by Lake, Deryn
“Governor…” the girl was saying.
Angry because she must have been seen acting stupidly, Margaret looked at the slave closely and saw that it was Sara, and felt a totally unjustified dislike of the young woman rise within her.
“The Governor is not here,” she said, her voice like ice.
“Sorry, Mam. I thought…”
“You thought what?”
“That he might be around.”
“He is still downstairs entertaining our guests.”
“No, Mam. The party broke up a quarter of an hour ago and he ain’t there.”
“Has the Indian man gone?”
“He’s in the kitchen, Mam. He is going to have dinner with us servants.
What came over Margaret she couldn’t possibly tell but she acted totally uncharacteristically. “The only fit place for him in my view,” she said.
She saw the colour rise in Sara’s cheeks but the girl made no reply, merely looking at the floor.
“Which is where you can go as well,” Margaret added, compounding tile felony. “If the Governor should require you he will no doubt send for you. And I would advise you in future, my girl, if you value your position in this house, not to treat him in such a familiar manner. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mam.”
“Now go. And you may send my maid to me.”
“Yes, Mam.”
The girl bobbed a curtsey and left the room and Margaret flung herself down on her dressing table stool, staring at herself in the mirror. How could she have been so horrible to the child? And yet there had been something terribly free about the way Sara had called out to Tom as she came in. A seed of suspicion was sewn in the mind of the Governor’s wife which resolutely refused to go away.
On Boxing Day Lord Rupert Germain threw a magnificent party for the British high command at his great estate at Milton. Everyone was there, from the Governor down to the lieutenants. And, for once, everyone put the thought of the trouble brewing out of their minds and concentrated on having a splendid time.
Margaret, beautiful in a gown of ice blue with silver trimming, wafted amongst the guests, being charming to one and all. Yet inwardly she was in turmoil. Wondering what Joseph Warren would have made of such a gathering of the intelligentsia of the British rulers. Her husband, for once, seemed devoid of tension, laughing and at ease with everyone except Admiral Graves, to whom he was cordial but that was all.
Eventually, she wandered outside, onto the beautiful terrace that overlooked such incredible views. To her left she could see the purple height of Mount Wachusett, a good fifty miles away by her reckoning. To the east the fields dropped away, gradually descending to the Neponset River, where it meandered into Boston Harbour. Very faintly she could hear the distant tolling of church bells coming from Boston. It was a scene of immense calm, peaceful almost. Margaret found herself wishing that everything was different, that she was in her mother country in a time of settled behaviour, that the trouble brewing between the British and the colonists was over and done, one way or the other.
She turned as she heard someone step from the house behind her and saw that it was Lord Rupert Germain himself, to whom she had finally been introduced two months earlier. She gave a slight curtsey.
“Admiring the view?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s beautiful. So peaceful.”
“If only it really were,” he said, echoing her thoughts.
“Yes, if only.”
They looked at one another and Margaret saw, quite distinctly, the fact that he did not really like her. That deep down he resented her, the reason why she could not even guess. She decided to be utterly charming and make him squirm.
“So how is the newspaper business, Lord Rupert? I hear you are one of the richest men in Boston now.”
“Am I? Yes, perhaps I must be.”
She slipped a hand through his arm. “Oh come now, you can’t deceive me.”
“I wouldn’t wish to, Madam. The truth is that circulation is falling because I am loyal to the British. No one wants to read what I write any more. They want the hysterical stuff put out by the revolutionaries.”
“So what do you intend to do?”
“If things get any more difficult I plan to sell up and go back to England.”
“Surely not.”
“Indeed yes, Madam. I do not jest about so serious a matter.”
She let go of his arm and stood looking at him in the bright light of that clear fine day. He was painfully thin, his long greying hair unpowdered, his slight frame hardly befitting a man approaching forty. “Lord Rupert, do you think war is going to break out?”
He paused, considering his answer, and finally said, “I am surprised that it hasn’t done so already.”
“Are you positive?”
“Utterly.”
“Then who will win?”
“The Americans,” said Lord Rupert Germain simply. “We just don’t have the manpower to defeat them.”
“My God!” answered Margaret, with much feeling. “I wonder if my poor husband is aware of how you feel.”
“In his heart, he knows,” Rupert answered her. “He knows that it is only a matter of time.”
Chapter Sixteen
December, 1774
They came home in the coach, Andrew on the box, smart as paint and cracking his whip. Tom, who had, quite frankly, got drunk during the course of the day, dropped off to sleep almost as soon as they started to move. Margaret, staring out of the window, seeing nothing because of the early darkness, felt a restlessness that prevented her from relaxing, a restlessness brought about by the wildness of her thoughts.
If Rupert Germain were right and the Americans were going to win the war which seemed to be inevitable, where did this leave her husband? Blamed, no doubt, for losing the Colonies and being generally incompetent. She looked at the slumbering form beside her, head sunk on chest, gentle snores emerging, and felt a great warmth for him, putting out her hand, taking his and squeezing it. He did not respond, being deeply unconscious, but his snores became slightly more subdued. Margaret turned to the window again and then, unbidden, a picture of the slave Sara came into her mind. What was it about the girl that she didn’t altogether trust? And why had she come into the bedroom, almost as if she’d forgotten that Margaret was there, calling out to him in that familiar manner? Did they share something, something that had happened before Margaret arrived in Boston?
