The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  “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.”

  Clara knew in that instant that she would be unable to contain her mistress—she would have to refuse acting as Miss Peggy’s companion to the Masque, not unless Mrs. Quigley or some other servant accompanied her. If left alone with Miss Peggy, Clara could not be sure what sort of trouble her lady might find.

  As Peggy and André began giggling, Clara was sure to avoid Robert Balmor’s eyes. Mr. Quigley rapped on the door. “Fresh flowers for the lady, from Lord Rawdon.” The butler entered carrying a bouquet of white and pink lilies.

  “Thank you, Mr. Quigley,” Peggy answered. “Just place them on the end table.”

  “So I have competition?” André eyed the flowers, helping himself to the note that Peggy’s admirer had tucked into the petals.

  “Does that come as such a shock?” Peggy asked.

  “Rawdon certainly seems quite taken with you, Miss Shippen.”

  Peggy smirked before turning her attention back to her new dress. “A beautiful bloom does not invite the attention of the bees, and yet they buzz around it; is that not so, Major André?”

  Aye, and a rotting carcass does not invite the attention of the flies, and yet they buzz around it, Clara thought to herself, but she bit her tongue. She alarmed herself with how much she sounded like her Oma.

  “Well, what do you think?” Peggy’s tone was teasing.

  “You don’t want to know what I’m thinking. Not appropriate in the presence of ladies.” André and his secretary exchanged a laugh, which Clara found supremely unsuitable.

  “Coffin has done a nice job.” André turned his focus back to the gown, the sash, and the jewels with an inspecting gaze, circling Peggy with a slow, lithe stride.

  “Do you like it, Johnny?” Peggy stood fixed, awaiting his approval.

  “I shall wear the sword, but you shall pierce the heart of every man present, as usual.” André winked at Peggy. Clara turned her gaze from Major André to his secretary and noticed that she had caught Robert staring at her. She averted her eyes.

  “And what else shall you wear?” Peggy asked, adjusting the turban on her head to ensure that her blond hair fell in a flattering arrangement.

  “I am going to wear a white satin vest with scarlet sleeves to match you. Wide harem pants, a hat of red satin, and large peacock plumes.” He approached her now. Clara noticed Mr. Quigley glowering at André, but Peggy only giggled in delight.

  “Johnny! It’ll be the first time I’ll see you out of your officer’s uniform.”

  “That’s not entirely true, my dear.” André winked and both he and Peggy erupted in laughter. Clara felt nauseous, and she decided in that moment that she despised Major John André; she hated André and the frivolous, reckless behavior he never failed to solicit from her mistress.

  Mr. Quigley, who seemed to be taking much longer than necessary to deposit the vase of flowers, probably on orders from his wife, cleared his throat from the corner, and André pulled himself away from Peggy back to a respectable distance.

  “You will be such a dashing knight, Johnny.” Peggy turned from the mirror to André, reaching her hands out to him. “Will you have a shield for the jousting? I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve painted my shield with our crest, featuring two cocks fighting.”

  “Delightful. And what will our motto be?” Peggy asked. “I have an idea.” She pulled him close and whispered something only André could hear.

  He laughed. “Why, you are quite the little heathen, aren’t you, Miss Shippen? No, no, so as to avoid offending some of the more genteel members of the party, our motto shall be: No Rival.”

  “Oh, all right. That sounds very fine.” Peggy nodded approvingly. “I’ll be sure to tell Meg Chew.”

  “You are devilish.” André laughed. “So, my darling, I’ve brought you something.”

  “A present?” Peggy asked.

  André nodded. “For you to wear tomorrow night.” André retrieved a small box from Robert’s outstretched hand and placed it into Peggy’s grip. She slowly untied the ribbon and slid the box cover loose. “Oh!” she squealed in delight.

  “Clara, come look at these.” Clara looked into the box to see two combs bedecked in claret jewels the color of the scarlet satin. “You’ll have to figure out the best way to style these in my hair.”

  “They will look delightful beneath your turban, my dear,” André said, sticking one of the combs into a loose wave of Peggy’s hair.

  “Is a gentleman supposed to know what a lady is wearing beneath her turban?” Peggy’s eyes glanced up at André’s suggestively. With his face poised just inches from hers,
Clara worried that André intended to kiss Peggy, right there in front of all the other company present.

  “When you wear that costume you are no longer a lady, my darling, nor should you act like one.”

  “WAKE UP, Clara! Your mistress is calling for you!” Mrs. Quigley’s stern voice shook Clara from her deep slumber. Her dark bedroom was pierced only by the hint of a feeble, predawn light.

