by Lake, Deryn
Now Elizabeth gasped once more and said, “Of course you must stay with us until your plans are formulated, my dear. I shall get the guest rooms aired immediately.” And she pulled a bell rope.
Having given the answering servant instructions, she sat down again.
“And how is dear Thomas? Will he be joining you, or don’t you know?”
Margaret shook her head. “I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. He could be out there for several more years. It depends how long the conflict takes.
Her sister-in-law raised dark eyebrows and fanned herself briefly. “You make it sound as though the colonists are ready to put up a fight. I had always considered them hideously undermanned, that is, of course, until the reports of Lexington and Concord became available in London. Did you know that the Yankees sent their account first, beating the official one by several days?”
“No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Isn’t it shocking?”
But Margaret was no longer listening. In her mind she had gone back, not to those battles but to Breed’s Hill, remembering how she had sat all through that hot airless night, nursing poor dead Joseph in her arms, then reburied him in the morning, putting him to lie beside the farmer in his frock.
Her eyes wandered to the landscape outside Firle Place. From where she sat she could see great trees sweeping the lawns with pools of shadow beneath. A waterway with many kinds of fowl swimming upon it, splashed behind the gracious house. Remembering the atmosphere of Boston, where everyone lived cheek by jowl, Margaret felt that here one could draw breath in peace. It was September, 1775, and she had taken just over a month to sail home. Yet the memories she brought with her could never be forgotten.
The Viscountess was continuing to speak and Margaret wrenched her concentration back.
“I’m sure you’ll be happy here, dear girl. And just look at your little one. She seems to have settled down immediately.”
They stared out of the window to where Charlotte was busy running up and down and skipping round her nursemaid, clapping her hands as she did so.
“Elizabeth, I would very much like to see my other children. Where are they at present?”
“They’re all at Highmeadow, it being the vacation from school. Perhaps we should travel there in a few days and visit.”
“Yes, I would like that.”
The arrival of tea, carried in by countless footmen, interrupted them. But later, when Margaret had been shown to a wonderfully large room overlooking the back of the house, she flung open her window and leaned out. Before her shimmered the lake, beyond that the spreading parkland. This was paradise, a place in which one could recuperate from all the recently befallen ills. Yet she knew that a person of her nature, uprooted from her homeland, a stranger to these shores, would soon tire of such heavenly surroundings and want to be in a busier throng. She had loved her childhood home, of course, but there she had been one of the belles of New Jersey, well-connected and on every guest list. Here, she imagined, one could idle one’s way to the grave. She decided that, having visited her children at Highmeadow, she would make her way to the Gage’s family home in London and see what fortune the great city, of which she knew so little, might yield up at her feet.
*
At dinner the Viscount was charm itself but full of interminable questions about his brother Thomas. How was he? Was he controlling the soldiers? What, in her view, should be done to bring the conflict to an end?
“The only way,” said Margaret, when allowed to get a breath into the tumult, “is to send massive reinforcements to Boston. If the Government fails in this, then we will lose the war.”
There was a shocked silence. “Are you serious?” asked Viscount William.
“Perfectly. The colonists are organised and tough. Further, they are inspired by love of their country. They are prepared to lay down their lives to see the nation born. A formidable task for an army to take on, wouldn’t you agree?”
The Viscount absorbed what he had just heard, then said, “I suppose Tom is aware of this?”
“Oh yes, he is aware all right. He has written requesting reinforcements innumerable times but he is given short shrift. Poor devil, I don’t envy him his task.”
The Viscountess cleared her throat. “My dear, we hadn’t realised the affair is as critical as it is.”
Margaret toyed with her spoon. “Take my word for it, the situation is terrible.”
William signed to the footman who poured more wine. “And how do you like Firle Place, Margaret?”
“It’s lovely, truly beautiful. I know that here I shall recover from Boston – and the journey from it – splendidly. But I’ve a thought to visit Park Place in the not too distant future. I know little of London as you can imagine and I would like to learn more of it before I settle down.
William and Elizabeth exchanged a glance in which there was a certain amount of amusement.
“Of course, my dear. We had thought that you probably would. I am sure that compared with New York and Boston, London will glitter.”
For some reason Margaret found this remark fractionally irritating, but there was little she could do about it. So she just smiled and said, “I shall give you a full report, of course, as soon as I have lived there a while.”
But later, spending her first night for a month in a large bed in a spacious room, she found that the idea of London had got her in its grip.
“A place in which to forget everything,” she whispered into the moonlight before she fell asleep.
*
Having spent a few days at Highmeadow, Margaret drove in the Viscount’s coach towards Park Place in London, the town house of Tom Gage, bought when he had last visited the city. It had been wonderful to see her children again, but she knew as soon as she met them that the years she had spent away from them had changed the little creatures. They were polite, dutiful, made something of a fuss of her, but other than for that they were preoccupied, rapt in their own private world, totally grown away from her and treating the Viscountess as if she were their mother.
