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THE FOLLOWING DAY MINETTE appeared at Betsy’s door bringing two beautiful French Fashion dolls. “François say you agree to attend soiree with heem, oui?”
“I did, indeed.” Betsy invited her friend into her parlor.
She had never before seen a French Fashion doll. Atop their painted porcelain faces, both dolls wore tall powdered wigs featuring feathers and ribbons; one had a strand of pearls woven through the stiff white hair. Minette said the wide Polonaise gowns were generally worn only at court, or fancy-dress balls, but the square cut of the neckline, the stiff stomachers, and elbow-length sleeves on the doll’s dresses were now all the rage in Paris. Betsy could hardly wait to begin cutting the fabric and stitching together a lovely new gown for herself.
At length Minette rose to go. “I leave with you my fashion bébés.”
Betsy thanked her and at once began to sketch a design, and then to sort through her bolts of costly new fabric. Knowing it would not be proper to wear bright colors so soon after her husband’s passing; she chose a soft gray silk that had arrived with her shipment.
“You will look lovely, Betsy,” Sarah exclaimed the following afternoon when Betsy told her sister why she was making the dress. “I shudder to think what our mother would say if she knew what you are planning.”
“Well, it is not as if I could be read out of Meeting again,” Betsy replied. She’d been pleased when her sister hadn’t chastised her for attending the dance the other evening with Emma and Minette, and her brother François. Now, Sarah also hadn’t scolded her for accepting the Frenchman’s invitation to attend a fashionable dinner party. Above stairs in her sunny sitting room, the girls began to carefully cut into the fine fabric.
“Rachel would be quite envious if she knew of your plans. Our younger sister is so like you, Betsy, and I do not mean only in countenance. She is every bit as headstrong as you are when she sets her mind to something. To be sure, Rachel daily tries our mother’s patience.”
“I would dearly love to see her and Hannah, and George. I thank the good Lord every day that you are brave enough to come around, Sarah.”
“I will never abandon thee, Sister.” Sarah studied the lovely Fashion Dolls. “We would have adored sewing frocks for dolls such as these when we were children.”
Betsy smiled, recalling fond memories of their childhood and the many hours she and her sisters had spent together sewing. Hearing Sarah’s occasional affectionate use of “thee” and “thy” also warmed her heart.
“I daresay you will receive commissions to make many more such beautiful gowns after the women see you at the party.”
If everything went as François expected, Betsy thought, she might very well earn enough from the new business she garnered to repay Uncle Abel for all her new fabric and supplies. She would also accept François’s other offer, of course. To earn money simply by listening and setting down on paper whatever she might overhear would indeed further the Patriot Cause, although she would never tell Sarah of her involvement in that venture.
“Shall we embellish the stomacher with bows from the same gray silk or do you prefer a contrasting color?” Sarah asked, sorting through the many fabric swatches.
“I think the selfsame color will look more elegant. I plan to trim the square neck and sleeves with silver braid and also a lace frill.”
“With bows at the sleeves?”
Betsy considered. “Perhaps small ones. I shouldn’t want to gaudy it up with too many furbelows.”
“You are such a pretty girl, Betsy, I am persuaded it will not be too very long before thee receives another offer of marriage.”
Betsy laughed. “So long as it does not come from a Loyalist.”
“Have you told Joseph you will be attending a society dinner party?”
“I have not seen Joseph since that night at Old Square Tavern.”
“Clearly he was jealous of François.” Sarah held up the bow she’d just tied. “What do you think? Bigger, or smaller?”
“It is perfect as it is. Thank you for helping me, Sarah.”
“Perhaps I might meet your Frenchman one day.”
“I will need thee to dress my hair on Thursday evening next.”
* * *
ON THE NIGHT OF THE dinner party, François Dubeau arrived to collect Betsy in a smart two-wheeled chaise pulled by a single black horse. After charmingly expressing his pleasure over meeting Betsy’s sister Sarah, he surprised Betsy by remarking on how lovely she looked tonight in her new silk gown. As expected, he was elegantly attired in a three-piece suit of burgundy silk, the breeches tied below the knees with ribbons, the coat adorned with a velvet collar and cuffs. Froths of white lace dripped from his wrists and cascaded down his white linen shirtfront. White silk stockings and gleaming black pumps completed the Frenchman’s stylish costume.
