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SEVERAL AFTERNOONS that week Sarah, Minette, Emma, and a half dozen other ladies came to Betsy’s shop to knit. The pile of woolen stockings, mufflers and mittens grew. Betsy stored them, and the used clothing the ladies had donated, in the pantry off the parlor. Exactly how to go about delivering the much-needed supplies perplexed all the ladies.
One day as the women prepared to depart, Betsy asked Sarah to linger a while longer. Once alone, she told Sarah of Joseph’s late night visit and showed her much of what he’d brought, now stashed in cupboards in her bedchamber and the sitting room. The tea, sugar and spices, of course, were in the kitchen. Spreading out the handsome new woolen cloaks on her bed, they each chose their favorite color and Sarah left carrying three, one for herself and one each for Rachel and Hannah, Betsy’s two other sisters still living at the Griscom home.
“We shan’t be cold come winter this year,” Sarah exclaimed. “Do convey our sincerest gratitude to Joseph.”
Betsy was pleased she could do something nice for her sisters.
Later that week, Mrs. Dearborn and Miss Olsen appeared at Betsy’s shop door, both women atwitter over the resounding success of Miss Olsen’s campaign in New York City.
“My niece is now affianced to Captain Charles Lancaster!” Mrs. Dearborn gaily announced. “Anne now needs a wedding gown and trousseau.”
“Have you white silk on hand, Mrs. Ross?” Miss Olsen inquired, her cheeks flushed with happiness.
“Indeed, I do have white silk, although I fear there may not be enough to fashion the entire gown, unless . . .” Betsy’s voice trailed off as she headed across the room to where a dozen ells of fine fabric leant against the wall.
“Unless, what?” Mrs. Dearborn demanded.
Moving aside several bolts, Betsy drew out one that appeared to have yards and yards of white silk wound around it. “There appears plenty here for a gown, although we may have to make the flounces from a contrasting fabric . . . patterned brocade perhaps, or white lace, over a slimmer skirt and the stomacher of brocade with white ribbons.”
“Oh, how lovely!” Miss Olsen exclaimed.
“Might you show us a sketch of that design, dear?”
“Certainly.” Reaching for a lead pencil, Betsy set down her idea. To ascertain how much time she’d have to sew the gown, she inquired of Miss Olsen when she and Captain Lancaster planned to be wed?
The young woman turned to her aunt. “I have forgot, did Charles say the attack on the rebels would take place at the end of this month . . . or next?”
Betsy’s head jerked up.
“I believe your young man said the invasion was planned for the end of this month,” Mrs. Dearborn replied, her distracted gaze fixed on Betsy’s sketch.
Although her heart nearly leapt from her chest, Betsy caught herself before an all-out gasp escaped her. The British planned to attack at the end of this month? August? Again, she’d been made privy to an important military secret; something His Excellency, General George Washington and the entire Continental Army were on pins and needles to know!
“At any rate,” Miss Olsen turned to Betsy, “we shall wait until the rebel soldiers have vacated the city so no bothersome old battle will interfere with our wedding.”
“We’ve at least a fortnight or more before Anne will need the gown. Will you have sufficient time, dear?”
Still reeling over what she’d just learned, Betsy nodded tightly.
As soon as the women quitted her shop, she hastened to write a report . . . only . . . she didn’t know what to do with it. Minette had made no mention of François having returned to Philadelphia. It was possible he had also learned the exact date of the British attack from his Loyalist friends in New York. However, because Betsy hadn’t spoken with him, she couldn’t be certain. And because she refused to return to Paul Trumbell’s dwelling, she saw nothing for it but to head straight to Dr. Franklin.
Tacking a hastily scribbled note to her shop door saying that an urgent matter had called her away that afternoon and the ladies would have to meet elsewhere to sew, she quickly made her way up High Street to Dr. Franklin’s print shop.
