The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (11 page)

“Oh! There you are!” Peggy, who seemed in no hurry to dress, rose and took her maid by the hand, pulling her down onto the fabric-strewn floor beside her. She was still in her white-linen sleeping shift, her loose hair tumbling around her shoulders. Her face looked fresh and cheerful. “Did you have fun at Lord Rawdon’s?”

Clara hesitated. Oma had told her to always tell the truth, but she wavered; were maids honest to their ladies, or did they choose the answer that was most polite?

Peggy didn’t await a reply, but rather retrieved a letter from her pocket and waved it before Clara. “Johnny sent a letter first thing
this morning. He said his secretary, Robert Balmor, enjoyed speaking with you.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know about that, Miss Peggy.”

“Oh, now I believe I see my modest maid blushing,” Peggy teased. “Something is different about you today, Clara.” Peggy studied her maid, her eyes roving freely over Clara’s figure. “You have new clothes.”

Clara couldn’t help but allow a sheepish smile. That morning during the servants’ breakfast, Mrs. Quigley and Caleb had entered the kitchen with a large pile of women’s clothing.

“Special delivery for Miss Clara Bell.” Caleb unloaded an armful of fabric onto the table: shifts, wide-sleeved blouses, gowns and petticoats in wool and cotton calico, fichu neckcloths, muslin and lace mobcaps, aprons, and even one formal gown—very basic to be sure—of midnight blue silk. Surely they couldn’t mean that
all
those clothes were for her—the pile was far too fine and far too plentiful.

“Mrs. Quigley.” Clara looked to the housekeeper, placing her teacup down so as not to spill a drop near the clothing. “I’d have to work six months without wages in order to pay for half of this.”

“Nonsense, girl.” Mrs. Quigley poured herself a cup of tea and sat beside Clara. “They were just sitting in the closet collecting dust. All the maids who have passed through here over the years have left clothes behind. Of course, they might not all fit.”

Just then Clara lifted a petticoat of white and yellow ticking that appeared easily twice her size. “But you’re a seamstress, or so you claim to be. You can alter them.” Mrs. Quigley took a sip of her tea. “Besides, it’ll be good practice, since you’ll be mending the family’s clothing. Miss Betsy’s and Miss Peggy’s especially.”

“But I can’t keep all of these.” Clara unfolded a calico petticoat
with the pattern of small cherry blossoms and examined the fine stitching. “Surely we must donate some of these to the poor?”

“Clara, you’re as poor as they come.”

Clara could not help but laugh at the old woman’s candor.

“Now put that dress down and finish your tea before it gets cold.”

“Consider it your uniform, Clara.” Mr. Quigley entered the kitchen, looking smart in a black suit of lightweight wool and white knee-high stockings. “During the day you’ll wear just a basic dress and the apron and linen cap. And then at night, you’ll need something respectable to go calling with Miss Shippen.”

“I was telling my husband how well you held up last night, being thrown into modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah like that.” Mrs. Quigley stared at her new employee appraisingly, betraying what appeared to be grudging admiration. “When I returned from the kitchens and did not see Miss Peggy in the tent, I panicked. Thought maybe she had escaped with that Major André! But then when I found the two of you, simply sitting side by side down on the bank of the river, I was so relieved.” Clara felt a pang of guilt at the praise. If only the old woman had witnessed the preceding scene as Clara had. “She seems to have taken quite a shine to you, Clara.”

“Now, I don’t know about that, ma’am.” Clara averted her eyes.

“Well, she didn’t bite your head off on the first night. That’s more than we all expected for you.” The housekeeper chuckled, looking at her husband with a knowing grin.

“Just keep up the good work, Clara Bell. When Miss Peggy is happy, peace reigns in the Shippen household.” Mr. Quigley poured himself a cup of tea, and the kitchen of servants erupted in good-natured laughter.

“Clara.” Peggy was now digging through the pile of silk on
her bedroom floor. “Do you know about the Meshianza Masque?” Peggy’s eyes roiled with that same intensity that Clara had seen in them last night at her first sighting of John André.

“No, my lady. What is that?”

“Read this.” Peggy held out the daily paper, pointing at the front page. “It’s going to be a party, such a
grand
party, the likes of which Philadelphia has never seen.” Peggy turned her gaze to the article. “Read it aloud, Clara.”

