The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (3 page)

But time was not their friend. Their encounters always had to be brief. Redmond gave her a chastising look and grabbed her thighs as the signal to stop her playfulness. She bent over him and gently kissed his lips in response. Then, in one motion, she engulfed his enormous hardness and sucked his tongue into her mouth.

He encircled her with his strong arms, holding her steadily against him as he thrust into her from below, deeply, resolutely, a man in need of release. His ragged exhales matched his rhythm, while she gripped him with a syncopated beat until her first orgasm overtook her. His would soon follow, but he slowed his pace as he often did, generously allowing her to have as much sensual indulgence as possible.

Annabella buried her head in his shoulder to muffle her puffs and pants. She had learned not to scream, to not make any noise whatsoever, even as wave after wave of wanton orgiastic joy thrilled her. She knew Redmond’s cues, knew the excited pace of his breathing and the lost look in his eyes that precipitated his crisis. He was there now.

He let go of her, letting her sit up and take control, even while he continued thrusting. He nodded to her, his twisted expression reflecting the strain of holding out to the last possible moment.

She rolled to his side then held his cock to the blanket as he came in abundant spurts. He allowed himself to exhale audibly.

Annabella kissed his heated cheek. “I must be off to my lady, my sweet. I’ll see you when you bring the coach around.” She smoothed down her skirts and descended the hayloft ladder, unable to contain the smile on her face.

* * * * *

“…and tell Bridgers I want to talk to him. I have word that he is in Chesterton for a few days.”

Clara overheard her husband speaking to his aide-de-camp as she took tea and tried to read poetry in the parlor. The sound of his name,
Bridgers
, sent a rush of warmth to roil her core, making it very difficult to concentrate on Oliver Goldsmith’s lamentation on English village life. Mr. Paul Bridgers was not the handsomest man she had ever met, but he was certainly the most alluring. He was solidly built, somewhere between her age and her husband’s—perhaps thirty—and just a little taller than she, which meant when standing face to face, Clara could look deeply into his lovely, light brown, almost golden eyes. Of course, she almost never gathered up the nerve to look into his eyes. When she was around him, her insides twisted and flipped, she grew overly hot, stammered half the time, and, when she did glance up at his face while speaking to him, had to quickly look down or away so he wouldn’t notice the utter turmoil she was in. Afterward, when they had parted company, regret and displeasure would nag at her, and she would relive every word of their encounter in her head, only then imagining what she should have said. She sometimes thought about him at night alone in her bed, thoughts a woman should only ever have about her husband. Then, if she saw him the next day, embarrassment would overtake her, afraid he could tell what she had been thinking the night before.

A trip to Chesterton did not always present the chance to see Mr. Bridgers as he lived a little farther north, in the neutral zone. But his work warranted regular visits to the village. He was a sutler who supplied the British army, his myriad and far-reaching connections making him uniquely qualified to procure almost anything of necessity, or even of desire. There were rumors that he worked both sides of the war, as well as talk that his supplies were not simply of the material kind but encompassed transactions of a more venal nature. His indispensability, however, kept him inviolable, and General Strathmore, if he knew of any nefarious dealings, kept his opinions to himself.

Once Clara knew Mr. Bridgers would be in Chesterton, she made certain to venture out.

As she climbed into the Strathmore coach with Annabella the next morning, a twinge of self-consciousness pulsed through her. The staff would know there was really no reason for the lady of the house to go into town. She had offered to pick up the few items the cook forgot to have delivered, and had said she needed to visit the seamstress anyway for the fitting of a new riding habit that would accommodate her increasing middle. Yet, the seamstress could come to the house and a boy could be sent for the groceries. Perhaps, she hoped at least, the staff would see that the errands afforded her the rare opportunity to be useful, to relieve the tedious bouts of ennui, to remove herself from her husband’s weighty disregard.

And even without the prospect of meeting Mr. Bridgers, Clara liked going into Chesterton. The villagers were gracious, and most knew Annabella, so it usually meant, besides the requisite gossiping, learning news of the war. If the war ended soon, she could return home. Surely, her husband would not want to remain stationed in the colonies forever?

