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A FEW DAYS LATER, SARAH came to thank Betsy again for taking her to see Dr. Franklin. When Betsy said she was certain he had delivered the message to General Washington, Sarah remarked that she would not rest easy until she heard from William and knew for certain that he was still alive. Seating herself in Betsy’s parlor, where Betsy was busy sewing, Sarah said conversationally, “I happened to see François at the market yesterday. He is such a charming young man, and so very kind.”
Although it was a struggle not to protest, Betsy said nothing and continued to sew as Sarah went on.
“He was helping his little mother negotiate the cost of her goods. The poor woman’s English is woefully lacking. I told him you were making a ball gown for Miss Olsen and that it was every bit as lovely as the gown you made for yourself.”
Betsy glanced up. “Did you mention to him anything about the contents of Miss Olsen’s letter?”
“I told him I was here when the young lady and her aunt came for a fitting and that they shared a letter with us, yes; although I mentioned nothing that was said. Rachel was with me. I did not wish to spoil the day by becoming . . . overset. I must say our little sister was quite taken with François. She thought him very handsome.”
“You introduced Rachel to François?”
“The gentleman and I were conversing. It would have been rude not to make them known to one another. Is there some reason why I should not have?”
“No, I . . . suppose not. How is Rachel faring? She must be quite the young lady now.” A trace of sadness crept into Betsy’s tone. She missed her younger siblings, Hannah, Rachel and George.
“Indeed, she is. As I mentioned before, she favors you, the same chestnut hair, only she wears hers loose and flowing down her back. Her eyes are the same brilliant blue as yours and her skin every bit as lustrous. Although not yet sixteen, she appears a good deal older. Her figure is . . . well, Rachel is quite developed for her age. And I daresay, a bit too flirtatious for her own good.”
“Oh, dear,” Betsy murmured. Given her tender years, Rachel could easily be taken in by François’s flowery phrases. “Considering how I disappointed our parents, I expect they will endeavor to keep a tighter rein on Rachel.”
“Indeed,” Sarah agreed with a laugh.
A half hour or so later, Sarah said she must pop off.
“Sarah.” Betsy followed her sister into the corridor.
“Yes, dear, what is it?”
Betsy hesitated. She wanted to say that it would be unwise for Rachel to see François again, but perhaps if her parents kept a tight rein on their youngest daughter, the warning would be for naught. “Please tell Rachel that I miss her terribly and that I would love to see her again.”
“Rachel misses you, as well, Betsy.” Sarah kissed her sister’s flushed cheek.
* * *
ONE AFTERNOON A FEW days later, Betsy and the Frenchman were alone in her parlor; Betsy on the sofa, François glaring down upon her from a superior position before the hearth. That a storm was brewing behind his dark eyes had not escaped her notice.
“According to our agreement, madame, you should have got word to me that a pair of Loyalist ladies had called upon you,” François Dubeau angrily declared.
“I had every intention of telling you last evening at the Fighting Quaker meeting,” Betsy said defensively, “but you were not there.”
“I have left off attending those radical gatherings and I daresay, you should, as well.”
“I have no intention of leaving off . . .”
“I forbid you to attend another meeting of that rebel group!”
Betsy’s eyes widened. “You forbid me?” Anger knotted her stomach.
After a few tense seconds, François cleared his throat and began afresh. “Forgive, me, madame. What I meant to say is that to forward your ruse as being sympathetic to the Loyalist cause, it would behoove you to leave off associating with known Patriots. To gain the trust of those we wish to learn from is paramount.”
“I see.” The smallest whit of Betsy’s anger dissolved. “You could have said as much rather than ordering me about as if I were a child.”
François took a seat on a wing chair adjacent to the sofa. “Your sister, Mrs. Donaldson, mentioned that she was here the day the Loyalist woman read from a letter she had received from a British officer in New York.” When Betsy did not reply at once, he prompted, “Well? Was there anything of import in the letter?”
Betsy’s lips thinned. Given his surly attitude, she had half a mind to reply: ‘No, nothing at all.’ But, given his surly attitude, she expected that to not dangle some tantalizing morsel of intelligence before him would serve only to ramp up his ire. The two of them were in her home alone. After dark. With Joseph away, and therefore no hope of him coming to her rescue, should she require rescuing, she felt somewhat vulnerable. In a tight voice, she said, “The writer spoke mainly of the British officer’s fine accommodations and that . . .” her voice trailed off.
“And, that . . . what?”
“That a goodly number of Patriot soldiers were deserting. The writer said the rebels were eager to trade information for food.” She rushed on. “Which was quite distressing to Sarah. You see, her husband. . .”
“What more did the letter say?” A hard gaze pinned her.
Betsy paused. Apparently her reluctance to reveal more merely told him there was more, and that for some reason she was choosing to withhold it.
