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THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Betsy was up early, bustling about to put things to rights before Minette and Emma arrived to help sew on stars. Because the shop very often looked untidy, Betsy’s friends would think nothing of the inch-tape draped over a chair, the ledger books stacked upon her desk, and two or three pasteboard boxes littering the floor. Earlier that morning, Betsy had summoned the glass-smith to replace the broken windowpane. The man was just finishing up his work when the girls arrived, so Betsy suggested the three of them sit in her sunny sitting room above stairs, the room where Sarah had stayed. Choosing to mention nothing of the previous night’s disturbance to her friends, the girls spent a pleasant and productive afternoon. Nearly all the stars were now sewn onto the red, white and blue banners.
Later that evening, as Betsy was tidying up after supper, another rap sounded at the door. Her heart in her throat, she tried to remain calm as she made her way through the house. Might it be someone asking about the key? Opening the door a crack, Betsy was both relieved and surprised to find a former friend standing on the stoop.
“Why, Joseph Ashburn. I’ve not seen you since . . . well; I cannot recall when we last saw one another. What brings you back home to Philadelphia?”
Of middling height, Joseph Ashburn was a rosy-cheeked, rugged sort of fellow with wind-tossed blond hair. He wore blue breeches tied below the knees and his white linen shirt was open at the neck. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Betsy.” Ashburn’s smile was warm. “May I come in?”
“Indeed.” She swung wide the door. Joseph Ashburn had been quite an ardent suitor of hers before she settled her affections on John Ross. As the workroom was in shadows, Betsy said, “I’ll fetch a candle,” and hurried to light the one she always kept on the small table in the shop. “Shall we sit in the parlor and talk?”
The broad-shouldered young man followed behind her as she, holding the candle aloft, led the way to the rear of the narrow building.
Betsy set the candlestick down and indicated a chair for Joseph. “I would offer you a cup of tea, but . . . I’ve none to offer. I might have enough lemon-water to fill a mug.” She smiled. “Had I rum and sugar, I could whip you up a nice grog.”
Joseph grinned. “I require nothing, Betsy. Do tell me how you’ve fared these past months.”
She evaded the question. “You are looking well, Joseph, your sea travels appear to agree with you.”
Hazel eyes twinkled from his sun-bronzed face. “I confess I do feel more at home on water than I do on land.”
When they were young, all their friends had been amazed by Joseph Ashburn’s prowess at the helm of his catboat as well as his athleticism as a swimmer. On several occasions, Joseph had swum across the mile-wide Delaware River, then turned around and swam right back.
“I confess I’ve thought of you often in recent months,” Betsy said. “Now that the British are intent upon capturing our ships, I have prayed that you were . . . safe,” she added softly.
“I am quite safe. Although, I admit my seafaring life has now become tenuous, at best. We privateers were exceedingly grateful when Congress granted us leave to confiscate the cargoes of any British ship we could capture and board.”
“Oh, my.” Betsy grimaced. “That sounds quite dangerous, indeed.”
“It can be. Especially for a small schooner such as mine. But fortunately the Swallow is fast.”
“What brings you to shore in the middle of summer?”
“I mean to fit out my rig with weapons.”
“Weapons? Dear me, you must be in a great deal of danger.”
“To be armed will at least give me a fighting chance. I plan to install a couple of four-pounders on my deck and procure muskets for my entire crew.”
Betsy detected a hint of pride in his tone. “Sounds as if you enjoy the danger.”
Joseph chuckled. “Danger does keep things interesting. I also plan to install a couple of quakers on my deck.”
When Betsy appeared puzzled, Joseph laughed. “A quaker is merely a large log shaped like a cannon and painted black. From a distance, it looks like a real cannon. We privateers take great delight in making fools of the British. I can purchase a good-looking quaker for about twelve pounds whereas real guns will set me back twenty-five hundred.”
“My, such a vast sum.” Half that would pay off all her debts.
“I’ll earn it back in no time. My travels are far more profitable now than when I first took to the sea for my aunt.”
Betsy was acquainted with Joseph’s aunt, the widow Ashburn, who kept a lovely home on Front Street. It was common knowledge that Mrs. Ashburn had purchased the schooner Joseph sailed, which he formerly used only for trade with the West Indies, bringing home rich cargoes of molasses, rum, tobacco, and in the old days, tea. As a boy, Joseph lived with his aunt. Betsy knew she missed her favorite nephew whenever he sailed away.
“I’ve not seen your aunt in a long while.”
