The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (5 page)

“Even loyalty to the British crown has its limits, I suppose.” Peggy giggled.

“Pardon me, miss?” Clara wrinkled her brow, unsure of the meaning.

“My dress,” Peggy said. “It’s
à la française.
”

Clara nodded. “Oh, of course.” But still she had little idea of her lady’s meaning, and Miss Peggy’s smirk indicated that she suspected as much.

Peggy pointed down at her dress. “The tight stomacher visible in front, it’s the highest fashion of the French court. And now the British.”

“It’s certainly very fine,” Clara replied, admiring her mistress’s figure. The bodice of the gown, with its white silk stomacher, hugged Peggy’s curves before the expansive skirt spilled over the
side hoops and cascaded to the floor in its rich, silky splendor. The creamy white skin of Peggy’s arms peeked out under ruched sleeves of lace. The neckline came low to show the hint of Peggy’s bosom, decorated by a thin strand of pearls.

Dressing Peggy Shippen was an art form, Clara realized, and her mistress had more adornments in mind for this one evening than Clara possessed in her entire travel sack. After the gown was fastened snugly around the contours of her diminutive figure, there were the accessories to be put in place: stockings gartered above the knees, white satin shoes over her feet, pearl earrings that looked like large raindrops.

“You look like a doll, if you don’t mind my saying so, miss.” Clara marveled, her nerves softening under the comforting tonic of her lady’s increasingly ebullient mood. Each time Peggy caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her features seemed slightly more alight.

“We must hurry or we’ll be tardy for dinner, and we wouldn’t want Father to complain,” Peggy chirped, lowering herself carefully onto her cushioned seat before the looking glass. “Well, what are you waiting for, Clara?” She looked at her maid.

Clara stared back, baffled; what more could be done to tune Miss Peggy’s appearance? Was it not time that she leave and go assist Miss Betsy?

“I know what you’re thinking. Forget Betsy, come fashion my hair,” Peggy ordered, her tone dry.

“Aye, Miss Peggy,” Clara answered, sidling up behind her mistress. So perhaps she would not have time to make Miss Betsy’s acquaintance before dinner. “How shall we do it?”

“Continental fashion, like that French queen,” Peggy replied, as she smeared more color across her lips. “The higher, the better.” Clara had seen the occasional images of the French queen in the
newspapers; she knew how Louis XVI’s bride had made the
pouf
the height of fashion.

“Did the girls on your farm dress this fine?” Peggy flashed a dazzling smile at Clara through her reflection in the mirror.

“Not at all, ma’am.” Clara pulled Peggy’s hair through her fingers. “I don’t think Mrs. Hartley ever asked me to fashion her hair like that of a queen.” She smiled, surprised but flattered by the interest Miss Peggy was taking in her.

“Well, you had better get used to it. Since the British seized the city from the . . . rebels”—Peggy could barely hide the contempt in her voice as it tripped over the word—“the hair must be higher, the corsets tighter. And the
dresses
! Before they got here, it was all homespun. But now the shops are open once more, and we get fresh silk, ribbons, lace.” She lined the lids of her eyes with charcoal as Clara wrapped strands of her blond hair around the iron, releasing them into buoyant curls.

Clara considered this, hesitating. Her mistress sounded as if she enjoyed the company of the British soldiers. Clara herself still nurtured a secret allegiance to the rebel cause. How could she admit this to her mistress? She could not, not if she hoped to keep Miss Peggy’s good favor.

“Everything has been
so
much more fun since the British got here! I think I’ve enjoyed myself more in six months than most girls do in an entire lifetime.” Peggy sighed, staring at a pair of silhouettes cut out of paper and leaning against her mirror. The lady looked just like Peggy in profile, drawn to the collar of an ornate dress, with her hair
à la française.
The man wore the British regimentals and tricornered hat, and his features were handsome, slightly delicate even. The silhouettes were arranged so the two figures appeared locked in each other’s gaze, immutable.

“Is that you, my lady?” Clara asked, studying the cut-paper silhouettes.

“Oh, yes. It’s me and Johnny.” Peggy’s forefinger reached for the paper and tenderly stroked the would-be cheek of the gentleman. “He made it for me—he promised that I’m the only one he made a silhouette for.”

