“Merry Christmas, Clara Bell.” He smiled at her.
“Merry Christmas, Cal,” she answered, trying not to sound timid.
“Did you make a Christmas wish?”
“Oh, just that we win this war soon,” Clara answered.
“Mine was of a more personal nature,” Caleb said. When she didn’t prompt him, he continued. “It’s about someone . . . someone else besides me.”
Petrified of crossing some line she did not yet understand, Clara finished tying Caleb’s tie and turned for the stove. Her hands shaky, she busied herself with helping Hannah deliver the final dishes to the table.
Mrs. Quigley had shown a moment of rare recklessness and allowed them to festoon the kitchen with fresh white candles, so that the room was filled with a twinkling, amber glow as they sat down to dine.
Mr. Quigley led the servants in a prayer of thanksgiving for the feast, and he added a wish that the war might end with all in the Shippen household safely delivered, before he raised his glass in a toast.
“My friends.” The old man, usually so stern and formal, looked around the table now with a paternal softness. “What a blessing it is to sup on such a spread while many around us are forced to go without. Please join me in a toast to our cook.” Mr. Quigley turned his gaze to the opposite end of the table, where Hannah sat, lips pursed in a bashful smile. “To Hannah, the endlessly resourceful master of the kitchen.”
“Aye, aye!” The kitchen erupted in unanimous chorus.
“Thank you, sir.” Hannah blinked, looking bashfully to her sister.
“And of course, to General George Washington!” Mr. Quigley continued.
“To freedom!” Mrs. Quigley added, her cheeks flushed with the drink and merriment.
“To America!” Caleb answered his aunt, his eyes fixed intently on Clara, “and the pursuit of happiness!” When he winked at Clara, she felt her stomach flutter with a mixture of fear and excitement.
AS DINNER ended, Hannah, who was feeling merry after several glasses of wine and much praise over her Christmas cooking, went outside and clipped a sprig of mistletoe, which she hung over the pantry doorway. This prompted teasing from Caleb and Hannah, who insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Quigley exchange a kiss. The couple refused, instead offering refills of drink to their companions around the table. The wine was finished even before the plates had been licked and scraped clean.
“All right now, I declare that Brigitte ought to get a day off from her duty of scrubbing dishes,” Mrs. Quigley announced, rising to carry the emptied plates to the washbasin.
“I agree,” piped up Hannah. So all the servants, jolly from the abundance of savory food and the wine bottles they’d drained, decided to split up the task, working together to scrub the dishes and platters while Caleb strummed out Christmas carols on his guitar.
LATER THAT night, Clara stood in the kitchen alone. She had offered to finish polishing the last of the silver so that the yawning Hannah and Mrs. Quigley might retire to their beds. They had accepted her offer, and the rest of the servants had bid Clara a good night.
Clara now stood with the final silver cup in her hand, humming Christmas carols as she polished.
“You know what that means, Clara Bell?”
Clara looked up, startled. She hadn’t heard Caleb reenter the kitchen.
“That.” Caleb walked slowly toward her, pointing up at the mistletoe that Hannah had strung overhead.
“Yes, of course.” Clara looked from the plant back to the cup in her hand. Cal now stood just inches from her; she felt her heartbeat quicken at the thrilling yet terrifying proximity of his body to her own.
“Have you ever been kissed under the mistletoe?” He tried to sound light, yet he didn’t smile.
“No.” Her hands were trembling, even as she regretted how innocent she must appear. Never been kissed under the mistletoe. Never been kissed at all, in fact, except for that one kiss Robert Balmor had planted on her lips before she’d even known it was coming. She spoke again, mostly to fill the silence between them. “Oma called it a pagan tradition—we never hung it at the farm.”
Cal laughed, standing so close to her now that she smelled the pine bough draped around his collar. She looked up into his face, the yearning so evident in the light hazel of his eyes. “Sweet, innocent Clara Bell.”
“Cal, I . . .” Her breath was uneven.
“Yes, Clara?” His face, his earnest face, betrayed hope.
