The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  Margaret, a little unsure of herself, curtseyed, then looked up. “How do you do?” she said.

  “Why, I judge from your tones, Madam, that you are from the Colonies. Am I right?” asked the woman that Margaret had identified as Mrs. Baldock.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I was born in New Jersey.”

  “Close to New York,” said Mrs. Greene, as if she were informing Margaret where she had come from.

  “That is correct,” Mrs. Gage replied.

  “Oh, I see we will have much to talk about,” put in Mrs. Carstairs mildly. She was the quietest – and tallest – of the three, standing a good foot above the other two and having grey hair swept up, together with rather haphazardly applied face paint. Margaret decided that she liked her the best of the trio.

  The other two were somewhat similar, both of them short and fat and with the same orange hair. Mrs. Greene eschewed any form of face paint, considering herself, no doubt, beautiful enough without. Mrs. Baldock, however, pursued fashion unsuccesfully. She had false hair added to her own, the colour of which was questionable, showing the joins quite clearly. She had also a great many teeth which she flashed constantly in a totally false smile. Meanwhile her eyes, as cold and hard as any that Margaret had ever seen, weighed up the competition – as she had undoubtedly labelled Mrs. Gage – mercilessly.

  Mrs. Greene spoke. “Have you been in London long, Mrs. Gage?”

  “I arrived in September, Madam.”

  “I see.”

  She nodded sagely, folding her upper chin into her lower. She really was a most extraordinary shape, being quite neat about the breast but spreading outwards from the waist downwards. She was also extremely shortsighted and peered through a lorgnette at whoever was speaking to her.

  “Your first visit to England?” asked Mrs. Baldock, her cold eyes narrowing slightly.

  “No. I was here a few years ago with my husband. My last daughter was born here.”

  “Really?” said Mrs. Carstairs faintly, and gave a slightly neighing laugh.

  But Mrs. Montagu was clapping her hands. “Ladies, if you will take your seats, let us begin.” There was a general shifting of direction and footmen appeared bearing extra seating. When everyone had disposed themselves, Elizabeth spoke again. “My friends, I cannot tell you how pleased I am that we have once more gathered together. As you know the recent death of dear Edward threw me quite out and I believe that I would not have called this meeting so soon were it not for the presence amongst us of a great new friend of mine who has recently returned from the Colonies. I am sure that you will find her views of the utmost interest. So tonight, ladies, I thought that the ever-worsening situation should be the subject of discussion.”

  Mrs. Greene, who had settled her bulk in a fauteuil, spoke up immediately. “Well, I oppose war in every form. In my view all the troops should be withdrawn and peace should be restored at once.”

  There was a silence during which Margaret felt herself growing increasingly uncomfortable.

  “Hear, hear,” said Mrs. Baldock. “War is an abomination fought by men and for the benefit of men. If it was left to us women there would be no further fighting.”

  “The army wives and camp followers are in Boston,” Margaret pointed out mildly.

  This was the first time that she had addressed the general company and there was a wave of laughter as her accent was heard publicly. She flushed, she couldn’t help it, and looked down at her lap.

  “How typical,” said Mrs. Greene. “That the men’s comforts”, she stressed the word, “should be provided for them. If they had been withdrawn I would have expected to see a swift end to the conflict.”

  Margaret spoke up. “It is a much more complex issue than that. You can imagine that as a native-born Yankee I feel very torn about the whole affair.”

  “What exactly do you mean?” asked a Mrs. Keppel, also present.

  “I mean that the thought that my husband might be responsible for the spilling of American blood repels me. Yet at the same time I could see that he had no course open to him but to do his duty. There are arguments for and against on both sides.”

  Mrs. Greene, who seemed determined to be difficult, said, “I reiterate what I said earlier. I believe that there should be no more war.”

  “That’s all very fine,” Margaret pronounced the word ‘fahn’ and there was another audible laugh, “but that is a belief made in heaven.”

