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NOT UNTIL MUCH, MUCH later that day did Joseph appear at Betsy’s door and the news he brought was not good.
“My men and I fanned out today to comb the city and well beyond it. We asked at every inn and tavern on both sides of the river if a young couple had stopped in late last night or early this morning. I, myself, questioned every ferryman north and south of here to inquire if any of them had ferried a couple bent on marrying across the Delaware River.”
Her soul still aching over what she had learned from François that morning, Betsy said softly, “François has not left Philadelphia.”
Joseph’s brows snapped together. “You have seen him?”
Betsy nodded as they both sat on the sofa in the parlor. “He was here.”
“What happened, love?” Joseph’s expression grew concerned. “What did the blackguard say to you?”
Hot tears burned Betsy’s eyes as both hands covered her face. “Oh-h, Joseph.” Her shoulders shook as the ache in her heart throbbed afresh with each breath she drew.
Slipping an arm about her, Joseph pulled her to him. “Is it Rachel, love? Did they find her?”
Wrenching sobs consumed Betsy. She had not wanted to cry; she had not wanted to tell Joseph what she had learned today. She had intended to keep her grief private. But all day, despite her growing fears for Rachel, thoughts of John filled her mind. How much she missed him, how dearly she still loved him, how much she would always love him.
“Oh, Joseph.” The horrible truth inside her fought for release. Yet, she bit it back. She dared not tell him. If Joseph learned the whole truth, she could not count upon him to remain silent. To confront François would place both her sisters, and him, in danger. She could not risk that. Swallowing her tears, she drew on what little strength remained within her. “I-I . . . fear something dreadful has happened to Rachel.”
“Clearly, you have worried yourself sick, love.” His tone was soothing. “We’ll find her. We’ll keep looking until we do.” He gazed into her tear-filled eyes. “I vow I will find your sister, and bring her home safely.”
Sniffing back tears, Betsy nodded. “Might we go and see Sarah now? I want to assure her that you and your men are determined to find Rachel.” And she wished to assure herself that Sarah was still safe.
Although the September night air had grown chilly, Betsy’s new burgundy-colored cloak was still a bit too warm to wear this early in the season; all the same, she draped it around her shoulders before they set out. On the way to Sarah’s home, she haltingly told Joseph more of what François had said that morning, admitting that he and Paul Trumbell were both double spies, and what it was that he now wanted from both her and Joseph.
“He wants to know where you and your men have stored the guns and ammunition you took from the British. He said that unless I tell him, I will never see either of my sisters alive again.”
“The thieving traitor,” Joseph spat out. “I assume you told him we have already given the weaponry to the rebels.”
“He didn’t believe me. He believes you have hidden the guns. If I don’t tell him where to find them, he swore he would kill both Rachel and Sarah.”
“So, now you want to warn Sarah to be on her guard against him.”
“Oh, Joseph,” Betsy blurted out. “Sarah knows nothing of my spying on the Loyalist women or that I’ve assisted François in his perfidy. I am so distraught, I can no longer think straight. I don’t know what is safe to say to anyone anymore.”
He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t fret, love. We shall simply assure ourselves that Sarah is safe and tell her she mustn’t allow the Frenchman into her home ever again.”
“And that she also must not go out alone at night,” Betsy added anxiously, recalling the unknown man who had followed her. “Sarah rarely ventures out after dark, so perhaps I’ve nothing to fear on that score.”
“Until we find Rachel and bring her home safely,” Joseph said, “we shall also keep a close watch on Sarah.”
Although Sarah was beside herself with worry over Rachel, she expressed gratitude to Joseph for his commitment to finding their beloved sister. She told them her parents had learned from Rachel’s friends that Rachel had, indeed, slipped from the house late last night to go a friend’s home in order to borrow a lacy shawl. “I expect she wished to wear it the next time she saw François,” Sarah said. “Rachel’s girlfriend said she left her home about nine of the clock last evening.”
