made to rise from the table but her mother’s stern voice stopped her.
“Peggy, we have not finished our meal. You will stay and eat with us.”
Peggy turned from her mother to her father. “Please, Papa, I shall be late, and they’ll begin the card games without me.”
“Cards?” Mrs. Shippen’s interest was suddenly keen. “We just told you: no more gambling at cards. Edward, I think this is a mistake. I think Margaret should do as her sister plans to do, stay hometonight and do something to feed her mind.” Mrs. Shippen rubbed her temples once more, shutting her eyes.
Judge Shippen eyed his daughter and wife wearily.
Peggy made a face. “But we already agreed I could attend.”
“Would you not like a night at home with your parents?” Mrs. Shippen opened her eyes, still massaging her forehead.
“Do you think I dressed like this for a night of reading with my parents?” Peggy laughed. “Papa, you already promised that I could go.” She directed her focus toward her father, her expression growing taut.
“Peggy, my dear, I did not realize that it was cards again . . .”
“Papa!” Peggy widened her eyes, interrupting her father. “I shall refrain from the card games, I promise.” Peggy paused. “And besides, a night spent mingling with the finest, most well-educated officers of the British Army is certainly a night spent enriching the mind.”
“Is that so?” Betsy sniggered, exchanging a meaningful glance with her mother.
“Well, they are certainly a lot more interesting than your boring old Mr. Burd.” Peggy turned, snarling at her sister.
“All right, all right, enough of this quarreling. Peggy, you may go to Lord Rawdon’s,” her father acquiesced. “But not until we’ve finished supper. Your mother has ordered a peach tart for dessert.”
“But Edward . . .” Mrs. Shippen clenched her jaw.
“Margaret, please.” The judge held up his hand, silencing his wife. “And Peggy, please do not stay out as late. I’d like you home by midnight.” Judge Shippen looked at his daughter dotingly, while Mrs. Shippen sighed in frustration, dropping her silverware down on her plate. Peggy tossed a smirk in her mother’s direction.
“Ready, Miss Bell?” Caleb was beside Clara, pulling her from her observation of this family drama.
“Will you please stop calling me ‘Miss’? You’ve been here longer than I have. Please, call me Clara.”
“Only if you’ll agree to call me Cal.”
“All right, all right.” Clara nodded.
“Well, congratulations, Clara Bell. You survived your first Shippen dinner. All that remains is dessert.” Caleb put the peach tart in her hands and smiled at her as she once more entered the dining room.
After the dinner, the judge and Doctor William retreated to the study while Peggy excused herself. Clara remained in the dining room to clear the table. The elderly woman she’d seen earlier, in the stairwell, emerged as if from the air.
“Caleb, that is Brigitte, right?”
“Call me Cal.”
“Sorry, Cal. Is that Brigitte?” Clara asked.
“Oh, yes. Brigitte is Hannah’s sister. She doesn’t talk much, except to Hannah. She cleans the dishes, strips the bedding, dumps the chamber pots. All the sorts of jobs that allow her to avoid speaking to anyone. But you better go to Miss Peggy—she’s probably in a hurry to get to this soiree. Especially if André will be there.”
“Who’s André?” Clara remembered back to the cut-out silhouette that Peggy had attached to her mirror, the face of the handsome British officer. “Miss Peggy mentioned someone named ‘Johnny’?”
“The very same. John André is the man who is about to make your life very difficult.”
“H OW VERY predictable that Betsy would pass on this soiree, when General Howe himself will be there. Does she not know that whereverthe general goes, the best officers are sure to follow?” Peggy stood in front of Clara, adjusting her gloves as the carriage rolled to a
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