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EARLY THE FOLLOWING morning an insistent rapping at the door roused Betsy from a deep slumber. Throwing a wrapper on over her nightshift, she hastened downstairs to see who could be calling at such an early hour. Through the shop window, she noted the sun was only beginning to burn off the morning mist. It was far too early for anyone but street vendors to be out and about. Pulling open the door a crack, she was surprised to find a distraught Sarah on the doorstep. Wearing a stricken look on her face, the older girl rushed inside.
“Rachel is gone!”
Blinking sleep from her eyes, Betsy repeated in a raspy voice, “Gone . . . where?”
“Vanished! We haven’t a clue where she is! When she did not appear at my home last evening, I retired at the usual hour, thinking she had indeed changed her plans. But not above half an hour ago, our parents were rapping at my door, demanding to know if Rachel was with me. She had, indeed, changed her plans last night, telling our parents she would not be staying the night with me, so when they discovered her not at home this morning, they naturally grew alarmed. Now, none of us knows where she is! I came at once to alert you.”
Betsy shook her head to clear it. “Has our father summoned the authorities?”
“I do not know. A moment ago, they were rushing off to call on Rachel’s girl friends to inquire if they know of her whereabouts.” Sarah choked back a sob. “Oh, Betsy, I should have listened to you. François has done something dreadful to our sister and it is all my fault!”
“I take it you’ve not told our parents about Rachel seeing François.”
Sarah shook her head. “I didn’t have the heart to tell them. Father is persuaded that since she was not with me, they’ll find her with one of her friends. I knew I must alert you at once, Betsy. What are we to do?”
“Well, since you are dressed, Sarah, you should go to François’s home and demand that he tell you what he has done with Rachel.”
Sarah brushed away the tears in her eyes. “I-I have already been there.”
Betsy’s brows drew together. “What did he say?”
“Oh, Betsy, it is just as you feared.”
“What, Sarah? What did he say?”
“François is also gone.”
Betsy’s stomach lurched. “They’ve run away together.” She drew a sobbing Sarah into her arms.
Once in the parlor, Betsy bade her sister sit on the sofa while she padded downstairs to the kitchen to put on the kettle. What must they do now? Given that no one knew precisely how long the couple had been gone, it would be impossible to determine how far they’d got, let alone where they were headed.
As Betsy scurried around the kitchen placing cups and saucers on a tray, cutting slices of bread and reaching into the cupboard for a pot of jam, she wracked her brain in an effort to determine how best to proceed with so very little to go on.
Above stairs she and Sarah wordlessly sipped tea and munched on bread and jam. Finally Betsy said, “I should dress and go for Joseph. You may remain here or return home. I’ll ask Joseph to dispatch a party of men to go in search of them, although with no idea which direction they headed, it will be difficult to determine where they might have gone.” Gathering up the soiled dishes, she said, “It is your decision whether or not to apprise our parents of the situation. If Rachel has indeed run off to become François’s wife, there is nothing that you, nor I, nor anyone, can do to alter what might have . . . already occurred. Sooner or later, our parents will learn that Rachel is not alone.”
Sarah choked back a sob. “But, they will also know that I assisted Rachel in deceiving them.”
“Indeed, they will Sarah. But you are not the only one at fault. Eventually they will know the part we both played in this.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“I’m as much to blame as you. It was I who brought François Dubeau into our lives.” When a fresh sob escaped her sister, Betsy added, “I realize you meant no harm by helping them. I’m still grateful for what you did for John and me. If it weren’t for you, I’d have never seen John at all beyond the hours we spent at Mr. Webster’s upholstery shop. It’s just that, none of us had any reason to mistrust John’s intentions. Unfortunately that is not the case with François.”
“I should have listened to you at the outset.”
“At the outset, I did not know what I’ve since learned about the Frenchman.”
Sarah opted to return to her own home while Betsy walked to Joseph’s Aunt Ashburn’s home in an effort to get word to him. After learning of the problem, the widow Ashburn sent her man-of-all-work to the quay with instructions to board Joseph’s ship and tell him an emergency had arisen and for him to come ashore at once.
“I assume you are aware that Joseph is planning to set sail again soon,” Aunt Ashburn told Betsy.
“No,” Betsy murmured. “He has said nothing to me. I had no idea he was planning to leave again so soon.”
Mrs. Ashburn sorrowfully shook her head. “Like it or not, my dear, a man of the sea feels at home only on the water.” She reached to squeeze Betsy’s fingertips; the two seated side by side in her cool drawing room. “That he has remained so long in port is due entirely to you. My nephew is very fond of you, my dear.”
Betsy exhaled a shaky breath. “I am quite fond of him.”
