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AT THE NEXT FIGHTING Quaker meeting, everyone’s spirits were still high as a result of the Independence Day celebration. Leaders said the landmark document had been read aloud in towns and villages throughout the colonies. Following the reading in New York City, a cheering mob had overturned a gilded lead statue of King George seated atop a horse. The mob severed the king’s head, mounted it on a spike and displayed it outside a tavern. When told that the statue would be melted down and recast for bullets, cheers erupted amongst the Fighting Quaker members.
Other news filtering down from the north was not quite so uplifting. Vast numbers of British troops were now quartered in the homes of New York City residents. The number of British ships pouring into New York harbor exceeded over one hundred, amongst them the 50-gun Centurion, the 40-gun Phoenix, the 64-gun Asia and the 30-gun Greyhound, which had conveyed British General Howe to the city. It was said that the combined number of cannons on those five warships alone exceeded all the rebel guns awaiting the enemy on shore.
Hearing such specific disclosures, Betsy wondered how her little Quaker group in far-away Philadelphia could be privy to such detailed information regarding the enemy?
On their way home that evening, she decided to ask François as they walked a few feet behind Minette and Emma and their gentlemen admirers, the foursome up ahead gaily discussing more frivolous topics.
“There are a number of ways in which we might glean information about the British military,” François responded. Betsy couldn’t help noticing that his tone sounded more animated than she’d ever before heard from him. “I, for one, regularly correspond with several British officers now occupying New York City.”
Caught off-guard by the admission, Betsy gasped. “Are your British soldier friends aware that you have joined the Patriot Cause?”
François shrugged. “Apparently to question my fealty has not occurred to them. I daresay I am not the only citizen in Philadelphia who communicates with the enemy.”
Betsy could hardly believe her ears. What else might her foreign friend know about the enemy? In an attempt to learn more, she boldly said, “I suppose information about the British could also be uncovered by . . . spies.” Noting the hint of a smile lift the corners of François’s lips, her pulse quickened. Was she finally about to learn something useful?
“That you express an interest in such matters rather surprises me,” François remarked.
Betsy worked to remain calm. “I have recently learned a bit about . . . covert activity,” she replied softly.
Her companion’s black eyes cut ‘round.
At that instant, Jack Thompson also turned to address them. “There is a public dance tomorrow night at Old Square Tavern, what say we all attend together?”
“Sounds like a capital plan to me,” Caleb Lawton chimed in. He smiled down at Minette. “What say you? Will you show us how the French dance?”
In minutes it was decided that the three couples would attend the public dance the following evening at Old Square Tavern. Despite the recent decree that entertainments, plays, concerts, and the like, were banned due to the war, a good many young people had been pleased to discover that not all amusements had been set aside. Everyone knew that Philadelphia’s elite, the bulk of them Loyalists, including those British officers who were quartered in the city, continued to amuse themselves in blatant disregard of the ordinance.
Following Jack’s interruption, Betsy’s private conversation with François and the miniscule inroad she’d made with him, ground to an abrupt halt. She vowed to broach the sensitive topic with him again, perhaps as they walked home from the dance tomorrow evening.
The next day a courier rapped at Betsy’s door delivering a message from Dr. Franklin. Tearing into the missive, Betsy noted it bore the requisite tax stamp in the upper corner. The one-word message ‘British’ set her heart racing. So, Toby had been working for the enemy. Is that why he was killed?
The disheartening news drove the excitement Betsy had been feeling over the proposed outing that evening from mind leaving in its place a gnawing sense of foreboding.
Walking back to the parlor where she’d been sewing, Betsy stuffed the note from Dr. Franklin into her pocket and reluctantly turned her attention to mending the rebel officer’s uniform a woman had brought in that morning. The simple task would not net much but she could certainly put the few pence she’d earn to good use.
As her needle expertly whipped in and out of the rough cloth, thoughts of François Dubeau filled her mind. Why had he joined the Patriot Cause when it was rebels who had killed his British cousin? Could François be secretly aligned with the British in the hope of avenging his cousin’s death? If so, how could she ferret out the truth regarding his allegiance? She knew it was a stretch but she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps François had had a hand in Toby’s slaying? That is, if the boy’s death was indeed related to spying. She regretted not discovering the secret compartment in the little box before the intruder carried it off for it might have provided a clue to the answers she sought.
As ever when she thought in this vein, frustration soon set in. If only she could gain so much as a toehold into Philadelphia’s spy underworld she might begin to put the pieces together. Thus far, she hadn’t heard so much as a whisper regarding the munitions warehouse explosion. Had the night watchman, whose frozen body was found floating in the river the following morning also met with foul play? Had he observed a stranger lurking about the warehouse that wintry afternoon and unfortunately paid for the knowledge with his life?