Clara turned to the journal and began reading: “ ‘
The Meshianza is a Masquerade hosted in the honor of General William Howe, who is departing Philadelphia to return to London
.’ ”

“You must have seen the general at Lord Rawdon’s?” Peggy interrupted. “The short little man? I was so irritated when they stopped playing the music because he entered the tent.”

Clara nodded, reading on at a quick pace; this chore was taking entirely too long. “ ‘
General Howe’s men, laboring hard to organize a fête in their leader’s honor, have confiscated the mansion of rebel millionaire Joseph Wharton and intend to transform the space into a Turkish court and harem
.’ ”

“Did you hear that? A Turkish court and harem!” Peggy interrupted, clapping.

“It sounds like quite the evening.” Clara offered the paper back. “Now, Miss Peggy, shall we get you dressed?”

“Not yet, read on, it gets even better.”

“ ‘
Howe’s men shall dress to resemble the grand knights of the crusades who defended the Holy Land under King Henry IV. They will be divided into two camps for a jousting tournament, adorned as the Knights of the Blended Rose versus the Knights of the Burning Mountain
.’ ”

Peggy grabbed her wrist. “You’re coming to the part about
me
!”

“ ‘
Before a jousting tournament begins between the two armies, the knights will pause to receive favors from their ladies—twelve of Philadelphia’s favorite belles, admired not only for their beauty and virtue, but their steadfast affection for the British crown. These lovely maidens will be dressed
à la Turque,
in full Turkish garb like that which would have been witnessed in the harems of ancient Constantinople.’ ”

Was Miss Betsy going to come in and find the new maid, who was supposed to be dressing both sisters, sitting on the floor reading the newspaper with Miss Peggy?

“Why did you stop reading, Clara? Keep going.”

“ ‘
Each maiden will remove favors from her turban, which she shall bestow on her Knight before the joust. Once the tournament is complete, the entire party will retire into the mansion for dinner and dancing. The evening will be concluded with a fireworks display.’ ”

Clara lowered the paper to the sound of Peggy’s clapping. “This was all Johnny’s idea, having us dress up as the ladies of the Turkish harem while they dress as Knights.”

Clara wondered if her mistress had bothered to read the article immediately below the piece on the Meshianza Masque; the report outlining how the French had announced their alliance with the American rebel troops, and how, at this very moment, Washington’s Continental Army was nearby, preparing to descend on Philadelphia and drive the British troops north.

“Guess who
my
knight is.” Peggy’s blue eyes sparkled. “Guess who has asked to escort me.”

Clara needed only one guess. “Major John André.”

“That’s right.” Peggy picked up a strand of gauze and twirled it overhead, as if preparing for her role as a harem dancer. “That should knock the haughty smile right off Meg Chew’s face. Johnny chose
me
.”

A knock at the door filled Clara with dread: she must have kept
Miss Betsy waiting too long. But she was relieved to see Mrs. Quigley appear. “Miss Peggy, you have visitors. A Mr. Joseph Stansbury and a tailor from the clothing shop Coffin and Anderson.”

“Send them in.” Peggy rose from the floor.

“Your dressing gown, ma’am.” Clara stood up and retrieved her lady’s most conservative robe. Then she began to edge toward the door and Miss Betsy’s bedchamber; she certainly wouldn’t be dressing Miss Peggy in front of these two men.

“No, Clara, you stay with me, wait until you see what they’re bringing.” Peggy tossed the dressing gown onto the bed. “Send them in at once, Mrs. Quigley.” Peggy clapped excitedly, dancing in her flimsy shift.

“But my lady.” Mrs. Quigley looked as scandalized as Clara felt. “You’re not wearing anything but your nightclothes! Hadn’t you better put on a dress first?”

“Yes, Mrs. Quigley,” Peggy said, unruffled by the old woman’s modesty, “but they are coming
with
my dress. Send them in.”

The two men entered, carrying with them a splash of color that seemed to brighten the entire room. The china merchant, Joseph Stansbury, paraded in wearing a tightly tailored suit of canary yellow, with an ornamental neckerchief and a chalky white wig. Behind him walked the tailor, his figure slumped under what appeared to be fifty pounds of white and scarlet silk.

“There it is.” Peggy marveled, outstretching her hand to her friend, the merchant. Clara’s eyes took in the mountain of bright scarlet and cream-colored silk that had been fashioned into this gown.

“My dear lady.” Stansbury kissed Peggy’s hand solicitously. “
Voilà
, it’s the gown of the season.”