“So, unless Rachel met with François quite late,” Joseph put in, “she did not, in fact, see him at all last night.”
“Evidently not.” Sarah murmured. “Which begs the question, when did she meet up with him? Much, much later last night, or perhaps very early this morning? And if it were this morning, then why was he not . . .?”
Betsy could stand it no longer. “Rachel is not with François.”
Sarah’s head whirled around. “How do you know?”
“I saw him today. I confronted him about Rachel. They have not run away to be married but that is not to say he knows nothing of her whereabouts.”
“O-oh!” Sarah wailed. “What if he has . . . but why would he harm Rachel? Why does he not let her go?”
Both remorse and guilt gripped Betsy. Not a bit of this wretched business was Sarah’s, or Rachel’s, fault. It was all due to her obsession to uncover the truth about what had happened to John. She would never have agreed to François’s spying venture if she hadn’t believed it would lead to the answers she sought. Instead, things were now much, much worse than they had been before. Not even Joseph knew the whole truth. “Please, don’t worry, Sarah. Joseph has promised to find Rachel. He’ll not give up until she is safely home.” She darted an anxious gaze at Joseph, who nodded and said . . .
“I promise on my life to find your sister, Sarah. In the meantime, if François should appear at your door for any reason, do not invite the scoundrel in. The man is not to be trusted. You must also promise not to go out any more than necessary, and most especially not at night. I am persuaded the Frenchman is not above attempting also to snatch you.”
Betsy was glad to hear Joseph’s strong words and that Sarah appeared to heed his warning. When Joseph rose to go, Betsy reached for her cape. “Promise me, Sarah, you’ll not speak to François, or allow him into your home ever again.”
“I promise.” Sarah walked with her guests to the door. “I will never again speak with the Frenchman.” Gazing at Betsy, a sad smile softened her strained features. “Wearing that burgundy-colored cape and with your hair flowing loose down your back, you look exactly like Rachel. You are both so beautiful.” Tears filled her eyes. “Our parents are mystified over Rachel’s disappearance. Our father elicited the help of every man in Friends Church to search for her but all their efforts were for naught.”
Betsy pushed down the fearful thoughts swirling in her mind. “We must take comfort in knowing that Rachel did not marry the . . . him.” She had almost said ‘reprobate’ but since she now believed the blame for everything rested squarely upon her shoulders, she thought it best to cease pointing fingers. She was the guilty party, she and no other.
* * *
FAR, FAR INTO THAT night, an alarming thought caused Betsy to sit straight up in bed. What if François was telling the truth? What if he had no knowledge of Rachel’s whereabouts? He appeared to have been taken by surprise when Betsy told him of her disappearance. What if he were telling the truth? Never once had she detected the slightest hint that he was deriving pleasure over the girl’s disappearance. Rather it seemed he could not care less. Given the man’s cunning nature, perhaps when he saw how distraught Betsy was, he’d merely leapt upon the circumstance as a means of coercing her to do his bidding . . . to tell him the location of the guns and ammunition Joseph had plundered from the British ships. That Rachel was already missing strengthened his position, and to threaten that the same misfortune would befall Sarah provided François an even stronger hold over her.
Betsy pondered the reckoning for several minutes, then wondered if someone else could have snatched Rachel, and if so, who?
Sarah had remarked tonight on how very like Rachel Betsy looked in her new cloak, her hair hanging loose down her back in the identical manner that Rachel wore her hair. It was equally as cold last night as it was tonight. Rachel would have very likely donned her new cloak when she set out from their parent’s home to walk to a friend’s house in the dead of night. Rachel’s new cloak was similar in color to Betsy’s. In the dark, Rachel would have looked very like Betsy.
Someone had been stalking Betsy.
Someone who thought she could identify him as Toby Grimes’s killer.
Suddenly Betsy knew that François had not spirited Rachel away.
Paul Trumbell had.