The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (3 page)

“But Mistress Peggy fought hard to fill your post; she insisted
to her father that we had need for a lady’s maid in the household. What with me, well, I’m busy enough running the home that I barely have time to tend to the missus, let alone her two daughters.”

“What are they like?” Clara asked.

“The Shippen ladies?”

“Aye,” Clara nodded.

Mrs Quigley considered the question. “You shall see for yourself, soon enough.” The old woman halted at the end of the corridor. “Here we are, Clara. After you.”

Clara hesitated, standing still.

“Your bedroom, child,” the housekeeper said. “Go on.”

Clara passed the housekeeper, her eyes lowered. Her bedroom? It would be the first room she’d ever had to herself. At the farm, she’d always slept on a straw pallet beside the kitchen fire, Oma’s snoring frame curled up beside her. But here she had a bedframe. And a door that could shut, offering an entirely new privilege: privacy.

Of course, when compared to the front of the Shippen house—with tables serving no purpose other than to host card games, and silver bowls serving no purpose other than to hold flowers—these quarters were dull. But Clara could barely contain a giggle over the thought of having her own room.

“Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. Will it suit you?” Mrs. Quigley fidgeted with her brass keys, apparently in a rush to get to her next chore.

“Suit me? Why, a room to myself . . .” Clara looked around her new domain. There was a single straw mattress on a rusted iron frame. A simple dresser of dark walnut stood against the opposite wall, and a thin desk and stool occupied the corner. The window, small but bright, faced out the back of the house. Clara
crossed the room and peeked out the window. She spied the formal garden, done in the Continental style with tightly clipped shrubs, pruned rose bushes, and a tidy carpet of green lawn. Beyond that was a small orchard, its trees appearing to hold the first signs of apples. Cherry blossoms bloomed in the May warmth, forming neat columns of shady pathways. The manicured grass, so unlike the wild fields of the farm, was intersected by meandering pebbled walkways, where her ladies must tread when receiving finely dressed visitors. Birdsong pierced the blue sky, as did the aroma of fresh-petaled flowers. It was an Eden in the midst of the colonies’ busiest city.

Behind the garden stood a rectangular stable, where Clara spied a young man sitting between the large doors. Clara watched this figure as he plucked out a simple melody on a handmade guitar, as if entertaining himself while awaiting the arrival of some riders. Suddenly aware that he was being surveyed, the stableboy paused his singing, looking up in time to catch Clara’s gaze. She ducked her head back behind the window, blushing.

“Oh, so you’ve seen Caleb.” Mrs. Quigley was beside her at the window, swinging it open to allow in the fresh spring air.

“Who is he, ma’am?”

“The resident troublemaker.” Mrs. Quigley smirked, wiping the dust from the windowsill.

Clara glanced back outside and noticed that the young man named Caleb was no longer sitting at his post. She inhaled, taking in the heady scent of fresh flowers. “Mrs. Quigley, have you grown accustomed to all of this?”

“Aye, it’s a beautiful old home, all right, but don’t let it seduce you. There’s plenty to be seen in this house that ain’t so beautiful.” Mrs. Quigley’s eyebrows arced a moment before her face softened. “Clara, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, especially after I’ve
only just met you, but you look just like your grandmother did. Course, when she was a lot younger.”

Clara lowered her eyes, her focus blurring at the mention of her Oma.

Mrs. Quigley continued. “She was a dear friend of mine, and I was happy to have the opportunity to help her.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I know you’ll miss her.”

“Indeed.” Clara’s eyes stung with the threat of tears, but she did not wish to weep before her new employer. Still, it seemed strange, illogical, to refer to her grandmother as someone from her past.

“When she wrote, asking me to find a post for you in the Shippen household, I was eager to help. Anything to make her final rest a bit easier.” Mrs. Quigley sighed, and Clara bit her lip, hesitant to respond in case her voice cracked.

“But enough of that business. Where were we? You think you shall be comfortable here?”

“Very.” Clara straightened her posture, grateful to change topics.

“Good.” Mrs. Quigley slapped the mattress once, producing a cloud of dust. “You’ll get one fresh candle a week, and not more, so mind you how you use your nighttime lighting. Quills and ink you’ll have to request on a need-by-need basis.”

Clara thought about this: she had no one to write.

“Judge Shippen tries to be generous, but there’s only so much he can manage, especially with trying to keep Betsy and Peggy in the latest fashions.” Clara could tell from the housekeeper’s terse manner that this was a topic she’d discussed before.

