The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (15 page)

Clara stood beside her mistress as they watched the bright display overhead. It was flattering,
having so quickly become her lady’s confidante and friend. And yet the burden of being such a close ally of Peggy Shippen’s did not escape Clara’s thoughts.

When it was over, Peggy repeated her lament: “Now they will go back to dancing. We should have been there.”

“There, there, Miss Peggy. Back to bed now,” Clara answered soothingly, hopeful that the worst of the night was now past. She
helped Peggy back under the covers, tucking her in the way Oma had done with her when she had had a nightmare as a young girl.

“Clara?” Peggy looked up from her feathery pillow. “You won’t leave me, will you?”

“I will stay right here in this chair, Miss Peggy,” Clara said, her tone soft. She knew how much Miss Peggy needed her.

Later, maybe hours later, Clara heard horses halting below, whispered voices rising up from the street. Peggy stirred from her light sleep.

“What is that, Clara?”

“Let me see, my lady.” Clara rose, groggy, and approached the windowsill. The carriage was familiar—unmistakable. Hadn’t she seen that carriage earlier that same day?

“My lady, I think you had better come look.”

“Who is it?” Peggy flew from her bed to the window. “Can it be?” she gasped, her voice airy. “Johnny!” She turned from the window. “I must go to him.”

“No, Miss Peggy.” Clara held her in place. “You stay here. I will go to the door to see what he wants. If your parents awoke to find him here at this hour, they’d be very unhappy.”

“But I
must
see him.” Peggy’s voice was decided, and Clara felt her own resolve fading against the hope in her mistress’s face.

“But, Miss Peggy, your father forbade you from attending, and I can’t imagine what he would say if . . .”

“Hush, Clara,” Peggy snapped, her tone suddenly chilly. “You forget your place.” Peggy was running her hands through her hair, straining to see her reflection in the darkened mirror.

“Yes, miss,” Clara sighed, lowering her eyes. “But might I suggest that you not conduct this rendezvous in this house? Your parents would never stand it.” Clara could see Mrs. Quigley’s disapproval clearly in her mind. “How about this, Miss Peggy: you
go down,
quietly,
to the garden. I will meet Major André at the door and show him around back. We cannot wake the house.”

“Fine.” Peggy pinched her cheeks, drawing a rosy blush to the surface of the skin. “But be quick about it.”

Hours ago Clara had been delirious with relief that her mistress had been kept away from this dapper officer, and now she was the lead coordinator of an illicit midnight meeting, sneaking about like a thief in the night. But Clara brushed this unpleasant realization, as well as the image of Oma’s disapproving face, from her mind, and she padded her way down the stairs and slipped noiselessly to the front door.

The wooden door groaned as Clara opened it, threatening with every inch of movement to wake the house. She poked her head through the sliver of the opening and saw André, his eyes lined with charcoal, his head adorned in a spectacular turban of scarlet silk. “Major,” Clara whispered. “Major André, this is highly unorthodox.” She wouldn’t let him off too easy. “Judge and Mrs. Shippen are sleeping. The whole house is abed.”

“I had to see Miss Shippen, Clara.” In the flickering light of the street candles, André’s face looked tired, and his breath smelled sweet with wine. Behind him, a few steps below, stood Robert Balmor. Clara straightened her posture automatically, avoiding the secretary’s overconfident gaze.

“You’ll let me in, won’t you, Clara?” André cracked a lopsided grin. Now was her opening—she could ask for some message, some promise of a later visit. He could come back tomorrow, through the front door in the light of day. Yes, she’d ask André to leave a note and then send him away, Clara decided. But then she remembered Peggy waiting in the garden; how would she face her mistress if André didn’t appear? Clara dropped her shoulders.

“You must go around back.” Clara could not believe her own words. “Miss Shippen is in the garden. She knows you’re here.”

Clara shut the door and tiptoed her way through the front hall, past the parlor, and let herself out into the garden, where the two gentlemen were just arriving from the alley.

“Johnny.”

Clara spotted her mistress in the dark orchard, waiting in the garden like some midnight spirit. Clara blushed to think that all that lay underneath her mistress’s white dressing gown was a sleeping shift.

Major André crossed the orchard and embraced Peggy, who collapsed into his arms. He kissed the top of her head, a tender gesture.

“Hello, Clara.” Robert Balmor hung back, lingering beside her.

“Hello, Robert.” Clara turned to the secretary.

“We missed you tonight. We both missed you.” Robert removed his tricornered hat and ran his hands through his dark hair.

“You know we were prevented from coming, I’m sure?”

“Yes, we heard the news this afternoon. Major André was most distraught.” Even in the darkness of the garden, Clara felt Robert’s gaze fixed on her.

“As was she.” Clara turned back to Peggy and saw that she and the major were holding hands now, walking slowly under the arbor, their voices so low that Clara could not discern their words.

“Did he enjoy himself with Meg Chew?” Clara asked.

“Oh, yes. They made a fine pair at the joust. And they danced all night.”

Clara nodded. She hoped her mistress would not hear this version of events.

Robert continued. “But he would have preferred to have Peggy with him. He kept telling me so. That’s why, as soon as the festivities
were over, he was determined to come see her. He escorted Miss Chew home and then we came straight to Fourth Street.”

Clara felt her heart swell at André’s loyalty, his affection. It would make her mistress so happy.

“I wonder if they will be married,” Clara said absentmindedly. But when Robert didn’t answer, she regretted the remark. It was too forward.

Robert shifted his weight from one foot to another.

