The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (7 page)

“About that.” Clara winced. The thought of such a party filled Clara with dread: a home full of young women just like Peggy, and in addition, English officers!

“There now, don’t look so fretful, Clara Bell. You’ll have Mrs.
Quigley with you. And I’ll be driving you over in the coach.” For some reason that Clara could not explain, Caleb’s words and his presence served to quell her nerves.

She smiled, relieved to be in this quiet corridor with him and away from the Shippens. “I seem to have set off a feud among the sisters.”

“Nothing new.” Caleb shrugged. “Mrs. Shippen complains of headaches every day—but how could she not have a headache with that chorus to listen to? Now, these meat pies need serving. How about you help me?”

When they reentered the dining room, the family conversation had shifted away from their own battles back to that of the war between the colonies and the British. Clara tiptoed in behind Caleb, offering a meat pie to Judge Shippen.

“Why did the Battle of Saratoga make the difference?” Mrs. Shippen fed herself a small bite of fish, looking to her husband. Her brother-in-law answered first.

“It’s simple, Margaret. Benedict Arnold, in winning at Saratoga, has proven to the French that the Americans can actually win this war. Arnold provided the proof that those reluctant Frenchmen needed. Not to mention, he’s rallied the entire populace, a fact very much appreciated by our General George Washington.”

“But brother”—Judge Shippen served himself a sliver of the meat pie, which Clara held before him—“I still believe that it is in the best interest of the colonies to renounce violence and mend the relationship with the mother country. It baffles me that you don’t see it that way. Why must we sever our ties with a country that shares our religion, our history, our sensibilities, even our blood?”

Before Doctor William could answer his brother’s question, Peggy interjected. “My father, like all of us, is still hoping that the Continental Congress will accept the peace measures put forward
by the crown.” Peggy spoke confidently, summoning Clara toward her so that she might herself be served a slice of the meat pie. “King George has proven himself both forgiving and benevolent.”

“Ah.” Doctor William turned to Peggy, impressed. “So my niece has an inclination toward politics?”

“I do.” Peggy cocked her head and drained her wineglass. “I am in close acquaintance with a great number of British officers, and follow the updates of the war with great interest. I was very disappointed to read of Benedict Arnold’s victory in Saratoga and the ensuing hints by the French that they would align themselves with Washington and the rest of the rebels.”

“Brother, your youngest has beauty and brains, even if I do not agree with her politics,” Doctor William said, seemingly charmed by his young niece. “Well, dearest Peggy, in spite of your and your father’s aspirations for peace and unity, which come from pure hearts I’m sure, the Continental Congress will never reattach itself to King George and England,” William answered authoritatively, leaning back to make room for his full belly. “They have declared themselves a free people, and are willing to fight until that dream of liberty is realized. And they will fight now, I believe, with French assistance.”

“But, brother.” The judge reentered the discussion, his voice quiet. “I hope that you don’t speak these dangerous thoughts outside of these walls. Such language could get you in trouble.”

“The British won’t hold Philadelphia much longer.” Doctor William shrugged, taking a swig of wine.

Now Peggy answered. “I think you underestimate the strength of the crown. I have the chance to mingle with members of the British officers quite often, and—”

“Mingle, is that what you call it?” Betsy simpered.

Peggy ignored the comment from her sister. “And the British
feel no such insecurity in their hold over Philadelphia. Or the colonies as a whole.”

“My dear niece Peggy.” William took another hearty bite of meat, enjoying the debate. “The Redcoats are barely beating us when we are nothing but a ragtag bunch of volunteers. How shall they defeat us once we have the purse of Versailles backing us?”

“France cannot afford this war.” Peggy pushed on, impressing Clara with her knowledge of politics and economics. “Louis has enough trouble keeping that Austrian-born wife of his under control. I think he’d better subdue Marie Antoinette and do battle with her profligate spending before engaging against foreign enemies.”

Clara slipped out of the room and stood just outside the threshold of the dining room, where she could continue to listen to this family discussion. The judge, shifting in his seat, seemed less enthused by the topic. “How was your recent trip to Virginia, William?”

