The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  The Governor merely nodded and went up the stairs with measured tread, giving the slave girl a small bow as he passed her and went into her room. Once inside he turned and looked at Sara, removing his hat as he did so.

  “Oh, Governor, it’s so good to see you.”

  He put his finger to his lips. “Shush. She might overhear you.

  Nobody must know who I am.”

  “Oh, Sir, she don’t know nothing. She just thinks you’re some gentleman who takes an interest in me.”

  “I’ll bet she does,” Tom answered with a grin, and sat down on the one and only chair.

  He studied the girl as she busied herself fetching glasses and a bottle of wine.

  “Sara, where did that come from? You mustn’t spend your money on me. Really, that’s naughty of you.”

  She turned on him a brilliant face. “It’s all right, Governor, truly.

  I’ve got more work. Money ain’t a problem.”

  “What is this work, child?” asked Tom, a horrid suspicion clutching his heart.

  “I’m cleaning people’s houses, Sir. Mr. Borland suggested a lady who is too frail to do her own. And she suggested another. What with that and my lessons, I’m pretty busy.”

  “Thank God,” breathed the Governor.

  “Talking of God,” Sara said cheerfully, “I saw you in church last

  Sunday.”

  “So you were there. I wondered if you might be.”

  “I comes at the last minute and I leaves early.”

  “It’s ‘came’ and ‘left’,” said Tom, accepting the glass she held out to him.

  “Sorry, Master Governor. Anyway, I saw you in the front, singing away”

  “Yes, I enjoy the hymns. Do you, Sara?”

  “Oh yes. I enjoys them fine. Mrs. Gage looked well,” the girl added in an undertone.

  “Yes, she keeps her spirits up,” Tom answered, thinking, even as he spoke, that it had been some weeks since he had actually asked Margaret how she was. Momentarily his mind wandered, wishing that their relationship had retained the fervour of their early years together, then conceding that marriage and children and the hardships of everyday life made that hope impossible.

  Having poured herself a glass of wine, Sara sat on the floor, looking the governor straight in the eye.

  “Tell me, Master, how is this situation going to end?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, my dear. I have no idea. In armed conflict I dare swear.”

  “But what will happen in the end?”

  “The government in Britain will force the Whigs to back down I imagine.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why do you say it like that? What do you mean?”

  “I ain’t sure, Governor. But I guess I admire them just for standing up for themselves.”

  Tom stared at her. “How can you say such a thing? What are you thinking of?”

  “You forget, Master, that I was born here. I am a Yankee.”

  “But your mother was English, your father African. Surely that is your primary alliance.”

  The look of anguish on Sara’s face was indescribable. Springing to her feet she said, “Oh Sir, please don’t speak like that. I spoke out of turn, I know it. I should never have said what I did.”

  It rapidly went through the Governor’s mind that this was not destined to be his night as far as relationships with members of the opposite sex were concerned.

  “No, no,” he answered, “you have a right to express an opinion.”

  She gave him an agonised glance, her lovely face a study of misery. “Please don’t go, Sir.” Then she flung herself into his arms, more affectionately than Margaret had done an hour previously.

  Tom stood there, more than aware of her closeness, of the exotic smell of her. His mind was racing, remembering the time he had kissed her, of his dream of seeing her naked. In an agony he said aloud, “You must regard her as a daughter.”

  Sara looked at him, startled. “Why do you say that?”

  He looked down at her, snug in his arms. “Because I must,” he answered, though the words did not come out as firmly as he would have wished.

  “But, Sir, I am not your daughter, nor could I ever be so.”

  “Oh Sara, don’t say that. Have I not treated you with respect?”

  “Oh, indeed you have, Master Governor.”

  They stood staring at one another, looking deeply into each other’s eyes, till eventually Sara whispered, “Don’t you want me at all?”

  Tormented, Tom could only murmur back, “You’ll never know how much.”