Did she want him to kiss her? Part of her did, yes, of course. Part of her thought often about kissing Cal, longed for that kiss. But a larger part of her was terrified at the idea. Hadn’t Oma always warned her against foolish notions and fickle men? Lust was dangerous. And love was a luxury for people with the last names of Shippen, Arnold, Burd, or Chew—not for the two of them. Two penniless orphans, they were. How could she, Clara Bell, consider loving someone when she was not even the master of her own fate?
“Never mind.” She lowered her eyes, snapping the moment between them as she resumed scrubbing the cup in her hands. And then, her tone matter-of-fact, she added, “I better be finishing up this silver and getting to bed, or else I’ll never be able to rise tomorrow morning.”
BETSY SHIPPEN’S wedding day dawned clear and cold. Clara still felt full from the Christmas feast and she did not know how she would sit down to another meal of its size.
As the wedding ceremony and the wedding feast were to be held in the Shippen home, the servants and the Shippen ladies scurried about all morning, scrubbing the floors, dusting the mantels, lighting the fires, and polishing the silver before rushing off to dress. Clara tried to convince Peggy to dress plainly on the wedding day, so as not to outshine the bride, who wore a simple dress of cream-colored silk with lace detailing around the neck. Still, Peggy looked resplendent in a gown of pine-green velvet embellished with gold. When Peggy entered the crowded Shippen drawing room with a beaming Arnold, Clara noticed how her mistress drew the attention to herself.
“Miss Peggy looks quite nice.” Caleb appeared beside Clara. He had cleaned up for the occasion, combing his light brown hair back with water so that his face looked fresh and clean. He wore his only suit, a black three-piece with a jacket, vest, and knee-breeches, which Mrs. Quigley had sewn for him. At his collar he wore a cravat that Clara had never seen before.
“She does, doesn’t she?” Clara gazed at her mistress, who stood on the opposite side of the drawing room whispering something into Arnold’s ear. “I just hope she doesn’t take the interest away from the bride.”
“No, she won’t,” Caleb answered quietly. “But you might, Clara Bell.”
Clara turned to him, unsure of how best to answer. She’d worn the blue velvet Peggy had given her, and Mrs. Quigley had curled her hair. It was true that she had felt pretty as she’d allow herself to gaze, vainly, into the mirror. But the way Cal looked at her now, the way he had looked at her since Christmas night, confounded her. Like he was trying to read her thoughts.
She mumbled, “Thank you,” before Judge Shippen asked the room to quiet. Caleb stood by her throughout the wedding ceremony. And when he secured the seat beside her at the servants’ dinner, Clara did notice how her heart leapt with something that felt like joy.
NEDDY BURD had arranged for a military escort as he drove his new bride away in the carriage, so all the wedding guests gathered on the streets to wave them off.
Clara lingered in the cold. She stood there long after the carriage had clipped away and the guests had either departed or returned into the warmth of the Shippen home. She sat on the stoop of the house, her cloak pulled tightly around her neck, imagining the ways in which her daily life might change now that Betsy would be out of the house. Mrs. Shippen would have more time on her hands, that was for certain. Would she turn a more exacting eye on the household management, specifically her servants? Or perhaps she would refocus her attention to her youngest daughter and the task of getting Peggy married. Or would the two of them, mother and daughte
r, maintain their frosty standoff, allowing the household to go on in a tenuous harmony? And wouldn’t Arnold be eager to have a wedding of his own now that he’d attended Betsy’s alongside Peggy? But mostly she was thinking about Cal. She was trying to understand her thorny, confused emotions. It was true that when she wasn’t with Cal, she thought about him. She longed to be in his company. And yet, when he appeared, her heart would lurch, her nerves would tighten. The sight of his face, his shaggy dark blond hair; even now on the dark front step, the thought filled Clara with waves of joy and fear. Why was it so hard for her to accept, fully, the fact that she was falling in love with him? Clara ruminated on this, alone, for a long while. Or she had thought she was alone, when she heard a familiar, gravelly voice.
“I had to leave the Penn mansion.”
A pause, and then a second voice asked, “Why?”