A small silence ensued, during which Betsy tried to decide whether or not to tell Joseph about this week’s disturbing events.
“Is something troubling you, Betsy? You seem distracted.”
She looked down. “Something . . . has happened, Joseph; and I confess it has me quite perplexed.”
He leaned forward. “Perhaps I can help.”
With no further prompting, Betsy told him about witnessing Toby’s death, how the constable refused to investigate the murder, how she’d found the little box and last night, about arriving home and finding her shop ransacked.
Joseph moved to take a seat beside her on the sofa. “When you said you witnessed the murder, do you mean you got a good look at the man who stabbed Toby?”
“It was quite dark in the alleyway. I daresay if I saw the man again, I’d not recognize him. It’s far more likely that he would recognize me. I was standing in the light. He and Toby were in the shadows.”
“You arriving home last night obviously interrupted the murderer’s attempt to burgle your shop,” Joseph pointed out.
Betsy winced. “You believe the man who ransacked my home is also the . . . murderer?”
“Who else could it be?”
“I-I don’t know. When the constable said the murderer had put out to sea, I thought . . . oh, I am so confused, Joseph. Should I tell Constable O’Malley about the box and the papers?”
“How about if I take a look at them?”
Betsy sprang to her feet to retrieve the wooden container and waited beside Joseph on the sofa while he carefully studied the pages.
“I believe these are military messages, or at least, the garbled one is a message; words appear to be written in some sort of code,” he said. “The diagram could be a map, perhaps telling Toby where to meet his contact.”
“Are you saying you believe Toby is, I mean, was a . . . spy?”
“Appears that way to me. Which doesn’t explain why he was killed, but it could certainly be why your shop was torn up. Someone, if not the murderer, then perhaps an associate, wants this message, and the map, before it falls into the wrong hands.”
Betsy inhaled an uneven breath. “Oh, Joseph, what shall I do? I should have simply left the box lying out in plain sight so the thief could have found it and been gone. Now, I am left to wonder when he will return to resume his search.”
“You could consult with Dr. Franklin.”
“Dr. Franklin? What would he . . .?”
“Some say Benjamin Franklin is a spymaster.”
“But are you certain?”
“It behooves me to know such things, Betsy. I’d bet my life Dr. Franklin will know what this means.”
“I would never have suspected Toby, or Dr. Franklin, was involved with . . . oh, dear, me.”
Joseph set the box aside and turned back to Betsy. “Franklin will have a theory. In the meantime, promise me you’ll keep your doors and windows locked.”
“I shall indeed.”
Joseph’s warm gaze held hers. “I have missed you, Betsy.”
Her lashes fluttered. “I have missed you, as well, Joseph.”
“I was saddened to learn of John’s death.”
Her chin trembled. “Losing John was . . . is the most difficult thing I have ever borne.”
He reached to brush away the errant tear that slid down her cheek. “Has your family come around? I thought given John’s death, your parents might . . .”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve not seen my parents. Once shunned, always shunned. Of course, I would gladly welcome them back into my life, and into my heart. I sorely miss my sisters, Rachel and Hannah. And George. He would be quite the young man now. Sarah is the only one who comes around. When John died, she wished me to give up the shop and come live with her. Her husband had just marched off to war.” She looked up. “Were you aware Sarah married William Donaldson?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Our little shop meant such a great deal to John. I knew he would want me to carry on. He upholstered the pretty chair in the window. I can’t bear to remove it.”
Joseph patted her hand. “I admire your courage, Betsy.”
At length, they began to talk of shared memories from their past.
Sometime later, Betsy said, “So, you believe I should consult with Dr. Franklin about my . . . troublesome matter.”
Joseph stood. “I do, indeed. If the garbled message was meant for the Patriots, then it might very well have ended up in Franklin’s hands anyhow. If not, then, it would be best to have it out of yours.” He glanced about. “Before I take my leave, might I bring in wood for your morning fire, or a bucket of fresh water from the well?” His gaze was expectant.
Betsy thanked him for the kind offer and after Joseph had completed both tasks, she escorted him to the door. “It was lovely to see you again.”
“Might I call again, Betsy? I’ll be in the city a good while longer.”
She smiled. “I would like that.”
Grinning, the handsome seaman turned to go. “Bolt the door behind me, lass.”
“I will. Good night, Joseph.”
