The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  “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.”

  “Thank you, Lord Rawdon.” That was all the permission Peggy needed to take her leave. Peggy curtsied once more, perfectly polite, before lifting her skirts up and walking briskly across the lawn.

  “Better follow.” Cal directed Clara’s gaze toward the retreating figure of Miss Peggy and Mrs. Quigley, who labored to keep apace.

  “Will you not join us?” Clara asked, her gaze darting between the familiar sight of Cal and the large crowd of elegantly dressed revelers down the hill.

  “I’ll have to take care of them first.” Caleb cocked his head toward the Shippen horses. “Good luck, Clara Bell.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Don’t let them take your money at cards . . . these Redcoats are good at parting us simple Americans from our purses.”

  Clara laughed. “Thanks for the warning, Cal.”

  Cal led the carriage toward the stables to water the horses as Clara’s eyes traveled down the lawn toward the tent. A canopy hung against the velvety blue of the early evening sky, and a trellis draped in ivy welcomed the guests inside. Small, circular tables for parties of six were arranged throughout the tent, covered in white damask tablecloths and crystal Champagne flutes. Throughout the tent, arrangements of freshly clipped wildflowers spilled out of vases, their perfume mixing with the fragrances dabbed on women’s wrists to give the air a fresh, springtime aroma. Chandeliers of tiered candles hung overhead, and the light not only danced on the faces of the revelers but on the glasslike surface of the nearby Schuylkill River.

  Clara trotted toward the figures of Mrs. Quigley and Miss Peggy and reached them just as they stepped inside the tent. Mrs. Quigley was pulled immediately into the task of fetching Champagne by a servant, and Clara stood alone beside her mistress before the assembly.

  “Oh my,” Clara sighed.

  “What is it?” Peggy cocked her head toward her maid.

  Clara, who had not realized she had uttered her thoughts aloud, stammered, “It’s enchanting, that’s all.” Her eyes traveled to the far corner of the tent, where a string quartet played a languid waltz that could barely be heard over the sounds of laughter, flirtatious compliments, and the occasional bawdy joke.

  “Oh, yes of course.” Peggy waved a gloved hand, less interested in the décor and the music; Clara noticed her lady’s eyes darting from face to smiling face, seeking out one smile in particular.

  “Hello, Peg.” A man, dressed in a suit of pale robin’s egg blue, waved as he crossed the tent toward Peggy.

  “Joseph Stansbury.” Peggy leaned in and kissed the man, who appeared to have spent longer dressing than even Peggy herself. His cheeks were bulbous, cherry-colored orbs stained in blush, below a heavily powdered wig of tight curls. His heeled shoes looked as though they could have been chosen from Peggy’s wardrobe.

  “I love this rose shade on you.” Joseph studied Peggy’s dress with interest, speaking in a distinctly British accent.

  “Thank you.” Peggy performed a playful twirl. “I like the blue on you, Stansbury.”

  “Yes, the blue would complement you nicely, with your eyes,” the man agreed, cupping his chin in his slender fingers, a ring on his middle finger catching a glint of candlelight.

  “I’ll have to order a gown in that color. How is your store?” Peggy asked.

  “Business is good now that the British are back in charge.”

  “I shall toast to that.” Peggy smiled.

  “We got some new dishes today, straight from London. You’re going to love them.” He turned his sharp eyes on Clara. “And who is this?”

  “Oh, this? This is nobody.” Peggy shook her head. “Just my new lady’s maid.” Peggy waved her hand perfunctorily in the direction of Clara. “You know how my parents are suddenly so concerned with protecting my virtue.”

  “So they send this poor creature out to protect your honor?” Stansbury’s eyed narrowed on Clara—her homespun clothing, her dusty boots, her weary posture. Clara balled her fists but bit her lip to prevent the utterance of an impolite retort.

  “Well, I’ll say this much: you know you’re a lady, Peggy Shippen, when you get your own lady’s maid.”

  “Haven’t I always been a lady?” Peggy teased.

  “Well, does she have a name?”

  “Of course, Clara is her name. Clara, this is Joseph Stansbury, the china merchant on Market Street. We’ll pay a visit to his store soon.”

  “A pleasure.” Clara curtsied, as she’d seen her mistress do, before the china merchant.

  “Shall we go get some Champagne?” Joseph Stansbury offered a thin arm to Peggy.

  “In a minute. I’ll come find you inside, Stansbury.”

  “Are you shooing me away?” The merchant pouted, crossing his arms.

  “Please, Stansbury, just go, quick!” Peggy waved the man away as she turned toward a figure in a red coat gliding toward her.

  “Miss Shippen.” The dark-haired officer approached in several smooth strides, the sword at his waist swinging back and forth as his heels clicked confidently on the ground.

  This man, Clara realized, was John André. She could see the resemblance to the cut-out paper silhouette in the bedroom, but he was more arresting in person. Major André’s body was tall and lean, adorned in a stiff red coat and tight-fitting breeches, with the glossy leather boots of the British officer. He wore his dark hair pulled back, a ribbon tied loosely at the nape of his neck.

  “Major André,” Peggy answered, her voice suddenly faint.

