Philadelphia

Mid-May 1778

CHAPTER III

* * *

Captain Broadhead stared. Overhead, a French chandelier of cut crystal, twelve feet from rim to rim with two hundred candles spaced in two tiers, hung on a huge gold-plated chain. A broad, graceful walnut staircase, leading to the second floor, curved up the wall to the right. To the left, a gigantic stone fireplace and ornate mantel formed the wall. French doors of leaded glass panes stood straight ahead, opening onto four acres of lawn, flower beds, decorative trees of every variety, a fruit orchard, and a massive barn for highbred horses. Commissioned paintings of pastoral scenes, winter landscapes, and tall ships gallantly braving storms adorned the walls and the hallways. On both floors, broad carpeted corridors with gold fixtures holding lamps led to all twenty-six rooms, including eight bedrooms. The main hallway on the ground floor led to the prodigious library, which served as office, study, retreat, and hideaway for the master of the household, Edward Shippen Jr.

The servant cleared his throat, and André turned to Broadhead. “Captain?”

Broadhead clacked his gaping mouth closed and followed André and the servant down the great hallway to the library door. The servant turned the handle and held the door while they entered. The opulence was overpowering. Three walls were oak-shelved for books of every description. A stone fireplace divided the fourth wall, with commissioned paintings hanging on both sides. Seated behind an eight-foot desk of carved mahogany was Edward Shippen. The aroma of sweet pipe tobacco lay lightly in the air.

Of average height, tending toward paunchy, square faced, with noncommittal hazel eyes, Shippen rose to face them. His entire life had been dedicated to the practical, no-nonsense business of managing wealth and position, and the pursuit had left him with the rather blank look of a man who possessed almost no imagination and very little original, creative thought. His demeanor was cordial, if slightly condescending.

“Welcome, gentlemen. I understand you wish to see me?”

André came to attention. “Sir, I am Captain John André. My companion is Captain Amos Broadhead. I believe I had the honor of meeting you on one or two other occasions. The New Year’s ball at the Waltham estate?”

“I recall. So nice to see you again.”

“I am here under orders of General Horace Easton. I’m sure you must have heard of the farewell planned for General Howe.”

“Yes. Matter of fact I have. Soon, isn’t it?”

“The eighteenth of this month, sir. Five days. Sir, fourteen young ladies have been selected from all those in the city to participate. Three of them are your daughters, Margaret, Rebecca, and Ruth. We respectfully request your permission that they appear in the grand finale. They will be cast in the role of ladies-in-waiting. Two teams of our officers will joust for their hands in the fashion of knights of long ago. Perfectly harmless. The young ladies will not be required to take speaking roles.”

Shippen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who are the other young ladies?”

“Notably, Peggy Chew, daughter of Judge Benjamin Chew.”

Shippen’s eyebrows arched. “Judge Chew? Has he consented?”

“In writing. This morning.”

Open surprise flickered in Shippen’s face. “If this is to be reminiscent of ancient chivalry, how are the girls to be dressed?”

“Well, sir, it has been decided they will be costumed as Turkish maidens.”

Shippen started. “Turkish? You mean, harem girls?”

“Not exactly, sir. Just young maidens in Turkish costumes.”

“Turkish? Could you describe the costume to me?”

André turned to Broadhead. “Could I have that sketch, please?”

Broadhead fumbled in the folder and extracted a parchment. André laid it on the desk and straightened. “That is a sketch, sir.”

Shippen’s eyes widened. “The sketch is masterful, but the costume—well—it leaves much to be desired, considering this is Philadelphia.”

“I appreciate your concern, sir, but may I point out, the costume is modest in every respect. The only reservation is the fact it is not common in America. No one here has ever seen such. I’m certain it will be well-received. And I am sorry to say, sir, the cost will have to be paid by those who participate.”

Shippen pursed his mouth, and for several seconds fell into thoughtful silence. He found himself in the same painful position he had battled since the shooting started in Concord on April 19, 1775. If he offended the British, he risked losing his position on the Provincial Council, along with his income and much of his political power. On the other hand, if he offended the Americans, he could be punished should they retake Pennsylvania and enforce their recent law against all who refused to take an oath opposing the British. With all his heart he detested the thought of sending his highbred daughters into a public place clad in the gaudy costume of a Turkish harem girl, but standing before him were two British officers under orders of a British general—Horace Easton. If he offended them, what would the repercussions be?

As always, his decision fell on the side of least damage to his precious estate and high social standing.

