The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (13 page)

W
HEN THE
Quakers departed, Judge Shippen sent word to his daughters that they were to meet him in his study downstairs. Clara was towel-drying Peggy’s hair, which she had just finished washing with lemon and verbena soap. “I am sopping wet!” Peggy grumbled to Mr. Quigley when he delivered the summons. She had planned to go out in the garden to lie in the sun and allow her locks to dry before curling them.

“I am simply a humble messenger, Miss Peggy, delivering the message from your father.” Mr. Quigley put his hands up defensively. “Judge Shippen awaits you and Miss Betsy in the study.”

But Betsy was already down there, as evident by the shrill protests Clara heard as she descended the staircase behind Peggy. “But I do not intend to dress like a concubine—you cannot prevent
me
from going!” Betsy whined. “Papa, please let me go to the Masque!”

Clara paused outside the study, meeting Mrs. Quigley at the threshold.

“Best if you wait here with me, Clara.” The old woman folded her arms and leaned against the doorway. “We need play no part in this.”

“What is this?” Peggy breezed into the study, passing her sister to approach her father, who was seated behind his broad, walnut desk. Mrs. Shippen entered the room and stood over her husband’s shoulder. “What is
she
doing in here?” Peggy stared at her mother.

“Girls, sit, please.” Judge Shippen was fidgeting with his plume, dipping it in the inkwell only to draw a series of straight lines on the parchment in front of him. Peggy and Betsy sat beside each other on the chairs opposite their father’s desk.

“Girls, your mother and I have just been visited from a few prominent members of the Society of Friends.”

“The Quakers,” Peggy said sourly.

“Yes. They’ve educated us a bit more on this ball which you planned to attend this evening. They’ve told us some . . .
details . . .
which you seem to have neglected to share with us.” From her spot in the doorway Clara saw the judge look at his younger daughter with a rare sternness.

“So what?” Peggy answered him with a bored shrug of her shoulders. A puddle was collecting on the floor beneath her wet hair.

“Is it true,” the judge said, “that you, Margaret, are to attend the party dressed like a pagan member of a Turkish harem?” The judge’s cheeks flushed while he posed the question.

“Father, when you put it like that, it sounds much worse than it is. It’s a ball in honor of General Howe. We must show our support for him before he departs for England.”

“Answer the question, Margaret,” her mother interjected.

“What question, Mother?” Peggy asked with exaggerated sweetness.

“Are you to attend dressed like a Turkish harem member?” Mrs. Shippen repeated.

“That’s one way to look at it. It’s all for entertainment. Perfectly harmless. The men will be the Knights of the Crusades and we shall be the maidens of Constantinople.”

“So it
is
true.” Judge Shippen appeared wounded. “When the Quakers told me this, I didn’t want to believe it, Margaret.”

“It is not so vulgar as you would have it seem. Johnny, er, Major André and the rest of Howe’s men have been working diligently for weeks—on sets, costumes, a jousting pavilion. It’s nothing more than an elaborate play, Papa.” Peggy rose from her seat as if to approach him behind the desk.

“Sit down, Margaret,” the judge spoke, his tone fortified by momentary resolve.

“Papa.” Peggy didn’t obey, but rather glided toward him.

“Your father told you to SIT
DOWN
!” Mrs. Shippen’s voice seemed to rattle the books on the shelves, and it served to sufficiently cow Peggy, who slinked back to her seat.

“Since you see nothing wrong with the sacrilegious and indecent content of the evening’s costumes and entertainment, I shall change my line of questioning.” Judge Shippen still fiddled with his plume. “Do you believe it is appropriate to be prancing around like a harem girl of the Far East while your countrymen are spilling their blood mere miles away? When there might be a battle in Philadelphia by the end of the month? Are you so absorbed in your world of silk, and lace, and British officers, that you are not offended by this debauched evening?” Judge Shippen folded his hands in his lap, appearing bolstered by the completion of his soliloquy. “An evening in which you will not take part, Margaret.”