  There were several cries of ‘Nonsense’ but who exactly the Blue Stockings were addressing was not crystal clear. Margaret steeled herself to regard them closely and saw that there was a certain similarity amongst them. They were of an age, most of them despising the use of face paint, and all of them had a certain smug self-satisfaction which she found intensely irritating. That is all except Elizabeth Montagu, of whom Margaret had grown very fond.

  At this point Mrs. Montagu spoke up. “Ladies, please. Remember that Mrs. Gage’s husband is supreme commander of the British army in Boston. She is in a position to give us first-hand knowledge of the situation. To interrupt is not in accordance with the nature of these meetings.”

  Mrs. Baldock, looking coldly at Margaret, said, “Then state the case fair and square, Mrs. Gage. Do.”

  Margaret could hear the emotion rising in her voice even though she attempted to control it. “This is the situation as I see it. The colonists have been in residence for over a hundred years and no longer feel any allegiance to Britain. They do not feel obliged to pay the taxes which are being imposed upon them. They want to be free of the yoke of the oppressor – their words not mine.”

  She looked at the sea of faces and wondered how any of them would have coped with holding Joseph’s dead body close to her heart and burying him in the morning. Not well, she imagined.

  “On the other hand,” she continued, “my husband is a professional soldier. A man taught to take orders and to carry them out. He probably hates war as much as you do, Madam.” Margaret looked at Mrs. Greene. “But he knows nothing else. He has been given command of Boston and is doing the job to the best of his ability. With singular lack of instruction from the Cabinet, I might add. In short, ladies, the situation is as volatile as a powder keg. It is a bloody event that will shortly explode. And that is all I have to say.”

  There was considerable applause and Mrs. Montagu murmured, “Well said, my dear.”

  “I would like to ask a question,” said Mrs. Greene, crossing her ankles and giving a glimpse of extremely thin legs which looked incongruous with her bulk, “which is this. Which side are you on, Mrs. Gage?”

  “I am on both,” she replied unhesitatingly. “I can see the arguments of both factions.”

  “Ah, in the words of the Bard, ‘Which is the side that I must go withal? I am with both: each army hath a hand: And in their rage, I having hold of both, they whirl asunder and dismember me…”

  Mrs. Greene put her head on one side, looking mighty pleased with herself, then, licking a finger, ran it over her eyebrows.

  Margaret said, “An apt quotation indeed. It is King John, is it not?”

  “It is indeed. The Lady Blanche’s speech. Now in my view that genius had something to say about everything. I worship Shakespeare, don’t you know.”

  And she was off, holding forth, riddling her speech with quotations. Margaret turned to Mrs. Montagu.

  “My dear, I hope I didn’t let you down.”

  “On the contrary. You did extremely well. I think the ladies were most impressed.”

  “With the exception of…” Margaret rolled her eyes in Mrs. Greene’s direction.

  “Ah well, she imagines herself to be a tremendous intellectual. Ahead of us all.”

  “And you have not disillusioned her?”

  “Somehow I haven’t the heart. If it gives her comfort to feel superior, then so be it. And now my dear, have some refreshment. You have acquitted yourself most nobly. I salute you.”

  With those words, Margaret felt that the evening’s ordeal was o
ver.

  Sir Joshua Reynolds started her portrait, which positively leapt to life beneath the power of his brush. There was no Lady Reynolds, Margaret had discovered, and found it hard to guess his sexual needs. For though his studio often had beautiful young men in it, there was also an equal number of beautiful young women. Perhaps he whiled away his time with both, she thought. Alternatively, perhaps neither interested him. He was a puzzle, an enigma, but one whose company she relished, different as he was from any man she had ever met before.

  One day, during a sitting, he raised the subject of her husband once more.

  “What do you want to know about him?” she answered, gazing at him.

  “Don’t look at me, look towards the rose, then raise your eyes. Wait.” And he left his easel and adjusted her pose back to how it had originally been. “Just what sort of man he is, that’s all.”

  Margaret weighed her reply carefully. “He has been under a great strain recently.”

