by Lake, Deryn
“I see you are regarding me, Sir.”
“Indeed I am, Ma’am.”
“And why might that be?”
“It is your very essence that intrigues me. Because you are a native of the Colonies you lack the languid boredom of so many of your English counterparts. Why do you think I associate with the bluestockings? Because they are intelligent and can discuss things other than fashion and card play.”
“I see. Have you never met anyone from the Colonies before?”
“Oh several, Madam. But none as complex as yourself.”
He had given her another deep look and finally conversed with his neighbour at the table. Margaret, after thinking how very different life was in London, had turned her attention to the young man sitting on her left.
“Good evening to you, Sir.”
“And good evening to you, Mrs. Gage. I was hoping you would speak to me. My name is Samuel Jenyns, son of Soame.”
“How do you do, Mr. Jenyns.”
“I do a great deal better now that you are talking to me. But tell me, please, what news of your husband?”
“My husband? Why do you ask?”
“Because he is much spoken of by the beau monde.”
“And what do they say of him?”
“Well, to be honest, opinion is divided. But I say that he can’t be a silly Willy. After all, he married you.”
She looked at him closely to see if he was deliberately insulting her but his smile was wide and ingenuous.
“My husband is in the most difficult situation in the world,” she answered with the slightest edge to her voice. “I would like to see another try to sort out the terrible state that the Colonies are in. You, for example.”
“Oh, I could not do so, Ma’am. I have no military skills.”
“Then it might be as well if you cease to criticise those who have.”
“Touche, Mrs. Gage. I shall change the subject.”
Margaret had rather deliberately turned to the man on her right. He was of a very different stamp, being small and studious, a large pince-nez clasped firmly on his nose. Behind it his eyes, pale blue and anxious, looked enormous. Margaret felt at once that he was nervous and smiled in a friendly manner. She had been introduced to him earlier but could not recall his name,
“Good evening,” she said. “I am Margaret Gage.”
“William Wedderburne, at your service,” he responded, giving a small bow.
“Are you a close friend of Mrs. Montagu?”
“Indeed I am, Madam. I attend many meetings of The Blue Stocking Club. The people of the finest intellect foregather at such affairs.”
“Indeed.”
“Oh yes,” he responded enthusiastically. “Mrs. Montagu is currently in mourning but I am certain the meetings will resume soon. Tell me, Ma’am, will you be staying in town long?”
The question cut home, making Margaret realise that her future hung on a knife’s edge. It was quite possible, she considered, that when Tom finally returned from the Colonies that he might well start proceedings to divorce her, and then where would she be? A lone Yankee let loose in an alien country. She tried desperately to concentrate on the conversation.
“For the time being, yes. Tell me, do you have a wife present, Sir?” The poor fool blushed red and said, “I am not married, Madam. And you?”
“My husband is the Governor of Massachusetts and also supreme commander of the British forces in the Colonies.”
“Gracious, that Gage. I had not associated the name.”
“Indeed, why should you?”
“I had thought you might be one of the Sussex Gages.”
“The Viscount is my brother-in-law.”
Samuel Jenyns spoke up. “Mrs. Gage, I was wondering whether you might need a guide to show you the sights of London. If so, I will gladly offer my services.”
William, blushing deep once more, said, “I too will be only too happy to escort you round the capital.”
Margaret, looking from one earnest young face to the other, replied, “How kind of you, gentlemen.”
They both gave her a gratified look, then glared at one another. And she, thinking of the youthful ages of the men in the army and of the homesteaders fighting to free their country, felt the English had much to learn about the realities of life.
After dinner there was a game of whist in which neither Mrs. Montagu nor Margaret joined.
“Well, my dear, did you enjoy your first encounter with my friends?” asked the hostess.
“Enormously,” Margaret answered. Impulsively she put out her hand and took that of the woman sitting opposite. “It has been most kind of you to take me up like this, Mrs. Montagu.”
“My pleasure entirely, Mrs. Gage. By the way they were all very interested in you, particularly Joshua Reynolds. He whispered to me that he wanted to paint your portrait.”
“Well then he shall. I would be honoured.”
Mrs. Montagu’s rich blue eyes – which this night had darkened to the colour of her famous Club’s stockings – twinkled. “He is a dear friend but he can be a little… uncertain.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, my dear. You must judge for yourself.”
And she would not be drawn further.
Going home afterwards, her reticule full of cards from people wishing her to call on them, Margaret wondered what it was about her that demanded attention. Then guessed that it was her novelty value alone that appealed and that when that was played out she would be passed over for the next amusement. What a strange city was London, she thought, and wondered if she would ever settle down.
*
“So,” said Sir Joshua Reynolds, sketching her while she sat and talked to him, “you admire the works of Michelangelo and Raphael.”
“I have never seen them in reality, but naturally we poor folk from the Colonies have books which we study.”
“Are you being facetious, Mrs. Gage?”
“Yes, a little. I apologise.”
“Please don’t do so. It makes your face alter. I want to capture you just as you are.”
