by Lake, Deryn
“Good day, Sir,” said Gage, bowing stiffly before he saluted. Then he turned and left the room. But once outside he executed a series of dance steps, quite rapidly and to himself, then coloured as he realised that a pair of eyes were looking at him most curiously.
A rather wizened soldier leaned forward from his hiding hole behind a desk and spoke in a whisper. “I take it you won the’day, Sir.”
“Yes, yes indeed,” Tom answered gruffly, bowed once more and went out, wondering what he could possibly have looked like, dancing fantastically and alone.
Rather unexpectedly a slight figure detached itself from beside a small black coach which was parked in the street outside and hurried in the direction of Tom Gage, who had already set off at a brisk pace for his lodgings.
“Colonel, wait,” called a voice, and Thomas turned to see Rupert Germain, thinner than ever and pale as a cloud, coming towards him.
“I just had to find out what happened,” the younger man said by way of explanation. “What did Lord Loudon think? I mean, did he agree to the suggestions or not?”
Gage gave him a broad grin. “I’ll say he did. He’s even offered to lend me money to fund the entire enterprise. In other words the whole thing was a great success, thanks in no small measure to yourself.” Rupert turned away, his blue eyes filling with sudden tears, and no gesture could have said more. “I’m so glad,” he muttered.
Gage hesitated. Normally he would have clapped Germain on the shoulder and thanked him for all his work but now, suddenly, he felt embarrassed.
“My dear fellow,” he said hesitantly, “please don’t upset yourself. It really was your good effort that helped enormously.”
Lord Rupert brushed his sleeve across his eyes and turned back to face Colonel Gage. “Well, what next, Sir?”
“Next I suggest that we repair to a tavern and I buy you a well-earned drink.”
“I will accept your kind offer but may I suggest we go by carriage. There’s a bitter wind blowing and I’m afraid that I suffer with the cold.”
It was on the tip of Gage’s tongue to say that Lord Rupert ought to get some more flesh on his bones but there was something about the pale young man’s intense expression that forbade any such jovial remark. Instead he said, “Hardly surprising. New York in winter can be a damned chilly place.”
“Indeed it can, Colonel,” and Lord Rupert bowed as Gage climbed into the coach ahead of him.
A few minutes later it drew up before The Bunch of Grapes and Colonel Gage and his companion made their way inside. Within, the air was heavy with smoke and a whole assortment of smells greeted their nostrils, the pungent stink of unwashed humanity contrasting violently with the scents of those who affected to be beaux of fashion. Overriding all this, however, there was the smell of cooking: onions and pork and vegetables all melding together in one great and glorious stewpot.
Gage turned to his companion, who looked even frailer in such rough surroundings. “Not too much for you, is it?”
The minute the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. For Lord Rupert flushed angrily and said, “No, Sir. I’ve been in worse dens than this, I assure you.”
Tom was about to ask of what sort but he held the question back, simply saying, “Really?”
They found a seat at a dimly-lit table and ordered from a youthful potboy, who stared at Gage’s uniform very pointedly – or so Tom thought.
“I believe we’re not altogether popular,” he murmured as the boy withdrew to see to the order.
“Who cares?” said Rupert, full of a sudden bravado. “We’re the governors, after all.”
“Yes,” said Gage, then repeated, “yes,” more softly. Then he steepled his fingers and put his chin on them reflectively, saying nothing.
Rupert stared at him, aware that he had said something out of turn but uncertain as to what it was. So they sat in silence until the potboy returned, surly as before, banging the pots of ale down in front of them. Gage looked up. “Thank you,” he said.
The potboy grunted by way of reply and moved on to serve another table. Tom followed him with his eyes.
“Fortunately, he is in the minority – at least for the moment.”
“What do you mean, Sir?”
“Precisely what I say. The Colonies are ours by right. Yet there are those – and he is one of them – who despise us and would love to be independent.”
“Surely not.”