  “You look ravishing, as usual, my dear.” André took Peggy’s hand and gave it a soft kiss. He was close enough now that Clara detected the faint, sweet scent of Champagne on his breath. As she stood beside her mistress, Clara felt the smoldering intensity of his brown-eyed gaze.

  “Major André, I—” Peggy said, not taking her hand away from his lips.

  “What is this formality, ma chérie? I prefer ‘Johnny,’ you know that.”

  “Johnny . . .” Peggy allowed both of her hands to be scooped up in his—her skin even more white against his dark, olive coloring.

  “Johnny.” Peggy inched her body closer to his, so that she was looking up into his face. “I wore the rose gown. It’s your favorite, right?”

  Her hands in his, he lifted her arms wide so that he might stare, unabashedly, at her figure. Clara cringed at how bare an
d vulnerable her mistress suddenly appeared: her exposed shoulders and collarbone, her tiny waist, the broad cascading skirt. “Magnifique.” André winked at Peggy, and his approval was met with several exaggerated blinks of Peggy’s eyelashes. “Though I must say, whatever dress you put on immediately becomes my favorite.”

  Peggy demurred, a sheepish blush, and Clara realized that this was the first time since she’d met Peggy that her mistress had very little to say.

  “Shall we?” Major André wove his arm through Peggy’s, “Entrons-nous?”

  Leaving Clara near the tent’s entrance, Peggy allowed herself to be escorted under the twinkling chandelier and deeper into the tent. “Oh, Johnny, I’m so glad that Lord Rawdon has arranged for the string quartet tonight. Your military bands—your drums and your fifes—are all fine for your marches and battles, but for cards and Champagne, I just want the violins.” Peggy’s voice was like warm honey as she tilted her head sideways, looking up at her escort and gliding farther away from Clara.

  “That girl.” Mrs. Quigley was back at Clara’s side, muttering under her breath with clear disapproval.

  “You’re back.” Clara’s frame slackened with relief as she caught sight of the old woman.

  “Not for long, I fear. Apparently I left my work behind at the Shippen home only to work at another person’s home.” Mrs. Quigley clasped her hands together in front of her skirt, turning toward the receding figure of Miss Peggy. “And I return to find her already scooped up by the most notorious flirt of the bunch.” Mrs. Quigley stared at André with mistrust. “Had Miss Peggy not been born to a high family like the Shippens, well, I don’t like to think what might have become of her . . .”

  But Clara’s eyes wandered back to the figure of Miss Peggy, whose entrance into the tent seemed to have attracted dozens of watchers. Miss Peggy floated flawlessly through the crowd, turning heads as she passed, greeting her fellow guests but never entering into conversation long enough to cede Major André’s attentions. Her movements, so honed and subtle in their natural elegance, reminded Clara of a willow branch lilting in the breeze.

  “Now what happens, Mrs. Quigley?” Clara took in the scene as if it were some play she was attending for the first time.

  “Easy, Clara, you’re not the swooning type as well, are you? We’ve got enough on our hands with Miss Peggy.” Mrs. Quigley frowned at Clara, who made a sudden effort to throw back her shoulders and not appear so entirely rapt with the surroundings.

  Mrs. Quigley sighed, clasping her hands together behind her back. “Now they’ll play cards and sip Champagne for the next few hours, and we’ll stand here and look on as the night grows chilly. Once they’ve had just enough to loosen their morals, they will grow sleepy and we’ll carry our mistress home, where we will deposit her safely into bed.” Mrs. Quigley nodded her chin, staring crossly once more at Major André.

  “Do we stand here the whole time, watching?”

  “Yes, we do, and now you know why I see this as a waste of a night.” Mrs. Quigley snapped, suddenly ornery. Clara decided against telling the old woman how excited she was by the idea of watching this evening unfold.

  Mrs. Quigley jerked her chin toward Peggy. “But it was wise of the judge and Mrs. Shippen to make sure Miss Peggy was not unaccompanied. I don’t like to repeat gossip, mind you, but I’ve known the folks in this town long enough to catch wind of the tales that are being spread about. And lots of folks have been talking about the . . . friendship . . . between our Miss Peggy and that officer of late.”

  Clara turned toward Miss Peggy just in time to see her deliver the final line of a joke that caused Major André to erupt in hearty laughter.

  “Course, I haven’t got the faintest idea why Miss Peggy requested that you join her tonight, saving for the fact that she wanted to lay her claim on you over Miss Betsy.” Mrs. Quigley looked at Clara, her eyes serious. Clara could not help but smart at the comment—it did in fact seem as though Miss Peggy sought her companionship at least, if not friendship. And why should she not?

  “Just you be careful, Clara. That’s all I’ll say.”

  Clara nodded, obedient, but in her mind she was thinking about how delightful it would be to have a young woman as fine and sought-after as Miss Peggy to call a friend. If only Oma could see her tonight, at a grand soiree hosted by a lord!

  “Oh there you are, Quigley, thank heavens!”

  “Oh, bother, what now?” Mrs. Quigley and Clara turned to see a large woman, breathless, hovering outside the threshold of the tent. Like Mrs. Quigley, she wore calico print and a linen cap, and carried herself with an air of determined—if not a bit harried—authority. “Quigley!”

