Clara chuckled in spite of herself. “Nothing that dramatic, I’m afraid.”
“Mrs. Quigley is a fine lady,” the man added. Clara turned to him.
“And how is it that you consider yourself so knowledgeable about the Shippen home?”
The man smiled. “I spend enough time there, I ought to know a thing or two.”
“Is that so?” Clara’s eyebrows arched.
“I am the secretary to Major John André. The name’s Robert Balmor. Major André and I, we spend quite a lot of time with the younger Miss Shippen.” Robert smirked.
“I know that Major André is a favorite of my mistress.” Clara peered into the tent and saw that Miss Peggy was still embroiled in conversation with Lord Rawdon.
“And Peggy Shippen is a favorite of Major André’s as well,” Robert answered.
Clara did not like the way he spoke of Miss Peggy with such familiarity.
“Have you met that gentleman yet?” Robert pointed toward the man in the pale blue suit.
“Why yes, that’s Joseph Stansbury,” Clara said, feeling a surge of pride at knowing something as well. “He runs the china shop on Market Street. Miss Peggy introduced me to him when we first arrived.”
“Ah, yes. The illustrious china merchant from London.” Robert nodded. “He’s a good friend of Peggy Shippen’s. And, I suspect, the only man in the tent who is more interested in Miss Shippen’s ball gown than in what lies beneath it.”
Clara blushed and shifted her weight. How brazen the men were at this gathering! Seeking to divert the conversation, she pointed toward Major André and the brunette beauty at his side. “And who’s that lady? Major André has barely left her side since we arrived.” Clara knew her mistress would not be pleased about that.
“Ah, that’s Meg Chew,” Robert answered, a hint of reverence in his voice. “Not too difficult on the eyes, is she?”
“Miss Peggy mentioned a Meg Chew,” Clara said, remembering their conversation in her mistress’s bedroom.
“Yes, Meg Chew is a rival of Peggy Shippen’s. Her only rival, really.” Robert’s gaze flitted between the two women as they would between two pastries of equal allure. And he was not alone; Clara noticed that most of the men in the tent seemed to be angling to speak with one or the other.
Meg still had André’s attention, yet Peggy made no move toward him. She simply watched from the far side of the tent, smiling as if Lord Rawdon were the most charming man at the soiree. Clara couldn’t decide which of the two rivals was more enchanting. Peggy had a girlish vitality, a mischievous glimmer in her eye, while Meg Chew seemed haughty, supremely confident, even regal.
“Your master is an artist?” Clara asked, thinking back to the silhouette in Peggy’s possession.
“Yes, he’s constantly drawing sketches, cutting out paper silhouettes, even writing poetry.”
Clara nodded. “He gave one such silhouette to Miss Peggy.”
“And another to Miss Chew.” Robert cocked his head.
“That seems cruel,” Clara answered.
“He’s a great favorite of the ladies. Something about him—he writes a poem about them, speaks a little French, or draws their likeness, and they fall for him. His good looks don’t hurt, I suppose.”
Her mistress could tame him, Clara thought. She’d only known Peggy Shippen a few hours, but already she was certain of that.
“Problem is, the major can’t seem to make up his mind as to which one he wants,” Robert continued. “One week we are spending every afternoon in Judge Shippen’s parlor as André paints Peggy. The next week, he is strolling the gardens at the Chew mansion, composing a poem with Meg.”
Robert and Clara stopped speaking as Lord Rawdon crossed to the center of the tent and encouraged his guests to take their seats for card games. Wigged footmen descended on the tables immediately, distributing cards and bowls of pistachios, and filling flutes with French Champagne. Clara watched as Lord Rawdon seated Peggy beside himself. Opposite them sat Meg Chew and Major André.
Well, at least she was at his table, Clara thought. “Who are the remaining guests at their table?” she asked, watching the seats fill.
“Joseph Stansbury you already know.” Robert pointed at the merchant who sat on Peggy’s other side. “And that other lady is Christianne Amile, another Tory belle.”