From their spot in the doorway, Mrs. Quigley turned to whisper, “Never in all my years have I heard the judge speak so forcefully.” Clara nodded.

“But I cannot cancel my appearance now, Papa.” Peggy’s voice had a shrill edge about it, as if she realized she might actually be thwarted. “Not when they’ve planned on me being there. I’ve ordered my dress. André and I have planned our costumes accordingly. It would be discourteous.”

“And how much did that dress cost?” Mrs. Shippen leaned over her husband’s desk.

“It did not cost you a cent, Mother. André and the Crown paid for it.”

“Even more insupportable.”

“Enough.” The judge raised his arm, silencing his wife and causing Clara to flinch where she stood outside the room. “Margaret,” the judge spoke in a slow, measured tone, “I am resolute on this matter. I’m afraid I must forbid you from attending.”

“What, Papa?” Peggy looked to her sister, incredulous. “No! You can’t! You can’t listen to the counsel of some craven old Quakers! I
will
go, do you hear me? I will go!”

“You will not go,” her mother replied.

“André will not allow this! He will not allow you to embarrass General Howe and all the men who have planned on my attendance.”

“André already knows. He’s made other plans.” Her mother’s tone stayed cool.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” Peggy was in a fury, tears tracing straight, determined lines down her cheeks. “Papa! What does Mother mean?” Peggy scurried behind the desk and knelt at her father’s feet.

“Judge.” Mr. Quigley poked his head into the study. “Judge Shippen, they have arrived.”

“Who has arrived?” Peggy asked, looking from her father to the butler.

A voice sounded from the front of the house, followed by the thunder of dozens of buckled boots falling on the creaky wooden floor. Clara turned where she stood; she’d been so absorbed in the argument she had not yet noticed the group entering the hall.

“Greetings to the Honorable Judge Shippen and his family! We are here on an errand from Major André.” The Shippens hurried from the study, Clara among them, to the front hall. A dozen men in matching white wigs stood in a neat line, wearing the red jackets that usually so excited Peggy.

“Where is Major André?” Peggy asked, passing each of the men. “Where is he? Why are you all here?”

“Message for Miss Margaret Shippen from Major John André.” The front man in the column broke the formation only to extend his hand to Peggy with a note. Clara approached her mistress’s side. Peggy tore the letter open, looking frantically at the familiar cursive that usually caused her heart to jig so happily.

I understand that you will be unable to attend the Meshianza Masque with me this evening, a fact which brings me great sadness. Do not let your heart be troubled that you have left me without a maiden to offer me a favor before the jousting tournament. I was desperate, you must understand, so I’ve asked Meg Chew to come with me, and she has taken pity on a jilted squire whose fair lady is otherwise occupied.

Your wounded knight,

J. André

Postscript: Meg will need to borrow your costume, as she has not had time to order her own gown. My men will retrieve it.

Then, as if on cue, Mr. Quigley descended the broad staircase, the white and scarlet gown, along with the turban and all the accoutrements, folded neatly in his arms. Without looking at Peggy, or responding to her hysterical proclamations, the butler handed the folded costume to the head of André’s livery, and the soldiers turned on their heels to depart.

They left in their wake a frantic Peggy. Her father’s face grew distressed as he watched his daughter pounding on the door, threatening to run after them and reclaim her gown. Caleb emerged from the pantry and held the sobbing girl back as she tried to open the front door and charge out onto the street. Even as Betsy tried to soothe her, Peggy could not be consoled.

“I will
never
forgive you!” Peggy hissed, looking at her mother with bitter accusation in her eyes. “You can’t stomach the idea of anything fun, can you? What’s the matter, Mother? Were you never asked to a dance when you were young?”

“Please, my dear Margaret, remember yourself. This is your mother to whom you speak.” Judge Shippen looked as though his fortitude might give way.

“Just let her rail, Edward.” Mrs. Shippen was unfazed, but her reaction only seemed to further infuriate Peggy.

