The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  “One mistake, you call it,” Tom said bitterly. “That mistake cost a host of British lives – and Yankee too. But no doubt you were thinking only of your country – this nation full of immigrants, mostly from Britain. Well, Madam, you should have thought more of the consequences of your action. Thought too, perhaps, of your husband, the man who for a number of years has cared for you and protected you. The man who gave you his heart. But forget that; it all lies in the past.”

  Margaret turned a tear-streaked face towards him. “Tom, for God’s sake.”

  He got out of bed and stood before her in his nightshirt. “Margaret, for the love of Christ stop it. You have done the deed, it is in the past. As soon as a suitable ship comes into port I am sending you and Charlotte back to England. Until such time we will remain outwardly cordial but that is all. Have I made myself clear?”

  She turned on him a look of pure dislike. “I always thought that you had a hard streak and now I know it is true. Very well, two can play your hand of cards. I shall be civil but leave it at that. Goodbye to you.” And she swept from the bedroom, closing the door with a bang behind her.

  Tom sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly devoid of feeling, realising that another terrible day stretched before him. And in that moment he knew that he was going to confide in Lord Rupert, tell him everything, so at least there would be a sympathetic ear to listen when Tom was desperately in need.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  May, 1775

  It was, thought Margaret Gage, one of the most depressing sights she had ever seen. Out through Boston Neck, a straggling but steady line of people was making its way. All supporters of the rebels, they had bundles in one hand and a string of children in the other, wandering out of Boston, which was now preparing for a siege. Equally, British supporters were making their way into the town from the country, fearing for their lives if they stayed where they were.

  The Governor had demanded that all weapons should be handed over before any refugee could leave. Anyone who wanted could then theoretically get a pass to go. But in fact these passes were difficult to obtain and bore with them certain restrictions. Neither food nor merchandise could go with the applicant. And those who left could never return as long as the British held the town. Yet, despite this, the stream of people leaving equalled the stream of those coming into Boston for their own protection. Rupert Germain had started a trend that was growing daily.

  Joseph Warren had left on the day of the Battle of Lexington and Concord, fighting gallantly alongside the revolutionaries. After that, he had decided to leave Boston behind and was currently staying in Cambridge, where he had been made chairman of the Committee of Safety. He had written to the Governor on the day after the fight. A letter which had begun, ‘I have many things which I wish to say to your Excellency, and most sincerely wish I had broken through the formalities which I thought due to your rank, and freely have told you all I knew or thought of public affairs…’ He had not mentioned anything personal but still had felt compelled to write.

  Margaret sat in the chaise, looking at the two sets of people, one group leaving, the other coming in, and felt at her lowest ebb for years. That her marriage was over she was utterly convinced. It was how she felt about it that was the crux of the matter. In one way her preoccupation with Dr. Warren had led her to a feeling almost of indifference. On the other she had spent all her formative years in the company of Tom Gage and was so used to having him there, of receiving his love, support and protection, that the thought of being without it truly hurt her. Yet there was nothing she could do. She had betrayed him for the sake of her country and now she must take the consequences.

  If only Joseph were still in town, she thought. I could have seen him, explained what had happened and sought his advice. But he had gone and she had heard nothing as to whether he had survived the fighting or not. Staring disconsolately at the lines of people making their way to the countryside beyond, Margaret felt the strongest urge to join them. To walk with them, offer to take a child or two by the hand, and leave Boston and all its political intrigue behind for ever. To go and find Joseph and throw in her lot with his. To go and live in a quiet village in New England and perhaps have another child.

  But even as she watched the pouring out of refugee families she knew that she must return to Province House and Thomas’s grim expression and icy silence. Perhaps in time his attitude would soften and he would forgive her. Yet she knew that dream was over before it had even begun. Tom could forgive many things but betrayal was not one of them. And she, his chosen consort, had told his secret to the other side. She was, to put it bluntly, a traitor in his eyes. Margaret shivered, wondering what the punishment would have been if she had been a member of his staff rather than his wife. Being shot or hanged, she imagined.

  She leaned forward. “Home, Andrew, I’ve seen enough.”

  “It’s a funny sight, ain’t it, Mam? All them folks leavin’ and all them other folks comin’ in. Hope there’s going to be enough for us all to eat.”

  “Oh, surely there will be.”

  “I ain’t so certain, Mam. I think hard times is comin’.”

  In the eventuality, Andrew was proved right. From plentiful supplies rations were suddenly cut to salt meat and fish. The Governor ordered that his defences should be strengthened at both Boston Neck and along the Charles River. The flow, both in and out, had trickled off by May, during which time Tom frantically attempted to restore peace, while feeling certain that the outbreak of further hostilities was merely a matter of time. It was a period of enormous tension for people on both sides.

  Most evenings, as soon as he had dined – often in frigid silence – Tom would take the chaise and leave the house. The only exception to this rule was when he had business to attend to or some high-ranking officer coming to see him. Other than for that, he went out without fail, returning at about midnight, sometimes later. At first Margaret had lain awake, alone in the big marital bed, awaiting his return, but nowadays she simply went to sleep and ignored the whole thing. If it had been anyone other than Tom she would have thought he had another woman, but this did not fit in with his rigid discipline. Or did it? In the silence of her lonely room Margaret grew suspicious.

