“Caleb, I really believe she does.” Clara nodded. “And I need more cream too, for the merchant. And a bite of that pumpkin bread.”
“Of course you do.” Caleb handed her a sliver of bread, flashing a half grin that he sometimes fixed on her when they were alone.
“The two of you plan to eat all that pumpkin bread before the family’s had any?” Hannah hollered at them from the corner where she stood, spreading the pumpkin seeds on a rack for roasting.
“I mean it, though.” Clara finished her thought, her mouth full. “I believe Miss Peggy has fallen for Arnold.”
“Sweet, innocent Clara Bell sees only the best in others.” She didn’t know why, but the way Cal looked at her as he said it made her blush. Taking the cider and the cream saucer, she went back out into the front of the house.
Clara found Miss Peggy where she had left her, Stansbury holding her hand in his own as she stared forlornly out the window. “Can you write to him, Peg?” He was the only person who had not yet tired of Peggy’s perpetual gloom.
“I suppose,” Peggy answered, blowing her nose in one of the dozen “Don’t Tread On Me” handkerchiefs she’d had Clara stitch for her. “But is that unbecoming? Won’t that make me appear desperate?”
Clara delivered the cream to Stansbury and entered the parlor with the cider mugs. In spite of her faith in the genuine nature of Miss Peggy’s affection for Arnold, Clara nevertheless felt that her mistress deserved the punishment she was enduring. Hadn’t she always complained to Caleb about how Peggy Shippen had reduced Benedict Arnold, a war hero, to a groveling fool at her feet? And hadn’t Peggy met Arnold’s declaration of love with a cold, flat statement that she could not love a cripple? It wasn’t kind. And Arnold had a right to be stung by her harsh rejection of him. But Clara did hope he’d return—both for the happiness of Peggy and the harmony of the Shippen household.
“Perhaps a bit of gossip might lift your spirits,” Stansbury spoke in his clipped British accent. “You’ll never believe who I crossed paths with last time I was on business in New York.”
“Who?” Peggy asked, eyeing her companion through her tears.
“A certain major. A certain dark and handsome Brit by the name of John André.”
“Oh,” Peggy gasped, momentarily pausing her sobs. The window beside her rattled as a gust of cold rain slapped the glass.
“He asks after you, Peg.” Stansbury leaned close. “Every time I see him, he asks about you.”
“He—he does?” Peggy’s face appeared soft in the gray light—a fleeting moment of vulnerability.
“He’s asked me if you would read his letter, if he wrote.”
But Peggy shook her head, her face now serious. “Stansbury, that is the past. A girlish fancy. I’ve set my sights on Arnold now. He’s the one I want.” The china merchant did not argue. “Besides,” Peggy continued, “everyone knows that the colonials are going to win the war. I’m not going to marry a Brit.” With that, Peggy leaned her head back and closed her eyes, a posture of defeat. The merchant was finally quiet, sipping his tea in silence beside her.
Clara looked past her mistress and out the window at the street below. The cobblestones were slippery in the cold rain, and passersby scurried along, their cloaks and capes pulled over their heads in futile attempts to remain dry. Carriages rolled by, pulled by horses with heads slumping against the onslaught of rain. And then one carriage stopped. Clara recognized the coach immediately, even though it hadn’t appeared outside their home in a month.
“Miss Peggy?” Clara spoke, still staring out at the street.
Peggy blew her nose and turned toward the maid. “Oh, what now, Clara?”
“Major Arnold has come calling.” Clara kept her gaze fixed out the window. The announcement triggered a flurry of activity. Peggy sat up, her back stiff as she turned toward the window. She saw what Clara saw.
“It’s Benny!” Peggy shrieked, a smile illuminating her face. “Oh! How do I look? I must look a fright, with all this crying. Oh, Clara, how is my hair?”
“You look wonderful, Miss Peggy. Now, why don’t you go take a seat in the drawing room and I’ll show him right in.” Clara practically pushed her mistress away as she turned back toward the window. The carriage door opened and out hopped Barley the dog. There was a moment’s pause before Benedict Arnold emerged—his legs first, then the rest of his body—alighting from the carriage with uncharacteristic nimbleness. Yes, something was different. He had no cane. Clara could hardly believe her eyes as Arnold lowered his hat to shield his face from the rain and began to march across the street.