“I understand about the cost. On your representation that it will all be properly handled, I believe I can give my consent.”

“Very good, sir.” André handed him a sealed document. “Would you be so kind as to open this request and sign your name giving consent. I must deliver that to General Easton today.”

Shippen took the document, broke the royal blue seal with the facing lions, and opened it. As he did, André spoke.

“Is Margaret at home today, sir?”

Shippen raised his eyes. “Upstairs in her room. Be seated, gentlemen. I’ll be a minute reading this.”

The men sat down on velvet upholstered chairs to wait.

On the floor above them, behind the closed door of her elaborately decorated bedroom, Peggy Shippen sat hunched over the hand-carved maple desk in the corner of the room, moving her finger across a small calendar, counting. Her face clouded, and petulantly she stood, unable to bear the humiliation of having been ignored, as if she were some common scrub woman. For weeks she had waited, certain that each day would bring a dashing, handsome young man to her door, hat in hand, timorously requesting of her father that he be honored to escort the beautiful Peggy Shippen to the celebration that would be forever remembered.

Operas, orchestras, carnivals, stage dramas, mounted knights with lances, teas, receptions, elaborate coaches drawn by matching teams of high-blooded horses, dangerous flirtations, forbidden romances, new gowns from Paris, unheard-of food delicacies—the vision of all these things had fired her imagination. Everybody who was anybody in Philadelphia would be present. And most certainly the Shippens, who were solidly established in the highest social circles of the city. The meschianza without the Shippens? Unthinkable!

May eighteenth. Five more days. Just five more days, and the extravagant celebration would be underway.

With tears brimming her large blue eyes she sat on the edge of her canopied bed, hands in her lap, head bowed, battling hot mortification. Snubbed. Affronted. Ignored. Insulted. Degraded. How could they? How could they?

Unable to longer endure the agony of it all, she stood and walked from her bedroom, down the hallway, to the head of the great, sweeping staircase leading down to the parlor. She had taken the first step when she heard voices coming from the library. She stopped, unable to face the thought of meeting strangers at that moment. She wiped at her eyes and waited, watching to see who would appear in the hall.

In the moment of seeing the crimson tunics, she recognized John André.

John André! The handsomest, most charming, most talented officer in the British army! Captain Hamond’s banquet aboard his ship, the Roebuck! Whirling about the dance floor within the arms of John André. Clinging to him as they gasped and shrieked during their breathtaking midnight sleigh ride behind matched galloping horses! Sitting spellbound as he played the flute to the accompaniment of Captain Ridsdale’s violin.

Peggy’s hand flew to her throat, and the blood left her face.

Why is John André here? Why? She dared not hope, nor move, as she waited, poised at the head of the stairs.

The three men paused in the hallway outside the library, and as Peggy watched, her father handed a document to André. She stopped breathing to listen.

“I will inform my daughters. Please give my regards to General Easton.”

André slipped the document inside his tunic. “I shall, sir. Thank you for your hospitality.”

André bowed slightly, and the officer beside him, whom Peggy did not recognize, bowed as well. As André turned toward the front entrance, his eye caught sight of Peggy’s white, ankle-length dress at the top of the stairs, and he stopped, face raised to her.

He smiled. Peggy’s heart stopped. He gave a slight salute and spoke. “Miss Shippen. How pleasant to see you again.”

Peggy could not find her voice. She grasped the banister to steady her wobbly legs, smiled back, bowed, and remained silent.

André turned back to her father. “Good-bye, sir.”

The two officers walked out the door, Broadhead closed it behind them, and Peggy stood mesmerized, condemning herself for not speaking, for standing on the staircase like a dumb statue, for not gliding down like a shimmering goddess to charm the most fascinating man on the continent.

She flew down the stairs to face her father.

“What was it he gave you? What was it? It was an invitation, wasn’t it? I’ve seen them before. It was an invitation!”

She felt light-headed as she waited for his answer.

“Yes. It was.”

“For whom?”

“Yourself, and Rebecca and Ruth.”

“To what?”

She felt faint.

“The meschianza.”

“You accepted?”

The world stopped, and an eternity passed while she waited.

“Yes. I did.”

She sucked air and threw herself against her father, arms locked around his neck. “Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you. Oh, Father, thank- you.”

He waited until color returned to her face, took her hand in his, and led her into the library.