“Mark my words, my Lord.”
Two high spots of colour appeared in Rupert Germain’s normally pallid cheeks. “If you say so, Colonel, then I will believe it. But I would not credit such a thing from anyone else. The Colonies seem well contented to me.”
Tom half emptied his tankard. “It could be that I am imagining things and that all will be well, of course. Anyway, enough of that. What of your future? Do you intend to stay in America?”
Rupert Germain took a sip from his alepot. “That depends, Sir.”
“On what?”
“Rather on you.”
“What do you mean?”
Rupert’s colour increased a little. “Well, now that I’ve finished drawing up the plan for the chasseurs, I wondered if you had any further work for me.”
Gage emptied his tankard. “Well, no, my Lord – not really.”
To say that the young man was disappointed was only to describe half his reaction. His jaw lowered, his lips quivered, and he hid the expression in his eyes, covering his face with his alepot, drinking busily – and somewhat noisily.
The Colonel thought furiously. What could he offer a young civilian by way of work? The answer was absolutely nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Rupert drained his tankard and placed it back on the table. Then he looked up, his features controlled once more. “It appears that it will have to be my second plan,” he said brightly.
“And what might that be?”
“I thought of starting a newspaper, Sir.”
“A newspaper?” Gage could hardly credit what he was hearing. “But have you any experience? I mean, surely one should have some knowledge of such an enterprise.”
Lord Rupert Germain’s colour deepened so that he now looked unhealthily flushed. “Well, actually, I thought of employing staff to manage that side of affairs. Fact is, I’ve lately received some money. A rich childless aunt has died and left funds to her nieces and nephews. I’ve inherited enough to start such a thing. The only question remains as to where.”
The Colonel was speechless. True to his word he had paid Germain for the time and effort he had used in planning the new regiment. And all the while the young devil had been in possession of a handsome bequest. Extremely handsome if his plans were anything to go by.
He stared, bereft of words, then eventually burst out laughing. “And to think I believed you penniless. But then I should have guessed. The Germains are not generally short of money by all accounts.”
Rupert looked terribly earnest, adopting an expression that was vaguely amusing. “Oh, but I was devoid of cash when I arrived, Colonel Gage. It is only the legacy that has set me up beyond my expectations. But if you so wish I can refund the money you have paid me. To be honest, I no longer have need of it.”
Tom smiled at him, laughter only an inch away. “Lord Rupert…”
“Rupert, please. We are friends, are we not?”
“Rupert then. You did a great service when you drew up those plans for me. I have been far too preoccupied fighting the French and the Indians to concentrate on them. You earned that money and I would be deeply insulted if you returned it to me.”
“Then in that case…”
“Look, why don’t you buy me a drink to celebrate your inheritance? How about a bottle of claret, if they have such a thing in this extraordinary place.”
Full of enthusiasm, Rupert rose to his feet. “You shall have the best in the house, Colonel.”
“I wonder what that will be,” said Tom Gage, and laughed.
*
Two days later Colonel Thomas Gage set out for Brunswick, accompanied by several others, one of whom was his old companion-in-arms, Major Henry Gladwin. They rode horseback, making a fine sight as they clattered down Broad Way and out of New York City, red uniforms standing out in the pallid winter sun.
Tom could not recall a time when he had been in such a state of anticipatory pleasure, his mind full of memories of Margaret. Had it really been a whole year since they had met? He could hardly believe it. Then he started to wonder what had happened in that year. Had she fallen in love with anyone else? Her letters had been so full of gossip and names of people she had been to see, met at social events, out riding and enjoying herself. Had one name been more important than the others? Thomas Gage made an irritable noise and spurred his horse onwards, anxious to get there, anxious to learn what fate held in store for him.
He had ridden the length of Broad Way, going south, and now the fort and the Governor’s House, together with the bowling green, lay before him. He recalled his arrival, almost a year ago to the day, and the great pleasure he had felt when introduced to Margaret. The memory of it stirred him slightly even while he rode along and despite the freezing weather conditions, he felt himself grow warm.