“Ready, Barley? Here we are.” Arnold climbed the Shippens’ stairs with a youthful vigor that Clara had never before seen in him. Before he could knock, Clara had opened the door.
“Major General Arnold!” Clara curtsied, not attempting to conceal her surprise or delight. “Please, come in.”
“Clara, good to see you.” Arnold’s merry voice roared throughout the hall, his mood as light as his footsteps. “Where is that pretty mistress of yours?” Clara had no doubt that Peggy could hear Arnold from the drawing room—his voice echoed off the walls.
“Benny?” Peggy appeared in the hall. “Is it really you?”
“It’s me, Miss Peggy Shippen.” Arnold spread his arms wide, taking a theatrical bow before her. “Standing before you, like you requested.” He crossed the room without the aid of a cane, walking on both legs as if he’d never suffered a battle wound.
“Oh, Benny, look at you!” Peggy flew to him. Once together, they embraced, showing no modesty as he kissed her, right there before her father, mother, and sister and the parlor full of servants.
Stansbury looked on, a smile on his face as he turned to Clara. “Well, Cupid has given our general a more mortal wound than all the host of Britons!”
Clara watched the two lovers as they kissed, oblivious of their surroundings. But Clara couldn’t help but wonder: Was it Cupid who had determined this string of events, or had her mistress somehow arranged the entire thing?
PEGGY WAS rapturously happy to be reconciled with Arnold, so Clara braced herself for fresh fighting when she heard the news on Christmas Eve: Judge Shippen had turned down Arnold’s request for his daughter’s hand.
“Is it true?” Clara was in the pantry that evening with Mrs. Quigley, skimming the tops of the milk jugs to separate the cream. “Did the judge really tell Arnold he would not give permission for the major to marry Peggy?”
“That’s Miss Peggy to you, Clara, and don’t you be forgetting your place.” Mrs. Quigley looked at Clara sternly.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, Miss Peggy. Did the judge really tell General Arnold he could not marry Miss Peggy?” Clara scooped a dollop out of the next pitcher and added it to the bowl. Hannah would use the cream for Christmas dessert.
“Well, I don’t like to gossip.” Mrs. Quigley sighed, stopping up the skimmed milk jugs. “But that’s what I heard His Excellency telling the missus when I was in there this morning.”
“We must ready ourselves for a storm.” Clara exhaled slowly. “Miss Peggy will be a fury.”
BUT PEGGY wasn’t in a rage, Clara noted with shock, as she entered her bedroom the next day. “Clara, hello,” Peggy called out to her maid from her spot under the bed cover.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Peggy.” Clara entered with trepidation, passing before her lady’s bed to deposit an armful of firewood on the hearth.
“Are those Hannah’s stewed apples I smell coming up from the kitchen?” Miss Peggy inhaled a long, languid breath, kicking aside the coverlet. “They smell absolutely divine.” Clara looked at Miss Peggy. Her mistress didn’t appear distressed at all. In fact, she appeared downright cheery this morning.
“Clara.” Peggy rose from her plush mattress and approached her maid. “I have something for you.” She tiptoed back to her bed and bent over, reaching under the bedframe to retrieve a large package wrapped in discarded newspapers with red ribbon. “Merry Chris
tmas.” Peggy handed the package to Clara with an eager smile.
“For me?” Clara had never had a Christmas present before—at least not one wrapped with red ribbon. In past years Oma had made her a special breakfast on Christmas morning, and one year she had found a way to give Clara a basket of oranges—but a real, proper present?
“Miss Peggy . . . I can’t accept such a—”
“Don’t just stand there, open it.” Peggy giggled. Clara obeyed, peeling off the paper and carefully removing the red ribbon.
“May I keep the ribbon?” Clara asked, embarrassed by how silly her request must sound to Miss Peggy.
“I suppose, if you’d like. Go on, open it.” When Clara pulled aside the paper, she could not help but gasp.