* * *
ON THE FOLLOWING SABBATH, Betsy walked around the corner to worship at Christ Church on Second Street. A cool breeze wafting inland off the river kept the summer heat from becoming oppressive. Following services, she stood on the grassy lawn before the red brick building hoping to catch sight of Dr. Benjamin Franklin who also worshipped there, as did a good many of the statesmen who had gathered in Philadelphia at the Congress to join in unifying the colonies. Betsy had met the brilliant Dr. Franklin back when she and John married and began attending services here. Since John’s death, the elderly statesman had often greeted her.
Thinking back now, she realized it had taken a while to become accustomed to worshipping in a manner that was such a vast departure from a Society of Friends Meeting. At a Quaker gathering, silence reigned until someone felt led by the spirit of God to speak; here, the music and singing were loud and spirited. The Christ Church minister, wearing a flowing scarlet robe, stood high in a pulpit and delivered an interesting and different sermon to his parishioners every single Sunday morning, a feat that in itself amazed Betsy.
She also enjoyed observing the other women’s clothing. Although she still clung to Quaker garb, she found the colorful silks and satins the ladies wore to services here astonishingly beautiful. The fashionable gowns featured gold or silver braid on the stomachers, plus colorful ribbons or lace at the neck and sleeves. Wealthier women wore panniers to widen their skirts. Betsy thought wearing a host of petticoats beneath one’s skirt must make sitting a trying ordeal. She wore only a single petticoat and her long gray skirt was not puffed out at the sides, or decorated with ribbons or rosettes.
Gentlemen’s clothing also seemed fanciful to her; although since the war began, their blue, green, or burgundy satin breeches and frock coats had been replaced by more somber colors, browns and grays, but most still featured lace cascading down the shirtfronts and at the coat cuffs. Men either wore their hair powdered or donned a white wig, most with a queue at the nape of their necks. Women also wore wigs, and those that didn’t, powdered their hair. Perhaps one day, when she had enough money to do with as she wished, she would make herself a stylish new gown of blue silk, with kid slippers, and gloves to match. And a bonnet adorned with lace and flowers.
Watching the churchgoers climb into their smart two-wheeled chaises or shiny black closed carriages, she at last caught sight of Dr. Franklin conversing with a knot of impeccably dressed gentlemen. When he bid the gentlemen farewell, Betsy hurried onto the flagway in time to meet the elderly statesman as he walked by.
“Good day, Mrs. Ross.” His shoulder-length brown hair streaked with gray, the older gentleman studied Betsy through the small spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
“I wonder if I might walk with you a bit, sir?”
“Indeed.” Franklin’s black walking stick, fashioned from crab tree wood and tipped with gold, made a tapping sound upon the red bricks as he walked.
Heading toward the gentleman’s home located near his print shop on High Street, Betsy said softly, “There is a matter I wish to discuss privately with you, sir.”
“Ah. Then I shall persuade my housekeeper to brew us up a nice kettle of tea. What say you to that, Mrs. Ross?”
Betsy’s eyes widened. “You have tea, sir? Forgive me. I confess it has been quite some time since I enjoyed a cup of tea.”
Franklin’s eyes twinkled merrily. “I generally only indulge if I deem the occasion . . . special.”
Upon realizing the gentleman had paid her a compliment, Betsy blushed. “Thank you, sir. Tea would be lovely.”
In his parlor, Betsy noted that all the sofas and chairs in the room were home to stacks and stacks of papers and books. She wondered if he had read them all. In no time, a matronly housekeeper appeared bearing an ornately carved silver tea service, complete with a plate of warm scones and pot of apricot jam. After doing the honors, the woman left the room, closing the double doors behind her.
“Now, what is it you wish to discuss, Mrs. Ross?”
Betsy wasted no time telling Dr. Franklin everything that had happened the past week.
Franklin listened intently. “I do recall hearing about the demise of a young man on the wharf. Quite unfortunate, that.” He set aside his teacup and saucer. “But I must concur with the constable, Mrs. Ross. It would be nigh on impossible to ascertain who the killer might be.”
“I quite understand, sir, although I think it dreadful that Toby’s killer will never be brought to justice. Still, I wonder if you would mind looking at the papers I found inside the little box.” She pulled the folded pages from her reticule.
Adjusting his spectacles, Franklin squinted at the small print. The third page, the one that appeared blank, he held up to the light. “Quite possibly the message was set down in invisible ink,” he said. “My guess is young Toby was acting as a courier for a spy.”
Betsy’s head shook with dismay. “Joseph was of the same mind.”
“Joseph?”
“I consulted with my friend Captain Joseph Ashburn. It was he who suggested I confer with you.”