  “Is it time to rise?” Clara looked up groggily. She’d never had the luxury of lying in bed past dawn with Oma on the farm, but this felt even earlier than her usual waking hour.

  “It’s time to rise whenever Miss Peggy wants you,” Mrs. Quigley answered, sighing. “Tonight is the Masque—she probably didn’t sleep a wink last night in her excitement.”

  Clara dressed quickly in the dark. She slid into a simple dress, feeling its well-tailored tightness around her body. The sleeves fit her arms, the midsection fit her waist—there was a precision, a snugness, which Oma’s homemade wools and linens had never achieved. The dress smelled of firewood and beeswax, vestiges of the previous, unnamed owner who had worn this through the Shippen home. But it was all hers.

  Clara found Peggy sitting upright in bed. The curtains were opened to let in the violet hues of dawn, and Peggy stared out the window as if willing the sun to rise faster.

  “Clara!” Peggy turned to her maid, her hair tousled from sleep. “Thank goodness you’re here. I was too eager this morning and I’m afraid I tore my dress.” Peggy rose from her bed and ran to the spot where her costume lay draped over a chair. “You must fix it.” Peggy pointed to a tear that ran parallel to the back row of buttons.

  “Can it be done?” Peggy’s face creased in anxiety.

  “I will do my best, Miss Peggy,” Clara answered, already weary, and she hurried to fetch her sewing kit. Back in Miss Peggy’s room, she installed herself on the window seat, working on the dress while Peggy washed, all the while chatting merrily about the coming evening.

  “I hope this day goes quickly. I just want it to be evening already!”

  They asked Hannah to send breakfast up to Peggy’s bedchamber so that Peggy could sort her ribbons and Clara could finish her sewing. When the dress had been mended, Peggy stepped into her costume once more to examine Clara’s stitching.

  Both Clara and Peggy noticed the figure hovering near the doorway of the bedchamber.

  “Betsy, do you intend to sulk on my threshold like some ghost deciding whether or not to haunt? Either come in or continue walking.”

  “I was just looking.” Betsy lowered her eyes, embarrassed.

  “You can see better up close. Come in,” Peggy said. Betsy obeyed. The elder sister examined the trim of pearls that cascaded down the skirt.

  “What do you think?” Peggy threw her shoulders back, her chest forward.

  “Do you think I might borrow it some time?” Betsy asked, arms folded in front of her own plain skirt.

  Peggy laughed. “For what?”

  “I don’t know. Anything. A future ball, perhaps?”

  Peggy turned her eyes from her sister back to the mirror, fluffing her hair under the turban. Quietly, she answered, “If you refrain from cream and pastries for a bit. Otherwise I don’t see how you shall squeeze into it.”

  Betsy’s hopeful face wilted.

  Peggy sensed her sister’s hurt and walked toward her, taking Betsy’s hand in her own. “Bets, you know as well as I do that we are not the same size.”

  “I’m taller.” Betsy lifted her chin, defiant. Clara noticed, with relief, that Peggy let the comment go unanswered.

  “Come here, Bets, you must see the hair combs André gave me to wear!” Peggy flitted about her room, locating the combs and slipping them into her hair.

  “How do you think I should wear them?” Peggy asked, cocking her head left and right to scrutinize her appearance from several angles. Her brow furrowed as she scrutinized her reflection.

  “Clara, I don’t like this right here, I can still see the tear.” Peggy shed the dress and handed it back to her maid. Turning to her sister, Peggy asked, “What are you going to wear tonight, Bets?”

  “I do not know.” Betsy stared longingly at her sister’s gown. “Some dress in my wardrobe, I suppose. But I should like Clara to help me dress.”

  “Yes, of course.” Peggy shrugged her shoulders, not removing her eyes from her own reflection. “As long as I don’t need her.”

  WHEN AT last the tear in the dress had been repaired, Clara handed the dress over to her mistress and plopped down on the sofa, taking a moment’s respite. Peggy Shippen kept a fast pace all day, Clara was learning. Would she have time to steal away for a quick nap before the evening?

  “Clara, what are you doing? Get up, next we must wash my hair so it has time to dry before we style it.” Peggy showed no signs of fatigue, and Clara realized that there would be no rest before the evening.

  “Perhaps I should bring us up some lunch first,” Clara suggested, observing the clock that told her it was midday.

  “I’m not hungry.” Peggy shook her head. “But I’ll take some wine.” Peggy stared into the mirror, holding the gown out before her.

