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BEFORE BETSY COULD decide how best to approach François in regard to not seeing Rachel, a note arrived from Mrs. Dearborn inviting her to a reception to announce Miss Olsen’s engagement. Betsy wasn’t certain whether or not gentlemen attended engagement parties, but it was possible François would also be present and if so, she intended to take full advantage of the opportunity to confront him.
The afternoon of the party, she received another note from Mrs. Dearborn saying a carriage would collect her that night. Betsy thought the woman’s offer was very kind and said as much to Sarah when she came to help her dress. Although still officially in mourning, Betsy had decided to wear one of the beautiful frocks Joseph had brought her; this one made of a stunning gray silk, which, when she moved, shimmered to violet. She had not yet been brave enough to wear a single one of the pretty new gowns, nor had she shown them to Sarah.
“What a lovely gown,” Sarah exclaimed upon entering Betsy’s bedchamber and spotting the violet silk upon the bed. Darker violet bows marched down the stiff stomacher and a frill of violet lace hung from the elbow-length sleeves. Sarah fingered the rich fabric. “It is simply breathtaking. When did you make it?”
“It was amongst the things Joseph brought,” Betsy replied, tying the strings of her petticoat around her waist. “Might you help lace me up, please?”
“How fortunate that you had such a beautiful gown on hand.”
“Indeed,” Betsy murmured, aware of the tension crackling in the air between herself and Sarah, whom she had not seen since the afternoon they quarreled.
Once dressed and her coiffure perfect, Betsy said, “I have not given up my resolve to speak with François about Rachel. If he is present, I intend to broach the topic with him tonight.”
“François will not be there,” Sarah replied coolly. “He and Rachel will be at my home. I am preparing dinner for the three of us. You may rest assured that tonight they will be properly chaperoned.”
“I see.”
Betsy thanked Sarah for her help and once the Dearborn chaise drew up, both girls walked to the flagway. After a liveried footman assisted Betsy into the coach, she waved goodbye to her sister. She felt quite grand being driven to yet another soiree at another fine mansion on Society Hill. She wished Joseph were there to accompany her, or at least see her wearing the lovely frock.
At the party, certain now that she would not come face-to-face with François, Betsy mingled easily with the society matrons and ladies with whom she was already acquainted. All were wearing their finest silks and satins, as were the few gentlemen present in the Dearborn drawing room. Betsy soon ascertained that earlier in the evening, a special dinner had been served for a select group of Miss Olsen’s closest friends. The guests now arriving had been invited only to attend the grand reception afterward.
“You always look so stylish, my dear,” remarked a woman Betsy had met at the Shippen’s dinner party. “Wherever do you procure such stylish gowns these days?”
Before Betsy could reply, another lady said, “I’ll wager she made it herself.” She addressed Betsy. “I understand you are making Miss Olsen’s wedding gown.”
“Indeed, I feel honored to have been chosen to do so.”
“Mrs. Ross also made the stunning scarlet ball gown Miss Olsen wore in New York City when Captain Lancaster proposed to her,” said another. “Everyone remarked upon its beauty.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Betsy murmured.
“You are very talented, Mrs. Ross. I daresay ladies in New York are quite jealous of us here in Philadelphia.”
Before Betsy could respond, Mrs. Dearborn stepped up. “A bit of a crisis has arisen, my dear. I was hoping you could assist.”
“Certainly,” Betsy replied.
“Please, excuse us.” Mrs. Dearborn drew Betsy away.
Thinking that perhaps Miss Olsen had torn a ruffle, or a bow at an elbow needed retying, Betsy accompanied Mrs. Dearborn up a winding staircase.
“You do carry needle and thread, do you not?”
“Yes, ma’am. And also my thimble.”
“Splendid. Not a single one of my maids is the least bit clever with needle and thread.”
Having gained the second floor of the house, Betsy quite enjoyed the impromptu tour. Admiring the silk-clad walls upon which hung portraits of Dearborn ancestors, quick glances into opened chambers revealed polished cherry-wood tallboys, gilded commodes, and assorted costly artifacts.
“I had half expected to see your young man here this evening,” Mrs. Dearborn said. “I am certain I had an invitation sent ‘round.”
“My . . . young man?”
“M’sieur Dubeau. You recall I greeted you the day I spotted the pair of you strolling in North East Square. I thought to myself then, I hope she is not taking time away from sewing Anne’s wedding gown in order to promenade with her young man.” Mrs. Dearborn’s tone was a trifle accusing.
Betsy grimaced. Apparently the woman had spotted François and Rachel together on the square. “Miss Olsen’s gown is coming along nicely,” Betsy assured her. “You may bring her in on Monday for a fitting.”
“Splendid. Here we are.”
Mrs. Dearborn sailed into a chamber, which to Betsy’s surprise was overflowing with gentlemen, which clearly explained the lack of same below stairs. As nearly every man was smoking pipes or fat cigars, smoke hung like puffy clouds above their heads. At least a dozen gentlemen were ranged about a pair of billiard tables and several more were leaning over a desk at the bottom of the room. That the walls of the chamber were lined with books told Betsy this was Mr. Dearborn’s study.
Heading through the throng of gentlemen towards those gathered around the desk, Mrs. Dearborn addressed her husband. Betsy recognized him as the man who had escorted her home the day she walked here. “Mrs. Ross has agreed to repair Captain Lancaster’s coat.”
When Mr. Dearborn stepped aside, Betsy’s breath caught in her throat. Three of the gentlemen on the opposite side of the desk were wearing buff breeches and scarlet coats adorned with gold braid. Lethal-looking scabbards hung at their sides. Gripped with fear by her first sight of British army officers, Betsy edged a small step backward.