“The ferry’s due in at any moment,” said Major Gladwin.
“Good. I’m longing to be away.”
“That’s obvious.” The Major added ‘Sir’ as Gage shot him a sideways glance.
“Why? Why is it obvious?” asked Thomas, decidedly prickly because of his high emotions.
Major Gladwin looked at him, wondering whether to tell the truth, which was that the Colonel had been twitching with impatience ever since they had met that morning. He thought better of it.
“Nothing, Sir. Just an idea I had. Probably wrong.”
Thomas sighed heavily. “No, truth to tell, you’re right. Fact is, Henry, there’s a woman involved.”
“Really?” lied Gladwin, who had been wondering if the Colonel would confide in him.
“Yes, I met her a year ago and she has been corresponding with me ever since – off and on. She seems like a social gadfly but that wasn’t how she struck me at the time.”
“Go on, Sir.”
Thomas sighed again. “There’s not much more to tell except that I was instantly attracted to her and, I think, she to me. But a year’s a long time, Henry, and now I’m not sure what I feel. Whether it was just infatuation or something deeper, I’m not certain.”
“Well, Sir, it’s as well that you find out. And find out you will by the end of Christmas.”
Colonel Gage looked at his comrade. “Yes indeed, and do you know the thought makes me slightly nervous.”
“Why, Sir?”
“Because for some reason I want it to work. I don’t want to arrive there and find that she has feet of clay and is not the woman I thought her. I’m thirty-eight years old, Henry. It’s high time I settled down.”
“Plenty of days for that, Sir,” said Henry Gladwin gallantly, but secretly he believed that Gage, if he wanted a family life, should think seriously about his future and now was as good a moment as any.
They arrived at the ferry just as it was docking, disgorging the many passengers travelling to New York for the festive season. Bright-eyed youngsters rubbed shoulders with merchants, satisfied with themselves and the lives they had created in the Colonies. The Colonel, watching the stream of people set foot in the city, thought back to the surly pot-boy and wondered if, perhaps, he had been wrong, if the Colonies would continue for ever, pleased with the way George II and his parliament were running things. Yet the attitude of that boy, particularly to the red coat Gage had worn, had both surprised and shocked him. But then, Tom thought, the potboy was just one amongst hundreds, a small and inconsequential minority.
As the last of the passengers got off, Gage and his party dismounted and led their horses aboard. The ferry plied between Brooklyn and New York Island, constantly crossing to and fro, and the plan was to ride down beyond Yellow Hook and to take the Narrows Ferry to New Jersey, then make the final push on horseback, arriving, hopefully, by nightfall.
Gage turned to Henry Gladwin as, with much creaking of chains, they set off once more.
“Where are you spending Christmas, Henry?”
“With some friends, not far from Brunswick.”
“Well, enjoy yourself. You know we assemble for recruiting duty immediately after the festivities?”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll be there.”
“I couldn’t manage without you,” and the Colonel gave Major Gladwin a friendly pat on the shoulder.
They reached their destination at sundown and Gage, having repaired to a hostelry to remove the stains of the journey and have a drink to give him courage, set forth once more on his weary horse. As he turned up the drive he wondered, yet again, just what his reaction to Margaret would be. Yet, as the front door opened, the girl who had been uppermost in his mind for some days was standing just behind the Negro servant. The Colonel took one look and was immediately entranced. As for Margaret, she gave him the most delightful smile imaginable and dropped a curtsey, quite deep. Thomas, on foot now, having taken his mount to the stables first of all, bowed formally.
“Miss Kemble,” he said, making his way into the hall.
“Colonel Gage,” she answered, then took him by the hand.
“Welcome to our home, Sir. Did you get my letters?”
“Every one, Madam.”
“And do you know them all by heart?”
