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EARLY THE FOLLOWING week, Mrs. Dearborn and Miss Olsen arrived for the latter’s final fitting. When the gown fit perfectly as it was, the ladies insisted upon leaving with it. As Mrs. Dearborn made no mention of discharging the vast sum she owed Betsy for making the gown, Betsy was reluctant to let it go. Watching the shiny black Dearborn coach rumble away, the scarlet confection clutched in the older woman’s arms, she wondered how she’d go about collecting such an immense sum of money? John had always taken care of that side of their business.
The next morning, when Mrs. Dearborn’s carriage again drew up to the curb, Betsy was relieved when upon stepping into the foyer, the woman promptly handed her a pouch jingling with coins. Miss Olsen, she gaily announced, was already on her way to New York City and by week’s end would dance the night away in a whirl of scarlet finery.
“Make no mistake, my niece will return to Philadelphia with a ring on her finger!” she declared with high satisfaction.
Smiling, Betsy was also pleased when Mrs. Dearborn suddenly remembered she had brought along some mending and sent her footman to fetch it. Although the woman told her there was no hurry to complete the task, once she departed, Betsy turned to it at once, as she had no other work to do. The following afternoon, the simple project complete, she decided to walk to Mrs. Dearborn’s home to deliver the garment and perhaps collect the small sum due for it, as well.
While awaiting Mrs. Dearborn to join her in the spacious withdrawing room to which she’d been shown, Betsy became aware of the deep rumble of men’s voices coming from an adjacent chamber. Cocking an ear, she distinctly overheard one of the men declare that British Admiral Lord Richard Howe, General William Howe’s brother, would soon be arriving in New York harbor accompanied by upwards of one hundred warships and thousands more reinforcement troops. Realizing the significance of what she had inadvertently overheard, Betsy’s cheeks grew hot and her pulse began to pound.
“Good afternoon, my dear!” A rustle of silk accompanied Mrs. Dearborn’s shrill voice into the chamber where Betsy sat perched upon a straight-backed chair, her blue eyes round. “There was absolutely no need for you to come all this way on my account, dear! Oh, my, Mrs. Ross, you look quite flushed. Are you feeling unwell?”
“N-no, ma’am, I-I feel quite well, thank you.”
“You do not look at all well to me.”
After insisting that Betsy remove to a chair situated beneath an opened window, she rang for a housemaid and when the black girl appeared, instructed her to fling open additional windows and bring sustenance at once. In no time the Negro servant returned bearing a pitcher of lemon water and a plate of small sugar cakes.
“I daresay you simply overexerted yourself walking such a distance, my dear. I am persuaded you will feel better in no time. However, I will not hear of you returning home on foot. I expect my husband has concluded his business; I shall have him escort you home. I would come as well, but I am expected elsewhere this afternoon.”
Mrs. Dearborn exited the room and moments later Betsy heard her voice coming from the adjacent chamber. Her eyes rolled skyward. To endure a ride across Philadelphia in the company of a Loyalist gentleman was the last thing she wished to do.
As it turned out, there were two gentlemen, Mr. Dearborn, a portly gentleman of some fifty years and a younger man named Mr. Tuttle, who, throughout the short journey, more than once cast an appraising eye at the pretty young lady seated across from him, her hands folded primly in her lap, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder. As neither of the gentlemen addressed Betsy throughout the duration of the drive, she remained silent. But grew increasingly overwrought as her companions spent the entire sojourn continuing to discuss the exact numbers and anticipated arrival of fresh British troops as if she were not sitting right there taking in every word!
The men even launched into a description of the British attack the previous month on Charleston, South Carolina, remarking on how the rebels had apparently been engaged for some time preparing their “welcome” for the British. Betsy knew very well that the Charleston rebel’s welcome had not been of a friendly nature and the outcome was so unfriendly that the attack on Charleston had been deemed a rousing Patriot victory. What she did not know, until this minute, was that plans were afoot for General Clinton’s defeated soldiers to also be shipped north to join General Howe in New York City. Dear Lord, what military secrets would the men reveal next?
That her heart was drumming so loudly in her ears by the time the open-air carriage wheeled up before her shop nearly prevented Betsy from expressing her gratitude to Mr. Dearborn for seeing her safely home. His polite response was: “I hope we did not bore you to pieces with our talk of war, Mrs. Ross.”
A nervous squeak escaped Betsy before she scampered into her shop and a few seconds later, her pulse quickened again when another rap sounded at the door and the intrepid Mr. Dearborn stepped inside.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Ross. It quite slipped my mind that my wife instructed me to give you this.” He dropped a few coins into Betsy’s trembling palm. “Good day, ma’am.”
A shaky smile wavered across Betsy’s flushed face. “T-thank you, sir.”
Closing the door to her shop, Betsy stood at the window and watched until the Dearborn carriage wheeled off down Mulberry Street. Then she spun around. Pencil and paper! She had to write down every single word she had just overheard. This would comprise her first report to the Secret Committee of Correspondence and it must be perfect!
In no time, Betsy had completed her report and as François instructed, dispatched a note to him via messenger. However, Betsy was puzzled when by eventide the Frenchman had not appeared at her door. Had he decided to terminate their association, after all? An image of the gold guinea he’d mentioned the other evening popped to mind, although the coin now had wings and was fluttering beyond her grasp.
Mid-morning of the following day, François’s sister Minette arrived. “My brother,” the little blonde’s expression was guileless, “he go to New York to attend soiree he say much important. He wish me to give you theeze.” The missive Minette handed Betsy was impressively sealed with a dollop of red wax.
