The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale

Title Page

The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale

by Regina Kammer

5th anniversary revised edition

Viridium Press

Copyright

The General’s Wife
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Regina Kammer

5th anniversary revised edition based on a story originally published © 2009-2011 by Regina Kammer

Minor corrections © 2015 by Regina Kammer

Cover design: The Killion Group, Inc. 2015

All Rights Reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published by: Viridium Press, Friday Harbor, Washington

ISBN-13: 978-0-9910166-1-7 (ebook)

ISBN-10: 0991016610 (ebook)

ISBN-13: 978-0-9910166-0-0 (paperback)

ISBN-10: 0991016602 (paperback)

Acknowledgments

Thanks go out to my family and friends for their enthusiastic and continued support of my writing. Thanks to my beta readers Karysa and Sara, and my editor Barbara for all their insightful feedback. Thanks to Chris Baty for inspiring authors across the globe with National Novel Writing Month. Most of all, thanks to my husband for his encouragement, advice, patience, and love.

Chapter One

New York, September 1777

From her usual perch on the second-story window seat, Clara looked out at the tops of the trees, their vibrant, fiery leaves accenting the scarlet coats of the British soldiers exercising in the yard below. She wrapped her woolen shawl more closely around her. Autumn had descended upon New York all at once one day in late September, a phenomenon so different from what she was used to back home in the Cotswolds.
Home
. She had to stop thinking of England as home. This was her new home now, her second autumn in these raw American colonies, and she would have to get used to it.

“Lady Strathmore”—well, she was finally used to that, after a little over a year. Papa had chosen the Viscount Jeremy Strathmore to be her husband, a highly regarded military man, a general who had fought with distinction and valor in the Seven Years’ War waged along the colonial frontier fourteen years before. He now led his troops in the new battle against American colonists obstinately demanding separation from the crown.

It certainly wasn’t the marital match she had hoped for.

The general had returned to his estate in Gloucestershire in the summer of 1776, and he had made no secret of his mission. A man in his forties, he had said, needed to find a wife to produce an heir or two: a boy to inherit the title, and another in reserve because life was so unpredictable and dangerous in the colonies that one never knew who would survive.

The general’s handsome features and commanding charisma made him the center of attention everywhere he went. He attended dance after dance, soirée after soirée, inflaming the passions of unmarried girls and flattering the egos of their mothers. His tall, lanky frame set him above the crowd, his scarlet uniform stood out against a sea of pastels, his shock of unpowdered gray hair unique amongst the wigs of the
ton
. All in attendance knew where he was and whom he was with at all times. Girls swooned under the gaze of his penetrating gray eyes and glared in jealous disappointment when he escorted another onto the dance floor. He danced with only the most beautiful of England’s young noble ladies. Fewer still were privileged enough to walk with the attractive officer in a host’s garden under cover of moonlight.

Then one night toward the end of the summer, the general noticed Clara. She had just turned eighteen, and Mama made sure she stood out, matching her dress to her eyes, daintily arranging her curls, pinching her cheeks pink. Mama’s efforts ensured a great many young men set their sights on Clara, but the watchful gaze of her older brother, Oliver, and the political ambitions of their father kept all lesser suitors at bay.

As the general approached, Papa bent his head in her direction. “Now Clara, be a good girl. General Strathmore is a valuable ally.”

“Yes, Papa.”

And when the general was before her, she suddenly understood what all the fuss was about. His cool demeanor was intriguing, his presence magnetic. Her heart beat a little faster as her lungs tightened in their sudden need for air.

He nodded to Papa, “Lord Buckland,” then turned to Oliver, “Lord Thornton.”

“It is our pleasure, Lord Strathmore,” Papa responded smoothly. “May I introduce my daughter, Lady Clara Hastings?”

Clara held out her hand.

The general tickled her fingers with his own, causing such a thrill to course through her she feared she would faint.

When General Strathmore asked Clara to dance, Papa and Oliver nodded approvingly. When he took her arm to promenade her to the center of the floor, she watched the puppy-dog gapes of would-be suitors turn to crushing disappointment. The general himself barely took his eyes off Clara even during the moments when he was paired with another in the set. His attention was flattering, befuddling, prickling her skin to gooseflesh while melting her insides with disconcerting desires.

The night of the Millington family ball, the final dance of the summer, changed everything. The general chose to partner only with Clara, making it quite clear what his intentions were. She had never danced so much in her life. Weary and flushed in the ballroom’s heat, she begged for a break in the cool night air. The general brought her a glass of lemonade which she tried not to gulp down despite her nervousness and thirst. He then suggested they take a walk in the adjoining garden. Lost in pleasant chitchat, before long they found themselves very much alone amidst the tall boxwood shrubbery. He stopped near a bench, stripped off his gloves, and turned to her.

“I should like to kiss you, my lady,” he said in a low sultry drawl.

New heat rushed to her face. “General Strathmore, sir?”

“I think, Clara, you know my intentions.” His arms snaked about her waist and he drew her to him.

Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, racing with her quickening breaths. His hand at the back of her head held her steady as he took her in a savage kiss.

She had never been kissed before, had never known the wonderful sensations of a man’s lips and tongue tasting her own, of his hands clasping her body to press her more fully against his masculine form. It was extraordinarily delightful, but it was ever so wrong.

Her hands flat on his chest, Clara tried to push him away. “Please, my lord, we are not engaged. This cannot be right.”

