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BETSY WAS PLEASED WHEN Sarah arrived the following day. She put her to stitching bows onto the stomacher of Miss Olsen’s wedding gown, hoping that by keeping her mind occupied, she might cease worrying over her husband’s safety for a spell. Due to Sarah’s fretful state, Betsy again opted not to mention anything about François, nor did she tell her sister about the alarming event of the previous night as she’d walked home alone.
That evening, when Joseph arrived, she surprised him by having supper already on the table. “You cooked a meal for me?” He seemed delighted that she had gone to such lengths on his behalf.
After the two had eaten their fill of bubble and squeak, a dish made from cabbage and sausages that John had especially enjoyed, Betsy prevailed upon Joseph to accompany her to a Fighting Quaker meeting.
“Perhaps we’ll learn more about what is afoot in New York. If the news is good, we could call on Sarah and tell her.” After a pause, she said, “Only we must let her believe you brought the news to me. Sarah doesn’t know I’m a Fighting Quaker member. I’ve purposely not told her of my involvement.”
When the Fighting Quaker members, all anxious for news from New York, were told that rebel casualties resulting from the attack on Long Island were estimated to be upwards of one thousand men, alarmed cries arose from every corner of the crowded hall. Apparent now was that General Howe’s long-range plan was not only to take control of the Hudson River, but advance up it and seize Albany, thereby cutting off New England from the lower colonies. Because the British had spent the summer months enlarging their naval power and bringing over additional troops, the British army was now so strong they could easily overtake the far fewer rebel troops encamped there. Patriot strategists predicted that unless the Continental Army surrendered Brook Land Heights that Howe would launch an all-out attack upon the Patriots and very likely slaughter what remained of the rebel forces in a single deadly campaign.
“Oh, dear,” Betsy lamented as she and Joseph left the meeting, “the news from New York is so grim I fear telling Sarah would only further upset her.”
“The news is quite grim,” Joseph agreed.
“Perhaps for the remainder of the evening you and I should just sit on the sofa and talk.”
After a pause, Joseph said soberly, “Perhaps when you least expect it, I shall steal a kiss.”
Despite her downcast state, Betsy giggled.
Joseph’s lips twitched. “If the British have beaten us and hanging is to be our fate, I daresay we should seize the moment and make hay whilst the sun, or . . .” he glanced up, “the moon shines.”
Betsy sighed. “I expect you are right.”
At home, Betsy and Joseph snuggled close on the sofa and Joseph made good on his threat to steal a kiss. Later Betsy told him what had happened the previous night as she walked home from Sarah’s house and how Uncle Abel had come to her rescue. Joseph was far more alarmed than Betsy expected.
“Who could have been following you?” he demanded and when she didn’t answer at once, he growled, “Think, love. Could it have been the Frenchman? Have you unduly angered him?”
“François and I did not part on good terms, to be sure, but I do not believe it was he who was following me. Why would he when he feels free to simply barge in here and demand that I fetch him a cup of tea? Uncle Abel said it was a large man. François is not so very large. Tall, yes; but not overlarge.” She worried her lower lip as she thought back. “It was quite dark last night. I never caught so much as a glimpse of the man. Uncle Abel merely said that a large man with his cap pulled low was following me. The only large man I know is . . . Paul Trumbell.”
“Who is Paul Trumbell?” Joseph demanded. “Another one of your suitors?”
“No!” Betsy cried. “Paul Trumbell is most assuredly not one of my suitors. You are my only suitor.”
“Well, that is reassuring.” He relaxed a mite. “So, who is this Trumbell character and why would he wish you ill?”
Betsy told Joseph about the report she’d written about General Clinton’s troops being sent north from Charleston and how François had instructed she deliver the report to a man named Paul Trumbell. She also told him how she was certain she’d seen a flicker of recognition on Trumbell’s face when he caught sight of her. “I’ve since wondered if perhaps he was the man who broke into my house and held a knife to my throat. I’ve even wondered if perhaps it was not he who killed Toby. I cannot be certain as I did not get a good enough look at the man who stabbed Toby to ever recognize him again. But Trumbell doesn’t know that. It’s possible he thinks I recognized him from the alleyway and now he fears that because I know his identity, I’ll alert the authorities. Perhaps he means to rid himself of me first.”