Once there, she breathlessly inquired of a clerk if she might speak with the proprietor. Before the young man could form a reply, Dr. Franklin flung open the door to his private office.
“How nice to see you again, Mrs. Ross. Do come in. I was just having a bite to eat; you are welcome to join me.”
“Forgive me, sir, I do not mean to intrude.”
“Nonsense, what might I do for you today?”
Once Franklin had secured his office door, Betsy explained her reason for calling. Behind his spectacles, the older man’s eyes widened.
“This is excellent news, indeed, Mrs. Ross. I shall dispatch a rider straightaway.” Casting a furtive glance through the pane of glass fronting his office, he reached for a fresh copy of the newspaper and handed it to her. “Take this with you and do not return to your home right away.”
Alarm shot through Betsy. “Is something wrong, sir?”
Franklin escorted her to the door. “These are dangerous times, my dear. You have made more than one call upon me of late. It would not do to arouse anyone’s suspicions regarding the nature of our . . . association. Call upon a friend before you return home, or perhaps stop at the market. I shouldn’t wish any harm to befall you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Gazing anxiously up at him, a whit of Betsy’s anxiety dissolved when Dr. Franklin winked at her. A shaky smile on her face, Betsy quitted the print shop and leisurely strolled back down High Street.
A bit later, when she did reach home carrying a parcel of fresh butter and a wheel of day-old bread she’d just purchased from the baker, another wave of anxiety washed over her when she glanced over one shoulder and spotted François headed her way. That he had not yet seen her gave her a few moments to compose herself. Laying aside her packages and the newspaper, she hastily tore off the note tacked to the door and wasted additional time fumbling for the key and slowly inserting it into the lock.
“Bonjour, madame. I see you have been to market.”
Betsy looked up. “Indeed, I have, sir. And I see you have returned from your travels.” She smiled as if she were pleased to see him.
François scooped up her packages and tucking them beneath his arm, followed her into the shop. Betsy did not particularly want him to come below stairs with her, so she left him in the parlor while she hastened to the kitchen before rejoining him above stairs.
“I came to give you this.” François reached into his pocket and withdrew a few folded-up paper bills.
“Continentals?” Betsy’s tone was flat. “I clearly recall you saying that Secret Correspondence members were paid in coin.”
“As you know, coin is scarce these days. For the nonce, this will have to do.”
Betsy’s lips tightened as she took the worthless paper money and dropped it onto a nearby table. “Perhaps I shall find a hungry merchant who will accept these as payment for a . . . carrot, or a potato.”
“Once more, you disappoint me, madame,” he scoffed. “We are all of us working for the good of the country. If you were truly loyal to the Patriot Cause, you would perform the small part you play for nothing.”
“And do you perform the small part you play for nothing?” When his lips pursed, she pressed, “What, if anything, did you learn of import from your Loyalist friends in New York City?”
Giving a tug to the points of his plum-colored waistcoat, he replied, “Ma petite journey was merely for pleasure.”
That he was reverting to the use of French sounded an alarm bell in Betsy’s head. No doubt her impertinence had angered him. She smiled with satisfaction. Because the day was warm and the room especially close, she crossed it to fling open a window. “I suppose Minette mentioned that we are knitting stockings for the rebel troops. Might we count upon your help in delivering the warm clothing? We thought that since you have so recently been in New York City you would know the whereabouts of our army.”
With a snort, François muttered, “Come winter, I expect the entire rebel army will have been driven into the sea.”
Because a gust of wind had caused the panes of glass in the window to rattle, Betsy did not hear his response. “Excuse me, sir, what did you say?”
“I said I . . . expect I should be going and when the time comes, we shall see.”
“Ah.”
“I take it, madame, that you have heard nothing of import and therefore have nothing further to report.”
“No; nothing at all.” Betsy followed him through the shop. “But, if you are absent from the city in future, sir, do not ask me to deliver a report to Mr. Trumbell.”
He flicked a gaze her way. “And why ever not?”