Suddenly she froze in horror as a terrible thought occurred. Five months had passed between his sailing for America from England and her joining him. Supposing, just supposing, that he had warmed the space in his bed with the half-caste. Knowing him as she did, knowing his needs and desires, he would have been quite capable of it. Yet surely he wouldn’t have betrayed her, her whom he professed to love.
Then she thought of herself and how attracted she was to Dr. Warren, with his bright blue eyes and innocent expression. How easy it would be to forget her committments and comfort him for the death of his wife with the oldest magic in the world. Suddenly, Margaret found a tear running down beside her nose and falling onto her chest. She felt deeply depressed and nothing could lift her spirits as they hurried through the darkness towards Province House.
Once within, she abandoned her husband, weaving slightly, and made her way up the stairs, calling for her maid. The girl came rushing from the servants’ quarters, apologising, and started the business of undressing her mistress. First the elegant headdress was removed and set on a wooden stand, then the jewellery, the open robe, the ornamented petticoat beneath, came off. Finally Margaret stood naked except for her stays, hoops and, quite daring, hip pads. Eventually, though, these encumbrances having been taken away and stored in a clothes press, she slipped into her chemise and permitted the maid to brush her long dark hair.
“Where is Andrew?” she asked casually, as the girl set to with the brush.
“In the kitchen, Mam. He thought you wouldn’t be needing him again toni
ght.”
“And Robin? Where is he?”
“He is in the hall, Mam. Can he get you anything?”
“A cup of hot chocolate perhaps.”
“I’ll tell him directly.”
“Good.” Margaret’s voice became almost over-casual. “And where is Sara?”
“I don’t know, Mam. I ain’t seen her around. But she won’t have gone to bed just yet.”
The Governor’s wife smiled and nodded but said nothing.
Eventually, when the girl had brushed her hair sufficiently, Margaret turned towards the great bed. “I think I won’t have the chocolate after all. I’m so tired. I’ll just say goodnight, Lucy.”
“Goodnight, Mam. Do you want me to help you to bed?”
“No, I can manage. Goodnight.”
But she remained where she was, sitting at her dressing table, until the sound of the girl’s footsteps had died away. Then, taking a candle and slipping a night-rail over her chemise, she crept across the bedroom floor, through the door and down the stairs.
It was dim in the hallway below, full of shadows and dark spaces, her solitary candle doing little to lighten the gloom. Margaret stood silently, listening. There was no sound except for a distant solitary voice, a female voice, holding forth in what appeared to be a soliloquy. There was also a light coming from beneath Tom’s study door. Noiselessly, Margaret advanced, and stood on the far side, all attention.
She could hear Sara, apparently reading aloud, though with immense difficulty and a certain amount of pausing. Margaret waited a fraction longer, her hand on the door knob, then she slowly and silently opened it and stood in the entrance.
Tom sat in the chair behind his desk, sound asleep. Sitting on the other side was Sara, reading from a book that she held open on her lap. Just for a moment the girl did not hear her and Margaret was able to stand and take in the scene. Even though her husband slept there was something intimate about the two of them, as if they were old friends. Sara continued to read for a few more seconds, hesitating over the longer words which she pronounced phonetically. Then, even though Margaret had made no move, she became aware of her presence and suddenly looked up.
Panic filled the girl’s eyes and her face equalled their expression. She leapt to her feet, clutching the book, and started to back away. Margaret said nothing, merely fixing Sara with a glance guaranteed to frighten her out of her wits. Then with a loud bang she slammed the door closed and ran up the stairs once more. Finally she crashed into her bedroom and turned the key in the lock before she flung herself onto the bed.
She should have wept, she knew that, but for some reason she lay dry-eyed, staring round the dim confines of the bedroom. After about ten minutes she heard Tom come upstairs and try to open the door. He called her name softly but she did not respond. Eventually she heard him go down again. After that there was silence.
She was behaving appallingly and she knew it. Yet she was furiously jealous and hurt. Sara had better watch her step in future, Margaret thought. It was clear that before she had arrived in Boston the girl had done her best to seduce Tom and had probably succeeded. Well now the day of reckoning was at hand. No more secret meetings at which the girl read aloud. She would put the black bitch out on the street tomorrow. With this triumphant thought, the Governor’s wife finally went to sleep.
He had asked at breakfast next morning why she had locked the bedroom door. Margaret had gazed at him, large-eyed.
“Did I? Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry. What could I have been thinking of?”
He had fixed his eyes on her firmly and she had been forced to stare directly into them, noticing as she did so how tired he looked, weary indeed. She regretted locking the door now, imagining him tossing and turning on the chaise in the drawing room. But had he? Perhaps he had spent the night in the cell-like room that the slave girl occupied, held tightly in a pair of dark arms.