“Miss Bell,” Robert said, his voice quiet. “May I have the dance I was hoping for tonight?”

Perhaps she was caught up in the mood of the garden, her mistress’s contagious contentment, the wispy splashes of moonlight through the trees. She took Robert’s outstretched hand, allowing him to bow to her, and they began to sway.

Glancing over his shoulders, Clara squinted her eyes to look across the garden. In the feeble light, she could just barely see the pair of them, embracing, dancing to imaginary music.

What a fine pair they made. Like two wraiths, separated by circumstances, their love merely an ephemeral, haunting dream.

“What are you thinking about, Clara?”

She focused her eyes back on her own dancing partner, disoriented. “Hmm?”

“You look happy, Clara. I’m happy to be here with you, too.” Before she understood what was happening, Robert smiled, and then, unexpectedly, his lips touched her own.

First she felt alarm, as Robert’s lips touched hers, his skin soft and gentle. So, this is kissing, Clara thought to herself. How strange to be kissing a man. And then, she decided that it was not all bad. In fact, it was quite nice. She lifted her arms so that her hands grazed his hair, the back of his neck. Perhaps she was behaving improperly—even after she had judged her own lady’s indiscretions—but
she allowed Robert to continue kissing her, his lips parting so that he could press his tongue against hers. He tasted like tobacco and wine, but she didn’t find either flavor bothersome. She leaned her body against his, slowly, growing warm in the cool evening air.

An explosion overhead. More fireworks. But, to her disappointment, Robert pulled his lips away from hers.

“Fireworks!” Clara looked up at the sky. My, she almost sounded like Peggy Shippen, she thought to herself.

“No, those are not fireworks,” Robert said, the tension in his voice snapping the softness of the previous moment.

“What’s the matter?” Clara turned to him, dazed. She looked across the garden and made out the silhouette of André’s and Peggy’s bodies, dark against the orange glow of the sky.

“Those are not fireworks,” Robert repeated, putting his hat back on his head. “The fireworks ended at the Wharton mansion over an hour ago.”

“Balmor!” André crossed the garden, trotting toward them. A sudden burst of light filled the garden with an orange glow, and Clara saw that André’s handsome features were tight with concern.

“Balmor!” André shouted again.

“Sir?”

“Rebel fire. We must report to Howe, see what our orders are.” André walked at a crisp clip now across the garden. Robert hurried to keep apace.

“Are the rebels in the city, sir?”

“Not yet, from the looks of it.” André glanced back in the direction of where the explosions had occurred.

Peggy was at Clara’s side now, clutching her hand.

“Darling, I must go.” André turned toward them. “Peggy, stay inside. Tell your family to stay inside.”

“Johnny, where are you going? I’m scared you’ll be hurt.” Peggy ran to André and clutched his chest.

“Don’t fret, my darling,” André scoffed. “It’s a ragtag mob of farmers, half of them armed with nothing more than pitchforks. We’ll beat them back before the sun rises.” André kissed Peggy on the cheek while Robert squeezed Clara’s hand once, a silent communication between them. Without another word from André or Robert, they were off.

D
AYLIGHT BROUGHT
with it the sound of distant cannon fire, but no word from Major André. In fact there was no news from the outside world at all, as the city of Philadelphia remained huddled behind barred doors, unsure of which color they might see on the uniforms once they reemerged. Stores remained closed, houses remained shuttered, and the newspaper did not print that morning.

An eerie calm descended over the Shippen home, as over the rest of the city, while the residents waited. Waited for what, they didn’t know. They heard the occasional explosion sounding from some distant farm or woodland copse, but they could only imagine how the scenes of the battlefield were actually unfolding.

Clara scavenged what information she could as she observed the street below Peggy’s window. Fourth Street was empty of citizens, but flooded by men in red. British officers and soldiers scurried through the streets, some in marching formation, others in erratic clusters of two or three.

“I suppose I should dress, just in case.” Peggy sat at breakfast, utterly bored by this disruption to her social calendar. Her mother, complaining of a headache and having dedicated the day to prayer,
was not at the table to hear the comment. Betsy and the judge exchanged a meaningful look.

“Yes, I’ll dress.” Peggy pushed herself back from the breakfast table, waving Clara forward from where she stood by the buffet. “If André pushes his way through in time for dinner or dancing tonight, I should be prepared.”

Judge Shippen sighed, dropping his fork to rest his head in his hands.

“Don’t worry, my dear papa.” Peggy swooped down beside her father, kissing his cheek. “I’m sure our boys will be back in no time.”

“It’s not the troops I worry about, Margaret.”

I
N THE
late morning, while Peggy was putting the final strand of pearls around her high-vaulted
pouf
, Clara heard the familiar sound of carriage wheels outside the Shippens’ front door. She went to the window and looked out over the street, where she spotted André and Robert approaching. Trailing behind them was an open cart, laden with goods.

“They’re here,” Clara announced to Peggy. “André and Robert.”

“They are?” Peggy slid her feet into a pair of light blue heels and flew to the window. “Thank heavens I’m dressed. But I knew he would come.” She flitted out of the bedroom. “Johnny!” Peggy bounded down the carpeted hallway and descended the stairs two at a time, nearly knocking over a startled Betsy on the way down.

“Clara, send them into the parlor,” Peggy ordered her maid.

“What news? Come in, come in.” Clara opened the door before they had time to knock, and she ushered André and Robert into the parlor, where Peggy waited. Though Robert was staring at
her, Clara kept her gaze fixed on her mistress and Major André, eager to hear the report from the front.