“I do not like the man.”
“Committee members are not required to like one another, Mrs. Ross.”
“How fortunate for you, sir. Good day.”
Closing the door on the disagreeable Frenchman, Betsy turned her attention to other things. She had a wedding gown to make and only a few short weeks in which to complete the complicated task.
* * *
A FEW DAYS LATER, SARAH called to tell Betsy that their sisters, Rachel and Hannah, were delighted with their new cloaks.
“Rachel chose the wine-colored one, similar to the burgundy-colored one you chose. I declare were you and Rachel standing side-by-side, one would be hard pressed to tell the difference between you. You are so alike!”
Not looking up from her sewing, Betsy smiled, albeit sadly. She longed to see her sisters again. “So that left the brown plaid for Hannah.”
“She adores it, as I do the green.” Sarah laughed. “I confess I am almost looking forward to winter so I can wear my new cloak. Mother was pleased by your generosity.”
“I hope you did not tell her where the cloaks came from.”
“I said you received them in a shipment and rather than attempt to sell them, decided to make each of us a gift.”
Betsy grinned. “There is a particle of truth in that.” She glanced up. “Could I persuade you to help me with these flounces, Sarah?”
“Indeed. I see you have cut the strips, shall I commence to gather them?”
“Yes, please. I’ve cut the fabric on a bias, which means the flounces will fall in a more pleasing fashion from stomacher to hem.”
Sarah threaded a needle. “I am certain this gown will be every bit as lovely as the previous ones you’ve made.”
“I am most grateful to have received another lucrative project. One’s money seems to disappear so quickly these days.”
“The Lord is taking splendid care of thee, Betsy.”
“Indeed, He is. Have you heard from William?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Will you be writing to him soon?”
“I write to my husband every night and send my letters to him every Monday morning. By then, I own, the packet has become quite bulky.”
Betsy wanted to reveal to Sarah, without unduly oversetting her, what she had learned of the impending British attack. She schooled her tone to remain calm. “When Miss Olsen was last here, she mentioned her fiancé saying that the British mean to launch their surprise attack upon the rebels at the end of this month.”
“Oh!” Sarah leapt to her feet, the flounce in her lap falling to the floor. “I must alert William! Did you tell Dr. Franklin? If not, we must . . .”
“Indeed, Sarah; I relayed the news to Dr. Franklin mere minutes after I learned of it. I am certain the details are already in General Washington’s hands, and the troops have been alerted. However,” she aimed a stern look at her sister, “I must insist that you not mention this to anyone, Sarah. I assume you are still meeting with the ladies to knit.”
Sarah nodded. “We gather at Mrs. Burton’s home now. I shall do as you ask, but . . . why must I remain silent about something so very important to all of us?”
“Dr. Franklin advised it,” Betsy fabricated. “If the British learn their secret is being bandied about, they are likely to alter their plan.” Truth was, Betsy did not want word that she had failed to report such important information to François to filter back to him through Minette.
“Then, of course, I shall say nothing. By the by, there is something I have been meaning to tell you.”
“What have you to tell me, Sarah?” Betsy murmured absently.
“Something that concerns . . . Rachel. She has met a young man with whom she is quite enamored and . . . he seems also to fancy her.”
Betsy’s needle continued to whip in and out of the white silk. “Rachel is very young to have fallen in love.”
“No younger than when John Ross was courting you,” Sarah countered.
“What does our mother say? Does she find Rachel’s young man agreeable?” When Sarah did not reply at once, Betsy looked up; her blue eyes a question.
“Mother does not know of the tendré.”
Betsy smiled. “So, you have been assisting the couple to meet up just as you helped John and me those many years ago.”
“Rachel and her young man seem very well suited. He is a good bit older than she, but he is quite solicitous of her and most respectful.”
“Given his age, surely you do not allow her to see him alone.”
“Rachel has been alone with him,” Sarah admitted. “She enjoys dancing as much as you did at that age.”