“Well, we mustn’t fret. Joseph will most assuredly set aside his plans now and help you find your sister. You would do well to return home so as to be on hand when he arrives. Come to see me again, won’t you, dear?”
Betsy nodded. “Thank you, Aunt Ashburn. I suppose if Joseph is bent on leaving us, we must comfort one another.” She reached to embrace the older woman before she departed.
Betsy had been home only a short while when another rap sounded at the door. Thinking it was surely Joseph, she raced through the shop to fling open the door, but blanched when she saw that it was not he on the doorstep. Betsy glared at the tall Frenchman, finely turned out this morning in smooth calfskin breeches and a forest-green cut-away coat. “What have you done with Rachel?” she demanded.
François brushed past Betsy into the shop. “I have done nothing with your sister, or to her, for all that.”
“Rachel had plans to be with you last night!” Betsy rushed to catch up to him as he strode toward the parlor. “I demand to know what you have done with my sister! Rachel did not come home last night!”
“Have you tea made, madame?” François took up his customary stance before the hearth, one long leg crossed over the other at the ankle, an elbow propped on the mantlepiece. “Pray, fetch me a cup. I’ve a matter of great import to take up with you.”
“What you have done with my sister?” Flinging herself at the infuriating man, Betsy began to pummel his chest with both balled up fists.
To fend her off, the Frenchman merely shoved her aside with an arm. “My tea, madame.”
Betsy staggered a step backward. “How dare you order me about like a serving wench! Either you tell me what you have done with Rachel, or I shall summon the authorities and have you arrested!”
He snorted. “And what crime would you charge me with?”
“Kidnapping! Spying!”
“Do calm yourself, madame. The truth is, when your sister failed to show up for our tryst last evening, I sought pleasure . . . elsewhere.”
“You are despicable.” Her nostrils flared.
“So, you have poisoned your sister against me, which explains why she did not show up last evening.” He tweaked his cravat. “My tea?”
“I do not serve tea to British spies,” Betsy ground out.
Her rage merely amused him. “So, you have discovered the truth . . .”
“And you do not deny it?”
“Deny what? You and I, madame, we are cut from the same cloth. I am no more ashamed of what I do than . . . apparently you are.”
“I am doing nothing so reprehensible as you, sir! I agreed simply to report to you whatever I overheard from the Loyalist women. But you, you and Paul Trumbell, you twist every morsel of information so that it . . .”
“I have merely found a way to turn a tidy profit.” He ambled to a window and bent to peer out. “My family, we are poor émigrés. Mon père is frail; she does not so well speak the language. You cannot expect me to send Minette into the street to earn a living as a . . . well, to earn a living. Selling secrets to whomever is willing to pay for them allows me to put food on our table and clothes on my back!”
“And very fine clothes they are, too!” Betsy sputtered. “If you think to gain by demanding a ransom for the return of Rachel, you are sadly mistaken, for my parents have no wealth.”
“Rachel. Rachel. I told you I merely find the ingénue trés amusant. Of her disappearance, I know nothing.”
He was angry. If the storm brewing behind his dark eyes was insufficient to alert her, that he had resorted to the use of French clearly did. “What do you want from me, François?”
He coughed. Then coughed again. “Madame, I am parched. If not tea, then I beg you . . . some water, please.”
Huffing, Betsy exited the room and returned in seconds carrying a mug of tepid water. She had lost all patience with the insufferable Frenchman and while below stairs had reached a decision. “I have decided to summon the authorities and have you arrested as a British spy,” she announced coolly. “It is my sincerest hope that you hang for your crimes.”
He did not respond; instead he drank the water and set the empty mug on a nearby table. Betsy found his arrogance intolerable. Folding her arms beneath her bosom, she watched as he withdrew an elegant lace-edged handkerchief and delicately wiped the droplet of moisture that lingered still upon his lips. Refolding the handkerchief, he arranged it just so into the breast pocket of his green velvet coat, then turned a sullen gaze upon her.
“Before you accuse me of spying, ma chérie, be aware that I can easily obtain proof that it is you who is the British spy; not I.”
“If you are referring to the reports which Paul Trumbell copied, forging my handwriting so it would appear that I had written them, after he twists the messages around . . .”
“So.” His lips twitched. “You have uncovered our clever little ploy.” A dark brow cocked. “Obviously there is twice the money to be had selling the same secret to two different agents, although, as you pointed out, one does have to do a bit of . . . altering. If you turn me over to the authorities, madame, rest assured I shall return the favor. As to which of us is guilty will, of course, depend upon the political leanings of the authority. A Patriot constable will not take kindly to one who spies upon the rebels in order to aid the British; whereas a Loyalist magistrate will frown upon one who divulges British secrets to the rebels. As things now stand, ma petite, spying for the British will likely be . . . rewarded. The noose around your pretty neck will, no doubt, be very tight.”