  A smile crossed her face and standing on tiptoe she brushed his cheek with her lips. It was more than human flesh and blood could endure and the Governor bent his head and gave her a kiss, a kiss in which all his longing for her was mixed with the months of hardship he had been enduring.

  “Shall we go to bed?” Sara asked, almost innocently.

  Tom shook his head. “No, let’s just continue like this. If I slept with you I would never forgive myself.”

  Sara smiled, an ancient smile that spoke of centuries of old, old wisdom. “Very well, Master. We shall do as you say.”

  It must have been midnight before he left, walking out into the cold air with his heart on fire and his body freezing. He had kissed her and embraced her and loved her but had held himself back from seducing her. For that, he told himself now, was something he must never do. But even as he thought it, even as he climbed into the chaise and set the little grey horse into a brisk trot, he knew how close he had been to doing just that.

  “She’s dangerous for me,” he said aloud.

  And he felt certain that the only way to stop himself was to stop seeing her for a while. Stop until he had got over this mad and passionate infatuation. For surely that was what this feeling was. Yet the thought of it made him cringe, indeed brought tears stinging behind his eyes.

  Quietly he turned into the stables from the back of the building and settled the horse for the night. Then glancing at his pocket watch and seeing that it was approaching one in the morning, he finally rounded the corner and made for the front door.

  “Who goes there?” cried one of the sentries.

  “The Governor,” came the reply.

  “Pass, Sir, all’s well.”

  But is it, thought Tom as he made his way quietly upstairs. Is it really?

  Chapter Twenty

  March 6th, 1775

  The spies had been moderately successful, thought Gage with a slight air of cynicism. Major John Pitcairn returned with some crudely drawn maps. Lieutenant De Berniere and Captain Brown, however, did not fare so well. Taking with them their batman, who they referred to as ‘our man John’, they banished him to a separate table when they stopped for something to eat at a Whig tavern in Watertown. This immediately aroused the suspicions of the black girl who served them. Warning them – none too pleasantly – not to go further inland, the pair hurried away. Menaced by horsemen who rode up to them, glared, then galloped off, the two soldiers, having got as far as Worcester and drawn some maps of the hills and roads, plodded back to Boston through heavy snow. Most of the time they had been fearful for their lives.

  But as Major Pitcairn had predicted, it was Calico Joel who triumphed. Getting a job as a hired hand on a widow’s farm, he studied the people of Concord and noted their military equipment and stores. Then in the evenings, by candlelight, he wrote memoranda to his beloved General in amazingly bad French, detailing exactly what the Governor wanted to hear. He was precise and to the point. In other words the Indian was providing just what was needed.

  With Joel’s latest missive in his hand, the Governor leaned back in his chair and sighed. It would be obvious to anyone that the revolutionaries were building up their military reserves in preparation for combat. Yet how could he, without specific instructions from London, order his men to go on the move? As it was he had started regular marches of troops into the countryside, had written to everyone in command to be o
n full alert. Personally he believed that decisive action against the insurgents now would cure the problem once and for all. But would it really end it? As long as there were people like Sara around, people who had been born in this vast and frightening country and believed themselves to be part of it, how could there ever be peace?

  Tom leaned back further and let his mind wander over the last evening he had spent with the black girl, remembering with pleasure the kisses he had given her and her eager response to them. Unconsciously his hand went to his collar and loosened the top button, the very memory making him grow hot. He had deliberately kept away from Sara since, throwing himself into his work, plagued by pangs of conscience regarding his wife. But Margaret, almost as if she knew, had been strangely distant, as though her thoughts were occupied elsewhere. In normal circumstances Tom might have been worried by this aloofness, but in the present tense atmosphere he put it down to concern for the future.

  There was a knock on his study door and in response to his call, Major Pitcairn put his head round.

  “The meeting is due to begin, Sir. I’m making my way there. Any instructions?”

  Tom stared blankly, his thoughts a million miles away. “What meeting?”