Clara watched as Major André clinked his glass against Meg Chew’s, saying something to make the brunette toss her rich curls back in laughter. Across the table, Peggy was chatting with an officer who had approached her to pay his respects.
“That’s Captain Hammond, coming to talk with Peggy now,” Robert said. “Another admirer.” Clara could sense Peggy’s frustration—it was evident in the slightly tense manner her gestures had assumed, even as she attempted to flirt with this other admirer. “Every man is paying his respects except your master, who seems to be entirely ignoring her.”
Robert weighed this, but did not reply.
“Why is he jilting her, spending the whole night with Meg Chew?” It wasn’t right, flaunting his courtship in front of Peggy’s face when he knew she cared for him.
“Well, I do believe he prefers Peggy Shippen,” Robert said thoughtfully. “But Major André is a smart man. The Chews are a much wealthier family. The Shippen money is old money, which is respectable, and there once was a lot of it. But since the colonies rebelled, Judge Shippen has halted all his business dealings. He’s afraid to trade with either the British or the rebels. It’s hard to believe how quickly their money has been sapped up.”
Clara looked at the yards of fine silk adorning her mistress’s figure, the string of pearls around her neck and in her vaulted hairdo. She thought back to the elegant coach in which they’d ridden to the party. “Not that hard to believe,” Clara mumbled.
Robert looked over his shoulder. “I could really use a glass of ale. Or better yet, Champagne.”
Clara stared at him, eyes wide.
“What? Just because we are attendants, we can’t enjoy the party too?” The keen way Robert looked at her put Clara on edge, and she angled her body away from his to look back into the tent.
“I am certain that I should not be drinking Lord Rawdon’s Champagne,” she answered.
“Tut, tut, aren’t you a proud one?” Balmor teased her.
“I must behave properly, in a manner befitting the Shippen household,” Clara answered, certain that her reply would have garnered Mrs Quigley’s approval; but now it seemed to garner Robert’s scorn.
“And you don’t think Miss Peggy is drinking Champagne in that tent?”
This point silenced Clara.
“We British don’t believe in being so stiff, Clara. War can be fun, can’t it?” Robert whispered in her ear, speaking so close that his breath landed on her neck, causing a few soft hairs to stand on end.
The string quartet struck up a minuet and the entire tent grew excited with the upbeat tempo. In the hustle of couples rising to dance, Major André got up from the table and slid beside Peggy. He extended a hand and lifted Peggy to dance.
“Ah, look who just asked Peggy to dance. Should we not mimic our very proper, very elegant employers?” Robert extended his hand toward Clara as he gave an exaggerated bow. “May I have this dance, my lady?”
“Oh, no, I can’t dance,” Clara answered quickly. The thought alone made her uncomfortable. Oma had never let her learn.
“All you have to do is follow my lead.” Before she could protest, Robert had stepped toward Clara and wrapped one arm around her waist. Clara resisted. She’d never had such intimate contact with a man.
“I cannot.” She shook her head.
“I won’t bite, I promise.” Robert’s smile served to calm her, somewhat. He took her other hand in his own, and he began to sway opposite her, leading her across a small patch of the dark lawn. Over his shoulder, Clara caught glimpses of her mistress, who was floating across the dance floor, her eyes fixed on Major André.
“Is this so tor
turous, Miss Bell?” Robert stared at her, his head falling sideways.
“I suppose not, Mr. Balmor.” Clara suppressed the flush that rose to her cheeks.
The music came to an abrupt halt and Robert dropped her hands. Clara noticed, with surprise, that she felt disappointment when he pulled away.
Before Clara understood what was happening, the men in the tent had left their partners in the middle of the dance. They stood, arms heavy at their sides, gazes fixed straight forward. From somewhere, a drumroll started.
“What is going on?” Clara looked around the crowd, confused, and noticed that a column of British flags had appeared in the tent, marched forward by smartly dressed soldiers.
“There he is.” Robert strained forward to see a small figure, just entering the tent. He was older than the rest of the men, and flanked on both sides by officers, aides, and attendants. The shoulders of his red jacket were weighted down with oversized silk epaulets, and he wore a scarlet sash across his narrow chest. On top of his head rested a white wig of tightly wound curls. He looked throughout the tent scrupulously, his eyes fixating on each officer, who, in turn, seemed to stand a little more erect under his gaze. Clara turned to Robert, curious.