“I see,” Betsy murmured. Uncertain what this new turn meant, she gazed at the sealed note and without ripping into it, slipped it into her apron pocket. “Will you join me in the parlor?”
“Oui.” The pretty girl smiled with pleasure.
Her mind awhirl, Betsy led the way through the house. Perhaps François had truly cast her off and was using this benign method of telling her. After all, he’d said nothing of his plans to travel when last he saw her. She also wondered if the soiree he had journeyed to New York to attend could possibly be the same ball Miss Olsen would be attending? François said he came to this country with numerous letters of introduction in his pocket, the majority to homes of Loyalists. Was he now in New York consorting with the enemy?
Suddenly aware that the sweltering summer sun spilling through the opened window was making the small parlor feel especially close, Betsy withdrew the sealed note from her pocket, and began to fan herself with it.
“Would you care for a glass of lemon water, Minette?”
“Oui. Lemon water would be quite nice. Merci.”
“I shall fetch it at once.” Betsy sprang to her feet.
Below stairs in the kitchen, she wasted no time ripping into the note.
‘In my absence, madame, deliver reports to: M’sieur Paul Trumbell. 47 Vandemere Lane.’
Betsy’s brow furrowed. She’d expected more than a mere name and direction; an explanation, perhaps, regarding his whereabouts. Stuffing the page back into her pocket, she hastily prepared the light refreshment and carried it on a tray up the steep stairs to the parlor. Considering the anger François had displayed a few nights ago when she had not done as he asked, she must now do precisely as he said. Moreover, since the intelligence she’d overheard yesterday at the Dearborn home was of a timely nature, perhaps she should deliver her report straightaway.
Above stairs, Betsy fairly gulped down her lemonade, then mumbled an excuse to Minette about an urgent need to deliver something, and in less than a quarter hour, was on her way to Vandemere Lane. Why, she demanded of herself again, had François suddenly traveled to New York City? And if his decision to go had not come about suddenly, why had he said nothing of his plans to her the other evening? Was this, perhaps, a test to determine if she would follow his instructions without question? She recalled him saying he would not place her in harm’s way therefore it did not occur to her now that she might be heading straight into danger.
Upon reaching Vandemere Lane, a winding thoroughfare, which she could not help noticing was quite near Dock Street, the location of the fateful warehouse explosion, she easily found number forty-seven and without hesitation, rapped upon the jamb of the opened doorway. Bright sunlight at her back all but obscured the interior of the cramped enclosure.
When Betsy finally caught sight of the barrel-chested man striding through the narrow building, she sucked in her breath . . . not because she recognized him, but because she’d never before beheld such a giant of a man! His neck was thick, his chest and forearms bulky; his legs the size of tree trunks. She also noticed that as he drew near enough to distinguish her features, he seemed to flinch. What could there possibly be about her to fear?
“M-Mr. Paul Trumbell?” Betsy pushed down her rising anxiety.
“Who’s askin’?” came the brusque reply.
Her stomach muscles tightened. This area of Philadelphia, rife with dilapidated houses and abandoned buildings, was not a neighborhood she would normally frequent. Now standing toe-to-toe with one of its inhabitants, she elected not to reveal her identity and instead coolly replied, “M’sieur Dubeau asked that I deliver this to you, sir.”
When the man stretched forth a hand, his fingers resembling sausages, Betsy noted that the first and middle fingers of his right hand were stained with splotches of something dark; ink, perhaps? A furtive glance past him into the interior of the building, now shaded by his large frame, revealed an assortment of pen and ink drawings tacked to the wall; drawings, which looked a good deal like maps. Paul Trumbell was a cartographer. Who, she also noted, wore a very large knife strapped to his belt.
The very second she spotted the sheathed weapon, she nodded adieu and without uttering a parting word, whirled around and hastened back up the street the way she’d come. Never again, not ever, would she agree to meet with Paul Trumbell, or allow the huge man into her home. The over-sized creature was far too unsettling and she wished never to see him again.
As she lay abed that night mulling over the events of the past two days, overhearing the men talking at the Dearborn home, carefully composing her report and delivering it, she wondered if the course she had set for herself was, indeed, wise or prudent? The more she thought about Paul Trumbell, the more it gnawed at her that she might have encountered the man before. The fellow she’d glimpsed in the alleyway when Toby was killed was quite large. She hadn’t been close enough to ascertain just how large, but there was no question that he carried a knife. But why would Paul Trumbell kill Toby? Unless, as Dr. Franklin suggested, Toby had been acting as a courier for both sides and had been found out. Also, the intruder who barged into her home had wielded a knife. And he seemed quite large and was certainly muscled. Was it possible that upon seeing her today, Paul Trumbell had recognized her? He had definitely flinched when he saw her standing in his doorway. The little box hidden in her kindling bucket contained a map, crudely drawn, yes; but nonetheless a map. She knew of no rule that said an artist could not also be a spy . . . or a killer.
Suddenly, she sat straight up in bed. François had said Secret Committee member’s identities were never revealed! Yet, François knew her name and he was obviously well enough acquainted with Paul Trumbell to know his.
Her pulse quickened.
What did it mean? Had Toby been working for Paul Trumbell and for some reason, the giant had killed the boy? Why? Could that mean there was also a connection between François and Toby? Had she stumbled upon a pair of British spies and did not even know it? If François was a British spy, as she was beginning to suspect, why was he so insistent upon her spying upon the British if he were already one of them? And why did he wish to purchase weapons stolen from the British? Not a bit of it made sense. As things now stood, she had way too many questions, and no answers.