Clara knew who’s was the second voice, even in the pitch-dark evening. Peggy and Arnold must have wandered farther up the street to find a private place to talk. In the shadowed lane, Clara could now make out the outlines of their two figures, clutching hands, just a few feet from her. Arnold leaned heavily on his cane.
“Reed was making trouble for me, asking why a public servant in the military needed to be quartered in the grandest mansion in Philadelphia.”
Peggy was silent. If Clara was close enough to hear the grinding of teeth, she was certain she would have.
“The news is not grievous though.” Arnold continued, “Do not fret, Peggy.”
“How could I not? You’ve been forced out of your home. I hate that Joseph Reed!” Peggy spat.
“Peggy, please.” Arnold sounded alarmed. “You must not speak like that. Anyone could hear. Reed himself could hear.”
“Let him hear it. I hope he does.”
“I cannot bear to see you this upset. You must calm down.”
“I . . . I . . .” Peggy reined in her temper. “I’m sorry. It’s just that, I hate to see you suffer at the hands of that vile man.”
They stood in silence. When Arnold spoke next, his voice sounded upbeat. Even proud. “I tell you it’s not bad, because I’ve replaced that place with something even better.”
“What do you mean?” Peggy asked.
“Land. Lots and lots of land,” Arnold answered.
“Is it true, Benny?”
“It’s in gratitude for my service.”
“Where is it?”
“New York,” he answered.
A pause. A long silence. Clara told herself that she ought to go inside, yet she was interested to hear her mistress’s reaction to this news. After all, it would no doubt affect Clara’s life as well.
“New York is so far away, Benny. Philadelphia is my home.”
“Yes, but just wait until you hear what the offer entails, my sweet Peggy. A hundred and thirty thousand acres of land. It’s been seized from the royalist Johnson family’s estate on the Mohawk River. Peggy, I’ve seen that land, I’ve fought up there. That was where I beat St. Leger. It’s the most beautiful spot. We could raise up a beautiful mansion, and fill it with happy children and servants.”
“Oh, Benny, it is lovely to think about, but—”
“But wait, my dear girl. There’s more.”
“Oh yes?” Peggy’s voice still contained hope.
“In addition to the land tracts in New York, I’ve . . . I’ve made a purchase closer to home.”
“What sort of purchase?” Peggy was growing more intrigued, Clara could tell by the tone of her voice.
“Have you ever heard of Mount Pleasant?” Arnold asked.
“Mount Pleasant? The mansion on the Schuylkill?” Peggy knew Mount Pleasant.
So did Clara. Clara recalled their picnics on the Schuylkill. Many of them had taken place on the patch of grass right across from Mount Pleasant. Peggy had always marveled at the mansion, with its many windows, its sloping hills and rooftop balcony. Clara had always assumed that there was just as much chance that her mistress would live at Mount Pleasant as there was she’d live in King George’s palace.
“That’s it,” Arnold answered. “The place John Adams himself called the ‘most elegant seat in Pennsylvania.’ ”
“You didn’t buy it.” Peggy’s voice quivered. “You couldn’t possibly have bought Mount Pleasant.”
“I did,” Arnold replied.
“Oh, Benny!” Peggy pulled Arnold toward her in a kiss, so that their outlines joined against the backdrop of the sparsely lit street.
Clara could not watch what should be a private moment. She felt, as she had for much of her service at the Shippen home, as if she were witnessing scenes in which she had no part. She rose from her seat on the steps, turning back indoors. And then, in the quiet night, Clara heard the words that her mistress had so long withheld: “Benedict Arnold, I love you.”
“GRAB YOUR pots and pans and let’s go!” Mrs. Quigley threw on her wool cloak and yelled into the full kitchen for the rest of the servants to do the same. “You think the New Year will wait until we’re all ready for it?”
“What do I grab?” Clara asked, spinning around, looking for someone to guide her in the New Year’s Eve mayhem of the Shippen kitchen. She saw Cal slip out the door for the yard, and she feared she might fall too far behind to find him again.
“Find a pot and a pan, or else a pot and a pewter spoon. Anything that’ll make a devilish noise when you bang ’em together!” Hannah’s thick frame was even wider under scarves, a cap, and a heavy wool coat as she hurried for the door.