If she hadn’t been so consumed with grief those early weeks following John’s death, she could have at least questioned the proprietors of those taverns located near Dock Street; for despite the foul weather, undoubtedly a few had remained open that day. Perhaps the proprietor or a serving wench had seen, or heard, something out of the ordinary. Unfortunately it was too late now to expect anyone to dredge up a memory of what they might have observed that icy day last January. But, that did not mean the killer could not still be brought to justice. With characteristic determination, Betsy renewed her vow not to give up until she uncovered the whole truth . . . no matter how long it took.
* * *
THAT NIGHT OLD SQUARE Tavern was ablaze with light and brimming with noise and laughter. Although many of Philadelphia’s fresh-faced young men had marched off to war a week ago with General Washington, many more still remained behind. Being out amongst gay young people lifted Betsy’s spirits, but the music and dancing also brought back painful memories of the lighthearted fun she and John used to enjoy before they married.
Tonight Betsy, Minette and Emma were dressed in their customary Quaker garb, Hodden gray gowns with white collars and snug white caps on their heads. Jack and Caleb looked clean and fresh in white linen shirts and dark knee breeches with white hose and plain black leather shoes. François’s appearance, however, was another matter altogether. Double rows of ruffles marched down the front of his white linen shirt and lace fluttered from the cuffs of his green satin coat. Green satin knee beeches and shoes with silver buckles completed the Frenchman’s fashionable attire. Betsy felt like a small gray dove standing beside a proud peacock.
Although she thoroughly enjoyed the dancing, tonight was the first time she’d ever danced with anyone besides John. Because François was a good deal taller than John, twirling in his arms somehow felt . . . not right. That François remained especially attentive to her throughout the evening, however, did please her. He was a fine looking man and of all the eligible young ladies in Philadelphia he seemed to have singled her out. Despite the many flirtatious smiles aimed his way, never once did he leave her side to dance with another young lady.
During the interlude in which the three couples stood on the sidelines sipping small ale, François did excuse himself. Thinking he was headed for the necessary, Betsy thought nothing of it. However, when it seemed he’d been gone overlong and she did not see him on the dance floor, she grew a trifle concerned. She finally spotted him standing near the entrance conversing with a knot of other young men, all unknown to her. When François at last returned to her side and without a word, ushered her onto the dance floor, Betsy longed to ask the identity of the men and what they’d been discussing. But, she refrained. Perhaps she could draw François out on the way home.
When the case clock at the top of the room struck eleven, Betsy was about to declare that she’d like to leave when she caught sight of another young man standing on the fringe of the crowd, this one intently watching her. A bright smile lit up her face. Joseph!
She gazed up at François. “Will you excuse me, please?”
He inclined his dark head. “Mais certainement.”
His sudden use of French struck her as odd; still she hurried away. Upon reaching the seaman’s side, she exclaimed, “You are on shore this evening!”
Joseph regarded her coolly. “And you are on the dance floor.”
“Do dance with me, Joseph, please.”
“And what would your finely-turned out escort say?”
“François is the brother of my friend Minette Dubeau. Come, I will introduce you . . .”
“Another time. I was just leaving. Good night, Betsy.”
Stung by his curtness, Betsy watched the proud seaman head for the door. His blond good looks also garnered a deal of attention from the pretty girls he passed by. “Good night, Joseph,” she murmured.
As the three couples walked back through Philadelphia’s lamp-lit streets, François wasted no time questioning Betsy about the young man she had abandoned him for.
Betsy gazed up at her handsome escort. In the lamplight, the shadows dancing across the planes and angles of his face made him seem all the more attractive. “Mr. Ashburn is a childhood friend of mine.”
“Who appears to care a great deal for you.”
Betsy blinked. “I-I . . . am not privy to Mr. Ashburn’s private feelings.”
“He stood watching you from the shadows for a lengthy spell and with quite a disagreeable look upon his face. You invited him to join us, oui? And he refused?”
Betsy looked down. “He . . . needed to return to his ship.”
“Ah. Your Mr. Ashburn is a seaman.”
“He is a privateer, the captain of his own ship, the Swallow.”
“I see.”
When François said no more on the subject, neither did Betsy. To her chagrin, François said little else on any subject at all. Her remaining attempts to draw him out proved useless. Despite her enjoyment of the dance, in the end she was forced to conclude that the outing had been somewhat of a disappointment.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Betsy was surprised when once again François Dubeau appeared at her door. She had hoped Joseph would call tonight. That she actually felt stung by his aloofness the previous evening told her she cared a good deal more for him than she realized.