Elizabeth had given birth seven times, but each time the child had died in infancy. Therefore the pleasure of taking over the educating and bringing-up of Margaret and Thomas’s progeny had been enormous. And now she had added Charlotte to the list, formally handed into her care, the Viscountess’s excuse being that the country air would suit the child far better.
But Margaret had almost been relieved. The fact was that she needed to be alone in order to think. The shock of all that had happened to her in the last six months had barely started to sink in. Her betrayal of Tom, his rejection of her, her bitter-sweet love for Joseph, and then – the cruellest cut of all – finding him dead, stripped of his clothes, on Breed’s Hill. She needed, indeed she must, come to terms with all that had taken place and there was no room for Charlotte – or indeed the others, should they have been willing to come with her – in such a tumultuous period of adjustment. With her heart thumping irregularly and her breathing barely controlled, Margaret sat in the coach heading for the legendary city.
Park Place, which she had seen briefly on her previous visit to the capital, turned out to be far finer than she remembered. Superbly situated, overlooking St. James’s Palace from the second floor windows, and with Green Park a mere few paces away, Margaret went from room to room exclaiming at its stylish splendour. Then she thought of Tom, labouring in the close confines of Boston, and momentarily she was stilled, wondering what would happen to him and whether he would ever come to live in this splendid house. And, if he did, whether she would have to contend with years of icy silence like those she had endured since April. She deliberately turned her thoughts away.
At first there was much to do, bringing the skeleton staff up to snuff and adding to their numbers. But when that was sorted out Margaret suddenly found herself at a loose end with nothing to occupy her thoughts except memories. Determined to fight her way through them, she sat down and wrote to the Viscountess at F
irle asking for a list of her friends in town and for Elizabeth’s permission to call on them. When this arrived in a day or two, Margaret set off in the small coach she had purchased, a collection of newly printed cards clasped firmly in her reticule.
She left them, as was customary, on a silver tray carried by a footman. But at one house this golden rule was altered. She arrived at the front door at exactly the same moment as another visitor. This woman, who was of middle years and had an arresting hawkish manner, said, “Oh, my dear, you are calling on Mrs. Montagu I take it. Forgive me but I don’t know your face. Are you new in town?”
“I arrived here a fortnight ago, Ma’am.”
“Ah, I presume from your accent that you are from the Colonies. Do tell us about the situation there. Elizabeth will be most diverted. She is not her usual self, having so recently lost poor Edward.”
The front door was opened at this point and the formidable woman said to the footman, “Mrs. Boscawen and Mrs. – “ She turned to Margaret.
“Gage, Margaret Gage.”
“Good gracious. Are you by any chance the wife of the Governor of Massachusetts?”
“I am indeed.”
“Oh, my dear, Elizabeth will be delighted to meet you.” She turned to the footman. “Mrs. Boscawen and Mrs. Gage to call on Mrs. Montagu, if you please.”
“Certainly, Madam. I will tell Mrs. Montagu that you are here.”
After a few moments he returned. “Will you follow me, ladies.”
Hardly able to conceal her excitement that she had entered the home of Elizabeth Montagu, whose social group was nicknamed The Blue Stockings, Margaret climbed an interesting staircase and was shown into a receiving room on the first floor.
A small woman rose to greet her visitors, a small woman of about fifty-five years with fairly unremarkable features, other than for a large nose which would have dominated her face had it not been for her eyes. For these were of an amazingly bright blue, the colour of forget-me-nots, piercingly sharp and somewhat reminiscent of Tom’s. They studied Margaret with a deep and intelligent look.
“Mrs. Boscawen, how very nice to see you. And who have we here?”
“This, Ma’am, is Mrs. Gage, wife of the commander-in-chief of British forces in Boston.”
“Well, well, well. So you are back in London, eh. Were you sent away for safety’s sake, my dear?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Margaret lied, curtseying and dropping her gaze away from that all-seeing stare.
Mrs. Montague pealed with laughter. “Oh, say that again, do. You have such a divinely atrocious accent.”
Margaret gaped at her, not quite sure how to proceed, but eventually said, “Yes. Ma’am,” again, attempting to modify her tones.
Mrs. Montagu wagged a finger. “My dear, do not attempt to change the way you speak. Why, it is music to my ears to hear such a delightful drawl. If I were you I would accentuate it when out. I assure you that you will be the centre of attention if you do. But you must excuse me. I am in poor spirits presently. My dear husband, my own sensible, plodding, kindly, generous Edward has died but recently, leaving me but a pale shadow.”
Margaret found herself wondering what Mrs. Montagu would be like when restored, but had not time for such deliberations for her hostess was speaking again.
“I miss him dreadfully, you know. Not that he was ever present at my meetings, preferring to sit in his study and ponder mathematical problems. Yet I miss his very absence, if you understand me.”
She flashed a glance in Margaret’s direction and the Yankee saw that the great eyes were brimming with tears. The woman was as changeable as an April day and at that particular moment extremely vulnerable. Margaret felt herself warming to her.
“I know something of what you feel, Ma’am,” she said. “I have lost a son recently. I understand your emotions.” And I lost a lover too, she thought, in the direst circumstances possible.