She looked out the window as the coach pulled into the bustling yet rustic shopping street near the dressmaker’s, staring absently as a man cutting a dashing figure in a green frock coat waved at the driver.

Mr. Bridgers.

She jerked back against the cushioned leather bench, desperately hoping he had not seen her staring at him. The carriage halted and she struggled against the compulsion to look out the window again. She allowed herself a peek. Mr. Bridgers waited while the footman prepared the coach step, a light breeze coaxing tendrils of brown hair to dance against his temples. The footman opened the door, but it was Mr. Bridgers who offered his hand to help her out. Luckily both their hands were gloved, as she was sure she would burn at his very touch.

His warm smile liquefied everything inside her. She had to remember to exhale in his presence. When she did, it came out as a humming sigh. “Mr. Bridgers,” she said in too high a pitch. “How lovely to see you.”

“I saw your crest on the coach and wanted to say hello, my lady.”

Clara flushed.

His eyes followed her as she stepped down to the ground beside him. For an endless minute, they gazed at each other, their gloved hands still touching, dreams buzzing about in her head as she beheld a glimmer in his eye betraying something more than simple kindness behind his smile. Clara licked her lips.

Annabella stuck her head out of the coach door. “Mr. Bridgers!” she exclaimed. “As the footman has disappeared, will you do me the honor?”

Mr. Bridgers gallantly held out his hand for Annabella. Clara was envious of her maid’s ability to be chatty and personable around him. But, then again, without Annabella’s presence it would be unseemly for Clara to be seen talking to him about anything not strictly business. And, as only her husband handled their business matters, she would never have a chance to speak with Mr. Bridgers without the guardianship of Annabella. It was, as always, Annabella who opened the conversation.

“What are you doing in town, Mr. Bridgers?”

“Oh, this and that, Miss Rogers,” he said evasively.

Annabella beamed at his use of her surname.

“And yourselves? What brings you to Chesterton on this rather chilly day?” Mr. Bridgers addressed Clara, although he probably knew who would answer.

“Lady Strathmore is in need of attending to at the seamstress’s shop.” Annabella grinned, then leaned in as if telling a secret. “You see, she is with child.”

Clara flashed a stern look at her maid. Annabella knew such things should not be discussed in polite company. Her rebuke, however, dissolved to abashment as Mr. Bridgers turned his attention to her again. For just the briefest of moments, she saw disappointment flit across his face, but it was gone so quickly she could not be sure.

He took both her hands in his, his grasp warm and secure. “Then I am to congratulate you, my lady,” he said graciously, holding her gaze with his own, a gaze so penetrating she could feel the joy dancing in the amber flecks.

“Thank you,” she responded demurely, trying very hard to control the flush suffusing her skin.

He placed her arm around his. “I’ll walk with you to the dressmaker’s, my lady.”

Her hand curved over his well-muscled arm, her fingers itching to stroke and explore, their compulsion provoking fantasies of his arms around her, while his closeness stoked the simmering heat below her belly. She steadied herself against him with their first step, shifting her weight, only to discover a luscious dampness between her thighs. She looked away, certain he could tell.

“Yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” she managed.

They walked and chatted about the village, about the war, about how Clara hoped for a son, although she did not reveal why. Mr. Bridgers asked Annabella discreetly about Redmond. Annabella merely blushed and said he was very well, thank you.

The walk to the dressmaker’s front door took all of five minutes, but for Clara it was five minutes of agonizing heaven.

“This is where I must leave you, my lady.” Mr. Bridgers turned to her once again and took her hand in his as a gentleman might. But, instead of offering a simple bow, he brought her fingers to his lips, then kissed them softly, delicately, the warmth of his breath permeating the soft leather of her glove.

The simmering exploded through Clara’s entire body, shooting sparks through every nerve. For one blissful moment this man she admired—no,
desired
—was touching her in the most intimate way an acquaintance may touch a lady in public. She was utterly unused to such romantic gallantries. It was the most sensually thrilling experience of her life.

