The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  “Allow me to present Mrs. Gage to you, Lady Coniston.”

  “A pleasure. I do like young good-looking people about me. It helps one keep up with the times, I believe.”

  “A great honour to be presented to you, Lady Coniston. I hope we can become friends.”

  The old woman cupped her ear. “Do I detect a Yankee accent?”

  “Yes, Madam. I was born in the Colonies.”

  “You must be quite perturbed by the situation out there. What a terrible thing for you. And not helped by that damned fool commander they’ve got. Can’t remember his name but the man’s an idiot. Lord Coniston was telling me the other night – he is my bachelor son and a Member of the Lords, you know – that the chap has been recalled to England. A fine mess he’s made of things for sure.”

  Margaret sat silently, wondering how best to answer. Then it occurred to her that Tom might not be the subject of the conversation at all, that the old lady’s son could have been referring to any of the high command in Boston. Slightly mollified, she sat dumbly, merely giving a faint smile. Mrs. Montagu came in.

  “I think it best that we drop the subject, my dear Roberta. Mrs. Gage has not come to Bath to listen to such things. She has come to forget her problems and to have some fun. And I intend to see that she does.”

  Was it Margaret’s imagination that the name ‘Mrs. Gage’ had been said at full voice? And did she further fancy that Lady Coniston looked startled for a moment, before shooting her a glance and saying, “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  The pathetic companion spoke, her voice a wisp. “Perhaps we could all go to the theatre together. I could secure the seats.”

  “Yes, that would be a good idea,” Lady Coniston said, clearly glad of another avenue of conversation. “Mrs. Montagu?”

  “A splendid notion. Thank you Miss Miller.”

  It was at this juncture that the meal arrived and conversation became limited. But Margaret tasted nothing, the food turning to dust in her mouth. Had Lady Coniston really been talking about Tom? And, if so, was it true that he was going to be recalled? Margaret felt her heart go out to him, feeling certain that if that was the case the shame would destroy him completely. She felt a deep and terrible sorrow for the man who had, after all, once been the love of her life. If she hadn’t betrayed the great secret to Joseph might the whole thing have worked out differently? She sighed, feeling too exhausted even to think about it, and Mrs. Montagu caught her eye.

  “I see the journey from London has fatigued you, my dear. I suggest that we go straight back when we have dined. I think that to visit the Assembly Rooms would be asking too much.”

  Margaret leapt at the opportunity. “In truth I am feeling a little tired. Tomorrow morning I shall be restored to my old self, I promise you.

  Small talk prevailed but eventually the meal came to an end and Mrs. Montagu rose to go, determination oozing from her small frame.

  Lady Coniston laid a wrinkled old hand over that of Margaret. “Do hope I didn’t say anything to upset you, Mrs. Gale.”

  “No, that’s quite all right, my Lady. And the name is Gage, by the way.”

  “Gage, of course. Now where have I heard that recently?”

  *

  In the dark confines of the carriage Elizabeth turned to Margaret, who sat in a strangely withdrawn silence.

  “I warned you that she had lost her wits, my dear. You must regard what she said as the burbling of a confused old woman.”

  “It did not sound confused to me. She said her son told her.”

  Mrs. Montagu gave a snort of contempt. “That popinjay. He thinks of nothing but his cravats and his horses. I doubt that anyone would trust him with confidential information, least of all a member of the Cabinet.”

  In the darkness Margaret stared at her. “Is that true?”

  “Utterly. The entire family are lacking mentally, believe me. It is most unfortunate that we were obliged to sit with her. That poor wretched companion of hers is the only one who will put up with her. I shall decline their invitation to join them at the theatre.” And she banged the floor with her stick to emphasise the point.