  “The anniversary of the Boston Massacre…”

  “In which five people died.” Tom snorted.

  “Some massacre. However, the meeting’s due to begin in half an hour. Dr. Warren is to be the speaker.”

  “A good man other than for his political views.”

  “I’d give him good man straight up his arse,” Major Pitcairn exploded. “Well not this afternoon you won’t. Let him speak in peace.”

  “The trouble with you, Governor,” the Major said daringly, “is that you’re so bloody fair.”

  Gage did not respond, merely staring at his nails.

  “Oh well, I’ll be off, Sir.”

  “Goodbye.” The Governor looked up. “Pitcairn, you’re to make sure there’s no unruly behaviour. And that’s an order.”

  The Major saluted. “Very good, Sir. I’ll see to it.” The door closed behind him.

  With the flash of a hatpin, Margaret secured her second best hat to her head and stood up, smoothing out the folds of her pink silk open robe before a full length mirror, turning to see herself from every angle. Then, on an impulse, she crossed her bedroom and went out onto the balcony, looking across Marlborough Street to where the people of Boston were already beginning to make their way into Old South Church – or Meeting House, as it was known. For today the man she had come to hold in high regard, the young revolutionary doctor, Joseph Warren himself, was about to make the oration celebrating what was known as the Boston Massacre. Margaret leaned forward, her hands on the stone balustrade, wishing that Boston didn’t smell quite so rank. But the fact was that people from the country, people loyal to King George and therefore open to all manner of insults against both their property and their persons, had come flooding into the town for their own protection. Overcrowding had meant shortage of both food and water, and it had also meant that the stink got worse. With a look of resignation, Margaret left the balcony and slowly started to descend the stairs.

  Despite the fact of his ever-increasing activities, she had seen quite a good deal of the physician recently. It had been relatively simple to organise. She had taken to walking daily, sometimes with Charlotte, sometimes on her own, but always telling him the general route she was taking. Sure as fate, somewhere along the way Joseph Warren would hurry up to her, begging her pardon for being late. On occasions, too, she had visited his house for an hour or so, in between his seeing patients, of course. They had talked about the revolution that was coming, for by now she was firmly convinced that it would. He had even extracted a promise from her that she would help him if necessary and had worked out a simple code for him to warn her that he needed her. There had never been any wrongdoing, other than for him sitting closer to her than was strictly necessary, putting his hands over hers occasionally, turning his blazing blue eyes on her. Yet Margaret knew as well as if he had told her that he loved and wanted her and all she would have to do was encourage him minutely. Yet how could she betray the husband who had been through so much with her all these years? Strangely, though, when she spent time with Joseph Warren she forgot all about that and merely lived for the present.

  Making her way down the stairs Margaret saw Major John Pitcairn; leave her husband’s study and go out of the front door. She knew instinctively that he had the same purpose as herself, that he was going to hear Joseph’s oration. She hesitated, wondering whether to say farewell to Thomas, then deciding that he was too busy to be bothered. Cautiously, she went quietly out of the front door.

  Crossing Marlborough Street, she entered the Old South Church to find the place packed. Every head turned as she entered and Margaret saw that – much as she had expected – a goodly number of British officers were there ahead of her. One nudged another, they all stared, then politely rose to their feet in a body. There was little option but to proceed forward to the front pew, aware that there was a whisper of, ‘The Governor’s wife has arrived. Fancy that!’ buzzing all round her. Raising her head, glad that she was wearing a becoming hat, Margaret sailed along the aisle.

  As luck would have it, Major Pitcairn bowed her into her place.

  “A pleasure to see you, Ma’am.”

  “I thought I should attend.”

  “Yes, yes indeed,” he answered over-enthusiastically.

  Margaret looked round and saw that Lord Rupert Germain was also present, a notebook and pencil surreptitiously balanced on his knee. She gave him a brief nod of her head and he stood up and bowed.