“Do you?” asked Mrs. Montagu, her face brightening. “Do you really understand?”
“Absolutely.”
Elizabeth was caught between weeping and laughing and decided to do both. With large fresh tears pouring down her cheeks she simultaneously pealed with mirth.
Margaret looked at the mercurial little woman and felt that they had much in common. And if her accent amused Elizabeth, then all the better. Then a sudden memory came. A memory of her first meeting with Tom when she had laughed at his Englishness and he had responded so light-heartedly. It had been so many years ago that it seemed like another lifetime, yet they had been good days, very good. But Mrs. Montagu was speaking again.
“As I told you, my dear, I am still in mourning. But I am keeping up with the world for all that. I would like you to come and dine with me on Friday next. It will only be a small gathering but my friend Sir Joshua Reynolds will be present. He is interesting, I think you will agree.”
“I know little of him, Ma’am.”
Mrs. Montagu turned to Mrs. Boscawen, who had been smiling serenely throughout their conversation.
“Isn’t she refreshing? Where did you find her?”
“On your doorstep, my dear.”
“Did you really? Fancy that. Now, Mrs. Gage, I formally invite you to attend the next meeting of The Blue Stockings.”
“Why, I’d be more than delighted, Ma’am. When will that be?”
“When I decide to hold one,” answered Mrs. Montagu, and wiped the tears away – though whether they were caused by sadness or mirth or a combination of the two, Margaret could not be certain.
Chapter Thirty-Four
September, 1775
The next morning, somewhat to Margaret’s surprise, a note came from Mrs. Montagu, brought round to Park Place by a footman. In it the Blue Stocking apologised for her lack of manners on the previous day and asked if Mrs. Gage would be free to take tea with her. Margaret immediately responded in the affirmative and duly set forth that afternoon. However, just as she was about to leave the house, her heart started its irregular thumping and she was forced to sit down for a quarter of an hour.
Used to walking round Boston, Mrs. Gage decided to go on foot and, feeling better, left the house and made her way briskly to Hill Street where Elizabeth Montagu awaited her.
“My dear Mrs. Gage, forgive my lack of courtesy. It was just that your accent amused me so much and I felt the need to laugh. The death of my husband has cast me down low, believe me.”
This was a side to the notorious Mrs. Montagu that Margaret had not expected and she found herself staring at the little woman.
“Tell me, if you can bear to speak of it, about the passing of your little boy,” Elizabeth continued.
“It was so sad because I was not with him. In fact…” Margaret went on in a burst of confidentiality, “…I have handed all my children over to my sister-in-law, Viscountess Gage, because of my husband’s career.”
The blue eyes became sharp. “And what of your husband? How is he?”
Margaret paused, and in that pause came sudden pangs of guilt that she should have betrayed that honest man who had tried so hard. She deliberately kept her gaze averted as she answered, “He is doing the best he can in impossible circumstances. I wouldn’t have his job for a fortune.”
“The talk is that he is somewhat overwhelmed.”
Now Margaret did look up. “Who wouldn’t be with all he has to contend with?”
The blue gaze softened. “I see that you are very fond of him, my dear. Now then, let us have tea.”
The repast was brought by servants and Mrs. Montagu poured the brew. Looking at her covertly, Margaret decided that she was not as fierce as she had always believed. Indeed, the death of Elizabeth’s husband had clearly shaken her badly. She wondered how Mrs. Montagu would have coped with that airless night on Breed’s Hill when Joseph had lain dead in her arms. Margaret rather suspected that it would have been badly.
“About my husband,” said her hostess as if unburdening herself. “He was very different from me. Altogethe
r a serious and solid person. He never attended my soirees, you know. He preferred to read a book or work on some problem. But he gave me absolute free rein to do as I pleased. Despite the difference in our lives, we acted in perfect harmony. Oh, I do miss him.”
Margaret suddenly found herself acting entirely naturally, with no artifice or pretence. Putting down her cup, she stood up and crossed to where Mrs. Montagu was sitting. Then, crouching down, she put her arm round the other woman’s shoulders and gave her a hug.
“I promise you that time heals all things,” she said. “With each passing day you will recover very slightly.”
Mrs. Montagu’s eyes filled with tears. “Do you really think so?”
“I am certain of it,” Margaret responded, taking her seat once more. “Bless you for saying so. And bless you for comforting me. I believe you are a truly nice woman, Mrs. Gage.”
“I wish I thought so too,” answered Margaret softly.
*
The dinner party, held later that week, was nothing short of a triumph. Mrs. Gage’s fine American accent together with her odd pronunciation of certain English words meant that she was the elegantly amused talk of the table. Further she was the wife of the commander who had so disastrously ordered the troops at Concord, Lexington and Bunker Hill. In other words her value as a guest ran high, and that night she was showered with invitations from the other people present. But it was the attitude of Sir Joshua Reynolds which most puzzled her. Fixing her with his scintillating dark eyes, he stared at her as if he was looking into her soul. In the end she found she could not bear such close scrutiny.