  Yet what could she do about it? She had chosen her country rather than Tom because she had listened to Joseph Warren, a man of great strength of character, not to mention the fact that she had been very much attracted to him. So she was as much to blame as anyone. But despite the facts, Margaret resented the idea that her husband sought consolation in the arms of another.

  But what consolation it was. Tom Gage was like a man reborn into the joys of sex with a girl as uninhibited as any he had ever come across. He would lie for hours in Sara’s close embrace, often in total silence, sometimes telling her that he loved her, other times simply making love to the best of his ability. It was such a total contrast to the grimness of everyday living that he found himself longing for those evenings he could spend in Sara’s company. He even had daydreams of sending her back to England and setting her up as his mistress in London, where she would instantly become the toast of the town. But as ever thoughts of Margaret would surface at this stage of his reverie. For reply he would stretch out an arm to Sara, pull her gently beneath him and, relishing every sensation, slowly sink deep inside her. At which she would give a cry of pure pleasure and hold him tightly. At moments like these Tom thought himself in heaven and wanted such intense feelings to go on for ever. But nothing can and soon it was time for him to get dressed and leave her, driving home alone through the dark, empty streets of a town under siege.

  *

  Meanwhile more reinforcements arrived in Boston, including three British Major-Generals to help Gage in his present predicament. This brought the total number of marines, dragoons, artillery men and infantry to six thousand, all crammed together in that small town, all needing to be fed and watered and housed. Margaret could barely bring herself to smile at the newcomers, but smile
she did, entertaining them to dinner and pretending to be interested in their talk of England and London life. But secretly her thoughts lay with Joseph – who was not only alive but corresponding with her through his old consulting rooms. He would send the letters there and she would go and collect them and answer via the same route.

  He was living in Watertown, seven miles up the Charles River from Boston. In one of his letters – all kept under lock and key in a secret drawer – he had suggested meeting Margaret. But she felt like a caged bird and wrote back that it was impossible. That was until one day in early June.

  She was returning home from her walk to the harbour and vaguely noticed a countryman coming towards her, carrying his great baskets full of wares, which he had come into Boston to sell. She could not help but give him a second glance for he looked such a fright; a great flapped hat on his head, filthy hose, a shirt patched and worn, shoes with holes. Yet there was something about the way he carried himself, something in his bearing, that made her look at him twice. Seeing her stare, he approached her.

  “I’ve a few things left, Mam. Want to see?” And before she could give an answer he had moved the apples to one side to reveal a piece of paper.

  Margaret stared at it. “What’s that?”

  “Bless my soul, Mam. It’s a letter. Guess it’s for you.”

  She looked at him closely and a pair of light blue eyes regarded her equally shrewdly. Then one of them winked at her. Margaret drew in breath but before she could speak there came an urgent whisper.

  “Don’t say my name aloud or I’m a dead man. I’ve risked all to come here today. If you want to, meet me at my old house in fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, buy something from me for the love of God.”

  “I’ll have a few apples,” she said loudly, but her heart was racing with pure delight. Joseph had risked his life to come to her.

  “Thank you, Mam.”

  She paid him with some money from her reticule, then walked on a little, then went through the pantomime of suddenly remembering something and turned on her heel. With a racing heart she made her way to Hanover Street where he was waiting for her.

  *

  The front door stood open and closing it behind her, Margaret stepped cautiously inside.

  “Hello,” she called. “Where are you?”

  He came bursting out of his office, his hat cast aside, and she saw the gleam of his fair hair without powder or wig.

  “Margaret,” he said. “How is it with you?”

  But before she could answer he had swept her into his arms and kissed her, just as he had on the night they had met in the stables.

  Except that these kisses were even hungrier, were even more highly charged than the others had been.

  “Oh Joseph,” she said, struggling to get a little air.

  “Margaret, I’ve missed you so much. You’ll never know how greatly. Oh my darling, does all go well with you?”

  For answer she shook her head. “No. Tom found out that I betrayed him. My marriage is over. He no longer speaks to me.”

  “Bastard.”

  “No, Joseph. After all, I did tell you his plans.”

  “But only to protect the country that you love. But darling don’t let’s talk about it. Let’s not ruin the hour we have together.”

  “An hour? Is that all?”

  “Perhaps two. I passed through Boston Neck with Billy Dawes. He comes here every week, selling things. I begged him to let me accompany him. He did so but only on the strict terms that I would be back out before sundown.”

  “Will you return to Boston?”

  “I doubt it. Mine is such a well-known face. They would be onto me like a pack of wolves.”

  “Well I didn’t recognise you.”

  “That’s because you weren’t looking.”

  All the time they had been speaking he had been leading her to the room in which he used to see patients, and now they had arrived.

  Joseph sat her on the couch and went to a cupboard.

  “Ah, it’s still here.”

  “What?”