“Ah, yes. Fine young man, Ashburn. In the past months, he and his crew have confiscated two shiploads of much-needed guns and ammunition for our troops. Amongst other things.” He grinned. “This tea very likely came from the cargo of a British ship that Ashburn plundered.”
“Are couriers compensated to convey messages?” Betsy asked. “Toby’s mother said his other employer paid quite handsomely.”
Franklin nodded. “On the whole, spies are very well compensated. I understand the British are offering gold to Loyalists who pass along information they overhear regarding the rebels, as well as anyone who sabotages the Patriot Cause.”
Betsy’s eyes widened. “And I believe, sir, that either a British spy, or a Loyalist, was responsible for causing the explosion at the munitions warehouse that killed my husband John. If you recall, sir, my late husband was guarding the warehouse on Dock Street during that awful blizzard this past January.”
“I, too, thought that fire seemed suspicious.” Franklin nodded. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, madam.”
“To my knowledge the authorities never conducted an investigation.”
“A great many injustices are taking place in our world today, Mrs. Ross. Not everything that happens as a result of war can be remedied.”
Betsy’s chin began to quiver. “Regardless, sir, I am determined to see both John’s killer, and now the man who murdered Toby Grimes, brought to justice.”
Franklin’s head shook. “I cannot think that a wise course, Mrs. Ross. Philadelphia is the largest city in the New World and therefore, teeming with unprincipled characters. I would not wish harm to come to a pretty young lady like yourself, Mrs. Ross.”
“But I cannot sit idly by and watch those dear to me being brutally cut down by unprincipled madmen. A killer is at large, sir. Something must be done.”
“Your zeal for justice is admirable, my dear. But investigating explosions and murders is best left to the authorities.”
“Who have done nothing!”
Despite her outburst, Franklin remained calm. After a pause, he said, “I understand you are sewing fine new banners for our Continental army.”
Betsy nodded.
“Then you are doing your part to aid the Patriots in their fight for independence.”
“I am capable of doing far more than sewing flags, sir.”
“I am certain you are. You are a capable young woman, and a very pretty one,” he said again. “I expect you will soon find another young man to marry and will provide him a lovely home and fine, healthy children.”
“Perhaps I should go now, sir.” Betsy set her teacup and saucer on the table at her elbow. Dr. Franklin was treating her as if she were little more than a foolish woman.
Franklin stood. “To offend you was not my intent, Mrs. Ross.”
“I am not offended, sir. I merely wished to consult with you regarding this . . . trouble that, whether or not I wish it, I have become embroiled in.”
“With your permission, I shall pass these pages along to someone who might be able to unscramble the code. Until then, there’s no way of knowing which side Toby was working for.”
Betsy pulled on her gloves. “I can scarcely believe Toby would aid the enemy.”
Franklin thoughtfully tapped one page with his spectacles. “Interesting. These pages contain no stamp, meaning no tax was paid upon them and consequently no imprint affixed. Which is a clear indication to me that whoever penned these messages was not one of our own.”
“I had not noticed that,” Betsy murmured. “I own, sir, that I am rather frightened that the man who broke into my home might be Toby’s killer, and that he will not give up until he finds what he came in search of.”
“He may or may not return. It is possible that this particular information is now outdated and consequently of no use to anyone. It is also possible that Toby was working both sides, which might explain why he was killed. Perhaps one, or the other, of the agents he reported to learned of his duplicity and rather than turn him over to a superior officer, simply silenced him on the spot.”
“Oh, how dreadful! Poor, Toby.”
Franklin escorted Betsy to the door. “I will forward the blank page to someone who possesses a solution that will bring the message to light. Then we’ll know for certain upon which side of the fence young Toby sat.”
Betsy thanked Dr. Franklin both for his wise counsel and the lovely cup of tea.
“You are welcome to call again, Mrs. Ross. I confess I am not often visited by delightful young ladies.”
Betsy smiled up into his kind face and after murmuring additional pleasant words, took her leave.
* * *
WALKING BACK HOME THAT afternoon, Betsy’s thoughts were a-jumble. Despite Dr. Franklin’s condescending attitude, his observations had been enlightening plus his theories regarding the possible reason for Toby’s death did, indeed, have merit. If Toby had been working for both sides, he certainly would have been paid handsomely. With his father away fighting, clearly Toby believed it was his duty to care for his family and was doing so the best way he could. That he lost his life in the process was tragic beyond measure.
Distracted by the anxious thoughts swirling through her mind, Betsy was unaware that a lone figure followed a few paces behind her, the burly man’s hands stuffed into his pockets, a cap pulled low over his brow.