“I must warn you. You will attend only because I dare not offend the British. My dealings with them right now are somewhat . . . tenuous . . . because I will not swear allegiance to either side in this war. And, I still have strong reservations about this celebration—this meschianza. They want you and your sisters and some other young Philadelphia debutantes to participate in some sort of a play, or production. I’ve seen a sketch of the costume, and when it’s finished, I could change my mind if it offends decency.”

“It won’t. I promise, it won’t. I’ll make you proud, Father.”

“Dressmakers will come here for the fitting, and a hairdresser.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, I’m told.”

Suddenly Peggy gasped. “Peggy Chew! Was she invited?”

“I believe she was.”

Without a word, Peggy spun on her heel and fled up the staircase and down the hall to her bedroom.

Edward listened to the rustling of her dress and the sound of her fading footsteps, then leaned back in his great leather chair. He rounded his lips to blow air, then shook his head in bewilderment at what he saw as the giddy, irrational thought processes of the female gender, and the emotional wells from which they sprang. With a little effort he could make some semblance of good sense of all else the Almighty had created. But the mind-set of the female gender? For one moment of unvarnished heresy he wondered if the Almighty had somehow allowed one single flaw to creep into what otherwise was a perfect performance in creating the world and all that in it is. He quickly pushed the unsettling thought from his mind and busied himself with the correspondence neatly stacked on one corner of his desk.

In her room, Peggy jerked the ribbons of her best bonnet into a knot beneath her chin, seized her best flowered silk parasol, ran down the stairs, out the door, and turned toward the Chew mansion, one block over, one block up. Breathless from her dash, she stopped beneath the four-columned portico and banged the massive door knocker three times. A somewhat perturbed-looking servant opened the door, then softened at the familiar sight of Peggy Shippen. A minute later she burst into the bedroom of Peggy Chew, breathing hard. There was no pretense of formality between the two, who had been close since infancy.

“Did you get one?” Peggy Shippen blurted.

“Yes! You?”

“Yes. And Rebecca and Ruth.”

The girls fell into each other’s arms, giggling.

Peggy Shippen drew back. “Who else got invitations? Father said there are just fourteen of us.”

“I know,” Peggy Chew squealed. “Just fourteen. I’m simply enthralled! I don’t know who else got them. The minute I find out I’ll tell you, and if you learn first you come straight here!”

“I promise. Do you know what we’re supposed to do? A play, or something?”

“My father heard a British officer talking at the courthouse yesterday. That darling John André is arranging something to do with knights jousting and courting beautiful, young ladies. That’s us!”

Both girls giggled, and Peggy Chew continued. “And in a million years you will never guess where the beautiful young ladies are supposed to come from.”

“Philadelphia, of course.”

“No. I mean, what country. Not America.”

“Not America? Where? England?”

Peggy Chew had milked it far enough. “No!” she exclaimed. “Turkey!”

Peggy’s mouth dropped open, and five seconds passed before she recovered enough to snap it shut. “Turkey? You mean harems and veils and all such?”

“Exactly! We’re going to be costumed as Turkish harem girls. Can you even imagine how wicked that will be? How utterly . . . heavenly?” Suddenly Peggy Chew’s eyes popped wide, and she erupted in gales of laughter, pointing at Peggy Shippen.

“What’s the matter? What did I do? What’s so funny?”

Peggy Chew could hardly bring herself under control. “You! Did you ever hear of a Turkish harem girl with blonde hair and blue eyes?”

The girls went into hysterics that left them collapsed on the huge, canopied bed.

The four days blended into an unending round of seamstresses forcing Peggy and her two sisters to stand erect and motionless while they carefully cut the costumes sketched by John André and patiently sewed them. The finished creation consisted of gauze turbans, spangled and edged with gold or silver. On the right side, a matching veil hung as low as the waist, and the left side of the turban was enriched with pearl and tassels of gold or silver, and crested with a feather. The dress was of the polonaise style, made of white silk with long sleeves. The sashes, which were worn around the waist, hung very low and were tied with a large bow on the left side. They were trimmed, spangled, and fringed according to the colors worn by the knight who was to be their escort.

Heated arguments erupted when Edward demanded to see the work, and the girls donned the nearly completed costumes to stand before their father’s stern stare. He revolted at the sight of his pure, proper, Puritan daughters seductively draped in filmy gauze and more jewelry than he had seen in his entire life.

“Never!” he raged.

Heart-wrenching sobs and desperate pleadings from his three daughters filled the second story of the mansion and sent him stalking down the stairs into his library sanctuary. He slammed the door, to pace and fume while the work continued on the costumes. They were finished and hanging in the girls’ closets at six o’clock p.m., May seventeenth.