“Why would Trumbell kill Toby?”
Betsy shook her head. “I don’t know. Dr. Franklin said Toby was working for the British. We now know François is working for the enemy. François is acquainted with Trumbell.” She paused. “I’ve not yet sorted out the puzzle but there is obviously a connection between François and Trumbell. Still, I haven’t a clue why Toby was killed.” Her head shook. “It’s all so confusing.”
“Perhaps I should pay a call upon Paul Trumbell.”
“Oh, Joseph, promise me you’ll not confront him. We know nothing for certain and besides, he is a giant of a man, quite the largest man I have ever seen. Not that I believe you cannot defend yourself, but I daresay Paul Trumbell could easily overtake several men at once.”
“Then, I’ll take along a few friends to assist me should I require . . . assisting.” Rising, he said, “I refuse to let anyone threaten you, Betsy. Now that I’ve found you again, I will not let some ruffian take you away from me.”
“He wears a knife at his belt, Joseph.”
“And I carry a pistol in my pocket. Where does he live?”
“It’s late, Joseph.”
“It’s never too late to pay a call upon a killer.”
* * *
BETSY SPENT THE LONG hours of the following day worrying and wondering what had happened last night when Joseph paid his late night call upon Paul Trumbell. She realized she had come to care deeply for Joseph and depended more and more upon him to look out for her. Were Paul Trumbell to plunge his knife into Joseph’s belly, as she suspected he had done to Toby, she’d insist the authorities investigate that crime!
Throughout the long day, her worried thoughts fixed also on Sarah, who did not come to the shop that day. Mid-way through the long afternoon, Betsy did receive a call from Mrs. Dearborn and Miss Olsen, both eager to learn how the latter’s wedding gown was coming along.
Although her heart wasn’t in it, Betsy graciously greeted her guests, offered them tea and pretended to be cheerful as the two bragged about the British army’s rousing victory in New York City.
“It’s just as I thought,” Mrs. Dearborn gleefully declared, “the rebels will soon be chased out of New York altogether and Anne and her young man can enjoy their wedding festivities without any interference from a silly old war!”
“But Charles says he’s been assigned to look after that rebel general they captured,” Miss Olsen fretted.
Betsy’s ears perked up. “W-what general would that be?”
Mrs. Dearborn glanced at Betsy. “Excuse me, what did you say, dear?”
“The general Miss Olsen just mentioned; the one the British captured. I wondered what was his name?”
“Oh, I do not recall the man’s name, Sullivan, Mulligan, what does it matter? When all’s said and done, they shall all be captured. Have you given any thought, dear, to what sort of traveling costume would be suitable for Anne? She and her new husband will be leaving on a wedding trip immediately following the ceremony and . . .”
“Actually I have given the matter some thought,” Betsy said crisply, suddenly feeling irritable over having to listen to the Loyalist women gloat over the British army’s victory. She snatched up a piece of paper and quickly sketched one of the very costumes Joseph had confiscated from the British ship he had plundered. The gown fit her a tad bit too snugly but it would fit Miss Olsen’s trim figure to perfection. To sell it to the girl would save Betsy the trouble of having to smile her way through several more visits from the enemy. She passed the sketch to Mrs. Dearborn.
And was relieved when a split second later, the older woman exclaimed, “Why, with a bonnet and gloves to match, this would be a stunning traveling costume!”
“It is quite lovely, Mrs. Ross. What color would you suggest?”
Betsy head’s tilted to one side. The frock was made of ivory linen trimmed with brown braid. “I can see this design made up in ivory linen trimmed with brown braid.”
“Absolutely perfect!” enthused Mrs. Dearborn. “How fortunate we are to have found you, Mrs. Ross. I daresay you are as talented as any Paris modiste. But will you have sufficient time to complete both costumes, the wedding gown and the traveling suit?”
