and taken a room for his mistress.”