“Oh ho, trying to change the topic, are you, Eddy?” William’s voice boomed.

“Papa,” Peggy interjected, smiling at her father, “as interesting as this has been, may I be excused? I must prepare to depart for Lord Rawdon’s.” Peggy made to rise from the table but her mother’s stern voice stopped her.

“Peggy, we have not finished our meal. You will stay and eat with us.”

Peggy turned from her mother to her father. “Please, Papa, I shall be late, and they’ll begin the card games without me.”

“Cards?” Mrs. Shippen’s interest was suddenly keen. “We just told you: no more gambling at cards. Edward, I think this is a mistake. I think Margaret should do as her sister plans to do, stay home
tonight and do something to feed her mind.” Mrs. Shippen rubbed her temples once more, shutting her eyes.

Judge Shippen eyed his daughter and wife wearily.

Peggy made a face. “But we already agreed I could attend.”

“Would you not like a night at home with your parents?” Mrs. Shippen opened her eyes, still massaging her forehead.

“Do you think I dressed like this for a night of reading with my parents?” Peggy laughed. “Papa, you already promised that I could go.” She directed her focus toward her father, her expression growing taut.

“Peggy, my dear, I did not realize that it was cards again . . .”

“Papa!” Peggy widened her eyes, interrupting her father. “I shall refrain from the card games, I promise.” Peggy paused. “And besides, a night spent mingling with the finest, most well-educated officers of the British Army is certainly a night spent enriching the mind.”

“Is that so?” Betsy sniggered, exchanging a meaningful glance with her mother.

“Well, they are certainly a lot more interesting than your boring old Mr. Burd.” Peggy turned, snarling at her sister.

“All right, all right, enough of this quarreling. Peggy, you may go to Lord Rawdon’s,” her father acquiesced. “But not until we’ve finished supper. Your mother has ordered a peach tart for dessert.”

“But Edward . . .” Mrs. Shippen clenched her jaw.

“Margaret, please.” The judge held up his hand, silencing his wife. “And Peggy, please do not stay out as late. I’d like you home by midnight.” Judge Shippen looked at his daughter dotingly, while Mrs. Shippen sighed in frustration, dropping her silverware down on her plate. Peggy tossed a smirk in her mother’s direction.

“Ready, Miss Bell?” Caleb was beside Clara, pulling her from her observation of this family drama.

“Will you please stop calling me ‘Miss’? You’ve been here longer than I have. Please, call me Clara.”

“Only if you’ll agree to call me Cal.”

“All right, all right.” Clara nodded.

“Well, congratulations, Clara Bell. You survived your first Shippen dinner. All that remains is dessert.” Caleb put the peach tart in her hands and smiled at her as she once more entered the dining room.

After the dinner, the judge and Doctor William retreated to the study while Peggy excused herself. Clara remained in the dining room to clear the table. The elderly woman she’d seen earlier, in the stairwell, emerged as if from the air.

“Caleb, that is Brigitte, right?”

“Call me Cal.”

“Sorry, Cal. Is that Brigitte?” Clara asked.

“Oh, yes. Brigitte is Hannah’s sister. She doesn’t talk much, except to Hannah. She cleans the dishes, strips the bedding, dumps the chamber pots. All the sorts of jobs that allow her to avoid speaking to anyone. But you better go to Miss Peggy—she’s probably in a hurry to get to this soiree. Especially if André will be there.”

“Who’s André?” Clara remembered back to the cut-out silhouette that Peggy had attached to her mirror, the face of the handsome British officer. “Miss Peggy mentioned someone named ‘Johnny’?”

“The very same. John André is the man who is about to make your life very difficult.”

“H
OW VERY
predictable that Betsy would pass on this soiree, when General Howe himself will be there. Does she not know that wherever
the general goes, the best officers are sure to follow?” Peggy stood in front of Clara, adjusting her gloves as the carriage rolled to a halt before her. “But then, she’s as averse to fun as Mother is.”