Then Mr. Bridgers bowed and continued on his way, crossing the street. Clara finally exhaled.

Annabella took her lady’s arm with a little whimper of delight as they turned to enter the dressmaker’s shop. “He likes you,” she said clandestinely.

“Who?” Clara hissed.

“Why, Mr. Bridgers!”

“Don’t be silly, Annabella. Of course Mr. Bridgers is fond of me. He works for my husband. He has to maintain a certain level of civility amongst his clientele.”

“No, I mean, he, well, seems to enjoy your company as a man might enjoy a woman’s company.” Annabella squeezed Clara’s arm. “You know, like Redmond enjoys my company.”

Clara knew she should reprimand her maid. But Annabella was neither a flatterer nor a schemer. She was far too guileless. She was telling Clara the truth of the situation as she saw it. Still, it would be improper to acknowledge that such an attraction might exist. “Don’t be foolish, Annabella. You know only my husband enjoys my company.”

“Of course, my lady,” Annabella replied quietly.

The maid’s observation, however, incited her fantasies, making it very difficult to stand still for her fitting … making it very difficult to concentrate on anything. Mr. Bridgers would be occupying every second of her dreams that night.

* * * * *

Paul Bridgers watched surreptitiously behind the Strathmore carriage as Annabella and her lady entered the dressmaker’s shop. His stones throbbed from restraint. With her soft honey-brown hair framing an angelic face set with piercing emerald eyes, Lady Clara Strathmore was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, probably had ever even seen, and that included all the whores who had ever worked at his brothel. He ached to have her in his arms, to hear her moan underneath him in his bed. Every encounter meant his dreams that night would be filled with her, with the two of them tumbling together in a lover’s embrace, her cries of ecstasy filling the night and the void in his heart.

But he had not expected Lady Strathmore to become pregnant with the general’s child. He had presumed—hoped, he had to admit—she would be widowed at her very young age and desperately in need of male companionship. General Strathmore did not realize the prize he held in his home, did not deserve such a charming, kind, beautiful soul as she. General Strathmore did not deserve much of anything, really.

Paul sighed. He would be in need of one of his girls’ oral expertise that night. Constance would be good. Yes, Constance, who looked quite a bit like a blond Annabella. He chuckled to himself. So artless, so buoyant, so buxom. Annabella would make a very good whore, indeed.

* * * * *

Over supper that evening, her husband dictated Clara’s future—or, rather, the future of his unborn child.

“I just spoke with Colonel Phillips. You’ll have to be moved somewhere much safer than here,” he said, jabbing into his chicken. “Somewhere with much better medical care.”

Clara was a bit taken aback by the pronouncement. She had just gotten used to living in the inelegant farmhouse, had just gotten to know some of the locals, and already was being sent away. “Really, sir, I don’t think that’s necessary,” she replied.

“You’ll do as I say, madam,” he responded sharply. “You will go to Manhattan Island for your confinement. You may take that girl of yours—”

“Annabella.”

“—and I’ll make arrangements for you to stay with one of the other officers’ wives. You are to prepare yourself so you can leave at a moment’s notice.”

Clara continued eating the now tasteless food. At least she was allowed to take Annabella. But the idea of living in someone else’s house and giving birth to her son amongst strangers dismayed and even frightened her.

She wanted to distract the frenetic worrying of her brain with talk of poetry or politics. The classicism of Alexander Pope or even the presumed tactics of General Washington would take her mind off her husband’s settled future for her. She glanced up at the man sitting across the table. He appeared to be in no mood to discuss anything, much less the “intellectual nonsense”—as he was wont to call it at times—that she needed at the moment.

The rest of the meal was spent in silence, as it often was.

Chapter Three

Annabella waited in the corridor, knowing her master would call for her, then peered through the crack between the parlor doors. General Strathmore stretched out his long legs in front of the fire, enjoying his after-dinner port alone. He regarded his black leather Hessian boots for a moment in the dim light.

“Jenkins!”

The frail, bony servant appeared almost immediately. “Sir?”

“Get me that girl, my wife’s maid.”