Sarah had piled Betsy’s chestnut hair up on her head leaving three glossy ringlets to dangle over one shoulder. Betsy nestled a delicate pink silk rose amongst her shiny curls. This being the first occasion she’d ever worn anything other than a plain gray frock and white apron, she felt breathless with excitement. She succeeded in remaining calm as François handed her into the chaise. Smiling, she waved goodbye to Sarah who stood on the walkway.
Drawing up to the Shippen’s elegant home, Betsy recalled that she and John had often exclaimed over the grand house as they strolled down South Fourth Street. Formal gardens and fruit orchards surrounded all the mansions here, but the Shippen home was by far the largest; maintained, she and John had assumed, by slaves. The majority of Philadelphia’s wealthier citizens owned slaves. Before the war, it had not been uncommon for a black boy or girl to accompany the well-to-do patrons into John and Betsy’s small upholstery shop.
“I expect the bulk of the conversation tonight will center around the British ships sailing into New York harbor,” François told Betsy as the tidy chaise fell in behind a string of other coaches making slow progress toward the Shippen home. “No doubt, there will be a good bit of cheering over the fact that the British now occupy the city.”
“Must we also cheer?” Betsy asked, beginning to feel a trifle uneasy about what lay ahead.
“If you feel you cannot join in, mam’selle, simply remain silent. Your task is to impress, not to debate political matters, which . . .” he flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his coat sleeve, “I am persuaded is far and away beyond the capability of women anyhow.”
Betsy blanched but ignored the rude remark. François would never be an especial friend of hers, so his opinion of her capability to discuss anything mattered not a whit to her.
“Depending on the size of our host’s guest list,” he continued as if instructing a child how to go on in polite society, “you and I may, or may not, be seated near one another at table. Consequently whomever you are seated beside, instead of attempting to converse with the gentleman you must . . .”
“Despite your low opinion of me, sir,” Betsy exploded. “I am persuaded I shall not embarrass you with a display of ill manners.”
François’s lips pursed. “I see no need for prickliness, madame.”
“You seem to think me completely lacking in propriety.”
With a sniff, he abandoned their quarrel. “Our host and hostess will no doubt introduce the pair of us around.”
“So long as you and I are not viewed as being linked together.”
François’s lips twitched as he turned a bemused gaze upon her. “Quite clearly I have misjudged you, ma chérie. When it suits you, you can be quite saucy.” A dark brow quirked. “As it happens, I find saucy women rather . . . attractive.”
“What a pity,” Betsy said. “For I find rude gentlemen quite un-attractive.”
* * *
EDWARD SHIPPEN AND his wife, Margaret, were high-standing Philadelphia citizens whose wealth had accrued over the years from their extensive real estate holdings. As the dinner guests entered their lovely manor home, a liveried butler ushered each one into a beautifully appointed withdrawing room.
“Welcome to our home, Mrs. Ross,” Mrs. Shippen greeted Betsy. “I am delighted that M’sieur Dubeau invited you to accompany him tonight.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shippen; I am delighted to be here. I believe I once met your lovely daughter Peggy.” Betsy knew the Shippen’s had been blessed with four daughters and a son.
“We meant to bring Peggy out this year, but . . .” the older woman sighed, “the war; you know.”
Betsy smiled prettily. “The conflict has dramatically changed all our lives.” She directed a speaking look at her escort, as if to say, there, you see, I can be quite civil. He appeared not to notice.
For the next quarter hour Betsy nodded and smiled when introduced to other guests, and derived great pleasure from simply viewing her surroundings. Being an upholsterer, the silk-covered walls, the richly draped sofas and chairs and the other ladies’ gowns greatly interested her. Attired in her own stylish creation, she did not feel the least bit out of place. It did surprise her to note that several of the other ladies gowns were not quite as fashionable as she’d expected, however, some being made in a style popular some fifteen years ago called the sack, featuring a fitted bodice in front and two wide pleats hanging straight to the floor in back. Only a few ladies’ skirts were held away from their bodies by panniers and none were too terribly wide. However, nearly every gown featured the popular square-cut décolletage, as did Betsy’s. A few elderly women modestly wore crossed handkerchiefs tucked into their low-cut bodices.