“Good evening, mam’selle. Might I come in?” The Frenchman’s confident tone said he fully expected to be welcomed into her home.
A nervous smile flickered across Betsy’s face. It would never do for Joseph to find her with François again tonight. “The evening is quite pleasant, sir, perhaps we might take a stroll.” She noted he was once again impeccably turned out, this time in blue damask breeches and a matching vest over a white muslin blouse.
“As you wish.”
Withdrawing a key from the pocket of her apron, Betsy locked the door behind her before joining François on the walkway. Not wishing to come face-to-face with Joseph if he might, indeed, be on his way to see her, she suggested they walk up Mulberry Street instead of downhill towards the river.
“The sunset is beautiful.” Betsy’s long gaze took in the vivid streaks of amber and rose peeking through the treetops. When her companion made no reply and in fact said nothing for above half a block, Betsy grew a bit impatient. If he did not wish to be with her, why had he called? What did the Frenchman want from her? And, when did he mean to apprise her of his wishes?
The two walked in silence for another long block before he finally said, “Minette tells me you sewed banners for the rebel General Washington.”
“Indeed. It was quite a large commission, which, I . . . welcomed.”
“So, now the project is complete, how fares your upholstery business?”
Asking a personal question of her now, was he? “I have taken in a bit of mending.”
A few more paces elapsed before he said, “I assume you mend uniforms for . . . military officers.”
Betsy nodded, although did not elaborate. She could also be evasive.
“Have you mended uniforms for . . . British officers?”
“No!” Her head jerked up. “And I daresay I never shall!”
François cast a somewhat bemused look at her. “Not even if it would further the Patriot Cause?”
Her eyes narrowed. “How could mending a uniform for a British officer further the Patriot Cause?”
Walking with his hands clasped behind his back, François’s demeanor remained maddeningly calm. “Let us say a British officer, or perhaps, several, came into your shop and whilst you were reattaching a button or turning up a hem, the men began to speak on matters that might be of interest to a . . . Patriot general.”
Betsy’s heart began to pound. Was he at last broaching the very topic she so longed to know more of?
They had turned down Fifth Street and were now approaching Chestnut where the State House stood, the very spot where they’d watched the Independence Day parade. The grounds surrounding the brick building looked especially inviting tonight with patches of colorful flowers surrounding the base of every tall tree. Other citizens were strolling about the lawn. To Betsy, their presence felt . . . reassuring.
“Shall we sit on the steps?” François suggested.
Betsy nodded.
Once they were seated upon the cool marble steps, François began to speak. “I have no doubt that you are a fine grisette, mademoiselle. Despite your talent as a seamstress, however, I suspect your business has . . . faltered.”
“The business of every merchant in the city has faltered,” Betsy returned tartly.
“Perhaps . . . I could provide a solution to your problem.”
Betsy swallowed hard. What was this oh-so attractive man about to suggest now? And why was it that instead of enjoying his company as she’d fully expected she would when she first met him, the infuriating man seemed only to irk her? A part of her wished to trust the foreign gentleman; yet the voice in her head clearly advised caution. “I am listening,” she said.
“During wartime,” his tone dropped to scarcely above a whisper, “there are . . . shall we say, less conventional ways in which one might turn a profit.”
Goose flesh popped out on Betsy’s arms.
“I, for one, recently joined a Patriot group called the Secret Committee of Correspondence.”
Swallowing hard, Betsy worked to remain calm.
“Committee of Correspondence members are similar to the Sons of Liberty groups in the north,” François told her. “Members pass along information that has been handed to them by more . . . well-placed constituents, men who freely move amongst the various enemy camps and have intercepted missives from say, British generals, confidential dispatches that regularly pass between officers, or intelligence directed to their superiors in England.” He paused as if to gauge her reaction thus far. When Betsy provided none, he went on. “Rebel leaders such as the great General Washington are coming to realize that the activities of the Secret Committees of Correspondence provide an excellent way to learn what the enemy is up to. Being hungry for intelligence, Continental officers are willing to pay handsomely for it.”
Betsy was now on pins and needles. Was he telling her straight out that he did, indeed, spy on the British? “Is not passing along these packets of information considered . . . spying?”
He shrugged. “Not at all. A member’s involvement is no different than if I handed you . . .” . . . he withdrew a folded up piece of paper from his pocket . . . “this.” When she did not take the offering, he returned it to his pocket. “For the most part, committee members merely hand off packets to one another. We form a sort of chain, if you will, from one colony to another. The information reaches its destination far quicker than one might think, actually. Member’s identities are unknown; no words between contacts need be spoken.” Leaning back, he casually propped his elbows on the stair behind him. “One member in Virginia simply digs a hole in a graveyard, buries his packet and walks away. He never knows who retrieves it, and doesn’t care.”