“Miss Shippen?” The tailor looked from the calico-clad maid to the nearly nude lady in her shift, apparently unsure of which lady was the intended recipient of the delivery.

“Me,” Peggy replied. Turning to Stansbury, she grumbled, “Does he really not know my face?” The merchant shrugged.

The two men, aided by Clara, helped Peggy step into her layers of costume. The dress was of white silk with long sleeves, with a rich scarlet sash tied around the waist to match the color of her knight’s garb.

When it came time to fit the turban onto her head, they had difficulty, as Peggy was adamant that her blond curls must remain visible. After several attempts, the tailor withdrew in silence to the corner of the bedroom, crossing his arms as if to observe the scuffle from a safe distance. Clara appeased her mistress by tugging loose several ringlets of hair to frame her face. When Peggy was satisfied, she glided to the full mirror, admiring the effects of her costume.

“I look like quite the Turk, don’t I?” She turned to Stansbury, her face teeming with excitement.

“I’m not sure there were many Turks with blue eyes and blond hair,” the merchant answered, adjusting one of her feathers. “But you look
divine
!” He winked, and Peggy erupted in laughter.

“Divine—or devilish?” Peggy cocked her head, her turban tilting to the side.

“Can’t you be both, Peg?” Stansbury asked.

“Father is going to faint when he sees me. And Mother, oh, I don’t even want her to know I’m wearing this.”

Just then, the door to the bedroom swung open and Betsy appeared. “I’ve waited long enough, and now I wish for Clara to help
me
dress!” Betsy stopped midstride, gasping at the sight of her younger sister. “Oh, Peggy.”

“Betsy!” Peggy performed a theatrical twirl for her sister, all merriment and good cheer this morning. “What do you think, am I quite ready to dance the night away
à la Turque
?” Peggy
turned to Stansbury. “Betsy is going too, but since she’s engaged to Neddy Burd, they didn’t invite her to be one of the Turkish maidens.”

“I wish I could wear one of the costumes.” Betsy stared at her younger sister, not attempting to conceal her envy.

“Well, you should not have taken yourself off the market at the height of the social season.” Peggy shrugged her shoulders, turning back to her reflection in the mirror.

Another knock on the door and a weary-looking Mrs. Quigley appeared. “My lady, Major André is here to see you, accompanied by his secretary.”

“Perfect timing,” Peggy said. “We’ll ask him what he thinks of my costume!” Betsy, Stansbury, and the tailor excused themselves so that Peggy could take the visit with the major. Clara was preparing to follow them through the door—perhaps she could finally tend to the forgotten Miss Betsy—when Peggy stopped her. “Clara, you stay, I’m sure
Robert Balmor
is eager to see you.”

Clara felt her face growing warm under the observant eyes of the housekeeper, still standing in the doorway.

“Would you like to welcome the gentlemen in the parlor downstairs?” Mrs. Quigley’s question sounded more like a suggestion.

“No, in here,” Peggy answered. Clara wasn’t sure whether Peggy was oblivious or simply indifferent to the distress her words caused her poor old housekeeper.

“In your
bedroom
?” Mrs. Quigley did not attempt to mask her horror. “My lady, I must insist—”

“I am
not
going downstairs dressed like this. Mother will wail in horror and Father will complain about the cost of all of this silk. Send them up here.”

There was a silent standoff as the housekeeper, staring at the
young lady she’d served since her days in diapers, hovered outside the bedroom.

“For heaven’s sake, Clara is in here with me. What do you think we’re going to do, run straight to bed?” Peggy scoffed at the old woman, causing her to stammer in wordless horror before quitting the room, defeated.

A minute later, Major André appeared in the doorway, accompanied by his secretary, who smiled the instant he spotted Clara. Thinking back to how they had danced the night before, and how he had offered her a glass of Champagne, Clara felt fresh shyness in the sober light of day. She made herself busy with fluffing Miss Peggy’s skirt, positioning herself so that she was partially concealed behind the massive hoopskirt.

“Ladies, hello.” Major André glided into the room, bowing before taking his sword from his hip and placing it casually on Peggy’s bed. “Look at what we have here.” He approached Peggy, kissing her outstretched hand as she stood before the mirror. “What a delicious little heathen you shall make tomorrow night.” André leaned in close, pausing by Peggy’s ear to whisper, “I hope you’ll behave like one too.”