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“YOU MUST ADMIT THAT for us to settle out differences with England, without bloodshed, would be a good deal healthier for all concerned,” Betsy declared to Joseph the following evening as they sat together on the sofa in her parlor.
She had been pleasantly surprised to find the sun-bronzed seaman standing on her doorstep that night. Carrying a bulky package tucked beneath his arm, she invited him in and assured him that after last night’s dinner party, she had no intention of ever seeing the Frenchman again. She was vastly relieved now that she and Joseph seemed to once again be on a friendly footing.
However, his tone still sounded a trifle miffed when he replied, “It sounds as if after spending one evening in the company of Loyalists, you have now joined ranks with them.”
“On the contrary. What I am saying is that I now better understand their viewpoint and I believe it unfortunate that our differences are so great that we think we must kill one another in order to settle them.”
“I wonder if we are not being naïve in our fervor to engage the greatest force in the world in battle. If we all turn up dead after the smoke clears, whether or not we’ve gained our independence from the king will become a moot point.”
“Exactly. Mr. Whitmore said he favored compromise over conflict and I quite agreed with him. However,” Betsy worried her lower lip, “the king did refuse to read the Olive Branch Petition we submitted last autumn. If we cannot gain the king’s ear, that does rather dash any hopes we might have for compromise.”
“In the interim,” Joseph added, “you must agree this war is a damn thrilling drama!”
A sudden image of John’s bleeding and broken body dimmed the sparkle in Betsy’s eyes. “I fear the cost for this particular drama is far too dear,” she murmured.
“Forgive me.” Joseph reached to squeeze her hand. “That was thoughtless of me.” Some moments later, he leaned to retrieve the package he’d brought with him. “I came by last evening and . . . again tonight . . . to ask if you might mend something for me . . . that is, before you get too busy making fancy gowns for your new Loyalist lady friends.”
“Of course, I will be glad to help you, Joseph. What do you need?”
Tearing apart the wrapper, he withdrew a somewhat tattered Union Jack and two British officer’s uniforms.
Betsy flinched. “And you have now joined ranks with the British army?”
Joseph grinned as he stood and shrugged into a scarlet coat. Holding up an arm, the sleeve hung a good five inches beyond his wrist. “Just preparing to plunder the high seas and hoping to avoid getting killed in the process. A British ship that spots a Union Jack waving in the breeze and a couple of British officers strolling the deck will think twice before firing on us. I wondered if you could mend the flag for me and shorten the sleeves of these coats?”
“That coat does appear to have been made for quite a tall man, or perhaps an ape.”
They both laughed.
“My first mate is near my size; neither of us being too very tall, so the sleeves of both coats can be the same length. Lack of stature on board ship can be an advantage, you know; easier to squeeze through hatchways and whatnot.”
Betsy rose to get the inch tape and after jotting down the necessary measurements for the alteration, folded up the redcoats and flag, and set the bundle aside.
“Several uniforms I absconded with perfectly fit others of my crew plus I’ve managed to acquire all the necessary accouterments,” Joseph added, “helmets, boots, swords, scabbards and a half dozen British muskets.”
“When do you plan to leave Philadelphia?” Betsy asked as they both sat down again.
“As soon as everything is ready, guns, cannons, quakers . . . and the flag and red coats.”
“I see.” Now that she’d reconciled with Joseph, she didn’t particularly wish to see him leave the city so quickly. The more she learned about François, the more she disliked the man but quite the opposite was true with Joseph. Not wishing to withhold anything from him, she began, “I have not yet divulged . . . everything about M’sieur Dubeau.”
“Ah. So, the Frenchman wants more than merely to help you increase your business, eh?”
Betsy nodded.
“I thought as much.” A booted foot commenced to tap upon the floor.
“Joseph, I was being truthful when I said François does not fancy me, nor I him. Not in that way.”
“Then what exactly does the demmed Frenchie want?” Joseph’s nostrils flared.
Betsy quickly told him about the Secret Committee of Correspondence and François’s proposal that she help him gather information and hand off reports to other members, and about the monetary reward she’d receive for doing so. “I have a good many outstanding debts, Joseph; my rent has increased, and since the war began, the cost of food and firewood has doubled; plus I still owe Uncle Abel a great deal. I find I am constantly in dire straights.”
“So the Frog means to compensate you in exchange for spying for him.”
Misgiving flickered across Betsy’s face. “I do not look at it that way, Joseph. I have no intention of actually . . . becoming a spy. But in order to learn who killed John, and perhaps even Toby, I must . . . put myself forward. If François is willing to give me a few shillings in exchange for whatever information I might glean, then . . .” She shrugged. “At any rate, it will probably come to nothing. Only one of the ladies at the dinner party believed I’d actually made my gown, so it’s not likely I shall gain a single bit of new business from the venture. Or learn anything useful,” she added wistfully.