“But, how are Committee members compensated? You said they are . . . paid handsomely.” Betsy kept her tone low despite the excitement building within her. Although no other citizens were near them on the marble stairwell, it would never do for such a conversation to be overheard.
“A senior officer in each committee handles that function, but it, too, is dispatched in a clandestine fashion. A person watching the exchange would not know what he had just witnessed. And,” his next remark sweetened the deal, at least for Betsy, “we are paid in coin, not that worthless Continental paper money, or those foolish Codfish bills being circulated in Massachusetts.”
Betsy grinned. Codfish bills were supposedly worth a full shilling, which was considerably more than Continental bills, generally worth only a sixth of a pound or less and considered quite easy to counterfeit. Because the so-called Codfish bills contained an engraving of a codfish across the top, artfully done by the renowned Patriot Paul Revere, they were thought to be more difficult to copy.
“To be paid in coin would indeed be a bonus,” she murmured, her interest indeed aroused. To earn a bit of money in such a simple fashion would be quite grand. “How does one become a member of this . . . Correspondence Committee?”
“The proper title is Secret Committee of Correspondence. So, my proposal interests you, oui?”
Despite her intrigue, Betsy hedged. “Before I . . . commit, I have a few questions to put to you, sir.”
He inclined his head a notch. “It would surprise me if you did not, ma petite. You are an intelligent woman.”
Betsy’s lips pursed. Even his veiled attempt to praise her into doing his bidding had the effect of irking her. For an intelligent man, he was quite transparent. “You once mentioned, sir, that your English cousin was killed by rebels. I cannot help but wonder why you have now aligned with the Patriot Cause? It would seem more likely that you would . . .”
A sharp tone cut her off. “That a rebel bullet felled my cousin makes him an unfortunate casualty of war. I have aligned with the Patriot Cause, madame, because I am a staunch believer in justice.”
His sudden anger seemed somehow . . . too sudden. “I see.”
“On the surface my reasoning might seem incongruous, but by justice, I mean I do not believe England has the right to subjugate the colonists, or control their lives. I am now a colonist, madame, the same as you are.”
“If you feel that strongly, sir, why have you not marched off to join the rebel army?” she pushed.
“I have explained to you that I am needed at home. As a Quaker, I do not believe in bearing arms. I can do more for the Patriot Cause by not fighting.”
Betsy noted his long gaze fixed somewhere on the perimeter of the State House grounds. She gazed that direction but spotted nothing out of the ordinary. The sky had gown darker and the grounds were now quite thin of company, but noting the Watch come round a corner and begin to trim the lamps, diminished some of her unease. The Watch would soon begin to call out the hour, declaring to citizens within earshot that all was well. She fervently hoped that to be the case.
When François spoke again, he seemed also to have reined in his ire and his tone was now again almost pleasant. “I arrived in Philadelphia with a number of letters of introduction in my pocket, Mrs. Ross; letters designed to introduce me to prominent American families. Unfortunately, I have learned that the majority of those families are Loyalists. How best to turn those introductions to my advantage has puzzled me . . . until now.”
Betsy gazed up with interest. What was he saying now?
“I recently received an invitation to a soiree at the home of a gentleman named Edward Shippen.”
“Judge Shippen?”
He shrugged. “I know not the gentleman’s rank. I originally meant for Minette to accompany me. Instead . . .” He turned to her. “I am asking you.”
Betsy blinked. He wished her to accompany him to a party? The bit of pleasure that swept over her dissolved the split second his look turned disdainful.
“Do you possess a finer costume, ma chérie?”
Betsy’s lips firmed. She was a Quaker. He should know she owned nothing fashionable. He may have abandoned Quaker attire, but she still clung to it.
When she did not reply, he said. “When I earlier spoke of British officers frequenting your shop, madame, I was suggesting a method whereby you might gain bits of useful information which you could pass along for profit to a Secret Committee of Correspondence member. A tailor in New York City recently learned of a plot to murder General Washington, a plot the tailor overheard being discussed between a pair of British officers in his shop as he fitted one of them for a jacket. When I heard of it, I thought of you.”
So, the elegant Frenchman had singled her out not because he felt drawn to her but because she could further his cause. “I am unacquainted with any British officers, sir, and I refuse to tailor a British officer’s uniform. Furthermore, if I were to accept your offer to spy on the British, how would you suggest I entice British officers into my shop?”