Betsy became so caught up studying her surroundings, she was scarcely aware of François, who, she eventually realized was still hovering near her elbow. Relieved that he was saying nothing, Betsy continued to amuse herself perusing the colorful gowns and costly jewels glittering at the ladies throats. Noting that a good many of the gentlemen’s silk waistcoats seemed stretched quite tightly over their well-fed bellies brought a smile to her lips.
“What do you find so amusing, madame?”
François’s caustic tone drew Betsy from her reverie. “I am merely enjoying the sights,” she replied quietly.
“So long as you do not enjoy yourself to the detriment of our . . . cause.” François’s cool tone was low.
His remark reminded Betsy that despite their pleasant manners, everyone here was, in fact, the enemy and she was not here to enjoy herself, but to cultivate false friendships.
Eventually the Shippens led their guests into the dining chamber, which Betsy noted was every bit as elegantly furnished as the drawing room. Scarlet silk covered these walls and on the floor, her slippers sank into a thick Turkish carpet. A pair of crystal chandeliers, ablaze with dozens of candles, hung low over the polished mahogany table where gleaming silver serving dishes and silver goblets made it seem to sparkle. Against the wall, exquisite, etched-glass panels fronted the sideboard. The costly elegance displayed here nearly took Betsy’s breath away.
Upon realizing that each guest’s name had been lettered upon a small ivory card fronting the place settings, she found herself seated between a Mr. Whitmore and a Mr. Boggs, both of whom she was unacquainted with but did recognize their names from the Pennsylvania Packet, as both were wealthy and influential Philadelphians.
After liveried servants solemnly poured rich red wine into every guest’s long-stemmed crystal glass, Judge Shippen raised a toast to the success of the British troops in New York. Although Betsy cringed at the sentiment and the cheers of approval that followed, she managed to swallow a few perfunctory sips of wine and was relieved when no other gentleman rose to offer a similar toast. Dinner conversation soon became lively amongst the men and, as François predicted, focused mainly upon the British occupying the New York colony.
“Loyalists are a decided majority in New York City,” a gentleman sitting near Betsy declared. “Upwards of three-fourths of the land there is owned by Loyalists.”
“I understand the royal governor of New York, William Tryon, has set up headquarters aboard one of the king’s own ships,” declared another gentleman, “and is secretly directing all Loyalist operations from the harbor.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Make no mistake, the conflict in New York will not last long.”
“Staten Island is another Loyalist stronghold.”
“The Virginia farmer’s rag-tag army don’t stand a chance in New York and that’s a fact,” predicted another gentleman.
Upon hearing General Washington being referred to, with derision, as the Virginia farmer, Betsy squirmed, but said nothing and instead turned her attention to the sumptuous meal upon the delicate china plate before her. Never in her life had she tasted such delicious pheasant pie. The asparagus compote was topped by a thick cream sauce, and the green peas, creamed carrots and new potatoes were seasoned to perfection. Silver platters littering the table contained an assortment of puddings and breads all garnished with nuts, raisins, and thick treacle. Being accustomed to far simpler fare, Betsy thoroughly enjoyed the meal. Having never been served dinner by a liveried footman, it amused her when the alert gentleman seemed to know the instant she drained the last swallow of wine from her long-stemmed goblet and silently appeared out of nowhere to refill it. Twice his presence had so startled her she’d nearly dropped the sterling silver fork in her hand.
When the dinner discussion turned to the Oath of Allegiance to the Freedom Cause that Judge Shippen declared he was currently being pressured to sign, Betsy’s ears again perked up. Aware of the official decree, she knew that if a man refused to set down his name, he could be arrested, have his property seized, or be banished altogether from the city. But, where could a man safely go, she wondered (but did not inquire aloud) if every colony and village within it enforced the same law?
She overheard a gentleman across the table remark that only last month Dr. Franklin’s son William, Royal Governor of New Jersey, had been arrested for refusing to sign the oath. How, she wondered, did Dr. Franklin feel about his son taking sides against him?
“Governor Franklin declared that he had an everlasting duty to his king,” said Mr. Boggs. “He was still staunchly maintaining his position even as he was being hauled away to Connecticut, where unfortunately he is now imprisoned.”