“Do come here, Charles,” Mrs. Dearborn motioned to one of the soldiers. “We made special arrangements for Captain Lancaster and a few of his friends to come to Philadelphia tonight as a special surprise for Anne,” the woman explained to Betsy. “Unfortunately, whilst traveling, Captain Lancaster rent the sleeve of his coat. I hoped you could mend it before he joins us downstairs.”
Betsy nodded mutely as the handsome young captain removed his scarlet coat. She worked to calm her rapid pulse as the British officer walked from behind the desk and stood near enough to her that she could feel the warmth from his breath fanning her cheek as he pointed out the small tear on the sleeve of his jacket. Her fingers trembled as she took the coat, it still warm from the heat of the young man’s body.
“Gentlemen, do step away from the desk and allow Mrs. Ross to be seated while she sews,” Mrs. Dearborn instructed.
As the officers parted, Betsy was startled by the touch of Captain Lancaster’s fingers on her elbow as he guided her around the desk to the empty leather chair sitting behind it.
“When Mrs. Ross is finished with your coat, Charles, you and your friends will please join us below stairs. The drawing room is quite thin of gentlemen and I daresay, the ladies are growing restless for want of masculine attention.”
Although her remark elicited a few chuckles, Mr. Dearborn and his companions all turned back to whatever they’d been studying on the desktop.
Although Betsy’s head was bent over her work, she was keenly aware that once again she was in a prime position to overhear whatever it was the gentlemen were discussing. From her position behind the backs of two British officers, she caught a glimpse of what was so raptly claiming their attention. A map. Of what? However hard she strained to see, she could make out nothing. Nor was she was able to distinguish much of anything the men were saying. The deep timbre of their voices blended with the crack of billiard balls and the shuffle of feet upon the wooden floor.
Still, she caught phrases like “General Clinton believes . . .” and “Here are the five roads leading to . . .” and “Long Island shall be the first . . ..” In minutes, she clearly heard one gentleman say, “ . . . will be child’s play to drive the rebels from Manhattan.”
Her heart thumped. The men were discussing plans for the surprise attack on the rebels! If only she could get a good look at the map. But . . . how?
Nearly completed with the repair, she heard Mr. Dearborn’s voice. “You say a full two thirds of Howe’s troops mean to launch the surprise attack . . . here?” Betsy assumed the older man was at that instant pointing to a specific spot on the map. Tilting her head, she attempted to peek through the crook of a red-coated elbow, but . . . to no avail.
Just then the billiards game broke up. Betsy heard raised voices and laughter as the men racked their cue sticks and quitted the room.
For a few seconds, all was silent until Mr. Dearborn said, “I shall just mark this spot on the map for Anne. Like most women, she understands little to nothing of the war, but she does like to know where you and your regiment are, Lancaster. Right here, you say?”
“I shall mark the precise spot for you, sir. And, before I return to New York on the morrow, I shall tell Anne exactly where I shall be.”
“Nearly done with the repair, Mrs. Ross?” Betsy jumped when Mr. Dearborn addressed her.
“Indeed, sir; I was just tying off the thread.” After biting it in two, she shook out the garment and rising, handed it to Mr. Dearborn. “Here you are, sir.”
Holding up the scarlet coat, he pulled out the sleeve. “Why, I cannot even see where it was rent. Splendid work, Mrs. Ross! Here you are, Lancaster, good as new.”
The older man helped the captain shrug into his redcoat while Betsy busied herself replacing the needle and thread inside her reticule in such a way that she would not prick her finger the next time she dipped into it.
“And here you are, Mrs. Ross.” Mr. Dearborn withdrew a couple of gold coins from his pocket.
“Oh, no, sir.” Pasting a smile on her face, Betsy glanced at Captain Lancaster, who was still examining the sleeve of his coat. “It was a privilege to assist one of our . . . brave young men.”
“You are too kind, Mrs. Ross.” Inclining his head, Dearborn returned the coins to his pocket. “Come along then, we shall all escort you below stairs.”
At that moment, Betsy’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I . . . seem to have misplaced my thimble, sir.” She gazed about here and there. “It must have slipped from my finger as I . . .”
“Gentleman,” Dearborn announced solemnly, “the lady has lost her thimble.”
Betsy laughed. “I am certain I shall find it in no time, sir. Do make haste to escort Captain Lancaster below stairs. I shouldn’t wish to cause another moments delay in keeping him from dear Miss Olsen.”
“Very well, then.” Dearborn’s tone conveyed his relief over being released from the obligation of diving beneath the desk in search of something as trivial as a thimble. “If you fail to find it straightaway, Mrs. Ross, do not hesitate to ring for a maid to assist you. Come along, gentleman.”
“I shall only be a moment, sir.” Already Betsy had fallen to her knees and was groping about on the wooden floor beneath the desk, hoping the floorboards were free of dust and would not soil her lovely silk gown.
The moment she heard the gentlemen’s voices receding down the corridor, she sprang upright and with wide eyes attempted to memorize every single word the officers had scrawled upon the map.
She took it all in: the exact position of General Howe’s ships in the harbor, the location of the commanding officer’s headquarters and more importantly, the X where Captain Lancaster had said two thirds of General Howe’s army would launch a surprise attack upon the rebels: a thin squiggly line that clearly said Jamaica Pass Road.
Her heart beating like a drum in her ears, Betsy scooped up her reticule and breathlessly scampered from the room. If she weren’t the last person to exit the chamber, and therefore the very one upon whom suspicion would fall, she would have folded up the map, stuffed it into her reticule and quitted the house straightaway. As it was, she must be content with having seen what she had seen and knowing the exact location of the proposed British attack upon the rebel troops in New York City. How she would be able to smile her way through the remainder of the evening with this important information burning like a hot coal in her mind she hadn’t a clue.