“That, ma fleur, is what I am attempting to explain.” His tone again sounded a trifle impatient. “To gain the enemy’s trust, mademoiselle, it is necessary for one to consort with the enemy.”
“How am I to do that? I am a Patriot.”
She noted the muscles of his jaws grinding together. “Attending the Shippen soiree with me will allow you to cultivate the friendship of Loyalist women, Mrs. Ross. Your new friends will then recommend your services as a grisette . . . pardon, ‘seamstress’ to those British officers quartered in their homes.”
“I have no desire to cultivate the friendship of Loyalist women,” Betsy declared before realizing that her quick response meant she was foolishly tossing aside an excellent opportunity, the only one she had received thus far, to further her cause. Nonetheless, her growing irritation with the Frenchman made her continue on in the same vein. “I do not wish to lie about my true feelings, sir, or speak disparagingly of . . .”
“It is not uncommon these days for citizens to slip-slide from Rebel to Tory. The Shippens entertain British generals one week and Patriot generals the next. By inviting you to accompany me to the Shippen soiree, I am providing you with a superb opportunity to lure the enemy into your confidence. If you are a competent enough seamstress to fashion a suitable garment by Thursday evening next, I will gladly escort you to the soiree. To do so will place us both in a prime position to embark upon our shared subterfuge.”
Shared subterfuge? Although this was precisely the opportunity Betsy had dreamed of, she realized that to link herself with the duplicitous Frenchman actually set her teeth on edge. Still, if she were to learn anything at all about covert activity in Philadelphia, she had no choice now but to agree to his plan. “To fashion a gown in a sen’night, sir, will not pose a problem,” she replied coolly.
“Perhaps my sister can help.”
Betsy took umbrage. “I am quite capable of fashioning a gown for myself, sir!”
“For our plan to bear fruit, ma petite, your gown must be fashionable.” Another scornful look raked over her dowdy costume.
Betsy managed to hold her tongue.
“Minette only just arrived from Paris,” he reminded her. “Amongst her possessions are a number of dolls. One is wearing a gown I am told was fashioned for our beautiful Queen, Marie Antoinette.”
Betsy knew he was speaking of French Fashion dolls, which, might, indeed, prove useful in designing a truly fashionable frock. She swallowed her pride. “Minette’s help with the cut of my gown will be most welcome, sir. Thank you.”
“I shall ask her to call upon you and to bring the dolls. You are agreeing to my plan, oui?”
As François had obviously intended all along for their association to be nothing more than a business arrangement, Betsy felt foolish for having ever thought otherwise. Still her stubborn streak did not wish him to think she was agreeing to his proposal so easily. “I must be assured, sir, that once my new friends, the Loyalists and their friends, the . . . British officers, come to my shop, that all I am required to do is . . . listen.”
“And set down whatever you overhear and to pass along your report.”
“Pass along my report to whom?”
“I will be your contact, madame. For the nonce, you must concentrate upon gaining the enemy’s trust. So . . .” he pressed, “you agree to accept my offer, oui?”
Lifting her chin, Betsy stood. “I would like to return to my home now, please.”
“Certainement.” He also stood.
At Betsy’s doorstep, François leaned to whisper into her ear. “I must have your word, ma petite, that nothing we have spoken of tonight will be bandied about. Most especially not to your friend, the South Sea trader.”
Betsy bristled. The moniker ‘South Sea trader’ referred to pirates. “Captain Ashburn is a privateer, sir,” she declared hotly. “He and his crew operate entirely within the law and he possesses the Letter of Marque to prove it.”
It was too dark for Betsy to see the smirk of amusement on François’ lips. “Forgive me, ma petite fleur. I meant no disrespect to your friend.”
The Frenchman’s flowery phrases were also beginning to annoy her. Did he think if he called her his little flower enough times, she would turn into a simpering milk-and-water miss who would agree to anything he wished? Betsy unlocked her shop door. Decidedly irritated with the Frenchman now, another part of her admitted that she had always wished to attend a soiree at one of the lovely mansions on Society Hill. And to do so wearing a beautiful new gown . . . how could she possibly refuse?
But . . . did she dare? Would her presence amongst Loyalists forever brand her a traitor? Indeed, not. François had said General Washington supped with Judge Shippen and General Washington was not a traitor.
Turning to François, she said, “I have decided to attend the dinner party with you, but I must give your other proposal a bit more thought.”
“Very well. A bientôt.” With a polite nod of his head, he turned and strolled away.
Walking through her darkened house, thoughts of spying and subterfuge swirled through Betsy’s mind, as well as the perplexing problem that has plagued women throughout the ages . . . what on earth would she wear to a fashionable dinner party?