Betsy seethed inside. Although she was loath to admit it, his reasoning did have merit. Most of the high-ranking authorities in Philadelphia today were Loyalists. A few even served on the Continental Congress. To accuse François of spying would, indeed, be to also point a finger at herself. Dr. Franklin would vouch for her veracity, of course, but to ask him to do so would place him in jeopardy. Not even to save herself from the hangman’s noose would she expose Dr. Franklin. He was doing far too much to aid the Patriot Cause. For now, François had the upper hand.
“Very well. I shall say nothing against you.”
He inclined his head a notch. “As I said, ma petite, you and I, we are très alike. I recall it was the lure of monetary gain that prompted you to agree to become a spy. It is for the same reason that I continue in my chosen profession.” An elegantly clad shoulder lifted and fell. “To say truth, I care not who wins this silly war. Win or lose is no matter to me. When the fighting is over, I shall return to France, or perhaps England, and do as any sensible man would do, find a wealthy heiress to take to wife, or perhaps a widow possessed of a large fortune. For the nonce, I must rely solely upon my wit. Fortunately, I am possessed with a great deal of it.”
Betsy’s chest rose and fell but rather than further inflame the despicable creature, she swallowed the saucy retort that very nearly leapt from her lips. “You have yet to tell me why you are here, François. What do you want from me now?”
“Ah. Yes.” He brightened. “My purpose in calling upon you this morning, Mrs. Ross, concerns a profitable venture I conceived of only last evening. Word is circulating that the South Sea trader, ahem, the . . . privateer, with whom you consort, recently met with success in plundering a vast quantity of British guns and ammunition. I wish to know where the pirate has stashed the weapons. You will ask him and tell me where I might find them.”
“What interest have you in weaponry?”
“I intend to sell them to the Continental army, of course. Everyone knows the poor rebels are always in want of muskets.”
Betsy didn’t flinch. “The guns have already been delivered to the rebel army. Joseph and his men took them to New York only a few days before the battle began.”
He chuckled. “And still the wretches lost.”
“There are no more guns to be had, François, therefore,” she lifted her chin, “I see no reason for you to linger.”
“You are lying.” His gaze turned menacing as he took a step towards her. The scowl on his face was so alarming that Betsy edged a step backwards. “It is common knowledge,” he spat out, “that militiamen in every colony up and down the seaboard have stockpiled guns and ammunition in abandoned barns or warehouses.”
The mention of weapons in warehouses caused Betsy’s heart to leap to her throat. “W-what do you know of that?”
“More than you think I do, madame. I know that your husband guarded such a stash.” His gaze narrowed. “What you do not know is that I was in Philadelphia that day. I trudged through that miserable blizzard, frozen to my bones as I searched for . . .”
“You killed my husband!” Betsy gasped. Tears sprang to her eyes as her chin began to quiver. “W-Why? Why did you do it?”
“For money, of course,” he replied. “I collected quite a handsome sum for that bit of sabotage. Although now that I think on it, I could have made a great deal more if I had figured a way to confiscate the weapons and sell them for profit. Ah, well . . .”
Quaking with outrage, Betsy sank to her knees as sorrow and grief overtook her. “I will have you arrested. I will! You will hang for killing John. You will hang!”
François’s tone hardened. “I have friends in Manhattan who will testify that I never left New York during the entire month of January. My family will testify that I did not arrive in Philadelphia until late spring. The night you and I met at the Fighting Quaker meeting, I had only just arrived, presumably straight from England. Official documents I carry attest to that fact. To accuse me of murdering your husband will only make you look like the hysterical female you are.”
Betsy managed to choke back her sobs and at length, lifted her head. “You are a vile creature. What have you done with my sister?”
“Pah!” He grasped her wrist and roughly dragged her to her feet. “I know nothing of the whereabouts of your silly sister. But, I can promise you this, madame, unless you tell me where your pirate friend has stashed the weaponry he stole, you will never see either of your sisters alive again!”
He flung her from him as if she were a whimpering lapdog, then he stormed back through the house. Betsy heard the front door slam shut behind him. Sinking to the floor, she gave in to the gut wrenching sobs that overtook her.
François was the man at the wharf that night, the man Pete saw, the one who grew confused by the blizzard and asked the way to Dock Street. The package he carried must have contained some sort of solution that ignited the fire, causing the explosion that ultimately claimed John’s life. And, unless she now wished to sacrifice the lives of both Sarah and Rachel she had no choice but to do as the monster said. Otherwise, the assassin who murdered her husband would also kill her sisters.