Her smile was beguiling and Tom felt the year that had passed slip away even as he looked at her.
“Again, Madam. Every one.”
“Then that’s as well,” she answered, and, turning, led him into the house.
Chapter Four
Christmas, 1757
It had started to snow during the night of his arrival and continued throughout the next day. But the day after that, namely Christmas Eve, it stopped, leaving a cold, clear morning to look out on as Tom Gage got from his bed and threw open the window. As far as the eye could see there stretched flawless white, the trees laden with glittering diamonds, the fields an uninterrupted view of total purity. But despite the early hour, there were those who had risen before him. For from quite close to the house came the sound of voices, laughing and frolicking, and Tom could swear that Margaret’s was one of them. He was just about to turn away and dress hurriedly when a snowball, pitched with unerring aim, hit him clean in the face. As he wiped it off with the sleeve of his nightgown, he leant out further to see who was responsible, and there, hurrying round the side of the house, was the young lady in question.
“I’ll get you for that,” Tom yelled in his barrack square voice, and hurrying into his uniform, the jacket of which he left unbuttoned, he descended the staircase at double speed. Two black faces regarded him, both thoroughly startled, but the Colonel merely gave them a friendly nod as he wrenched open the front door and went, helter-skelter, in hot pursuit of his assailant.
She was nowhere to be seen but the snow, of course, held its own clues. Two sets of footprints led from the front door and round to the back, where Tom slept, his room giving him an unsurpassed view to where, in the far distance, the River Delaware curled snakily through the landscape. Several outbuildings, including the stables, the coach house, and a hay store, lay ahead of him. But here the footsteps parted company, one lot doubling back into the house, the other crossing and crisscrossing in an attempt to hide where their owner was lurking. Thanking God that he had picked up quite a lot of tracking skills from Calico Joel, Tom set about stalking his quarry, suspecting that it was Margaret and hoping profoundly that it was.
The footprints leading to the coach house seemed to him to have been made most recently and, throwing open the great door, Tom stepped inside. That the Kembles were a prosperous family he already knew, but that they ran two coaches, to say nothing of a one-horse chaise, surprised him. But he did little more than give th
em a cursory glance for from within the shadowy space ahead of him came a muffled laugh. It was Margaret all right, he felt certain of it.
“I know you’re there,” he called, “and I’m coming to get you.”
He pulled his hands into his chest and growled fiercely, then was struck by the thought that it might be Judith, Margaret’s younger sister.
“Oh well, too late,” he muttered to himself, and started the search.
She was nowhere to be seen but Tom took a shrewd guess that one of the conveyances would provide an excellent hiding place, and set about searching them. The first coach revealed nothing, as did the second, so it was to the chaise that he tiptoed carefully, determined to give her a fright. The cover of the chaise was drawn up, as if for bad weather. With a wild cry, Tom suddenly pulled it back, only to reveal an empty space.
“God dammit, woman,” he exclaimed. “Where have you hidden yourself?”
“Look up,” said a voice over his head.
The Colonel did so and burst out laughing. For there she was, sitting on the cross-beam, swinging her legs, eating an apple and generally having a good time. With an athletic leap that startled even him, Tom ascended to the coachman’s box and from there clambered on to the beam to sit beside her.
“Have you just done that?” he asked.
“Yes, does it surprise you?”
“Greatly. What did you do with all your skirts?”
“I picked them up and climbed with them round my ears.”
“Oh dear, not very ladylike.”
“No, perhaps it wasn’t.” She smiled broadly. “You’d better leave before I descend.”
“I most certainly will. I don’t need two shocks in one day. And talking of that, was it you who threw that snowball?”
She looked mischievous. “It could have been.”
“Or it could have been Stephen. Listen, I’ll have you know that he is a member of my regiment and showing disrespect for a senior officer is a court martial offence. Now what do you have to say?”
“That your jacket is undone and you might get cold.”
“I dressed in a hurry. I’m sorry.”