Miss Peggy had given her a velvet gown of deep, nighttime blue. Around the collar and wrists were embroidered lace details that looked like fresh-fallen snow. The skirt was full, like one of the proper gowns worn by Peggy and Betsy Shippen to their balls. Clara held her present before her, afraid her dirty hands might sully the pristine velvet. This gown would likely have cost an entire year’s worth of her wages. For several moments, she did not speak.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Peggy looked at Clara, giggling. “What do you think?”
“Miss Peggy.” Clara turned from the gown to her mistress. “This is too generous. I’ve never dreamed of owning a gown like this. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Merry Christmas, Clara.” Peggy leaned forward and kissed her maid’s cheek.
“Miss Peggy, I . . . I can’t keep this.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you can, and you’ll wear it to Betsy’s wedding next week. You’ll need something nice to wear.”
“Goodness.” Clara brought the lush velvet to her cheek and reveled in the feel of the plush, downy fabric against her skin.
“Do you like it?” Peggy smiled.
“Oh, Miss Peggy, I love it.”
“Good!” Peggy took Clara’s hand in her own. “I’m so glad. You are so good to me, and I wanted you to know how I cherish you so, Clara.”
“Miss Peggy, thank you.” Clara lowered her eyes, and then she remembered: “I have something for you too. Let me go and fetch it.” Clara flew down the stairs to her bedroom and returned, several minutes later, carrying the gift she’d made for her mistress.
“A crown,” Peggy gasped in delight when she saw the head wreath Clara had fashioned. It was what she and Oma had always made at Christmastime; she’d collected several bows of pine needles and threaded cranberries, baby’s breath flowers, and pine cones into a woven wreath. It was nothing fancy, but it was fragrant with the aroma of winter pine and looked beautiful on top of Peggy’s blond curls. “Look at me, I look like quite the Christmas spirit!” Peggy clapped in delight as she eyed herself in the mirror. “Oh, I love it, Clara.”
“I’m afraid it’s nothing compared to my new gown.” Clara looked once more at her dress.
“But you made it with your own hands, and that makes it special,” Peggy answered.
“Still, I fear I will never be able to thank you sufficiently for my new dress.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Benny offered it to me first, but you know what I said? I said, this dress will look delightful on Clara.”
Had happiness truly changed her mistress? Clara felt guilt as she recalled the nasty thoughts she had allowed herself to hold against Miss Peggy. And then she remembered, with a sense of dread, that the judge had prevented Arnold’s suit for marriage. Perhaps all of Peggy’s joy would be dashed after all. But did Peggy not know yet?
“So, how is the general doing?” Clara proceeded cautiously forward.
“Oh, he’s splendid.” Peggy turned back to the mirror and adjusted her head wreath.
“Any . . . any news with him?” Clara asked warily.
“Well, I turned him down again,” Peggy said nonchalantly, as if she were commenting on the weather. “Well, not me exactly. But Papa did.”
“You—you know about that?” Clara’s mouth fell open in shock. “So it’s true? Your father said no to General Arnold when he asked for your hand in marriage?”
“He did,” Peggy answered, swiveling her head so that she might see her new wreath from various angles.
“And you . . . you aren’t upset about that?” She certainly did not appear to be.
“Ha!” Peggy tittered. “Papa only told Arnold no because I told him to, Clara.”
Clara attempted to understand her mistress’s logic, but found this latest development baffling. “Miss Peggy, such a move hardly seems wise. I thought you had hoped to marry the general?”
“Clara, if I sought your opinion, I’d ask for it.” Peggy turned and stared her maid straight in the eyes with what felt like a warning. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Peggy, it’s just that I don’t understand. When you were apart for a month, you were crying every day, talking about how much you loved him and how you could not believe you might have lost him.”
“Yes, and look what happened. I reject him once, he teaches himself to walk.” A look of smug satisfaction crossed Peggy’s face. “I reject him again, what do you think he’ll do for me this time?”
CHRISTMAS DINNER at the Shippen home lifted Clara’s spirits. The servants’ quarters were abuzz with the news that General Washington had swept through Philadelphia two days prior, on a top-secret errand to meet with the Congress and discuss the coming spring military campaign. Caleb insisted that he’d seen the general riding in his carriage up Market Street.
“You did not see him any more than you saw King George himself.” Hannah scoffed, slapping Caleb’s hand aside as he tried to pick a piece of the crispy ham from the platter where it sizzled, waiting to be served to the Shippen family.