Margaret tried to sit still, despite the thoughts running through her head. She was wondering whether Sir Joshua were married. There was no sign of a wife but then they were in his studio where the lady was most unlikely to be present. But whether he was or not, he was quite definitely flirting with her, a fact that rather amused her. She thought of the two men who had loved her: Tom so youthful and carefree when they had first met, not weighed down as he had become with all the problems posed by her fellow countrymen; Joseph, one of those problems, yet so fresh-faced and fine, so ardent in his lovemaking, so cold and sad in death.
She must have made a little sound because Joshua said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“You moved as if something had upset you. There!” He closed his sketchbook with a bang. “I have enough. Now, when are you free to sit for me in the midst of your social hurly-burly?”
She smiled. “Next week some time, if that would suit you, Sir.”
“It would suit me very well. Tell me, what are you doing this evening?”
“I had planned a quiet night at home. Why?”
“Because, Madam, if you would be willing, I would like you to accompany me to Vaux Hall Pleasure Gardens. We could travel by boat and see the lights of the place from the water. I imagine you have nothing like it in the Colonies.”
“You imagine correctly.”
“In that case I await your pleasure. Will you come?”
“I would be delighted.”
“Then Madam, I will call for you at seven o’clock. We can proceed to the river and hire a boat at the bankside.”
“I shall be ready, Sir.”
And she was, dressed very richly, her dark hair pulled back and bedecked with flowers and feathers, her face painted beautifully. Sir Joshua, however, was garbed eccentrically, wearing a great deal of red, topped by a fine wig with long curls at the bac
k. They made a good couple, though, as they wended their way through the crowd at White Hall Stairs, Sir Joshua having hedged his bets and taken a carriage some of the way. He hired a boat with a strong oarsman and they pulled upstream towards the celebrated pleasure gardens.
It was windy on the river and Margaret could not help shivering a little. At once Sir Joshua wrapped his cloak round her, over the top of her own, and sat manfully beside her – rather closer than she wanted – challenging the elements to overcome him. But despite the cold Margaret loved the journey, rounding the bends in the great river, seeing the lights on either bank. She thought of the great spread of water round Boston and felt then that the Colonies were as wild and savage as England was mild and gentle. Eventually, though, the lights of Vaux Hall came into view and the boatman began to pull towards the bank.
They alighted as best they could amongst the hordes of others doing the same thing, and made their way down a walkway to an extremely unimposing entrance. Margaret felt a thrill of disappointment that anywhere should have such a dull façade, but a moment or two later could have eaten her words. For, having paid for their entrance, Joshua offered her his arm and hastening down a dark passageway led her out into the full blaze of the gardens, lit by a thousand lamps. Overawed, the girl from New Jersey gazed about her.
“You are impressed?” asked the painter.
“I am overwhelmed,” Margaret answered. “I have never seen so many lights in one place before.”
“Your words delight me, Madam. For to see you enjoying the place pleases me enormously. I am able to look at it through your eyes. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“I do perfectly.”
For answer he planted a swift kiss on her lips but so fleeting that Margaret could not have taken offence. Then he tucked her hand more securely under his arm as they made their way down the Grand Walk, attracting the eyes of the passing parade.
“Why there’s Sir Joshua Reynolds,” whispered a woman. “But I do not know who he is with. Do you?”
They walked onward, Sir Joshua bowing to right and left to the persons who greeted him.
“You are very popular about town,” Margaret commented.
“Madam, I am president of the Royal Academy, further to which I have painted the portraits of many here present. In time you will become well known too.”
What was it about those words that made Margaret suddenly grow cold? she wondered.
But the great man did not notice and continued, “There’s Lord George Germain. Good evening, my Lord.”
At the very mention of the name Margaret’s heart gave an alarming lurch and she felt an echoing pain deep in her guts. She knew very well that Lord George, who had been at school with Tom, had developed an implacable hatred for her husband, to say nothing of his attitude to Lord Rupert. And now here she was, face to face with him. She gave a polite curtsey but said nothing.
Sir Joshua, meanwhile, was sweeping an impeccable bow before a swarthy middle-aged man, wearing a full white wig, who gave a small salute in return.
“Good evening, my friend.” Lord George raised his quizzing glass. “And who have we here?”
“This, my Lord, is Mrs. Gage.”
“Gage, you say? Any relation to the man in the Colonies?”
“He is my husband, Sir. I also know your brother, Lord Rupert. He and Tom are fairly close.”
Lord George raised his dark brows. “Poor Rupert. I believe he has been forced to close down his newspaper. I wonder what will happen to him now.”
“I imagine he will return to England,” Margaret answered, trying to ignore her crazy heartbeat.
“Not the only one,” said Germain. “Good evening to you, Joshua. Good evening, Ma’am.” And so saying he abruptly turned on his heel and walked away.
“I wonder what he meant by that,” Margaret said thoughtfully.
“By what?”
“Not the only one. Does he know something I do not?”
“No, he was referring to yourself, my dear. You have come to join us thankfully. Now he expects his brother will as well.”
“Oh, I see,” Margaret answered, but she was far from convinced.
