The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  “I will buy it off you one day.”

  “Only if I am willing to sell it.”

  Margaret held out her hand. “Goodbye, Sir Joshua. I do not suppose that I shall see you again.”

  He kissed the outstretched fingers. “My door will always be open to you, Mrs. Gage. Don’t forget that.”

  “Thank you. But I am leaving London and going to live in the country. I have been away from my children too long. I think we need each other.”

  Sir Joshua leaned forward and signed the portrait. “Good luck to you, my dear,” he said.

  “Thank you again,” she said, made a curtsey, and walked from the studio to her waiting carriage.

  Chapter Forty

  November, 1775

  It was the unhappiest day of his life, which was saying something quite considerable when one reflected on the misery he had borne of late. What had made it so terrible to bear had been the King’s kindness, his gentleness. Tom had expected a royal freeze, an expression of extreme displeasure, even, perhaps, a rage. But there had been none of that. His Majesty George III had behaved like a gentleman throughout the interview, and it had hurt more, far more, than anything else could. The ex-Governor had hidden what he was feeling beneath bluff soldierly courtesy; standing to attention, giving stiff military bows, but beneath his scarlet uniform his anguish had been so keenly felt that he had had to struggle to keep the tears from his eyes in the royal presence.

  He had arrived back in England on November 13th and taken a post-chaise to London, where he had spent the night with old friends, the Viscount Barrington and his wife. It had been as if he were an actor in a play, nothing seeming quite real to him, remembering lines learned long ago but almost forgotten during his time in Boston. He had sat at the dinner table and wondered if he were actually there at all, or whether the whole incident was in fact a dream. So strong had this feeling been that he had stared uncomprehendingly when the Viscountess had spoken.

  “You know about Margaret, of course.”

  “Margaret?” he had repeated stupidly.

  Viscountess Barrington shot him a strange look. “I refer to your wife, Sir. I presume she has been in touch with you.”

  “Not since she left Boston, no.”

  “Then I’ve a tale to tell. And there’s no need to frown, Husband. Torn needs to know what has been happening.” She paused to draw breath, then continued, “Mrs. Gage caused quite a stir when she arrived. in London. Got herself heavily involved with the Blue Stocking set, particularly Mrs. Montagu. As a result of that she was on every hostess’s list and Sir Joshua Reynolds even went so far as to paint her portrait.”

  “Good God,” said Tom, genuinely surprised.

  “I’ve never had time for those intellectual women personally. A lot of damned attitudinising in my opinion. Be that as it may, Margaret was quite the talk of the town. But recently she and Mrs. Montagu have fallen out – about what is not clear – and now every door has closed to her. Frankly, my dear Tom, your wife has been ostracised.”

  He should have thought, serve the silly bitch right. But instead he felt a dull ache of sympathy, of knowing something of what she was suffering. “And where is she now?” he asked.

  Lord Barrington spoke. “I think she’s gone to Firle to collect the children. I don’t believe she is still in London.”

  Tom changed the subject. “Tomorrow I go to see His Majesty.” The Viscount looked grim. “I believe he is rather upset.”

  “I tried to warn them. I told them they must send huge reinforcements if they wanted to win this war. But they didn’t listen. They continued on in their own sweet way and now, mark my words, they face years of a long and bloody conflict which will probably end in defeat.”

  The Viscountess looked shocked. “Oh, surely not.”

  “Oh, surely yes. I have no wish to upset you, Madam, but I have seen the truth for myself. The colonists are tough fighters with a cause they believe in. Unless we reinforce America to the hilt, then the game is lost.”

  *

  And he had said much the same thing to the King, who had looked at him with his slightly protuberant eyes and sighed.

  “General Gage, I am at the mercy of my government. I cannot personally order troops to go to the Americas. You do understand that?”

  “Yes, Sir, I do. But there is no other way, believe me.”

  George had shaken his head, his wig rustling slightly as he did so. “What a trial the Colonies are, to be sure.”

  “They are going to become a death trap, Sir.”

  George had sighed gustily. “I can only pray you are wrong, General. With all my heart I pray that.”

  *

  It was a broken figure who got out of the carriage outside the house he had bought on his last visit to England and slowly mounted the short flight of steps leading to the front door, which, for some strange reason, opened beneath his touch. Paying it scant attention, Tom made his way into the hall, then on into the drawing room. Every bit of furniture was covered in white dust-sheets and he could tell that the house was empty. The silence was audible as he went into the room he had chosen for his study and sat down at the shrouded desk.

  The tears came then. He wept for his wasted life, for the loss of America, for the loss of the woman with whom he had once been so in love. He felt at that moment as he had felt when the ship sailed from Boston, that there was nothing left to live for. That his life, pitiful thing that it was, might as well come to an end.