“Good evening, Miss Peggy.” Caleb hopped down from his perch and with one fluid gesture opened the coach door and extended his hand toward Miss Peggy.

Peggy let her eyes slide sideways toward her maid. “At least I have you here with me to help me . . . what was it . . .
behave
?” Peggy flashed her dazzling smile—that look that appeared sweet and yet had the effect of putting Clara more on edge—before taking Cal’s outstretched hand and hoisting herself and her full skirt through the carriage door.

Clara entered the carriage behind her mistress, receiving a teasing grin from Cal as she did so. Mrs. Quigley entered last, complaining that she did not have the luxury of taking a night off to attend a soiree, not when there was silver to be polished, china to be scrubbed, table linens to be pressed and sorted. But, Clara noticed, the old woman had changed into a clean, fresh dress of green and purple calico and had pulled her hair back tightly, giving her a more formal appearance than she’d modeled earlier in the day.

The carriage carried them west past the bustle of Market Street, just as the shop owners were shuttering their windows and wishing one another a pleasant night. As the last rays of daytime poured down, the Shippen carriage sped forward on an increasingly rural road toward the Schuylkill River.

“We are getting you new clothes, Clara.” Mrs. Quigley rested her hands in her lap, twisting a kerchief in tight knots. “It is not acceptable for you to be attending a
soiree
at Lord Rawdon’s looking like a farm hand.”

Clara, tired from the day, wished to reply that she would have
happily stayed home, that she would have preferred to retreat to her private, quiet bedroom and have an evening of peace, but Oma’s stern face remained in the fore of her mind, so she simply smiled politely and answered, “Yes, ma’am, thank you.”

As Caleb urged the horses to speed ever quicker toward the Schuylkill, Peggy’s mood soared. She did not look at her maid or her housekeeper, but rather kept her gaze fixed firmly out the window, staring at the sun-streaked river, which appeared as if engulfed in flames, and the darkening evening into which she could not wait to be set loose.

Caleb slowed the carriage as they approached a mansion, large and well-lit, perched on the hill above the river. In the indigo pall of twilight, a large British flag was visible where it hung at the front of the mansion. Peggy spotted their destination and pinched her cheeks, drawing a rosy blush from her ivory skin.

“Is this Lord Rawdon’s home?” Clara regretted the question the instant she saw Mrs. Quigley’s stern expression: servants were not supposed to break the silence. Peggy, however, seemed all too happy to reply.

“The British seized this house from a prominent rebel when he was forced to flee.” Peggy tugged on a loose wisp of golden hair, pulling the curl taut before allowing it to spring back into its coil. “How very fortunate for us. It makes a perfect spot for a summer fête.”

The horses pulled the Shippen carriage under a porte cochere and they were greeted by an entourage of wigged footmen. Peggy alighted from the carriage, clapping in delight at the military band that stood on hand to serenade the arriving guests.
“Music
!” Peggy exclaimed.

“Miss Shippen, welcome.” A middle-aged man in the bright red jacket of a British officer appeared, bowing opposite Peggy in a low
curtsy. “You are a vision, Miss Shippen, as always.” Clara watched the greeting as Caleb helped her exit the carriage.

“Lord Rawdon, this is magical.” Peggy cocked her head, sending her strands of blond curls dancing around her cheeks. Had she practiced that perfectly coy mannerism before the mirror of her bedroom? Clara wondered.

“Miss Shippen, I hope you will do me the honor of allowing me to sit beside you at the card table this evening?” Lord Rawdon, though nearly twice Peggy’s age and seasoned in battle, appeared cowed before his dainty gowned guest.

“But of course, Lord Rawdon. It would be my honor to be seated beside the host.” Peggy smiled, but turned her attention to the crowd of guests assembling farther down the hill. “Well, Lord Rawdon, I would not wish to monopolize your time. A host is in high demand at his own party.”

“Please, Miss Shippen, the others are gathering under the tent on the lawn. Once my guests have arrived and we are a full company, I will meet you there for cards and Champagne.”