“That is General Howe,” Robert whispered. “General William Howe, Commander of the British troops in America.” The military drums pounded out a rhythmic roll until the men, in perfectly rehearsed unison, saluted him.
With a wave of his hand, the general told his men to resume their dancing, and he took a seat at a table with two of his aides-decamp. At this point, Lord Rawdon’s attendants paraded into the tent with dishes of fruit tarts and silver pots of coffee.
“I see Mrs. Quigley helped them finish the desserts,” Clara said, pointing at the sweets being deposited on the tables.
Robert glanced around the tent, noticing how all the officers were suddenly consumed with the arrival of General Howe. “Now’s our chance,” he whispered. “I’m going to steal us a bottle of Champagne. Come help me.”
“I certainly shall not.”
“You act so offended, Clara.” Robert smirked. “But I bet that when I return, I shall be able to convince you to have a glass with me. Have you ever had French Champagne before?”
“I have not.” Clara crossed her arms.
“Well, it’s one thing the French got right. I’ll be back and you’ll see for yourself.” Robert was off, gliding undetected toward a vacated table on the outer edge of the tent. The officers, still jostling to approach the general, did not notice as he swiped a full bottle.
“Now I must just find us two glasses!” Robert smiled at her, holding up the frosty bottle. “I’ll be right back.” With a wink, Robert disappeared farther into the crowded tent.
Clara looked on—appalled, yet somehow amused. What would Oma say about such a brazen young man? But Clara was the maid to a lady as grand as Peggy Shippen now. Was she not allowed to share just a bit of the fun being enjoyed by the rest of the partygoers? And Robert had turned out to be perfectly polite to her. And hadn’t she spotted servants taking clandestine sips of Champagne all night outside of the tent? The mood inside the tent was too merry, the evening too pleasant, the music too cheerful for her to decline a small glass of Champagne.
Clara turned her gaze back to the dance floor, looking for Peggy. She scanned the dancing bodies, looking for that bright spot of pink silk. But where had her mistress gone? At the tables, where couples had resumed card games, there was no pink. Clara checked near the band, in the queue of guests lined up to meet the general, but her mistress was nowhere in the tent. Clara’s heart quickened. In the excitement of the general’s entrance, she had lost sight of her mistress and had allowed her to slip away, unnoticed.
“Oh, no.” Clara felt as if she might cry. Her first night and she’d already failed at her job. Mrs. Quigley would dismiss her for sure. She stepped away and hurried along the perimeter of the tent, wondering if perhaps Miss Peggy had stepped outside to get some air. But it was so dark, she’d never be able to see. And then Clara detected a sound, a faint giggling, coming from down the sloping hill by the bank of the river. Clara squinted, willing her eyes to see in the darkness.
“Johnny!” More laughter. The voice by the river was, without a doubt, Peggy’s.
Clara focused in on the sounds. A blurred outline slowly took shape as Clara’s eyes adjusted to the night. Two figures. Peggy and Major André, sitting beside each other near the river.
“I thought I’d never be able to steal you away from our gracious host, the esteemed Lord Rawdon.” Major André’s genteel British accent was easily detectable now that Clara had located them.
“Fortunately General Howe provided sufficient distraction,” Peggy answered, leaning toward her companion. They clinked glasses and then Peggy drained her Champagne. Clara noticed, with horror, that André did not sip from his own glass, but instead offered his drink to Peggy as well. She drank it.
“If I were Lord Rawdon, I’d have never let you out of my sight, not for one minute. Not when every other gentleman in that tent is just waiting on his opportunity to pounce on you.” Major André leaned in toward Peggy playfully—was he tickling her?—prompting her to erupt in laughter.
“Oh, Johnny, I’m so glad it was you who pounced first.” Peggy hiccupped, and the two of them leaned toward each other.