“Did Miss Olsen’s letter say anything regarding troop movements, or additional British warships arriving in New York harbor?” He leaned forward, an expectant look on his admittedly handsome face.
Growing more uncomfortable by the second, Betsy had no idea how François would react when he learned that she’d given the information to Dr. Franklin instead of him. Squirming, she said, “Now that I think on it, there was a brief mention of . . . additional troops arriving.”
“Was a number mentioned?”
Betsy sprang to her feet. “Must you persist in badgering me?”
He, too, stood, which meant he was again towering over her. “I am not badgering you, madame. Instead of working with me as you agreed, you seem bent upon withholding whatever information you overheard.” Scowling, he grasped her arm.
Her blue eyes snapped fire. “Unhand me this instant!”
Although his broad chest heaved, he did loosen his grip. “By all that is right, madame, I could insist that you hand over a portion of whatever you earn for making that vulgar scarlet gown.” A scornful gaze darted toward the fluff of red silk draped over a chair. “Were it not for me, you would not have received the commission.”
“I find your attitude intolerable, sir. You appear to find Loyalists and rebels beneath you.”
“Colonists are beneath me.” His upper lip curled. “Provincials, the lot of you.”
“And yet you claim to be one of us.”
He ignored her. “I came prepared tonight to give you a gold guinea merely for telling me what you learned from the Loyalist woman’s lettre! Instead, you renege on our agreement. Why? Because you believe you are better than I? Pah!”
Betsy rubbed the red place on her arm where he had grasped her. “I am not reneging. As it turns out, I have already passed along what I learned from Miss Olsen’s letter.”
His brows snapped together. “How dare you make an agreement behind my back with another sp . . . with another man.”
“I told Dr. Franklin.”
“And who gave you permission to do that?”
“Permission?” She blinked. “I do not need your permission to do anything, sir. I am free to do whatever I please.” She knew she was making the Frenchman angry but tonight he was vexing her beyond measure.
“Did Dr. Franklin compensate you?”
“I did not sell the information to him. I freely volunteered it.”
“Quelle stupide! I am fast losing patience with you, madame!” He moved toward the door. “I no longer care to know what you learned from the sotte mademoiselle. No doubt, it was nothing of import.”
Although incensed by the disagreeable Frenchman, Betsy did not want him to leave. In all likelihood, she would never have another opportunity to learn anything regarding Philadelphia’s spy underworld. With effort, she swallowed her pride. “Forgive me, François. I-I should have come straight to you. My sister was quite overset after hearing the distressing news and to placate her, I suggested we consult with Dr. Franklin.”
“Why did you not tell me you were ami . . . a friend of Dr. Franklin?”
“Dr. Franklin attends the same church where John and I worshipped.”
He strode back to the chair he had vacated. “So, you are aware that Franklin is a spymaster, that he runs agents, oui?”
Because Betsy did not think it wise to further anger him, she replied, “I am aware the brilliant Dr. Franklin has many areas of expertise.”
“Bien sûr.”
Of a sudden, Betsy realized that when angered, François reverted to his native language. Tonight he had used more French phrases than she had ever before heard from him.
He held up a hand. “Pas de problème. Since you have already turned over this bit of information, there is no need now to write a report and send it through . . . proper channels. However, madame,” he pinned her with an icy glare. “Do you, or do you not, wish to continue our association?”
“I do wish to help the Patriot Cause, François. Truly I do.”
He flicked a bit of lint from the velvet cuff of his coat. “It is no matter to me. Given your . . . unique profession, I merely thought that you would souvnet . . . that is, be in a position to overhear sensitive matters being . . . discuter.”
Although he seemed to be making a concerted effort to control his anger, from his continued use of French, Betsy surmised his efforts on that head were failing miserably. He was as irritated with her now as ever. Apparently he had hoped she would be able to supply him with a great deal of information and did not wish to dismiss her any more than she wished to break all ties with him.
In a calm tone, she said, “François, if you will tell me exactly what I must do when I have information to pass along, I give my word that in future I will do precisely as you say. How exactly am I to get word to you, sir?”
From his coat pocket, he withdrew a scrap of paper. “C’est . . . this is my direction. When you have a report, madame, send a message to my home and I will come for it. You are a woman and I have no wish to put you in harm’s way, therefore I will not ask you to venture beyond your domicile.”
“I appreciate your concern for my safety.”
Rising, he strode toward the door. “If I am out of the city, you will deliver your report to another committee member. Au revoir, madame.”
Betsy followed him through the darkened house and after bidding him good night, closed the door and secured the bolt. A part of her hoped that no other person of the Loyalist persuasion ever again visited her shop so that she would never again be obliged to entertain the annoying Frenchman. The one measure of relief she felt came from his remark that he did not wish to put her in harm’s way. Whether or not that sentiment was true remained to be seen.