  “And how has it affected him?”

  “He is very taken up with his work,” she replied, fobbing him off, not wishing to discuss Tom or the situation this afternoon.

  The artist made no further comment, merely nodding, and concentrated on the portrait which he was creating. Eventually, though, he put down his brush and Margaret hurried towards the canvas, longing to see what he had done.

  It was exquisite. He had given her a rose to hold from which she had just raised her eyes. Clad in a white gown, the deep pink of the flower stood out as something almost primitive against the material of the snowy background. Her black hair was loose, like a gypsy’s, while her great dark eyes stared directly into those of the viewer. But it was the background which interested her most. It was a distant view of mountains, some with snow on their peaks, that attracted and held her attention. For it did not look like England at all but somewhere exotic and foreign. She turned to Joshua, who was cleaning his brushes.

  “Have you ever visited the Colonies, Sir?”

  “No, I never have.”

  “The background reminds me of my old home. Tell me, where is it?”

  “In actual fact it is Italy. I spent some time there studying, you know. I often use it as a backdrop but not many of my clients recognise the place.”

  He smiled at her and Margaret saw the scar on his lip distinctly. She had been told by Mrs. Montagu herself that the painter had fallen from a horse whilst on the island of Minorca and had been permanently scarred as a result. But for all that the man was attractive and Margaret wondered yet again why he was not married.

  Going into the changing room which led off the studio, Margaret removed the white dress in which she was being painted. And there, suddenly, she felt a wild urge to see Tom again, to put her arms round him and beg his forgiveness. She felt that she desperately needed the warmth and comfort of his physical presence.

  Margaret sighed as Sir Joshua’s servant helped her into her day gown. What was it she really wanted? Her dream of living the simple life with Joseph had been shattered so what was it she craved? Surely it could not be the empty existence of a belle of fashion? Yet, on the other hand the Blue Stockings held no attraction for her. She thought of herself as London society must see her. An American curiosity, almost like a newly acquired animal in the zoo.

  Fully dressed, she returned to the studio to discover Sir Joshua deep in conversation with a woman. Wondering if she was about to find out more about his private life, Margaret curtseyed.

  The woman, who was tall and inclined to be bony, gave her a slightly startled stare.

  “Mrs. Gage,” said Sir Joshua, “I would like you to meet my sister,

  Frances. She keeps house for me.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Ma’am,” said Margaret, as Frances, too, bobbed.

  Sir Joshua’s sister gave a fleeting smile. “Honoured, I’m sure.” She had a marked Devonian accent.

  So Sir Joshua’s domestic arrangements were organised for him by a sibling. Margaret’s curiosity about the man was yet again aroused. She held out her hand to him.

  “Goodbye, Sir Joshua, until next week.”

  He bowed formally. “Goodbye, my dear,” he said, and kissed her fingers.

  *

  Elizabeth Montagu was far from well, that much was clear to see, though whether the illness was physical or mental, caused by the death of her husband, was not easy to tell. But whatever the reason, it had taken its toll on her. Her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks highly coloured, her mouth dry and somewhat cracked about the lips.

  “Oh, Elizabeth, my dear,” said Margaret Gage, on being shown into her presence. “You are not looking at all yourself.”

  “No, sweet girl, I am not feeling it either,” came the reply. “Indeed, I have been so poorly that I am thinking of going to Bath to take the waters, which do me far more good than those of Tunbridge Wells, I might add.”

  “London won’t be the same without you,” Margart answered, and really meant it. She felt she owed her entire social life to the introductions of the woman who now lay before her on a chaise, pale and unhappy.

  “Will you miss me?”

  “Greatly.”

  “Then why don’t you come with me, my friend. Do you know Bath at all?”

  “I went there once with Tom when we were in England on leave. And yes I could do with a break from London.” She pulled a face.

  Her two young admirers had fallen out with terrible results. The volatile Mr. Jenyns had challenged poor short-sighted William Wedderburne to a duel despite the fact that they had been outlawed some years previously. It had been with pistols on Hampstead Heath and, amazingly, Mr. Wedderburne had won, Samuel receiving a bullet in the arm. He was currently walking round town in a sling, swearing to get his revenge.