  Yet despite the reassuring words Margaret felt ill at ease. Lady Coniston had misheard her name and started to gossip about the situation in Boston. She had known something, of that much Margaret was certain. The question was, exactly what was it she had heard?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  October, 1775

  Joseph had come back to life, for Margaret could see him distinctly. He was sitting in the kitchen of their weatherboarded home talking happily to a boy whom she knew to be their son. He was a nice child, a good-looking youngster, eager and fresh-faced, ready to take on the world as his father had been. Outside Margaret could hear other children playing and looking out of the window saw that Mary, young Joseph and Elizabeth – Joseph’s progeny by his first wife – were there, clearly having come to live with them. She looked round for her children but could not see them and, running upstairs, realised that they were not there but had stayed behind in England with their Aunt Elizabeth, the Viscountess. This last feeling was horrible to bear. The thought that they had chosen to remain at Firle Place rather than join their natural mother cut like a stab wound. Then she turned and saw Tom standing in the doorway, the slave girl Sara one step behind him. She knew as surely as if he had told her that the black woman was her husband’s mistress.

  “Get her out of my house,” Margaret shouted.

  Neither of them answered her but Sara stepped forward and silently pointed at her abdomen. Staring at it, Margaret realised with a lurch of her heart that the girl was pregnant.

  “The child is mine,” said Tom. And as Margaret screamed, “No. It can’t be true,” she woke and stared round the confines of a strange room.

  Just for a moment she thought she was with Joseph in their house in New England, then she realised that she was in Bath, that she had been dreaming a cruel dream from which she had just awoken, trembling and drenched with sweat. Shakily, Margaret stretched out an arm and poured herself some water from the carafe that stood beside her bed.

  In order to drink it she had to sit upright, an action which made her feel slightly better. Arranging a pillow behind her head, Margaret stayed like that, waiting for the power of the dream to fade. It had seemed so real to her that she wondered at its meaning. Had Tom really slept with Sara and fathered a child by her? Yet its very clarity set her heart yearning for Joseph, for the life together they had never had, and, strangely, for her husband too. But most of all it made her long for her children with an ache which made the taste in her mouth turn to ash.

  She heard the long case clock in the hall strike six and decided to rise and creep out of the house for a walk. Washing in cold water and dressing quickly, Margaret stole outdoors before the beau monde had even opened its eyes. Somewhat to her surprise, however, there were several people about at this early hour, most of them young men making their way to the Hot Bath. Margaret thought that they had probably not been to bed but had gone to the bath straight from a party or card play.

  Feeling a little conspicuous, she entered the Pump Room, below which the King’s or Hot Bath was situated, and ordered a glass of water, watching the beaux descend to the cavernous depths below. Then she felt her attention drawn to a small figure making its way across the Pump Room, walking determinedly but with a definite limp. He looked very like one of the dream characters with whom she had so recently been involved, so much so that Margaret caught her breath. He must have heard her because he stopped and made her a small bow “How dee do, Ma’am.”

  He could have been no more than four years old yet with such a pleasing countenance and bright smile that Margaret felt instantly drawn to him.

  “Hello, young man. What is your name?”

  “Why, Ma’am, are you a Yankee?”

  “And I believe that you are a Scot.”

  “Aye, I am that.”

  “And where is your Mama?”

 
“Home in Edinburgh, Ma’am. I live with my grandfather in the Borders.”

  Having no idea where that was, Margaret continued to smile at him, entranced by his eager little face and precocious manner.

  “My grandpa is a professor of medicine and I was taken ill when I was young,” the boy continued, “that’s why I live with him.”

  “Oh, I see. And what was the nature of your illness?”

  “Teething problems,” the little fellow responded, immediately giving Margaret the impression that it had been something far more serious which the child had not been told about.

  “So where is your guardian?”

  “She’s coming directly. In fact –” The boy peered over his shoulder. “– here she is now.”

  Margaret followed his gaze and saw a comfortable woman, looking somewhat red in the face, hurrying towards them.

  “Oh Walter, there you are,” she exclaimed. “I do wish you wouldn’t make your way on your own. You are in my care and there’s an end to it.” She flashed a look at Margaret, then dropped a small curtsey. “I do hope the boy has been no trouble, Ma’am. He will run away when I am about other business.”