Clara watched, shocked, as Major André took Peggy’s chin in his hand and pulled her face to his. Before Clara could protest, Major André was kissing Peggy. These were not the tame kisses a gentleman placed on a lady’s hand or a lady’s cheek—these were brazen kisses, kisses that ought to offend a lady’s sense of decorum. Clara wanted to run in between them, to intervene, but she noticed with horror that her mistress was happily returning the kisses. But then, to her relief, Peggy pulled her lips away.
“I am not sure I shall allow you to kiss me any longer.” Peggy edged her body away from André’s, staring back toward the tent as if she might leave him alone by the river. She still had the hiccups.
“Why not, my darling? Why would you torture me?” André reached his arms toward Peggy, but she swatted them away, crossing her arms like a petulant child.
“You certainly spent enough time talking to her tonight,” Peggy said with a pout, and Clara knew instantly to whom her mistress referred.
“My darling.” André’s shoulders sagged, his body entirely willing to play the part of the penitent lover. “I was merely being polite. I can’t outright reject her when she speaks to me. You know that Meg means nothing compared to . . .”
“Don’t say her name,” Peggy answered, her tone icy.
“Fine.” André threw his hands up in defeat. “I shall not.”
“Do you prefer her?” Peggy turned on him, and even in the dark, Clara could sense how intently she stared at him.
“Not at all, my darling. How many times must I tell you?” Yes, but did he not say the same thing to Meg Chew? Clara wondered.
André’s hands inched closer to Peggy’s body, and this time she did not swat them away. She did, however, turn her face when he tried to kiss her.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me that I’m your favorite, Johnny.”
André was consumed by his desire, Clara could tell; he would say whatever he needed to say in order to resume kissing her. “You are my favorite, Peggy.”
“And you love me, and me alone?”
“You know I do, my darling Peggy.”
“Then tell me. Say it.”
“Why must you torture me?”
“Say that you love me!”
“I love you, Peggy Shippen.”
“Fine, you may kiss me now.”
“I think you like to see me suffer, my darling.” André leaned toward her, placing a long, slow kiss on the side of Peggy’s neck. And then it was whispers Clara could not fully detect, soft kisses, a giggle. And then suddenly, in the middle of the dark, inconspicuous night, Major
André and Peggy were lying down beside each other, spread out in the grass. Clara strained her ears and detected more whispers, a sigh. When Johnny’s hands stroked Peggy’s bare neck, threatening to rove even lower, Clara was certain that her mistress would at last remember her virtue and protest. But to her shock, the only protest issued from Peggy’s mouth was a sigh. Clara could have fainted in shock.
To think of the proper young woman she’d watched at dinner just a few hours ago, discussing politics with her uncle and father—a doctor and a judge! What would Peggy’s father think if he knew about his daughter’s scandalous behavior? He’d be devastated.
Major André was removing his coat now, prompting Clara to stagger backward with fresh horror, as her mind flashed back to scenes she’d accidentally witnessed on the farm, scenes she’d unwittingly walked into in the hay loft or the rear stall of the dairy barn. She was reminded of what she had heard about how she herself had been conceived—the disgraceful act that Clara’s own mother had performed out of wedlock, the act that had ultimately taken her mother’s life. No, she didn’t survive the childbirth, Oma had told Clara, because of the cardinal sin that she’d participated in to create Clara’s life.
And now her mistress, the well-bred, highborn Miss Margaret Shippen, was sprawled in the grass with a man who was not her husband, while all of Philadelphia society reveled just feet from her! Such a thing, if discovered, would ruin Miss Peggy. Clara had to intervene, before this went so far as to be irreparable to her lady’s reputation. Perhaps Miss Peggy didn’t know what her kissing would lead to, what that man was capable of doing to rob her of her virtue.
“Miss Peggy.” Clara edged down the hill toward her mistress, her voice shrill.
Her mistress did not respond, but rather kept running her fingers through John André’s black hair, now loose of its ribbon. Clara experienced fresh horror as she saw, through the feeble light of the moon’s reflection, that Major André was allowing his hand to wander toward the hem of Miss Peggy’s skirt. Why did her mistress not protest?
The Traitor's Wife Page 7