by Lake, Deryn
Like me, Tom thought, and banged his fist down hard, hurting himself.
He had seen Lord Rupert Germain push Sara away in her wheelchair and felt his heart receive its final blow. The mother of his child, the beautiful girl who loved him without question, was going out of his life for ever. He had known at that moment, watching them vanish slowly from view, that he would never see either of them again as long as he lived. That the two of them, both of whom adored him in their different ways, would stay united because they had nobody else.
A strange thought went through Tom Gage’s head: that they might marry and spend the rest of their days caring for his child. And on the heels of this notion came another. That over the years they might even grow close, maybe even have another baby to keep his company. That is, if Rupert could bring himself to love Sara as a man should.
He felt a touch on his arm and looking round saw that it was Thomas Flucker, the secretary of Massachusetts, also recalled to England, also destined for exile from the Colonies.
“Come on, Tom. You’ve stood there gazing long enough.”
The ex-Governor gave a small smile. “I shall never see Boston again, my friend. Don’t begrudge me my last look.”
“No more shall I see it. And I say good luck. I have had enough of the cursed Colonies to last me a lifetime. Surely you have no regrets, Sir?
“One or two.”
“Well, let’s drown our sorrows. The Captain has a bottle of madeira in his cabin and invites us to join him. Are you coming?”
“Yes, I’ll come,” Tom answered, and followed Flucker below.
*
It was those horrible palpitations again. Margaret sat in her room in Royal Crescent and struggled for breath, gasping aloud as she did so. She had thought while she was still in London, that she should consult a physician about her racing heart. But no sooner had she determined to do so than the seizures had stopped as suddenly as they had started. Indeed this was the first attack she had suffered in quite a while. Panting, Margaret staggered to the window and despite the chill of the autumn night, threw it open.
Standing there, her breathing slowly coming under control, she thought of the emptiness of her life and wished, as so many women had done before her, that she could turn back the clock. And yet, Margaret considered, would she have done things any differently? She had at that time been in love with Joseph and believed, as an American, in the rightness of his cause. Knowing him and caring for him in the way she had, she would most certainly have betrayed the secret all over again. But retribution for her act had come indeed. Joseph had died a hero’s death and she had lost the love of Tom.
Margaret stopped with a jolt. Suddenly she felt certain that Tom had sought consolation in the arms of the black slave girl, Sara. She had always suspected as much but now she knew for sure. The nights when he had driven the chaise into Boston, not wearing his uniform. He had told her that he liked to know what the population was thinking. Margaret smiled wryly, imagining to herself that he must have received a very limited viewpoint.
But when all was said and done, who could blame him? She had loved another, so why shouldn’t he? Suddenly feeling drained and hopeless, Margaret reluctantly turned back into the room and rang for her maid to help her dress for the Assembly that evening.
*
The ship sailed at nine o’clock that night, in the darkness. Once again Tom went on deck and looked at the lights of Boston starting to fade. Soon that is how I shall be, he thought. A fading memory. Someone to be forgotten.
He stared down in the dark ocean, seeing silver lights where the waves foamed about the prow. Just for a moment he contemplated leaning over too far and letting the black waters close over his head, putting a cold end to his troubles. But being the man he was, he straightened his back and went down into his cabin, it being too chilly to remain on deck.
He lay down on his bunk, fully dressed, and wondered why he was thinking of Margaret. She was one of the many problems he would have to face when he returned to town. Yet how could he continue life with her after all that had happened? How could he carry on with a marriage in which love had died? Sighing and weary, Tom nonetheless rose up and unpacked his journal in which he wrote: ‘October 11th 1775. Sailed from Boston at nine o’clock. Earlier, a small crowd at the quayside included several old friends.’
He dared not write anything more frank lest his diary should fall into the wrong hands.
‘Made my farewells then boarded ship. Boston adieu.’
Adieu indeed. The place which had been a bustling port when he arrived now resembled a ghost town and it had brought him nothing but heartache and misery. Battles had been fought and lost; men had been wounded and men had died; the sands of time were running out for British imperial rule. Thomas Gage knew as surely as he knew his name that in the weary battletorn years ahead the colonists would fight to the death – and they would most assuredly win.
*
Margaret had a new evening dress, crimson velvet, a voluptuous colour, which gleamed or sulked darkly according to the light. Now, for the first time she put it on and stood looking at herself in the long mirror. Her reflection stared back at her and Margaret studied herself unrelentingly. She saw a woman, still beautiful, but with that beauty just starting to fade. In another ten years her stunning looks would be a thing of the past. She would be nothing but a plain-faced mother. And at that moment she knew what she must do. As soon as she returned to London she must send for her brood – every one of them. The reign of her sister-in-law must be brought to an end. She had neglected them long enough. Her time as a true parent would begin.
She was quiet in the coach going to the Assembly. So much so that Elizabeth Montagu was forced to make conversation.
“You look very lovely, my dear girl. That wonderful colour truly becomes you. It was inspirational of you to choose it.”