  “Hello, Lottie. Splendid night you’ve arranged here.” Mrs. Quigley turned toward the woman and slid out of the tent, with Clara following behind.

  “Splendid, my foot!” The woman crossed her thick arms. “Our cook has taken sick before finishing the fruit tarts. If Lord Rawdon finds out that his cook has chosen tonight, of all times, to get sick, he’ll sack her immediately.” The woman’s eyes were wide with panic. “Is this your new maid?” The frantic housekeeper eyed Clara. “Can you lend her to me? Just for tonight?” Before receiving permission, the woman clasped Clara’s arm in her hard, bracing grip and began to tug her toward the house. “We need someone to help finish these tarts.”

  “She can’t cook, Lottie,” Mrs. Quigley answered, her voice thick with irritation about this fact. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll come.” Mrs. Quigley turned to Clara with a stern expression. “Right, I’m going to run up to the kitchen to help them for a bit. You”—she raised a finger in Clara’s face—“you, Clara, do not let Miss Peggy out of your sight for one minute. You hear me?”

  Clara nodded, looking through the entrance into the tent to locate her mistress. “Aye, Mrs. Quigley.” The housekeeper still looked reluctant to leave Clara, or, more likely, Miss Peggy. She cast a nervous glance toward her young mistress and saw that Major André was squeezing her waist. “Not for a second!”

  Clara nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I understand.” The two older women hustled away from the tent toward the house, arguing with each other as they crossed the lawn. Clara, alone outside the tent, pulled her neckerchief closer around her shoulders and turned back toward the party, fixing her gaze on her mistress. Lord Rawdon had once again found Peggy, and he’d succeeded in momentarily separating her from Major André.

  Clara leaned in, too timid to enter the tent on her own, and instead paused at the threshold and strained her ears to pick up the strands of their quiet conversation. “My lady, Miss Shippen, that this land could produce beauty like you, it makes all thirteen colonies worth fighting for.” Lord Rawdon made these declarations with the unseasoned awkwardness of a man more skilled in battle than in the ballroom.

  “You are too generous with your words, Lord Rawdon.” Peggy smiled under her host’s praise, but she edged away. She glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of Major André. He stood beside the musicians in the corner, his attention occupied with another gowned beauty. This lady was arresting in a manner entirely different than Peggy Shippen. While Peggy was petite in stature, with golden hair and a fair complexion, this woman was tall and full-figured, with glossy brunette locks and a warm skin tone. She was dressed in a silk gown of a rich scarlet red. Her hair, like Peggy’s, was pulled high up off her neck, and she wore a ruby necklace, which fell on her bosom and invited admiring stares from the officers who passed. Standing opposite Major André, she was his perfect complement.

  “Admiring the cast of characters?” Clara jumped at the sound of a man’s voice, and she turned to see an unfamiliar face beside her under the trellis.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I did not mean to startle you, Miss . . . ?”

  “Miss Bell. Clara Bell.” She shifted her weight. This man did not wear the uniform, as most of the men in the tent did, but he looked more dapper than a servant in his black wool coat, starched white linen top, and matching black breeches.
Around his neck he wore a maroon cravat, and he held his black tricornered hat in his hand.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” He inched his way closer to Clara, peering over her shoulder into the tent.

  “I suppose,” Clara answered, shifting away from this brazen man.

  “Which one are you here with?” The man asked, turning his gaze on Clara.

  Clara straightened her posture. “I’m the lady’s maid to Miss Peggy Shippen.”

  “Aha! Is that so?” This man, with neatly combed dark hair and light eyes, spoke with an accent that gave him away as British.

  “Yes.” Clara looked at him, hoping he would now leave her in peace to watch the party and supervise her mistress. And where was Cal? she wondered.

  “An enviable post, being lady’s maid to Miss Margaret Shippen. How did you manage to get that position?”

  Courtesy required that she answer his question, though Clara did not wish to engage in continued conversation with this forward stranger, not while she was to be watching her mistress. She answered him, keeping her eyes fixed inside the tent. “My grandmother, before she died, was an old friend of the Shippens’ housekeeper.”

  “Mrs. Quigley,” he answered. “But I thought the Shippens had cut their waitstaff?”

  “That’s right.” Clara turned to him. How did this stranger know so much about the Shippen family’s situation?

  “Go on—you were telling me about your grandmother?”

  Clara looked into this man’s face. She had to admit he was handsome, even if she found his manners a bit uncouth. “When the Shippen family relocated to their farm in Lancaster at the start of the war, they were near the farm where I lived. My grandmother helped the Shippen family and their servants stay fed that first winter.”

  “Ah, so you saved the Shippens, and now they’ve hired you. One favor returned for another favor?”

  “I don’t know that I like being referred to as a favor, sir.” Clara bristled. “I intend to work hard and earn my keep. I’m no charity case.”

  “Indeed you are not, Miss Bell. I meant no offense. Besides, it’s to you we owe our thanks for Miss Peggy Shippen’s presence tonight.”