  “I think he is delightful,” said Margaret, really meaning it.

  The boy bowed once more. “I must be away to the bath,” he announced. “It’s to help my limp, d’ye see.”

  “I hope very much that we will meet again.”

  “If you take the waters early, Ma’am, then we most assuredly will.”

  So saying he made his way to the Hot Bath, ushered down the steps by his chaperone. Margaret loitered, waiting for her to return, hoping to find out more about the little chap, whose manner had so delighted her on this chilly autumn morning. Seeing the woman re-emerge, she approached her.

  “Forgive me for not introducing myself, Ma’am. My name is Margaret Gage and I am currently visiting Bath with Mrs. Montagu.”

  “And I am Mrs. Home,” stated the other with a certain air of grandeur. “My husband you may have heard of. He wrote Douglas, you know.”

  As this meant nothing to Margaret she merely smiled as Mrs. Home continued.

  “I am so glad that Walter made a good impression on you. He is a dear child, sent to Bath for the benefit of his health. He had serious teething problems which left him lame, poor thing. Now his grandfather hopes that bathing in the Hot Bath and taking the waters might improve his position.”

  “How kind of you to act as his guardians.”

  “Not at all. Now, are you attending the Public Breakfast?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Then allow me to tell you. It is a breakfast which everybody goes to. It is accompanied by music and a great deal of noise. I can heartily recommend it.”

  “At what time does it begin?”

  “At eight o’clock or thereabouts.”

  “Then I shall go back to my rooms and fetch Mrs. Montagu. I am sure she would enoy it. Tell me, will you be there?”

  “I am afraid not. Walter has a reading lesson at that time. Duty calls.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, no doubt I shall see you round the town.”

  “No doubt. Good day to you, Mrs. Gage.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Home.”

  *

  Having returned to find Mrs. Montagu somewhat distressed by her absence, Margaret soothed her down and suggested that they visit the Public Breakfast. To Elizabeth, of course, such things were well-known. But something of the air of excitement that her companion was feeling conveyed itself to the older woman and she, only a trifle reluctantly, consented to go. So, dressed very finely, both ladies sauntered forth from Royal Crescent and made their way to the Pump Room.

  Inside all was splendour. The place was packed with people, all conversing at the tops of their voices, competing with the musicians who were playing like fury in the gallery above. Everybody who was anybody was present, those members of the beau monde instantly recognisable by the ease with which they achieved the ultimate in dress. Members of the other classes, however, had tried too hard and looked a little overdone as a result. There was also a third echelon of society present: the old and the sick forming a miserable queue to take a glass of the brackish water to revive their flagging spirits. Mrs. Montagu joined this, standing behind an old man who swayed so badly that he threatened to fall on her at any moment.

  “My dear,” she said, ducking as the ancient fellow tottered, “do go ahead and get a table. I shall join you as soon as I have partaken.”

  Margaret set off, managing to squeeze on the end of a table for six. Then she sat back and allowed all the noise and cheer to overwhelm her. But somehow the atmosphere failed to communicate itself. Thoughts tortured her that across the Atlantic ocean people were going hungry, short of food and water; that men – victims of the battles – were dying in agony, hideously maimed and suffering beyond anything that a human should have to endure. But above all these came the idea of Tom, the man she had married, shamed and shattered, making his way back to England with his career in ruins.

  “You’re deep in thought,” said Mrs. Montagu.

  “I was thinking about my husband,” Margaret answered honestly. “It seems to me, my dear, that you do little else.”

  “Oh, that isn’t so.”

  “Urn. Do you still hold him in high regard?”

  “Of course. He has done his best in a difficult situation. I respect him for it.”

  “I am glad to hear it. But I fear that the majority of people in this country think otherwise.”

  “Well, let them,” said Margaret defiantly. “They don’t know the true circumstances.”

  “Indeed they don’t. Time will tell, no doubt.”

  “Yes,” Margaret answered slowly, “no doubt it will.”