  “Yes, my lady.” Clara rose from her seat beside the window, looking out over the street as she stood. There, on the cobblestoned lane, a small group approached the Shippen home. Clara studied the assembly—a cluster of half a dozen men, dressed plainly in clothes of gray and black.

  “Goodness,” Clara sighed. If Peggy had suitors visiting in groups this large, Clara would have to enlist reinforcements. But these men were older, and certainly not dressed like British officers. The leader of the group knocked on the Shippens’ door.

  “Miss Peggy, I don’t know how you have the energy to do this every day, taking calls from so many admirers.”

  “What else should a girl of eighteen be doing to occupy her time, Clara? Sitting at home knitting with her bore of a mother? I can guarantee you, Meg Chew is doing nothing of the sort!”

  “Who is it this time?” Clara asked, studying the men below. They looked nothing like Peggy’s other suitors. Peggy approached the window and peeked down to the street.

  “Oh, they are not for me!” Peggy stated, her tone derisive. “They are for Mother.”

  “Your mother has suitors?” It seemed highly irregular.

  “No!” Peggy replied. “You are such a laugh, Clara. You really did come from a farm.”

  Clara nodded.

  “It’s the Quakers,” Peggy explained.

  “The . . . who?” Clara leaned once more beside her mistress at the window.

  “Quakers. A religious society. William Penn was one. No doubt they are here to lament the erosion of our morals or some such boring business. So, what do you say, bring me some wine and then we shall figure out which stockings I should wear.”

  WHEN THE Quakers departed, Judge Shippen sent word to his daughters that they were to meet him in his study downstairs. Clara was towel-drying Peggy’s hair, which she had just finished washing with lemon and verbena soap. “I am sopping wet!” Peggy grumbled to Mr. Quigley when he delivered the summons. She had planned to go out in the garden to lie in the sun and allow her locks to dry before curling them.

  “I am simply a humble messenger, Miss Peggy, delivering the message from your father.” Mr. Quigley put his hands up defensively. “Judge Shippen awaits you and Miss Betsy in the study.”

  But Betsy was already down there, as evident by the shrill protests Clara heard as she descended the staircase behind Peggy. “But I do not intend to dress like a concubine—you cannot prevent me from going!” Betsy whined. “Papa, please let me go to the Masque!”

  Clara paused outside the study, meeting Mrs. Quigley at the threshold.

  “Best if you wait here with me, Clara.” The old woman folded her arms and leaned against the doorway. “We need play no part in this.”

  “What is this?” Peggy breezed into the study, passing her sister to approach her father, who was seated behin
d his broad, walnut desk. Mrs. Shippen entered the room and stood over her husband’s shoulder. “What is she doing in here?” Peggy stared at her mother.

  “Girls, sit, please.” Judge Shippen was fidgeting with his plume, dipping it in the inkwell only to draw a series of straight lines on the parchment in front of him. Peggy and Betsy sat beside each other on the chairs opposite their father’s desk.

  “Girls, your mother and I have just been visited from a few prominent members of the Society of Friends.”

  “The Quakers,” Peggy said sourly.

  “Yes. They’ve educated us a bit more on this ball which you planned to attend this evening. They’ve told us some . . . details . . . which you seem to have neglected to share with us.” From her spot in the doorway Clara saw the judge look at his younger daughter with a rare sternness.

  “So what?” Peggy answered him with a bored shrug of her shoulders. A puddle was collecting on the floor beneath her wet hair.

  “Is it true,” the judge said, “that you, Margaret, are to attend the party dressed like a pagan member of a Turkish harem?” The judge’s cheeks flushed while he posed the question.

  “Father, when you put it like that, it sounds much worse than it is. It’s a ball in honor of General Howe. We must show our support for him before he departs for England.”

  “Answer the question, Margaret,” her mother interjected.

  “What question, Mother?” Peggy asked with exaggerated sweetness.

  “Are you to attend dressed like a Turkish harem member?” Mrs. Shippen repeated.

  “That’s one way to look at it. It’s all for entertainment. Perfectly harmless. The men will be the Knights of the Crusades and we shall be the maidens of Constantinople.”

  “So it is true.” Judge Shippen appeared wounded. “When the Quakers told me this, I didn’t want to believe it, Margaret.”

  “It is not so vulgar as you would have it seem. Johnny, er, Major André and the rest of Howe’s men have been working diligently for weeks—on sets, costumes, a jousting pavilion. It’s nothing more than an elaborate play, Papa.” Peggy rose from her seat as if to approach him behind the desk.