Betsy became aware of women at the table murmuring with dismay regarding the topic under discussion. Mrs. Shippen remarked that she had lately been urging her husband to sign the oath.
“After all we must think of the children. How would they get on if their father were banished to Connecticut?”
When Mr. Whitmore, to Betsy’s left, said he favored reform over rebellion and compromise over confrontation, Betsy could no longer keep silent. “I quite agree with you, sir.”
Whitmore rewarded her with a nod of approval; whilst Mr. Boggs to her right, said, “You appear to be a discerning woman, Mrs. Ross.”
“Thank you, sir,” Betsy replied, although following the minimal exchange, she noted the critical look François, seated across from her, aimed her way. Defiantly lifting her chin, she turned away.
Later, in the drawing room, after the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies, Betsy was appalled to overhear a remark François made to a pair of women who had him cornered before the mantle-piece. Apparently the women had been discussing the agreeableness of having children in one’s life and asked François his opinion.
“Madame, I like children only when they are properly prepared and served with a savory sauce.” With a nod, he abruptly excused himself and left the women staring after him, their mouths agape.
Her blue eyes rolling skyward, Betsy hurried toward the affronted ladies. “Please accept my apologies on behalf of M’sieur Dubeau. I am certain he did not mean what he said. He has an . . . unnatural sense of humor.”
“Unnatural, indeed!” snapped one lady.
“The French do seem to think themselves superior to the rest of us. Make no mistake, you would do well to rid yourself of such a disagreeable young man,” admonished another woman.
“That is a lovely gown you are wearing, Mrs. Ross,” said a pretty young lady who had stolen up to the group and was now hovering near Betsy’s elbow. “Did M’sieur Dubeau procure it for you from Paris?”
Betsy turned toward the young lady, whose gown she had earlier noted was quite soiled about the hem. “No, he did not. I made my gown myself.”
Hearing Betsy’s reply, all eyes widened.
“But that cannot be,” cried one. “I am certain I saw that exact same design in the pages of La Belle Assemblee.”
“I assure you I made my gown myself, madam. I am a seamstress. I have an upholstery shop on Mulberry Street.”
“Yes, well, I cannot believe you made that gown.”
“Nor do I believe it,” said the one who’d declared the French believed themselves superior to others. “Apparently her sense of humor is as unnatural as M’sieur Dubeau’s.” Lifting her chin, she swept away.
Before Betsy had a chance to reply, another said, “My dear, did I hear you correctly? You made your gown yourself? It is quite lovely!”
“Thank you.” Betsy directed a smile her way. “I am a seamstress, madam.”
“Perhaps she means she made the gown over,” said the first woman, who had rejoined the group. “I cannot believe it possible for a colonial seamstress to fashion such an exquisite creation. Do come along, Regina.” Taking the arm of her friend, she dragged the more submissive woman away.
“I am so sorry,” said the young lady who had first remarked upon Betsy’s gown. “I did not mean to cause a stir. I think your gown is quite beautiful and I do believe you made it yourself.” One hand fingered her soiled frock. “Had I sufficient funds, I would commission you to make such a gown for me.”
“And I would be happy to do so, my dear. Do tell me your name.”
“I am Miss Anne Olsen,” said the slight girl who looked to be no more than seven and ten years. She had light brown hair and an unassuming demeanor. “I live with my aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Dearborn.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Olsen.”
“Perhaps we shall meet again one day, Mrs. Ross.”
“I look forward to it.”
* * *
LATER THAT EVENING, seated beside François in the little chaise as it bounced over the cobbles toward Betsy’s home, she feared all her efforts aimed at impressing the Loyalist women had come to naught. If they refused to believe she had made her gown, not a single one would commission her to make gowns, or upholster a chair, for them.
“Well, it appears your little frock impressed no one,” François remarked dryly.
“Unfortunately the same cannot be said for you,” Betsy countered.
“You’ve no need to blame me for your failure to impress, madame.” That said, he closed his eyes, laid his head against the squabs, and did not rouse himself even to help her alight from the carriage, opting instead to let the coachman perform the honors.
Betsy unlocked her front door and entered the darkened house. Despite her failure to impress, she had quite enjoyed the outing. However, one evening spent in the Frenchman’s disagreeable company had turned what little remained of her regard for him into distinct dislike.