  By now the church was full to overflowing, British officers sitting on the steps of the pulpit completely blocking the way in. Wondering how on earth Joseph was going to manage, Margaret could not help but think that so many British present indicated a plot to seize Samuel Adams and John Hancock, who sat behind the pulpit in the deacons’ seats, together with Dr. Benjamin Church and Paul Revere. Praying that Dr. Warren was going to escape such treatment before a vast and partly hostile crowd, Margaret waited.

  When he did come she let out a gasp of surprise. Not sure how he was going to get into the pulpit, she was amazed to see a head appear at a window behind it and Joseph himself climb into the church. Making his way through his few allies, he clambered into the pulpit from the back and stood silently surveying his enemies, who sat like a murder of red-coated crows waiting for him to make the slightest slip.

  This day, the doctor was garbed in breeches and a Ciceronian toga which, though dramatic, did not altogether become him. However, despite his odd costume, he looked amazingly attractive with his spectacular eyes lit with their own inner fire. He caught Margaret’s gaze and hastily looked away again. Then he cleared his throat and began.

  “My ever honoured fellow citizens, it is not without the most humiliating conviction of my want of ability that I now appear before you…”

  His voice, by nature soft and gentle, had developed a harsh edge to it which rang round the church to the accompaniment of hisses and catcalls from the British officers. Despite these, Joseph continued to speak, ignoring the interruptions and even dropping his handkerchief over a handful of bullets, which a Captain Chapman, sitting on the pulpit steps, handed up to him. Margaret was lost in admiration, thinking how remarkable it was that a physician should be able to speak at length about something which he held so dear. Occasionally, he looked straight at her and she could tell by his glance that he couldn’t actually see her, that he was lost entirely in his oration. Eventually though, he drew to a close.

  “…and take your seats with kindred spirits in your native skies.”

  He left the pulpit amidst thunderous applause and a slow handclap from the British. Margaret sat in silence, thinking that though the speech had been too flowery for her taste, it made one thing obvious. Joseph Warren believed so passionately in his cause that he was prepared to die for it.r />
  When the uproar had calmed down, Samuel Adams, scruffy as ever, got to his feet.

  “The thanks of the town should be presented to Dr. Warren for his elegant and spirited oration.” More thunderous applause. Adams held up a large hand. “And now let us make plans for next year’s celebration of the bloody massacre…”

  But he got no further. Only five people had died during what had come to be known as the massacre and this was pushing the red-coat officers too far. There was a storm of hissing and several cries of “Oh fie! Oh fie!” Margaret stood up to go but was pushed to one side by a crowd of citizens heading rapidly for the doors. The people of Boston, not used to such elegant turns of phrase, had mistaken the word for ‘Fire’ and were leaving in a panic. Others, meanwhile, seeing the doors were jammed tightly with fleeing folk, hurled themselves bodily out of the windows. Margaret stood, being shoved and knocked on all fronts, staring in horror as the scene of panic unfolded.

  “Mrs. Gage, come with me,” said an English voice, and she turned to see Lord Rupert Germain holding out his hand to her.

  She had never really liked the man but now she took his hand willingly enough as he led her towards the back of the church. They passed right by Joseph Warren, who was sitting, exhausted and unmoving, in a deacon’s chair. He looked up as they passed and his eyes widened but he said nothing, merely getting to his feet in order to follow them. Ignoring him, Lord Rupert headed straight for the window which the doctor had used to come in, and checking that the ladder was still in place, climbed out.

  “Mrs. Gage, you are to follow me,” he said. “If you fall I will be there to catch you.”

  So saying he started to climb down and after a moment’s hesitation Margaret raised her skirts and followed him, Dr. Warren forming the third part of this extraordinary triangle. They reached the ground safely, all three, only to discover another diversion. Marching past the Old South, drums and fifes going for all they were worth, was the 43rd Regiment, blasting out military music with gusto. The townsfolk of Boston, now on edge, hearing the noise thought they were under attack, and started screaming again.