  Then he heard something and raised his head from his hands. Oh how well he knew that step, quick and light; a step that told him Margaret was close by. He sat motionless and heard her come into the room, heard her indrawn breath of surprise and shock on seeing him sitting there. He turned to look at her and saw a woman in a travelling cloak, a woman much defeated by life. A woman older yet still beautiful.

  Slowly Tom got to his feet and stood staring at her. And in that moment it was as if he were dying, for his whole life seemed to pass before his eyes. He was back at that Christmas Assembly, given so long ago. He was leading her out to dance, despite the disappointed comments of other young men. He had held her in his arms, the warmth and gaiety and passion of her. He remembered the first time he had kissed her in the frozen gardens, checking that no one else was around, an old soldier’s trick, and felt his heart burst into life, like a flower feeling the first of the spring sunshine.

  He was back at Culloden, amongst the dying and the dismembered, feeling sick to his guts but unable to vomit because men were looking to him for a lead, for someone to look up to. He remembered picking up a starving Indian, waiting patiently to die, and bringing him back to become the great scout he was destined to be. And then he recalled something Calico Joel had said, to the effect that Margaret’s betrayal was cancelled out by Tom’s love for Sara.

  If only that were true, he thought. But how could it be when he had loved that girl with all his heart, worshipped her beautiful body with his, planted his seed in her, given her a child? A child that would grow up a colonist and know nothing else, just like its mother before it.

  And then Tom knew in a moment of great clarity that he must finally let Sara go, that he could no longer be a part of her life and that he had handed her into the care of Rupert Germain, for better or worse. He gazed at the floor lest Margaret should be able to read his thoughts.

  *

  Margaret, who had come back into the house to lock it up, could not believe her eyes when she saw Tom standing there. Just for a second she thought it was an apparition, that he had died and she was seeing a ghost. But the smell of his skin, fresh-washed, the sound of his breathing, were enough to tell her that this was a flesh-and-blood man who stood before her.

  She longed to ask him when he had returned, for the details of his departure from that accursed town, but words stuck in her throat. Instead she just stood gazing, in silence, feeling the world stop turning and the whole of her life come up to the reckoning point.

  Memories da
nced in then; distant memories of times long gone. She recalled her first meeting with him when he had looked so attractive in his scarlet uniform that she had picked him out in an instant. Made something of a set at him if truth be told. She remembered her wedding day – and night – almost as if they were yesterday. And then she recalled Joseph, so young and so vulnerable, such a contrast to her husband in every way.

  Joseph and the country striving to be born had become almost synonymous in her mind. She had given herself to them – both of them – out of patriotism, out of love, out of need. But Joseph had died on Breed’s Hill and she had buried his body there beside that of a farmer wearing a simple country frock. Into the rich earth he had gone and she had known then that she would never see him again except in her wild and uncontrollable dreams.

  And then she thought of the rest of her days stretching out endlessly before her and suddenly knew that she needed Tom’s forgiveness if she were to continue in any kind of good order.

  He looked up again and it seemed to her that there was hope in his eyes, though of what she was not certain. Tentatively she took a step forward and held out her hand.

  He stared at her for what seemed an eternity and then he did the same.

  “Tom,” she said, her voice a mere whisper, “forgive me, please.”

  He made no answer but took another step forward. She gazed at him, unable to utter another word.

  And then slowly, very slowly, he took her hand in his and they both felt the past fall away as their fingers intermingled.

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  Acknowledgements

  As always a great many people to thank, the first of which must be Nancy Richard from the Boston Historical Society, who was so warm and friendly and gave me access to many fascinating documents, all of which I photocopied and brought back to England. Secondly were the staff of the Massachusetts Historical Society, in whose building I discovered the Indian weathervane that once used to stand on the cupola of Province House. Thirdly comes Mark Dunton who accompanied me to Boston and was, as ever, his usual charming, cheery self. Finally I must thank my editor, David Shelley, who went through the book with a fine toothcomb, and my agent, Vanessa Holt. Lastly comes Anastasia Hackett, wherever she might be now, who gave me the original idea. I hope this book is worthy of them.

  Historical Note

  This is a work of fiction, pure and simple, based on the life of Thomas Gage, the commander-in-chief at the time of the outbreak of the American War of Independence, or Revolutionary War as it is often known. Many characters have been cut out for the sake of simplifying the story, but most of the people described actually lived and related one to the other. Obviously, others are figments of my imagination. Yet who can say what actually took place in the dark streets of Boston at that most difficult and troubled period?