“You can never let me enjoy myself. And now Johnny will take that horrid Meg Chew, and she will probably seduce him!” Peggy rushed at her father, either to assault him or to collapse at his feet in desperate supplication, but Mr. Quigley stepped in between the two and held her arms.

“Caleb, some help!” The butler struggled to contain the thrashing arms of his young mistress. All the servants poked their heads in from where they had gathered to witness the scene. Clara had been warned of her lady’s temper, but the sight was still staggering; Peggy resisted until she was carried up, with much kicking and
clawing and ranting, by Caleb to her bedroom, with Clara following close behind.

“If you don’t calm down we will lock you in your bedroom for the rest of the day and night,” Mrs. Shippen called up the stairs, while the rest of the family and household staff stood in stony silence in the front hall, aghast at the events they had just witnessed.

“I DESPISE YOU!” Peggy screamed back, before Clara and Caleb managed to shut her bedroom door. Once in her room, with no route to escape, Peggy collapsed onto her bed, where she proceeded to vent her anger in the furious beating of her feather pillows. “I’m ruined!” Peggy wailed, over and over again. Or you are saved, Clara thought, but she dared not utter it.

T
HE
S
HIPPEN
gardens at dusk were a welcome refuge after the chaos of the house, and so Clara accepted a tray of food from Hannah and sought a solitary place to eat her supper. From the stone bench under the cool shade of the arbor, Clara glanced up and saw that Peggy’s windows were ajar, but she heard no sound issuing from the bedchamber. Miss Peggy seemed to have cried herself to sleep, at last. How a girl could sob so passionately and for as long as Peggy had, Clara did not know.

Sunset. The hour that they were meant to depart for the Meshianza Masque. Clara had to admit to herself, even if it would have been a glorious spectacle to see the tournament, she felt undeniable relief at Peggy’s being forbidden to attend. She could not deny that she had had a heavy sense of doom about it all.

Clara finished her stew, using the stale brown bread to sop up the remainders in the bowl, and rose from the bench. The gardens were tranquil and protected from the din of the city streets, but
they were entirely different from the farm at dusk. Clara sighed, imagining the scene unfolding at this hour on the farm, as it used to be. Mr. Hartley and the boys would be back from the fields, dust-caked and weary, sitting down to a supper spread forth by Oma. She and her grandmother would wait until the family’s dinner had been cleared before themselves sitting down beside the hearth and finishing the remaining food. Oma had always been sure to cook enough so that Clara went to bed with a full belly.

How much a few days had done to change her life, Clara thought, as she looked out over the manicured shrubs and tightly clipped cherry blossoms—so different from the unruly apple trees and mazy paths of newly sown dirt she had always known. Though her bedroom afforded a view of these gardens, Clara had not yet been to explore these paths. Clara decided that before she returned to the dimly lit distress of her mistress’s bedroom, she’d walk a bit, and perhaps even make her way over to the stables.

The horses at Hartley farm had always been a comfort in their reliable simplicity—their earthy aroma, their slow movements, their appreciative gazes as you stroked their noses. The smell of the stable would be familiar, even if nothing else here was. Clara followed the pebbly footpath across the lawn and meandered toward the large, rectangular building.

Clara pushed the heavy sliding door over and peeked into the barn. “Anybody in here?”

From somewhere distant, she heard the muffled notes of a guitar. Probably Caleb playing in some hidden spot of the orchard. Clara inhaled, breathing in the familiar scent: a mixture of horse sweat, hay, and leather saddles. A large brown head peeked out from the front stall. Clara looked at the large horse and laughed.

“Oh, hello! I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Clara slid the door open wider, allowing the sideways rays of dusky sunlight to spill
into the stables. She approached slowly, as Oma had taught her to do, and extended her hand, allowing the horse to become familiar with her scent. “Hello there, handsome fellow.” The horse was a rich chestnut color, with a white diamond above its nose, and she knew it immediately to be Miss Peggy’s. “Why, you and I work for the same lady, don’t we? Yes, we do.” The horse leaned closer to Clara, welcoming her affectionate strokes. “Yes we do, we work for the same lady.”