  “A little brandy I used to keep for medicinal purposes. Will you have a drop?”

  “Only a very little.”

  Joseph poured out two small glasses and handed her one, finishing his own in a single swallow. Then he came and sat next to her. He said nothing but she caught his light blue glance and in it she read passion and longing.

  “I want vou,” he muttered.

  “I know you do.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “Oh, God, Joseph, I want you too.”

  It was enough. He was upon her, raising her skirts to where she was naked underneath and putting his hand on her most vulnerable spot.

  “Are you sure?” she heard him ask.

  “Positive.”

  He let out a great sigh and the next thing she knew was the feel of him entering her.

  “I’m not going to take long. It’s been such an age.”

  “Just to have you close is wonderful.”

  And it was, like heaven on earth, but as he had predicted it was over in a few moments. But then, after resting for another ten, he was ready once more and this time he made proper love to her, caressing her breasts and her body as he slowly undressed her. For the first time Margaret saw him naked and longed for him, lean and muscular as he was. And he, laughing a little at the look of desire on her face, leaned over her and kissed her and entered her again, until they achieved the heights together and shouted loudly in the empty house.

  Afterwards they dressed again quickly.

  “You leave first,” he said, “and walk slowly back home. I want one or two medical supplies which I shall hide in the bottom of the basket.

  Then I’ll go too.”

  Margaret turned in the doorway. “Will we meet again?”

  “Oh yes,” he said quietly. “It is our fate to do so.”

  She looked up at him. “You have never said you love me.”

  “Haven’t I? It’s probably because we’ve been so busy. But I do love you, Margaret, with all my heart. You are the woman I have always dreamed of marrying.”

  “Will we marry one day, when Tom has divorced me?”

  “Oh yes. You’ll come and live with me in a New England village and we shall have a sturdy little boy of our own. Would you like that?”

  “I should love it.”

  “Then fix on to that dream, my darling. Hold it with you through all the dark hours ahead.”

  “I will think of it every night.”

  “As will I.”

  “And in that way we will never be separated.”

  “Never.” She turned back to the door, which he opened for her.

  “Goodbye, my darling. Until we meet again.”

  He raised her hand to his lips. “Until that moment remember that I shall always love you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  June, 1775

  On June 12th General Gage issued a proclamation placing Boston under martial law. He also on that date reached a decision with his fellow Major-Generals to move against the neighbouring village of Dorchester, followed by the Charlestown peninsula. This time he kept the secret close to his heart, but did not take into consideration General Burgoyne. A loud-mouthed fellow who had arrived from England at the same time as Hugh Percy, Burgoyne enjoyed his various liquors, and after having had a drop or two too many, discussed the plans in what appeared to be every tavern in town. He may as well have made a public proclamation. It seemed to be only thirty minutes before the Yankees had heard them – all of them – and were acting accordingly. Consequently it became common knowledge that the British were about to launch an offensive and where it was to be.

  Across the Charles River lay Charlestown, the place in which Paul Revere had collected his mount on that fateful April night. Beyond the town were two hills, Bunker and Breed’s, and on the night of the sixteenth British sentries in Boston heard noises indicating that the revolutionaries were
busily fortifying the place. They had chosen to entrench Breed’s Hill, little realising that this was a mistake. Properly fortified, Bunker Hill would have been impregnable. Breed’s Hill, on the other hand, was lower and therefore more open to direct attack. Furthermore, it could possibly be flanked by the British landing from the Mystic River.

  As usual, the British took their time about preparing and it was not until the afternoon of the seventeenth that they finally landed at the end of the Charlestown peninsula. Then, after being drafted into wings, they slowly began to advance on the fortified hill, in two steadily moving columns of red.

  Hearing that there was to be fighting at Breed’s Hill, sightseers began to fill up the high places in Boston so that they could look across the river and see the action. The church steeples and rooftops were occupied first, then the balconies and windows, while Sara climbed upstairs to the attic floor and there discovered that by opening the small window and sitting on the sill, legs dangling outside, she had a fine view over the water.

  She was dressed simply but finely in a muslin open robe of dark green, the Governor having thrown away her other clothes and rigged her out – to use her own expression – in better quality garments. Her daily life was dull, shopping and reading her main activities, but at night it metamorphosed into splendour. For at dusk her Governor, the man who was the centre of her universe, the person she adored above all others, would come to her. Often they would make love but equally often they would talk about his problems, or she would read aloud to him, or they would play chess, which he had painstakingly taught her. She was never allowed to cook for him because he had always dined with his traitorous wife before he came to her. But for those few hours Tom belonged to Sara, and Sara alone. Now, putting a cushion under her behind to make it more comfortable to sit, she prepared to watch a battle that she knew he desperately needed to win.

  *

  Joseph Warren had left the house in Hanover Street feeling more happy and fulfilled than he had for years. He had longed for Margaret as only a young widower could and now, at last, she had given herself to him, and the consummation had been as glorious as anything he could ever have imagined. Further, they had a dream. A dream in which they were married and had a son. He had told her to hold onto that dream – now it was up to him to do so as well.