“I’ve hired a helper,” Betsy fabricated, “who I shall put to work at once on the traveling suit.” And my helper will receive all the credit for having made it.
“When do you expect to have both costumes completed? I assure you when Anne receives word from her Captain that it is safe to travel; we shall depart for New York straightaway.”
Betsy rose to her feet, the action signaling to her clients that the interview was over. “Both gowns will be ready in less than a fortnight, madam. I shall get word to you the minute I snip the final thread.”
Mrs. Dearborn beckoned to her niece. “Come along, Anne. We must not keep Mrs. Ross from her work.”
Betsy sighed with relief as she watched the Dearborn carriage wheel away from the curb. In a few days time, the wedding gown would be finished and very soon after that, she’d declare the traveling costume also complete. With luck, she’d never be obliged to see the Dearborn women again. Returning to her parlor, she settled down to sew.
Sometime later, roused by another rap at the door, she hoped this time it would be Joseph. “Tell me at once how you fared last night with Paul Trumbell,” she blurted out the minute she saw that it was indeed he.
In the parlor, Joseph slid onto the sofa and began to relate the details of his late night adventure with the giant. “I chose three of my largest men to accompany me and as we approached Trumbell’s building, which, by the by, is in quite a rough and tumble area of Philadelphia, Betsy. I don’t ever want you to venture there again. Anyhow, the four of us pretended to be deep in our cups, raising a ruckus and whatnot. When I spotted Trumbell’s door standing ajar and candlelight flickering from within, I knew he was there. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before he appeared, an angry scowl on his face and that long knife attached to his belt. He is one giant of a man.”
“Did you notice the ink stains on his fingers?”
Joseph’s brow furrowed. “Well, I . . . wasn’t exactly looking at his fingers. Why? Should I have been?”
“I believe he’s a cartographer.”
“I believe he’s a forger!” Joseph dug some wadded up pieces of paper from his breeches pocket. “While my men distracted him, I crept into the rear of the house and found these. Does this look familiar?” He handed a crumpled page to Betsy. “I recall you telling me your report mentioned General Clinton.”
“This is my very report! Apparently it was never passed along.”
“Not the way you wrote it. Now, take a look at this.”
Betsy read the second page aloud. “No worries from General Clinton. Troops are garrisoned north of Charleston awaiting orders from Howe.” Betsy gasped. “I don’t understand. This tells the rebels they have nothing to fear from Clinton.”
“Exactly.” Joseph produced several more messages and half-finished copies in which the meaning was reversed. “Apparently Trumbell attempts to closely replicate the original writer’s handwriting, but in the doing, he turns the words around so that when the report reaches its destination, the original message has been reversed.”
“This is despicable! If General Washington receives conflicting intelligence from his spies, how does he determine what to act upon?”
“It’s no wonder the British took our troops by surprise on Long Island.”
“My last message to General Washington warned that the enemy planned to attack from the Jamaica Pass Road. Fortunately I also handed the intelligence off to Dr. Franklin, but it obviously arrived too late to be of any use. Or perhaps Washington received a false report from François and acted upon it instead. What are we to do now, Joseph?”
“I know what I’d like you to do. I’d like you to give up this spy business altogether, but since I know you won’t, I’d suggest that when you write a report, you twist the words around so that when Trumbell re-twists them, perhaps the meaning will appear as you originally intended.”
Betsy began to pace. “That seems far too complicated. I’m certain that whatever information I deliver to Dr. Franklin will reach its intended destination unaltered. I mean what are we going to do about François’s perfidy? He and Paul Trumbell are profiting from passing along false information.”
“What a minute, love. You’re not suggesting that you and I attempt to take down both the giant and a notorious spy, one whom even your uncle declares is cunning and dangerous?”
Betsy parked both hands on her hips. “Well, someone has to do it. Even if Paul Trumbell did not kill Toby, he and François must be stopped. They are British spies!” She thrust up her chin. “If you will not help me, Joseph, then I have no choice but to go it alone.”
Joseph’s eyes rolled skyward. “Very well, love. How do you propose we bring down a pair of ruthless British spies?”