  Mrs. Montagu gave a faint laugh. “Ah, those two young puppies. What a tangle to be sure. My dear, you should withdraw from the entire affair. Come to Bath, do.”

  Margaret had smiled at her. “Thank you for the invitation. I accept with pleasure. When shall we leave?”

  “Would tomorrow be too soon? We can go in the afternoon and stay at an inn overnight.”

  “I think that sounds a splendid plan.”

  Margaret had gone home telling herself that she should be looking forward to a trip to Bath, a place she hardly knew at all. But instead she had a strange presentiment lurking deep within the pit of her stomach, a presentiment that things were about to go badly wrong for her. As she began to pull things out of her clothes press for her maid to pack, she did her best to push the feeling away. Yet somehow it not only persisted but seemed to grow worse as her thoughts turned to Boston and the plight of her benighted husband, marooned in that hostile place.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  October, 1775

  As soon as she first sniffed the air of Bath, Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu described herself as feeling much recovered. Indeed, the nearer her coach drew to the legendary city of hot baths and sulphurous water, the more she braced up. Certainly by the time she and Margaret alighted at their lodging in Royal Crescent and had been shown to their quarters, neither of them were doing anything but laughing aloud and smiling.

  “Do come and see my view, my dear,” said Elizabeth, hurrying about her room delightedly.

  Margaret, whose smaller abode was at the back of the house, across the landing, walked in and crossed to the window, looking out on the trees that were fast shedding their leaves.

  “It’s a truly delightful prospect,” she remarked. “But how brown the leaves are. Autumn is here alas.”

  “You should see this view in May,” Elizabeth answered her. “It is one of the most beautiful sights imaginable. Everything is blooming and the blossom is exquisite. Promise me that you will accompany me here then.”

  Margaret turned to say yes but from nowhere the horrid premonition struck her afresh. “I think that rather depends,” she replied instead.

  “On what?” asked Mrs. Montagu, suddenly sharp.

&nb
sp; The words seemed to come out of Margaret’s mouth of their own volition. “On when my husband returns from Boston.”

  “I see. Quite frankly, my dear, I had not realised that you and he were that close.”

  Margaret sat down on the dressing table stool. “We are not close exactly. But for all that we are still married. If… when… he leaves Boston I imagine my life will be very different.”

  “But you are a woman of intellect and position…”

  “Oh, come now.”

  “…I mean it, my dear. You have achieved status in society and your mental capabilities speak for themselves. Why should the return of General Gage make any difference to your present modus vivendi?”

  “Because he is more sober a person than I. And now, dear Elizabeth, I must finish my unpacking. Where shall we go this evening is what I need to know?”

  “To the Assembly Rooms where Derrick is now Master of Ceremonies. Ah, if only you had known Beau Nash. What a character to be sure. I personally did not like him but I admired his discipline of those attending. He was quite horrid and quite, quite wonderful.”

  “I would like to have met him,” Margaret answered.

  But Mrs. Montagu had stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes, so that the younger woman was forced to tiptoe from the room.

  *

  They dined at Lyndsey’s, one of the most fashionable places in which to eat, occupying a corner table. But they had hardly taken their places when a booming voice was heard summoning them.

  “Mrs. Montagu, I did not realise you were in town. Come and sit with me, I beg you.”

  Elizabeth cast her eyes upward. “Oh Lord, if it isn’t old Lady Coniston. I’m afraid we will have to join her. I do hope she won’t bore you. She is quite considerably ancient and has lost most of her wits and all of her hearing.”

  They summoned a waiter and changed tables, sitting with the aged woman who was dining alone except for the company of a companion, who, typically, was downtrodden and hapless.

  “Mrs. Montagu, you know Miss Miller.” She waved a hand in the direction of the woman. “But who are you with? I do not think I know your face, my dear.”