That evening a French hairdresser and his assistant appeared at the door, faces haggard, drawn. They had had but four days to coif the heads of the fourteen Philadelphia belles; they had completed ten and were racing the clock to finish the four yet remaining before dawn. Shortly before midnight he pronounced his creations finished, peered at his list through bloodshot eyes, and walked out the front door on his way to the home of Peggy Chew, his last client.

Dawn broke with the spring sun flooding the city. The three girls were up with the fading of the morning star, ecstatic with what they were certain would be the greatest day of their lives. They flitted about, unable to touch a morsel of breakfast, all the while babbling meaningless trivialities.

None of them knew when a group of bearded, nervous, sober men dressed in black frocks with their low-crowned, wide-brimmed black hats held in their hands appeared at the front door. None saw Edward lead them to his library, where they sat in counsel for half an hour. Nor did any of the girls notice the men walk wordlessly from the library, down the long hall to the front door, which Edward held open while they filed out into the beauty of the morning, still carrying their hats.

Half an hour passed before the girls noticed that most of the servants were absent. It was then that Edward climbed the stairs to the second floor.

“I will need you all in the library. At once.” There was something in his voice that stopped all the gaiety. With a growing cloud of foreboding the girls walked down the stairs to stand in the library facing their father, who was on his feet behind his desk. Never had they seen such fierceness in his face. His voice was firm, strong, deliberate.

“The Friends paid me a visit an hour ago. Our Quaker brothers. Six of them. Abijah Hauptman spoke for them. It is the opinion of their council that it would be seriously unseemly for you three to appear in public in the costumes you have upstairs, with your hair arranged as it is now. I agree with them. I have sent written messages to your three escorts that you will not be attending, and to have someone collect the costumes so they can be used by other . . . less decorous . . . young ladies.”

For three seconds a breathless, tense silence held before the girls erupted. Rebecca and Ruth burst into tears and wailing. Peggy took a step toward her father, nearly shouting, “You gave permission! You said we could!”

He faced her with eyes narrowed, mouth compressed, not uttering a word.

“Father, we will never . . . what will people say . . . what . . .”

Edward walked around his desk, out the door, down the hall, and away from the hysterical shrieks and sobbings of his three daughters.

At noon a messenger banged the door knocker. “I am instructed to collect three costumes from this household. Do I have the right address?”

The messenger left with the three filmy Turkish harem costumes wrapped in a sheet, all too eager to be far away from the rantings and sobbings of the three girls.

Peggy fled upstairs to her bedroom, bolted the door, and slumped onto her bed with her pitiful sobbings reaching out into the hall. At three o’clock, exactly on cue, under an azure sky and in dazzling spring sunshine, the orchestra in the open-air pavilion six blocks away opened the meschianza, and the rich sound of thirty-two violins reached out through the city. Cheeks tear-streaked, and eyes puffy and bloodshot, Peggy slammed her bedroom window and buried her head beneath the two large goose-down pillows on her bed.

At six o’clock a servant rapped on her door to announce that Edward had sent her a tray of hot soup, crackers, cheese, and tarts. Peggy refused to answer the door. The servant set the tray on the thick carpeting beside the door and quietly retreated down the hall. The tray, with the food untouched, was still in the hallway at ten p.m. Peggy lay in her dark room on her bed fully dressed until three a.m. before exhaustion took its toll. Her last clear thought before she drifted into an exhausted, fitful sleep tore at her heart.

What will people think? Say? How can I ever leave this house again? Ruined. Forever. Ruined.

Notes

Margaret Shippen, called Peggy Shippen by her circle of elite friends in Philadelphia, married Benedict Arnold and was instrumental in his treason against the United States, thus becoming a significant part of the American Revolution. Peggy was the youngest daughter of the politically powerful and wealthy Edward Shippen. Her birth, childhood, early training, and growth into one of the most beautiful young ladies in Philadelphia, were as described. She became a favorite of many high ranking British officers, including Captain, later Major, John André, with whom Peggy and her husband, Benedict Arnold, plotted the treason. She was selected as one of the fourteen young Philadelphia belles to participate in the great meschianza in which John André played such a significant role, only to have her conservative father withdraw his permission and forbid his daughters to participate on the afternoon of the great event. Peggy was devastated (Flexner, The Traitor and the Spy, pp. 187–216).