Making a great effort, Margaret patted her small hand. “While you are still in black, alas. Never mind, the time will pass quickly enough.”
Elizabeth looked thoughtful. “You know, I don’t mind. I respect Edward’s memory and therefore the wearing of mourning clothes is no hardship to me. Oh, I did love the dear soul and I miss him so much.”
While I, considered Margaret, could think of nothing but America and how much it meant to me. Oh God, what kind of wife was I?
The Assembly was crowded as usual but tonight, for some reason, Margaret looked at everyone with a critical eye. She saw women with over-made-up faces, grinning like apes at sweating farmers, or beaux as heavily painted as their female counterparts. She saw members of the nobility, made effete by years of interbreeding. She saw the whole panoply of humanity, dancing and whirling and laughing over-loudly, and felt every ounce of love for her fellow creatures drain from her in a great sweep of revulsion.
Yet she, standing there in her crimson dress, caught every eye, and there was much jealous whispering behind fans and bracing up by those men certain that they were still up to the task. One of these now detached himself from the crowd and bowed before Mrs. Montagu.
“My dear Madam, we meet again. We were introduced in town by Lord Villers. I am Phillipe Texier.” His accent revealed at once that he was French. He turned to Margaret. “I do not think I have had the pleasure, Madam.”
Mrs. Montagu performed the introductions. “Mrs. Gage, may I present Monsieur Phillipe Texier to you?” Margaret curtseyed. “Monsieur Texier, this is Mrs. Margaret Gage.” He bowed in a very charming, very French manner. Then said, “I am honoured,” and kissed her hand.
“Have you come to Bath to take the waters?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, first and foremost. But secondly I am here to perform a play with Lord Villers. We shall act it in a barn. It would be delightful if you and Mrs. Gage would come and see it.”
“And when is this incredible extravagance to take place?”
Monsieur Texier grinned. “In about two weeks, I believe.”
“Well, if Margaret is agreeab
le, we shall attend.”
“That will be charming. Utterly charming.”
He was typical of his country; attractive, witty and with a command of English that set other nations to shame. Margaret decided that she liked him and when he offered to lead her out in a dance accepted gracefully. But even the dance seemed doomed, for the cotillion made her think of her first meeting with Tom – could it really have been nearly twenty years ago? – when he had made her laugh with his upright English accent and wonderful manners.
To try to improve her mood she drank champagne, rather a lot of it, but nothing would lift her spirits and she felt old when Mrs. Montagu announced that it was time they left and Margaret responded, “Oh good.”
Going back in the coach she was, once again, quite quiet, and it was left to Elizabeth to say, “Did you enjoy yourself, my dear?”
“Yes, of course. I’m just feeling a little out of sorts, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, my sweet. And you looked so lovely in your crimson gown. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Margaret smiled and changed the subject. “Tell me, what is London like at Christmas time?”
“Oh, of the greatest enjoyment. Nothing but balls and assemblies. It is enormously entertaining.”
“I shall probably go to Firle and spend it with the family.”
“And what will you do if your husband comes home?” Mrs.
Montagu asked quietly.
Totally off her guard, the champagne loosening her tongue,
Margaret answered, “I have no idea. He will probably divorce me when he does.”
She felt her companion stiffen. “Really? And why should he do that, pray?”
“Because he has fallen out of love with me.”
“But what could have made him do such a ridiculous thing? Did he find another woman?”
“He may have done. I don’t know. But it wasn’t that that made him desert me.”
“Then what was it? Oh, do tell me, my dear. I am longing to know.”
Suddenly Margaret felt like confiding her guilt to someone whom she regarded as a close and dear friend. “It was because I betrayed a secret,” she said.
In the shadowy light of the coach’s swaying interior Mrs. Montagu turned to look at her. “What do you mean exactly?” she asked.
“I told a revolutionary…” Her voice caught as she thought of Joseph.
“…about the plans for Lexington and Concord. You see, I felt so torn.
After all, I was born a Yankee and will remain so until the day I die. I did it for my country”
There was a stunned silence, then Mrs. Montagu said, her voice slightly clipped, “Let me get this correctly. You betrayed the English plans to the Americans?”
“Yes, if you care to put it like that.”
Beside her Margaret felt Elizabeth Montagu draw away. “But why, in heaven’s name?”
“I did it for my country,” Margaret repeated.
“But you betrayed your husband. Your loyalty lay with him.”
“I didn’t think so at the time.”
How to explain to this highly intelligent little woman that a million thoughts had been at work; that at that moment she had loved Joseph equally as much as the man she had married; that the birth of America, in which he so fervently believed, had seemed of paramount importance. Just for a second, Margaret saw the situation as it must appear to a stranger – an English stranger – and recoiled.
The rest of the drive was conducted in silence and when they reached Royal Crescent, Mrs. Montagu bade her goodnight and then departed immediately for her bedroom. Margaret, with nothing left to do, went to hers. But once in bed she went through the series of events that had taken place in Boston what seemed like a hundred years earlier. Yet again she spent the night on Breed’s Hill – that long, hot, airless night – holding poor Joseph’s body in her arms, feeling the chill of death creep over him. Yet again she wept bitter tears and finally Margaret slept just as the first light of day came creeping across the sky.