  *

  The next morning she attended the Pump Room early and again met little Walter, who, this time, ran as fast as he could with his lame leg, to meet her.

  “How are you, Ma’am?”

  “I’m very well. But more importantly, how are you? Do you think the treatments in this place are helping you?”

  “I’m not sure,” he replied seriously. “But meeting the folk here is proving excellent.”

  Margaret laughed aloud at his delightful mannerisms and strangely adult speech. And she was still smiling to herself long after he had disappeared to bathe and Mrs. Montagu had joined her.

  “You’re happy today, my dear.”

  “It is just little Walter. He is so amusing. He makes me miss my children though.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “Just as I miss my son.”

  Margaret stared. “I didn’t know…”

  “Yes, I called him my little Punch, for he was so happy and merry. At night when he was stripped he would roll and tumble on a blanket on the ground. I loved him so much. He was utterly adorable. But the poor little soul died of convulsions. Gracious, it was thirty years ago now, yet I can still see him as clearly as if it were yesterday.”

  Margaret laid her hand over Elizabeth’s. “I’m so sorry.”

  “But your children are alive, my dear. You really should go to them.”

  “It’s my sister-in-law, Viscountess Gage. She has been pregnant many times but has never succeeded in bringing a child to maturity. She begged me to give her my children for her to educate and I, because my home was in the Colonies, agreed. That is the reason.”

  “But you don’t live in the Colonies now,” Elizabeth answered, and there was the slightest hint of acerbity in her tone.

  Later, after the Public Breakfast, they had entered the steamy confines of the Hot Bath, clad from head to toe in bathing dress, a large cap shaped like a mop on their heads. At Margaret’s waist had been attached a little floating tray bearing a handkerchief, together with a puff box and a snuffbox, a habit in which she did not indulge but which the attendant had insisted upon. It had been on long strings so as she submerged herself up to the neck in the warm, vaporous water, it had floated upwards. It had brought a smile to
her lips to see a small army of ladies, tramping round and round, trays floating in front of them, their faces set and determined. And later, somewhat red in the cheeks, being carried out to rest and sweat at home. She had gone back to Royal Crescent, but had risen soon after, dressed and gone to walk in the town where, as luck would have it, she had met young Walter and taken him to tea at Sally Lunn’s Coffee House, where they feasted on buns and butter, undoing all the good of the earlier treatments.

  *

  That night they had gone to the Assembly Rooms and Margaret had been introduced into society at its highest level. She had danced nearly every dance, watched by Elizabeth Montagu and various other older ladies, aware that she was probably the subject of gossip but not really caring. And then a memory had come back; a sharp, harsh memory that would not go away. She thought of how she and Tom Gage had danced on the night they had met. How handsome she had thought him, how fine and dashing in his red uniform. Yet for all that she had fallen in love with someone else and betrayed the English secret to the other side. Suddenly, she felt terribly ashamed and the blood ran into her cheeks making her look flushed.

  “Goodness me,” she laughed up at her partner. “I must sit down. The dance is making me grow very hot.”

  Thankfully at that moment the final chords were played and he bowed her to her seat.

  “Thank you, Ma’am. It has been a pleasure.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Oh, by the way, my name is Margaret Gage.”

  He bowed again. “Gage,” he repeated, and it seemed to her then that the whole evening was turning into a strange dream from which there would be no escape.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  October 11, 1775

  Long after the crowd had dispersed from the quayside Tom still remained at the ship’s rail, staring at the now deserted place where earlier there had been a small throng. Though all who had seen him off – including his brother-in-law – had pretended he would return in the spring, he knew perfectly well that this was the end for him. That he had received the final recall and was now destined to spend the rest of his days in England. Standing there, alone at the rail, he thought of his arrival, of the bands playing, of taking the salute, of the reception given him at the State House. Now, while the ship waited for the tide, there was nobody left. Nothing except a stray dog picking its way disconsolately round, hoping for a scrap.