She must have made some noise of disgust for Tom said, “What’s the matter? Have I done something to offend you? I can only think I must have behaved badly at Rupert’s yesterday.”
She paused, weighing up what to say next, then eventually asked, “About that slave, Sara…?”
“What about her?”
“I came downstairs late last night and found you together with her in your study. You were asleep; she was reading aloud.”
Tom laid down his knife and fork and there was an edge in his voice. “As a matter of fact I’ve been teaching the girl to read. It seemed a harmless enough occupation. I told her that when you joined me from New York the lessons would have to stop. This upset her so since then she has been struggling her way through adult books borrowed from my library. That is the beginning and the end of it, and is all I have to say on the matter.”
Margaret stared at him and Tom suddenly remembered his premonition that one day she would somehow betray him.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why is it all you have to say.”
“Because there the story begins and ends,” he answered loudly, snatching his napkin from beneath his chin, his chair scraping as he suddenly stood up.
Margaret rose also. “Is that the truth?” she hissed.
“Of course it’s the bloody truth. What else did you expect? That I rogered the wretched girl? Good day to you, Madam. Perhaps you will join me when you can keep a civil tongue in your mouth.”
And he marched out of the dining room and into his study, where he closed the door, very firmly.
They had been alone for those few moments while Robin fetched more toast from the kitchen, but now his head appeared, rather too promptly for Margaret’s liking. In fact the minute he approached her, the toast rack on a tray, she could tell by the roundness of his eyes that he had heard every word of the argument and was bursting with it. She decided to be direct.
“Robin, his Excellency and I have had a slight disagreement. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to the other servants.”
“No, Mam.” But she knew from his expression that he hadn’t been the only one to overhear.
“And you may repeat my instructions to anyone else who was in earshot.”
“Yes, Mam.”
“You may clear away now. I have had enough to eat, thank you.”
“Why, Mam, you’ve hardly had a thing.”
“I’ve eaten enough,” she snapped, and left the table, her clothing rustling as she walked.
Upstairs, she turned left towards the nursery, hoping to catch her daughter being bathed in the tin bath before the fire. Thrusting open the door, she greeted the nursemaid who was busy warming the clothes on a clothes-horse.
“Where is Charlotte?” she asked, pleasantly enough, though she was aware that there was an edge to her voice.
“In the other room, Madam. One of the slave girls is playing with her while I get the bath ready.”
She knew who it was, even while she had her hand on the door handle. But even she was shocked by the sight she saw. With so much love on her face, Sara was throwing Charlotte in the air and catching her again in outstretched arms. The baby was laughing in delight, relishing every second. Margaret caught herself thinking that Sara was possibly the most beautiful girl she had ever seen – and at that moment she knew pure hatred.
“Put that child down,” she ordered from the doorway. “How dare you play with her in that free manner?”
Sara deposited Charlotte beside her and the child, seeing the look on her mother’s face, cowered into the slave’s skirts and started to cry.
The black girl tried nobly to defend herself. “I was only helping out Nanny, Mam. She asked me to mind the baby while she got the water warm. I thought I was doing good.”
“You have no right to be even in these rooms. This is the nursery suite. It is not the duty of slaves to enter it. But then you make yourself pretty familiar with most of the rooms in this house, don’t you, my girl?”
Sara grew pale. “What do you mean, Mam?”
“Mam, I never…”
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and last night was the final straw. You are dismissed from service, Sara. You are to leave the house immediately. Go to your room and pack your things, then out with you. And no going to the Governor with your tales of woe. Your days of manipulating him are over.”
Sara’s head was held high as she extricated Charlotte from the depths of her dress, then left the room, passing right beside Margaret, who held the door, as she did so. The nursemaid, scarlet-cheeked, stood opening and closing her mouth but any thoughts she might have had of speaking in the girl’s defence were quashed by the expression on the face of her employer.
“Good riddance,” said Margaret loudly from the nursery door. She turned to Nanny. “I’ve decided not to see Charlotte bathed this morning. I am going out. I shall come and play with her this afternoon. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Madam,” answered the girl, too stupefied to make any remonstrance whatsoever.
*
Once again she wore the hat with the heavy veiling, leaving the house by the garden entrance and making her way past the coach house and stables. She found herself in the narrow confines of Governor’s Alley, which ran directly behind the buildings in which Margaret dwelt. It was narrow but soon led out to School Street, from where Margaret made her way into Cornhill.
There seemed to be soldiers everywhere, out in their twos and threes, presumably off-duty, idling around. But they were disciplined. Despite the insults mouthed at them, some said aloud, they did not respond but kept their eyes to the front and continued to talk one to the other.
Margaret hurried on till she drew level with the Long Wharf and automatically looked right. Once when the great harbour had been in its heyday it would have been bustling, alive with every kind of vessel, for the wharf stretched out to sea for half a mile so that even the largest ship could come in at low tide. Now, other than for the British men-of-war, it lay deserted. Yet nothing could take away the raw, edgy excitement of Boston. There was still the cry of fishermen selling their wares, the shout of little black sweeps, the sound of horses’ hooves on cobbles and the rattle of carts.