*
She woke into a silent house. Usually in the mornings she could hear the clatter of the servants preparing breakfast, the humming of Mrs. Montagu’s maid as she set out the clothes that her mistress would be wearing, but today there was nothing. Total silence. Puzzled, Margaret got out of bed, pulling a night-rail over her gown. Opening the door she spied her own maid making her way nervously upstairs.
“Bridget, where is everybody?”
The girl reached the landing and gave a small curtsey. “Mrs. Montagu has left for London with the servants, Mam.”
“What?”
“I said Mrs. Montagu has gone. She rose early and was out of the house by six. She left a letter for you.”
Margaret took the paper that the servant held towards her.
‘My dear Mrs. Gage,’ she read,
‘I regret to have to Inform you that I was called away early and shall not be in London for some Considerable While. I suggest you return to Town by post-chaise. I am, dear Madam, your humble servant,
E. Montagu.’
That was it! No apology and no explanation, merely this icy note. Margaret knew then that what she had confessed to on the previous evening had sealed her fate. As far as Elizabeth Montagu – still deeply mourning her husband – was concerned, Margaret was finished. She turned to the maid.
“Is it just the two of us left?”
“Yes, Mam. I’ve been wondering for the last hour whether to wake you and tell you.”
“No, you did right to let me sleep. But now there seems little point in staying. Bridget, go to The Bear and book us two places on the flying coach. I shall hurry to the King’s Bath and say goodbye to Walter.”
“Yes, Mam. Shall I help you dress?”
“Yes, but we must be quick. I feel suddenly bored with Bath and can’t wait to be out of the place.”
Half an hour later, just before the hour of eight, she hurried to the Pump Room for the last time, forcing a glass of the warm mineral-laden water down her. This done, she looked round for Walter and saw him limping towards her, his face cherubic and smiling. Margaret bent down to him.
“Walter, I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m leaving Bath this morning.”
“This is very sudden, Ma’am.”
She told an expedient lie. “I have to return to London. I’m sorry.” Aged four, his guardian a pace or two behind him, he gave a strange little bow. “Well, adieu Madam.”
“Goodbye Walter. I hope we meet again one day.”
“I do hope so.”
They shook hands and Margaret said, “By the way, what is your other name? I never did discover it.”
“Scott, Ma’am. I’m Walter Scott.”
And with a final wave of farewell he descended to the Hot Bath and out of her sight.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
November, 1775
Suddenly, everything had changed. Where London society had clamoured to meet her now there was nothing but closed doors. Wherever she called, wherever she went, servants informed her that the mistress of the house was absent, gone they knew not where, return date unknown. At first Margaret had thought it just a coincidence but soon it dawned on her that she was no longer of any interest, that the story of the betrayal of her husband had swept polite company and they had universally turned their backs on her, that she was persona non grata. It had been a devastating blow and yet she could understand it. They were English, she was a Yankee. In their eyes she had acted the role of a spy for the colonists. She was finished.
The one person who received her was Sir Joshua Reynolds, sending a servant to enquire if she would give him a final sitting. Margaret, delighted that one door at least was open to her, hastily penned a note saying that she would call that very day. Then, summoning her carriage, she drove through a friendless London to the artist’s studio.
The portrait, a beautiful piece of work, was up on his easel and he was already working on it when Margaret entered the room. Removing her hat, she w
ent to stand by him.
“Well, Mrs. Gage, I hear that you have become a social leper,” he said immediately.
“Yes, it’s true. Do you know the reason?” she answered.
“Yes, I do. It seems you passed on secret information to the colonial forces.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that. I merely told a friend of mine, a friend who happened to be a Yankee revolutionary, details of the British plan. That is all.”
“All?” he said, and turned his dark eyes on her.
“Do you consider it so very wrong, Sir Joshua?”
He put down his brush and looked at her. “What is wrong? It depends entirely on one’s perspective, I believe. In the eyes of the Americans you were, no doubt, the heroine of the hour. In the eyes of the English you are a traitor. It is as simple as that.”
“No one knew what I had done with the exception of one fine man.”
“With whom, no doubt, you considered yourself in love.” Margaret stared at the painter, wondering how he could possibly have guessed.
Sir Joshua laughed drily. “I see that remark has startled you. My dear, when I paint people I see into their souls. I long ago guessed that you had a secret, my only problem was knowing exactly what it was. Now, are you going to sit for me?”
“Of course I am.”
“Then if you would take your usual pose we can begin.”
Margaret sat in her customary position while he worked in silence for an hour, before finally putting down his brushes. “There, it’s finished.”
“May I look?”
“Certainly.”
The finishing touches had turned it from a fine portrait into a work of genius. She stood silently, observing, thinking that it had indeed been painted by a master.
Eventually she spoke. “Are you going to call it Portrait of a Traitor?” He laughed once more. “It shall be known as Portrait of a Woman of Secrets.”