“Now, Clara, I suppose you’ll want to change before you meet Mistresses Peggy and Betsy?”

“Change?” Clara looked for the second time with disapproving
eyes over her own appearance. “Oh, ma’am, I’ve got just the one other petticoat in my sack, a wool one.”

“
One
other petticoat? Did they not give you clothing on that farm?” Mrs. Quigley was a kind woman, but she could barely conceal her dismay.

“Only what Oma and I had time to sew. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry, child.” Mrs. Quigley sighed. “I’ll talk to my husband. He’s the judge’s valet and the foreman of the servants. We’ll see what we can arrange. Perhaps we can advance you a little bit of your wages to get you some fresh clothes. You’re a lady’s maid to the Shippens now, and we will want you to look the part. Now,”—the housekeeper paused, girding herself with a long, slow inhale—“let’s go meet the Misses Shippens.”

Clara followed Mrs. Quigley up the staircase that connected the servants’ quarters to the second floor. “This is our passage, so that we can travel up and down without disturbing the family.” Mrs. Quigley’s breath grew uneven as she climbed upward. Clara noticed a short, round woman with orange hair descending the staircase toward them, weighed down by an armful of linens.

“Oh, hello, Brigitte, you’ve changed the beds?”

“Aye, Mrs. Quigley.”

Mrs. Quigley paused, looking at the woman. “Clara, this is Brigitte, the chambermaid. Brigitte, meet Clara, the new maid to Miss Peggy and Miss Betsy.”

“Nice to meet you, Brigitte.” Clara curtsied to the older woman.

Brigitte nodded a wordless greeting in their general direction before continuing past them down the stairs.

“We’ll have time for introductions to the rest of the servants later. For now, it’s important that you meet your ladies.” Mrs. Quigley’s voice grew quieter as Clara followed her farther up the steep,
narrow flight of stairs. “The ladies should be back from riding any moment, so first we’ll return this shawl to Miss Peggy’s bedchamber. We’ll meet Miss Peggy first, and you must try to make a good impression. You’ll see very quickly that Miss Peggy is the favorite of the judge.”

“Does the judge have just the two girls?” Clara asked.

“The judge and Mrs. Shippen had four children. Miss Elizabeth—they call her Betsy—is the eldest. She’s to be married soon, which will be a tremendous relief for his Judgeship. Betsy is followed by Miss Margaret—Peggy they call her. And then two boys, both of whom died.” Mrs. Quigley sighed. “Such sweet boys, such a shame to lose them so young.”

Clara nodded her silent reply.

“So now it’s just Miss Betsy and Miss Peggy. As far as I was told, you are to wait on both Miss Betsy
and
Miss Peggy, but we’ll see how they do about sharing. Miss Betsy does not seem to need her own maid, especially since she and Mrs. Shippen are so preoccupied these days with the coming wedding.” The housekeeper cocked her head. “Once Miss Betsy marries Mr. Burd, it’ll be just Miss Peggy in the house. She shall probably be the one who demands most of your time and attention.”

“Are they close, the Misses Shippens?” Clara paused atop the stairs.

“Well . . .” Mrs. Quigley weighed her next words. “They are very different. I don’t think I’ve ever had a cross word from Miss Betsy. Miss Peggy . . .” The housekeeper looked down at her young mistress’s light blue shawl, musing on its unseen owner. When she continued, her tone was barely a whisper. “I’m sure you’ve read about Miss Peggy—in the society pages?”

“No, ma’am. We servants didn’t get much chance to read the society pages at Hartley Farm,” Clara answered.

“Miss Peggy is”—the old woman paused—“quite pretty. A favorite of the young British officers in Philadelphia. Smart. And . . . strong-willed.”

Clara tried to imagine her new mistress sitting in the formal drawing room downstairs, holding forth amidst a group of admiring officers, but she suddenly found it hard to conjure the image; none of the girls at the Hartley farm had inhabited the same world as Peggy Shippen.

“It’s best you don’t ever keep Miss Peggy waiting. And under no circumstances should you ever argue with her. Try not to arouse her temper.” Mrs. Quigley eyed Clara in the dark stairwell with—what was it—pity? “Of course, you’ll learn all this for yourself, in time. That is, if you last.”