“Well, you’ve not asked for my advice, but it appears to me that you could easily get in over your head. Spying is dangerous business, lass. As evidenced by what befell poor Toby. I shouldn’t want anything to happen to you. You’ve only just met the Frenchie. Are you certain you can trust him?”
“At this juncture, I am uncertain who I can trust.”
“You can trust me!”
“Of course, I trust you, Joseph. No doubt, it will all come to nothing,” she said again. “If I gain no new customers from my sojourn into society, whether or not I trust François will also not matter. Quite possibly, I shall never see him again.”
“You just declared you intended never to see him again.”
“I shall be obliged to see him again if I am to hand off a report to him. What I meant to say was . . .”
“I know what you meant.” Joseph rose to take his leave. “For what it’s worth, I have heard a bit about the Secret Committees of Correspondence. There are members in every colony up and down the seaboard.” He reached for her hand. “Come, walk with me to the street. And promise me you will be careful in your dealings with the Loyalists, and the Frenchie.”
Betsy smiled and when Joseph offered before he left to bring in logs for the kitchen fire and water from the well, she gratefully accepted his kind offer. “I am glad you came to see me again, Joseph.”
When he said good night at the door, Betsy could tell from the look in his hazel eyes that her gallant seaman wished to draw her into his arms and hold her close, but . . . she held back, still uncertain she was ready for any sort of intimacy with another man.
* * *
BETSY SPENT THE FOLLOWING afternoon altering the sleeves of Joseph’s redcoats. In preparation to mend the flag, she searched for a bit of bunting left from the banners she’d made for General Washington. Suddenly, becoming aware of feminine voices, she glanced up as two ladies stepped into the foyer of her shop. Betsy recognized one of them from Judge Shippen’s dinner party.
“How nice to see you again, Miss Olsen; do come in.”
The younger woman greeted Betsy and presented her aunt, Mrs. Dearborn, a portly woman of some forty years, who, judging from her fine clothes, Betsy surmised to be quite well-put. However, Betsy thought the green linen frock she wore was more suited for a girl of Miss Olsen’s years, and that Mrs. Dearborn should be wearing the somber gown her niece had on. She politely invited the women into her parlor where both scarlet coats lay draped over the backs of chairs, the Union flag spread out on the dining table.
“Oh, I see you also sew for gentlemen,” remarked Mrs. Dearborn.
“I am merely altering the coats,” Betsy murmured, hoping the woman did not inquire the names of the British officers to whom the coats belonged.
“I will tell my husband about your services,” Mrs. Dearborn said.
A smile flickered across Betsy’s face. Perhaps there was hope for new business after all.
When all three ladies were seated, Mrs. Dearborn addressed Betsy. “Mr. Dearborn and I were unable to attend the Shippen’s dinner party the other evening but when Anne told me you were wearing one of the most beautiful gowns there, I decided we should come and see you. My niece has been invited to a ball in New York City in honor of General Howe and she is in dire need of a new frock.”
Miss Olsen smiled shyly while Betsy’s heart pounded over the prospect of garnering such a lucrative commission.
“Anne attempted to describe your gown to me, Mrs. Ross. If it’s no trouble, I would very much like to see it.”
“Of course.” Betsy sprang to her feet and led the way upstairs to the sitting room where her gray silk gown was displayed on a wooden tailor’s form. Both women exclaimed over the fine fabric and the design, however upon spotting the French Fashion dolls, Mrs. Dearborn positively flew into raptures.
“Oh, my dear!” She held up one of the dolls. “If you could make a gown half as stunning as this, I am persuaded Anne’s young man will propose the instant he sees her!” She turned a smile upon her niece. “We must tempt him beyond all endurance the night of the ball, my dear. I have decided your gown must be flaming scarlet, to match his coat.”
Miss Olsen turned to Betsy. “Might you have scarlet silk on hand, Mrs. Ross?”
“Indeed, I do.” Betsy led them back downstairs to her shop where several dozen ells of fabric in a variety of colors leant against the wall.
After the women had chosen the fabric, Betsy sketched a design for the dress, incorporating ideas from both the Fashion Dolls and those suggested by Mrs. Dearborn. The ladies then decided on trim and lace for the gown, and Betsy took Miss Olsen’s measurements. After agreeing upon a date for the first fitting, both women expressed delight over discovering Betsy right here in Philadelphia and wearing pleased smiles, took their leave.
Exhaling with relief, Betsy headed back to the parlor and flung herself onto the settee. Dear God in Heaven, François’s plan was working exactly as he predicted! Although, she expected the two scarlet coats draped over the chairs in the parlor had gone a long way toward forwarding the notion that she was a bona fide Loyalist. She could hardly wait to tell Joseph of her good fortune.