They walked to the end of the Grand Walk, laughing a little at the huge gilded statue of Aurora, which stood at the bottom. Then they crossed the Grand Cross Walk, which traversed the entire width of the pleasure gardens, and entered the South Walk, spanned by soaring triumphal arches with a distant glimpse of the ruins of Palmyra – fake of course – at the end. And suddenly Margaret seemed to see Vaux Hall for what it really was. Gone was her childish wonderment and in its place she saw peeling theatrical make – believe, tawdry fountains and tinsel statuary. She wondered how the place would look in the piercing light of a grey dawning, and shuddered away from the very idea.
“Shall we go to supper?” Sir Joshua asked, noticing nothing.
Margaret was just nodding consent but was interrupted by the ringing of a bell which meant that the firework display had started. They duly made their way and ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ with the rest of the crowd. Eventually, though, they reached The Grove and found their way to a supper booth shaped like an exotic temple. Thankful to have somewhere to sit, Margaret made her way within.
“Now, my dear, I am sure you would like champagne,” said Sir Joshua and summoned a waiter, a rather sad character dressed in a worn-out livery, to take their order.
Margaret smiled, drawing in breath, her heart resuming its normal beat for the first time since they had met George Germain. “Yes, thank you.”
“Excellent.” And the painter proceeded to monopolise the proceedings; uncorking the champage himself; ordering the finest chicken and ham; returning the salad foz more dressing; desiring cheesecake for dessert. Margaret, comparing it with the hardships in Boston, felt as if she were in another world entirely.
Looking round she saw that several people were staring at their box, brilliantly lit as it was. For there were lights everywhere, even adorning the garlands of flowers looped between the pillars, which in turn bore lamps.
“We are being greatly regarded,” she said.
“Indeed, Ma’am, they are looking at your beauty,” he answered gallantly.
“They are wondering who I am and what you are doing with me, no doubt.”
“Then let them. For cannot a portrait painter escort his model to an evening at the Gardens?”
“They are probably thinking far darker thoughts than that.” Joshua Reynolds smiled in a great flash of white teeth. “Once more, they must think what they will. They’re all jealous, after all.”
“You believe that?”
“Madam, I know it to be true.”
The champagne was beginning to have an effect on her, for Margaret started to laugh. The first real laughter in which she had indulged since the battle of Bunker Hill. Joshua Reynolds, meanwhile, stared at her closely, regarding her with the all-seeing eye of his profession.
“That is how I want to paint you,” he said softly.
Margaret looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Like that. Laughing and gay. Yet with that strange air of hidden unhappiness which you always have.”
She stopped laughing. “Do I? How perceptive of you to realise that.”
“What causes it? Did your marriage fail?”
“Yes,” she answered simply.
“Why?”
“I think he fell out of love with me.”
“Why would any sane man do that?”
“Because of something I did.”
“What?”
But that was going too far. That was a secret Margaret would never reveal. Nor would she discuss Joseph – ever. She turned away from the painter and when she turned back she was smiling the smile she had worn earlier.
“Oh, it was just a silly little thing,” she said.
Chapter Thirty-Five
October, 1775
Elizabeth Montagu had several people whom she regarded as friends, most of the
m being of long-standing and old acquaintance, but she had to admit that Margaret Gage, though a newcomer, had made the most favourable impression on her. Partly, of course, because of her generally pleasing appearance, being so darkly beautiful and strangely arresting. But the other reason was the woman’s lack of affectation, her genuine concern for others, the truth of her whole personality. Yet Elizabeth sensed, having being born with a nose for secrets, that Margaret had more than her fair share of these. She also sensed that coaxing them out of her would prove impossible, and she respected Mrs. Gage for it. Yet for all this, she could not help but be curious about the woman of whom she was growing extremely fond.
Partly to please her, partly to prove to herself that the loss of her husband had not diminished her abilities, Mrs. Montagu had called a meeting of The Blue Stockings. That is to say that she had called a limited meeting, for the gentlemen of society who often attended these soirees had not been invited. This was to be a ladies-only gathering and Elizabeth had decided that the topic of conversation would be the situation regarding the Colonies and what action should be taken regarding them. Consequently invitations had been issued and those attending had dined early and hastened to Hill Street, much relieved that Mrs. Montagu had decided to continue with the club’s activities.
Margaret, as an unknowing guest of honour, felt flattered to have been invited to such an august gathering of the intelligentsia, and dressed fittingly for the occasion. Wearing dark green – a colour that Tom had always liked her in – she set forth in her small coach through the early autumn evening, thinking that the nights were drawing in and that soon it would be Christmas.
She arrived to find that many of the company had already assembled and were presently socialising before the meeting proper began. Having handed her cloak to a footman, Margaret set off to find Mrs. Montagu and discovered her in conversation in the large salon.
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Gage,” said Elizabeth, catching sight of her, “do come and be introduced. Ladies, I have a welcome guest. Allow me to present Mrs. Margaret Gage to you.”
Three women bobbed a curtsey and then surveyed the newcomer with studied politeness.
“This is Mrs. Greene, Mrs. Carstairs and Mrs. Baldock.”