And with those final words, Mrs. Quigley pushed open the door to move from the servants’ stairwell into the second-floor corridor. Here, even in daylight, the candles on the walls were lit, producing a pale, amber light that danced off the framed oil paintings. How was it possible, Clara wondered, to own this many paintings? Clara scanned the quiet hall, covered by finely stitched red carpet, no doubt bought from a London carpet maker. She tried to step softly, but the wood of the floor creaked below her boots and made her feel as graceful as an ox. This hall, the quiet inner realm of the Shippen family, felt like a private space in which she had no business treading. Did Miss Peggy realize how lovely her home was? Clara wondered. Or was this corridor just another hallway to her?

Mrs. Quigley led Clara past an open doorway that peeked into a grand bedroom, its windows as tall as the ceiling, its bedframe draped in ivory-colored curtains. Clara glanced in but did not pause until they reached the next doorway.

“Miss Peggy’s suite.” The housekeeper hovered on the thresh
old, looking once more over Clara’s humble appearance. “Are you ready?”

“Aye.” Clara nodded, but all this pomp had succeeded in thoroughly wracking her nerves. When they stepped in, Clara gasped, her gaze flying upward to the high ceiling. Opposite her, floor-to-ceiling French windows offered a view over the same gardens Clara had just admired. From somewhere below, horses clipped by, the sound of hooves on the cobblestones reaching them in an even serenade. Miss Peggy’s four-poster bed soared high off the ground, and looked like it could easily fit four people under its creamy silk canopy. On top of the bed, in addition to a heap of satin-covered feather pillows, there were several silk dresses, any one of them costing more than Clara’s monthly wages. They lay in wrinkled and unceremonious disarray, cast aside after a past revelry now complete, like leftover dishes at a formal feast forgotten once the guests move on to dessert.

“How about some fresh air, what do you say?” Mrs. Quigley crossed the room with her authoritative stride, pulling roughly at the French windows, as if she felt no need to tiptoe through this space. “Well, don’t just stand there like a sack of flour, Clara. Help me open these windows.” Mrs. Quigley looked at her new hire with a mixture of bemusement and frustration.

“Miss Peggy has been riding all afternoon with her sister, Miss Betsy, and Miss Betsy’s suitor, Mr. Edward Burd.”

“Does Miss Betsy sleep in here too?” Clara looked at the oversized maple bed, thinking that perhaps there were two who occupied the space.

“Share a room? Ha! You think the Shippen girls would ever
share
a bedroom?”

“It’s certainly big enough for two.”

“This house itself isn’t big enough for those two at times.
They’d last one day before Miss Peggy shredded her sister like a wildcat. No, Miss Betsy is in the bedroom next door, the one we just passed.”

“Oh. What a grand room to have all to one’s self,” Clara said. Back at the Hartley farm, five people would have lived in this space. “Are all the rooms in the house this big?”

“You think her room is something, you should see her wardrobe.” The housekeeper pointed toward the corner of the room, where an imposing structure of varnished pine stood. Mrs. Quigley walked toward the armoire, folding the blue silk scarf neatly and tucking it into a drawer. “Course she frets and complains that they are all outdated dresses, but I think they look very fine. With the war, it’s a wonder she gets new dresses at all.”

In the distance across the garden, figures moved toward the stable. Clara watched from the window and saw the same young man—Mrs. Quigley had called him Caleb—whom she’d noticed earlier. He’d put his guitar away and was leading a broad-chested horse of a rich chestnut hue by the bridle. Clara’s heart leapt; did this mean her new mistresses had returned home from their ride?

“Come away from the window, child, and listen to me,” Mrs. Quigley snapped, her pose suddenly rigid. “After a day of riding, the ladies will want to change out of their riding habits. Best you help Miss Peggy first, just so that there’s no unpleasantness. Miss Betsy has no problem dressing herself. The misses have got a social event to attend tonight, so Miss Peggy will select one of her fancier gowns. She’ll probably complain to you that she has nothing new to wear. That girl never lets her poor father forget that she wants new clothing.”

Clara nodded, feeling her nerves tighten.

“And you’ll need to do her hair for dinner. Can you do hair?” Mrs. Quigley asked.

“I can. I did Mrs. Hartley’s hair sometimes.” Clara answered, relieved that she would be up to the job in at least one way.

“It’ll probably be a different fashion for Miss Peggy, but that’s all right, just do what she tells you.” Mrs. Quigley crossed her hands in front of her waist.

From downstairs, a door opened and shut. The front hall filled with the sound of female laughter. “I hear them, they are back. Quick, Clara, stand up straight.”