He remained firm and unyielding, holding her just a little more tightly. “We don’t need formalities to express our mutual passions, Clara, my love.”

The seductive strains of his voice eased her into compliance. When he bent his head to kiss her again, she dared to cling to his shoulders, then, emboldened by his attentions, encircled her hands behind his neck.

“That’s right, my sweet,” he murmured against her mouth.

He lifted her up into his arms, took her to the garden bench, and laid her down. He covered her body with his own, enthralling her with kisses. He gently stroked her thigh as his lips trailed down her neck to her bosom.

Clara’s senses spun in a fog of confusion and craving. This could not be proper conduct even for an engaged couple! She pushed him away again to no avail. Instead, he pressed his hips against hers, grinding her into the marble bench.

“Relax, my love. I will give you a night more memorable than your wedding night.”

With that, he raised himself up to separate her legs, moving one to the other side of the bench until she was grossly splayed open. Her dress still covered her—for that she was thankful—but the general lay on top of her, crudely rubbing the stiffness in his crotch into the apex of her thighs.

“Please, sir, leave me be,” Clara whispered harshly. She struggled once more against his resolute form.

He held her steady as he untucked the sheer, lace-trimmed neckerchief from her stomacher, then nudged her sleeves off her shoulders, freeing her breasts from her daringly low-cut neckline. Exposed to the cool air, her nipples tightened, the sensation sending a shock of need to pulse through her, a sudden yearning for his attention. He murmured admiration just before drawing a delicate peak into his mouth. The wet heat surprised her, thrilled her, distracting her so much she did not notice his hand moving up her stocking-clad leg to lift her skirts until he tickled the naked flesh near her mons, then proceeded with one finger to the dampness between her thighs.

Clara gasped.

“You are so very wet, my dear,” he groaned. “I see you want me as much as I want you.” His tongue continued to torment her aching nipples.

His fingers tantalized her, exploring the folds until he found a spot that sent her senses reeling. He massaged and pressed in an exquisite rhythm as she lay enraptured, lightheaded, wanting something but not quite certain what, knowing somehow it simply mustn’t be this.

“Sir, this cannot be right.” Her voice was breathy, quivering, annoyingly not conveying her fear.

“Ah, my dear, then why do you respond so willingly?”

His truth stung. She was rocking her hips against his fingers, his ministrations eliciting little moans between her panting breaths.

And then he took his hand away.

Grim reality untainted by wanton pleasures descended upon her. The general unbuttoned his breeches. Clara lifted her head just enough to see the enormous rod of his manhood spring from the open placket.

She tried to get up but he was too quick for her. In one movement, her voluminous silk skirts were at her waist, his hands pinned her arms above her head, and his prick was at her swollen, heated entrance.

In an instant, he slammed inside her, tearing apart her virginal barrier, covering her mouth with his own to swallow her shocked scream.

For a moment he remained motionless as his very presence stretched her, impossibly so. After the initial surprise subsided, he began moving in and out, each movement deeper, more urgent than the one before, a battering ram seeking full penetration.

Clara was too stunned, too clouded to resist. The general thrust and grunted over her. Yet through the pain there was a pleasure so elusive that it enticed her to join her seducer in the tempo of his violation.

“Yes, my dear, yes. You see now how man and woman were meant to be.” He pushed further and faster, building to his own satisfaction.

Clara tried to match his pace, tried to grasp the summit her body was racing toward. But the general was too quick for her. With one final growl he emptied his seed inside her. A moment later, he unceremoniously grabbed a handkerchief from his coat and wiped his cock as he pulled out.

“Well, at least you really were a virgin.” He folded the stained square of linen and pocketed it.

Clara lay on the bench, regret, anger, hatred washing over her. She was no longer pure. She was a fallen woman.

“Get up, my dear. We mustn’t tarry too long in the garden. We might stir up rumors of impropriety.” He glanced over at her. “And for heaven’s sake do not cry. It is not the end of the world. I dare say you enjoyed it.” He pulled her up and fussed with her hair. “I see your
coiffeuse
foresaw that you might be seduced tonight. Your hair fared remarkably well through the encounter.”

After straightening out her neckerchief and skirts and checking the state of his own clothes, the general led Clara back into the ballroom. As she begged out of any more activity, the general took the opportunity to dance with a few more beauties that night. None of them, however, was invited into the garden. Once home, before going to bed, Clara washed the blood from between her legs, then vomited into the chamber pot.

A week later, Papa called her into his office. General Strathmore sat on the visitor’s couch, its bright yellow upholstery attractively setting off the red of his military attire. With crossed legs and one arm draped along the back of the seat he appeared far too relaxed, perhaps triumphant. She turned her back to him as she stood before Papa’s grand desk.

“General Strathmore has asked for your hand in marriage, Clara, and I have consented. It is a very good match for you.” Papa stood up and embraced her, then held her at arm’s length to look her up and down. “Ah, my child, I shall miss you.”

“Miss me, Papa? I can visit any time.” The Strathmore estate was not too far from their home near Cirencester.

Lord Strathmore coughed.

“A military wife must follow her husband. After your wedding, you will go to the American colonies. That is part of the arrangement, my dear.”

Clara panicked.
Leave England? For a war zone?

Papa patted her on the back. “And now I shall leave you two alone for a moment.” He smiled. “Not too long. You and your mother have much to prepare.” He kissed her forehead and left.