Clara let that comment hover in the air, without response, as she continued her diligent styling of Miss Peggy’s hair. When her
pouf
was sufficiently high and her cheeks sufficiently rouged, Peggy sprayed her hair with the powder pump to infuse the faintest hint of white into her locks. She dabbed her wrists, neck, and bosom with floral-scented perfume, and stood to admire herself before the full-length looking glass. “Well.” She completed a twirl, the skirt of her gown and the smell of her perfume fanning out around her. “How do I look, Clara?”

Clara had never seen her equal. “I can’t imagine there will be a single gentleman in all of Philadelphia who will not want to stand beside you, Miss Peggy.”

“I’m sure Meg Chew will be dressed just as nicely,” Peggy retorted, her features turning sour for a moment. “But Johnny told me he’s looking forward to seeing
me
tonight, not Meg Chew.”

Clara, not sure of how else to answer, nodded. “Of course he is.” As Clara gazed once more in the mirror to admire her mistress, she caught sight of her own reflection, and couldn’t help but feel fresh embarrassment over her own plain, homespun figure.

T
HE KITCHEN
in the Shippen home was a hive of activity—filled with harried servants, fragrant aromas, and serving dishes being jostled from hand to hand. Clara watched in awe as food traveled
from the hearth and somehow melded into the tantalizing presentations on the china platters. At the center of the kitchen around a long wooden table stood several servants, arranging the various ingredients into tidy, savory-looking dishes.

“Clara, there you are! How did it go with the Miss Shippens?” Mrs. Quigley looked over from where she was sorting a set of silver wineglasses. “You look lost child, come here and tell me how it went.”

“I hope it went well. I did Miss Peggy’s hair, and I helped her dress.” Clara gazed around, still distracted by the largest, noisiest kitchen she’d ever seen.

“And Miss Betsy? You’ve met her as well?”

“No, ma’am,” Clara answered, feeling guilty, as if it had been her own fault. She told the housekeeper about the exchange between the Shippen sisters and her orders to hide behind the wardrobe.

“Sounds about right.” Mrs. Quigley’s shoulders sagged as she listened. “Well, not your fault, Clara. And speaking of wardrobe”—Mrs. Quigley settled the final glass and then reached for a wine decanter—“I’ve spoken with Mr. Quigley, and we agree that you’ll need to spruce up your wardrobe a bit now that you’re a maid in the Shippen household.” The housekeeper looked over Clara’s attire disapprovingly again. “We shall be able to help you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Clara could not help but smile—she could not remember the last time she’d had new clothes.

“It’s nothing, child. Now don’t just stand there completely useless.” The housekeeper took Clara by the arm and escorted her through the two rooms that abutted the kitchen. “The scullery is back here.”

“The . . . what, Mrs. Quigley?”

“I keep forgetting you’ve just come from a farm.” Mrs. Quigley
sighed. “The scullery. It’s where the dishes are scrubbed, washed, and dried after the meals. You’ll help with that. And here”—the housekeeper moved fluidly to the next small room—“is the larder. The pantry?”

Clara nodded. That one she knew.

“Who’s this?” A wide-hipped, middle-aged woman with strong features and an accent Clara immediately recognized as German appeared from out of a nook in the pantry, her thick arms cradling a crate of peaches.

“Hannah, hello,” Mrs. Quigley said. “Meet the Miss Shippens’ new maid, Clara.”

“Ah,” Hannah shifted her cargo to her hip and wiped her hands on her dirty apron, reaching forward for a handshake. “The name’s Hannah Breunig. Cook for the Shippens.” She introduced herself with the same clipped diction as Oma.

“Clara Bell,” Clara answered politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Breunig.”

“It’s Hannah. But I’m sorry to say I don’t think anything’s a pleasure right now, not when this dessert still needs baking. But just stay out of my way and we won’t have a problem.” Hannah turned back to the kitchen and both Clara and Mrs. Quigley followed her.

“Ah, so this is the young lady who needs the new wardrobe?” Clara turned to see a man with thinning hair the same gray hue as Mrs. Quigley’s.