“I did not attend a public dance with John until I was . . . at least seventeen.”
“I believe the first time you sneaked out of our parent’s home to attend a dance with John, you had just turned sixteen.”
“Rachel is but fifteen,” Betsy said. “I would like to meet her young man.”
Sarah said nothing.
Betsy glanced up. “Sarah, I said I would like to meet Rachel’s young man. Perhaps I might chaperone them. Perhaps when Joseph returns, he and I might accompany them to a dance. I am certain if our mother knew of the plan, she would approve.”
Sarah remained silent.
“Sarah, I would like to meet Rachel’s young man,” Betsy said more firmly. Her eyes searched her sister’s shuttered gaze.
“You have already met him.”
Betsy’s face became a question. “Well, then . . . who is he?”
“Promise me you will not be angry.”
“I promise nothing of the sort. Tell me at once with whom our sister fancies herself in love.”
“Rachel’s young man is . . . François.”
“Ouch!” Betsy’s astonishment was so great she accidentally pricked her finger with the needle. Thrusting the injured finger into her mouth, she just as quickly removed it. “François!”
“Now that you are with Joseph,” Sarah rushed on, “I did not think you would mind Rachel seeing François. He sent her a note from New York and even brought her back a gift; a lovely bottle of French parfum. Rachel adores it. She is quite smitten with him.”
“Why have neither you nor François spoken of this to me? I saw him only a few days ago and he said nothing.”
“I expect his reluctance to tell you stems from the fact that . . . well, François has mentioned that the pair of you often . . . quarrel.”
White-hot anger bubbled up inside Betsy. Feeling inordinately warm, she set down her sewing, untied the sleeves from her frock and flung them aside. “We quarrel because François is insufferable!”
“Do calm yourself, Betsy. The tendré is likely to be fleeting. As you pointed out, Rachel is only fifteen.”
Betsy’s nostrils flared. “And, as you pointed out, she is smitten with him. Yet you allow her to see him un-chaperoned. He is French, Sarah. Which means he has no scruples. I’ve a mind to alert our mother myself. I have no doubt that she and Father would bring this . . . this flirtation to an end straightaway.”
Having finished the flounce she was gathering, Sarah rose to lay it on the table and fetch another length of fabric. “I am persuaded it will come to nothing, Betsy.”
“And I am persuaded of only one thing,” Betsy exclaimed. “François Dubeau is not a man to be trusted!”
“Perhaps you still harbor feelings for him, Betsy.”
“I harbor nothing of the sort! I am overset because I do not wish to see Rachel ill-done by, as she most assuredly will be by that scoundrel!”
“François has been all that is charming towards both Rachel and myself. As the elder and therefore, wiser, of us, I can assure you he is most trustworthy.”
“Elder or no, clearly you are unaware of the unspeakable things a man such as François could do to an innocent girl like Rachel. And if you refuse to do nothing to deter him, then I have no choice but to take matters into my own hands.”
“That will make Rachel quite unhappy.”
“Better unhappy than ruined.”
“You are being unfair, Betsy. François is not the sort of man who would . . . ”
“Any man is the sort of man who would ruin a silly, simpering miss who fancies herself top over tail in love with him.”
“Rachel is not a silly, simpering miss!”
“She is if she trusts François Dubeau. I will not be deterred from this, Sarah, so you may as well leave off trying to dissuade me. I will not sit idly by and let that reprobate take advantage of our Rachel; I will not.”
Sarah exhaled. “Very well, Betsy. Say what you must to him, but promise me, you will give him ample opportunity in which to defend himself. François Dubeau is a wonderful man.”
Betsy’s lips tightened. Clearly, there was no point in discussing the matter further. Sarah appeared as smitten by the Frenchman as poor, lovesick Rachel. Make no mistake; she would indeed confront the man. This ill-considered romance must be brought to an end straightaway and that’s all there was for it.