Clara reached into the cupboard and grabbed two pewter mugs, hoping that they would serve her purpose. She retrieved her cloak and woolen hand muff from the hook and slid her cap snugly onto her head, and then she was out the door, hurrying to catch up with Cal.
Ten minutes remained until midnight, and the entire city of Philadelphia seemed to be out in the streets, all marching through the cold, snow-speckled night toward the square outside of Independence Hall.
“There she is. Hello, Clara Bell.” Caleb was walking between the Quigleys, a noticeable bounce in his step. Just ahead walked Judge Shippen and his wife, whose hands were pressed to her ears in an effort to muffle the din in the street. Accompanying the judge and his wife were Betsy and Neddy Burd, who had joined the family for the evening. Peggy had dined with Arnold, and Clara had not yet seen her that evening.
“What is all of this?” Clara asked, looking around at the crowd in the street that seemed to be multiplying by the second. She was determined to stay close to Cal and not to get separated in the throngs. Enough of her shyness, enough of her breathless panic. She cared for Cal, and he seemed to care for her, too. Tonight was the night that she might finally let him kiss her. The thought brought a happy flush to her cheeks, and she smiled in his direction before burrowing more deeply into her scarf.
“Oh, just a fun little New Year’s tradition, dearie. Didn’t you and your grandmother ever do it?” Mr. Quigley held a lantern to light their path. He wore his formal suit even in the frigid midnight temperatures.
“Nothing like this, sir,” Clara answered.
“Let me guess, Clara Bell.” Cal teased. “Always asleep by midnight?”
She threw Cal a sideways glance and noticed his smile, his energetic gait—what had him feeling so merry?
“Well, here in Philadelphia, the town gathers in the square, and when the church bells strike midnight, we all offer up a yell and bang the pots and pans like it’s the end of the world.” Mrs. Quigley chuckled. “It’s to ward off the bad spirits, usher in good luck for the New Year.”
“Oh, I see.” Clara laughed, hustling to stay apace with Caleb as they marched through the crowded street.
“Caleb, my dear, you be sure to make a special wish at midnight. You are the one who needs the luck this coming year. More so than any of us,” the housekeeper said, before she was jostled by a young man running past her. Clara could not help but detect the look of concern that had crossed Mrs. Quigley’s face
as she had spoken to her nephew. And the mischievous glimmer in Cal’s eye.
“What does your aunt mean?” Clara asked. She saw that the Quigleys and Hannah had been separated from them by the growing crowd.
“I’ve got news, Clara Bell.”
Clara pulled her scarf higher around her ears, turning to face him. “What is it, Cal?”
He stopped short and she paused to face him. The crowds rushed past them toward the square, as Clara and Cal faced each other, an island in the stream of bodies. His eyes were alight, his gaze intense. Her stomach did a turn as she realized just how terribly she longed to kiss him. And then, for some reason she could not explain, she understood that that would no longer happen.
“I’m leaving,” Cal said.
A short punch of air left her mouth, filling up the frigid night with a misty little cloud. She could not answer as she stared at him. After what felt like an eternity, Cal continued. “Seeing General Washington right before Christmas made me think; he was rushing off to meet his men and continue the fighting. And just last week, he issued an urgent call for more volunteers. This country needs men to fight if we are to have any chance at winning our freedom.” Cal paused. “How can I stay back? Hanging around the Shippen home, serving no purpose . . .” Cal allowed the words to drift off but he did not finish his thought.
“Of course you serve a purpose, Cal.” Clara tried to keep her voice steady, even as she heard it catch on the words.
“But here is my chance, Clara, to serve something so much larger than myself. Or than any of us. How can I not answer the call?”
Her shoulders dropped as she saw the resolve on his face. The determination.
“The cause is liberty, Clara. Think about it, I have the chance to serve General Washington!” Cal’s voice teemed with excitement, with passion. And though Clara’s heart felt as if it had been trodden over by every reveler in the packed square, she forced a smile. She could not rob him of any of his happiness in this moment. “Of course you must go, Cal.”
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