“Oh good, you’re here, Arthur.” Mrs. Quigley nodded at the man, who wore a formal white collared shirt with a tailored black jacket, cropped breeches, and buckled shoes. His thinning hair was combed back neatly. Clara noticed the servants in the kitchen stopping their harried work to curtsy as he passed them. “Hello, Clara Bell. My name’s Arthur Quigley. My first claim to notoriety is that
I’m married to Mrs. Quigley. My second title is that I’m the butler and valet for Judge Shippen.”

“Mr. Quigley, it’s a pleasure.” Clara curtsied.

“Arthur, I’ve just told Clara that we’ve made arrangements to assist her with the . . . deficiencies . . . of her wardrobe.” Mrs. Quigley addressed her husband formally, though Clara noticed the way her stern eyes had softened.

“We shall be happy to help.” Mr. Quigley nodded. “Can you cook, Clara? In a pinch?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry to say I’m not much use with cooking,” Clara answered.

Mrs. Quigley leaned over the table and handed her husband the tray of neatly arranged wine goblets. “I would think with a grandmother such as yours it’d be the first thing you’d learn.”

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid,” Clara answered. “Oma always did all the cooking, never wanted anyone else to ruin her food. I learned all the ladies’ arts. Hair styling, sewing, mending.”

“Well, Miss Peggy will certainly have you laboring at each of those tasks night and day,” Mr. Quigley answered, taking the wine decanter from his wife. “And have you met Miss Betsy as well?”

Mrs. Quigley interjected, answering for Clara. “It seems that Miss Peggy required Clara entirely for herself this afternoon.” The housekeeper’s eyes rounded out the message, and Mr. Quigley nodded.

“I see.” He turned back to Clara. “Best not to get involved in any territorial disputes, Clara. We’ve got enough men fighting a territorial battle across this continent, without starting another war in the Shippen household. You just keep your head down and do as you’re told, and if it gets too out of hand, you come to Mrs. Quigley or myself. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.” Clara nodded.

“You shall meet Miss Betsy at supper.” Mr. Quigley fidgeted with the collar of his shirt, as if to render its stiff creases even more crisp.

“Who is this? There’s a face I don’t recognize.”

Clara turned in the direction of a new voice in the crowded kitchen and found herself staring into a broad, smiling face. Like her, this man was younger than the other servants in the kitchen, with light brown hair and hazel eyes. He looked familiar. Yes, from his brown wool breeches and loosely fitted linen shirt, Clara could tell this was the guitar-playing groom she’d spotted outside the stables.

“I think I saw you earlier,” the young man spoke first, grinning at her. “The name’s Little, Caleb Little.”

“Nice to meet you.” Clara curtsied, lowering her eyes.

“I saw you looking through the window,” he continued. She felt her cheeks grow warm.

“And you are?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, right, I’m Clara Bell. The new lady’s maid for the Miss Shippens.”

“Ah, Clara Bell, that’s an enviable post you have,” Caleb answered, cracking a lopsided grin. “I’m the stable groom.”

“And the footman, don’t forget, so wash your hands and get ready to serve dinner, Caleb,” Mrs. Quigley said, interrupting them.

“That’s right, I’m the footman now as well.” Caleb Little rolled up his sleeves and crossed the kitchen toward the washbasin. “Double duty since they sacked all the rest of the servants.” Caleb’s accent was more rough, more American, than the proper Quigleys or the German cook.

“And lucky to have the job, so I better not be hearing a complaint.” Mrs. Quigley raised a finger.

“Of course not, ma’am,” Caleb answered, leaning over to wash
his hands and splash his face. Clara’s eyes lingered as he rubbed the back of his tanned neck with a wet rag.

“You’re going to be with Caleb at dinner tonight, Clara,” Mr. Quigley explained. “Watch how he serves, and you’ll fill in for him on occasion.”

Clara peeled her eyes from Caleb, turning toward the valet. “I’ve never served dinner for a family like the Shippens.”

“It’s not too hard, Miss Bell.” Caleb winked as he turned back to face her, toweling off his wet face. “As long as you keep Miss Peggy’s wineglass full, you should have nothing to worry about.”