“Did too, honest,” Caleb insisted.
“Where was he going?” Clara asked, chuckling as she watched Caleb try once more to pilfer a piece of the crispy meat.
“To Joseph Reed’s home. He was calling on the governor and his wife.”
“Ha! Well, don’t tell Miss Peggy that the Reeds had a visit from Washington and she didn’t,” Clara warned him.
“It is strange that he didn’t visit Benedict Arnold, seeing how he is the military commander and all,” Caleb agreed, removing his hand just in time to avoid Hannah’s swift slap. “I wonder if it bothered Arnold.”
Clara, knowing how touchy her mistress’s beau could get, was certain that it had.
“What did he look like?” Mr. Quigley quizzed Caleb, clearly intrigued and yet trying not to forfeit his customary formality.
“He was with Martha,” Caleb answered.
“That’s Mrs. Washington to you,” Mrs. Quigley said, hoisting a platter of squash and potatoes from the table before exiting the kitchen.
“Yes, Auntie, I do apologize,” Caleb called after the woman’s departing figure. He turned back to Clara. “He was with Mrs. Washington.”
“And what was she like?” Clara asked, her head tilting to one side. “Pretty?”
Cal shrugged his shoulders. “Not as pretty as Miss Peggy, that’s for certain.” For a reason she did not fully understand, Clara felt jealous to hear him speak this way of another woman’s beauty, even though she herself knew her mistress was attractive. Cal continued: “Mrs. Washington is a little lady. Plump.”
“What did she wear?” Hannah joined in.
“Do you think I noticed what she was wearing?” Caleb smirked.
“Yes, I do,” Clara answered.
“Fine, but only because she was with the general.” Caleb crossed his arms.
“Of course.” Clara laughed.
“She was dressed plainly in a maroon gown and linen head cap. But he—well, there was nothing plain about him.” Now Caleb’s voice was thick with admiration as he recalled the scene. “The general was dressed like we always see him in the papers—the blue military uniform with the gold epaulets. He must have tak
en up half the carriage. He waved to the crowds in the streets. He saw me, I swear it.”
“You know he fought off the entire French Army back at Fort Necessity in the French War?” Hannah said aloud to the kitchen, adjusting the stewed apple where it rested in the roasted pig’s mouth.
“When he crossed the Delaware on Christmas Eve two years back, the river was frozen, but it melted when he put his boat into the water,” Caleb answered her with another volley of Washington lore.
“All right, all right. That’s enough of that.” Mrs. Quigley reentered the kitchen, her stern expression warning them that even though it was Christmas, they were not off duty just yet. “The Shippens are ready for their Christmas dinner.”
THE FAMILY took their main meal at midday and then retired for naps, so the servants could dine together in the late afternoon. Peggy was snoring in her bed in time for Clara to join the other servants at the kitchen table. The feast that Hannah prepared was unlike any Clara had ever eaten; no salt fish was served at this meal. Hannah had loaded plates with fresh bread, butter, gooseberry jam, fish stew, smoked herring, meat pies, roasted potatoes seasoned with mushrooms and rosemary, and the leftovers of the ham and goose, which the family had already enjoyed at dinner. Mr. Quigley even allowed the servants to break from the usual cider and open bottles of wine for the occasion.
“Hannah, you’ve outdone yourself once more.” Mr. Quigley called the servants to the kitchen table, where they congregated around the spread. The old cook was beaming, her rosy cheeks matching the color of her fiery hair.
Clara had woven Christmas wreaths for each of the women in the kitchen, so she, Hannah, Mrs. Quigley, and even Brigitte came to the table looking like a “band of woodland fairies,” as Caleb said. For the men, she’d crafted pine bough neckties, which Caleb and Mr. Quigley wore good-naturedly, even though they complained that the pine boughs would drop into their stew.
“Help me put this on,” Caleb asked her as the other servants took their seats. She obliged, reaching for his collar to tuck the necktie around his neck. With him this close to her, Clara breathed in his scent. The pine mingled with the familiar fragrance of Caleb’s clothing, a mixture of wood-fire smoke and the stables. She looked up into his eyes, just inches from hers, and she felt her entire body growing warm.
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