halt before her. “But then, she’s as averse to fun as Mother is.”
“Good evening, Miss Peggy.” Caleb hopped down from his perch and with one fluid gesture opened the coach door and extended his hand toward Miss Peggy.
Peggy let her eyes slide sideways toward her maid. “At least I have you here with me to help me . . . what was it . . . behave ?” Peggy flashed her dazzling smile—that look that appeared sweet and yet had the effect of putting Clara more on edge—before taking Cal’s outstretched hand and hoisting herself and her full skirt through the carriage door.
Clara entered the carriage behind her mistress, receiving a teasing grin from Cal as she did so. Mrs. Quigley entered last, complaining that she did not have the luxury of taking a night off to attend a soiree, not when there was silver to be polished, china to be scrubbed, table linens to be pressed and sorted. But, Clara noticed, the old woman had changed into a clean, fresh dress of green and purple calico and had pulled her hair back tightly, giving her a more formal appearance than she’d modeled earlier in the day.
The carriage carried them west past the bustle of Market Street, just as the shop owners were shuttering their windows and wishing one another a pleasant night. As the last rays of daytime poured down, the Shippen carriage sped forward on an increasingly rural road toward the Schuylkill River.
“We are getting you new clothes, Clara.” Mrs. Quigley rested her hands in her lap, twisting a kerchief in tight knots. “It is not acceptable for you to be attending a soiree at Lord Rawdon’s looking like a farm hand.”
Clara, tired from the day, wished to reply that she would havehappily stayed home, that she would have preferred to retreat to her private, quiet bedroom and have an evening of peace, but Oma’s stern face remained in the fore of her mind, so she simply smiled politely and answered, “Yes, ma’am, thank you.”
As Caleb urged the horses to speed ever quicker toward the Schuylkill, Peggy’s mood soared. She did not look at her maid or her housekeeper, but rather kept her gaze fixed firmly out the window, staring at the sun-streaked river, which appeared as if engulfed in flames, and the darkening evening into which she could not wait to be set loose.
Caleb slowed the carriage as they approached a mansion, large and well-lit, perched on the hill above the river. In the indigo pall of twilight, a large British flag was visible where it hung at the front of the mansion. Peggy spotted their destination and pinched her cheeks, drawing a rosy blush from her ivory skin.
“Is this Lord Rawdon’s home?” Clara regretted the question the instant she saw Mrs. Quigley’s stern expression: servants were not supposed to break the silence. Peggy, however, seemed all too happy to reply.
“The British seized this house from a prominent rebel when he was forced to flee.” Peggy tugged on a loose wisp of golden hair, pulling the curl taut before allowing it to spring back into its coil. “How very fortunate for us. It makes a perfect spot for a summer fête.”
The horses pulled the Shippen carriage under a porte cochere and they were greeted by an entourage of wigged footmen. Peggy alighted from the carriage, clapping in delight at the military band that stood on hand to serenade the arriving guests. “Music !” Peggy exclaimed.
“Miss Shippen, welcome.” A middle-aged man in the bright red jacket of a British officer appeared, bowing opposite Peggy in a lowcurtsy. “You are a vision, Miss Shippen, as always.” Clara watched the greeting as Caleb helped her exit the carriage.
“Lord Rawdon, this is magical.” Peggy cocked her head, sending her strands of blond curls dancing around her cheeks. Had she practiced that perfectly coy mannerism before the mirror of her bedroom? Clara wondered.
“Miss Shippen, I hope you will do me the honor of allowing me to sit beside you at the card table this
“Good evening, Miss Peggy.” Caleb hopped down from his perch and with one fluid gesture opened the coach door and extended his hand toward Miss Peggy.
Peggy let her eyes slide sideways toward her maid. “At least I have you here with me to help me . . . what was it . . . behave ?” Peggy flashed her dazzling smile—that look that appeared sweet and yet had the effect of putting Clara more on edge—before taking Cal’s outstretched hand and hoisting herself and her full skirt through the carriage door.
Clara entered the carriage behind her mistress, receiving a teasing grin from Cal as she did so. Mrs. Quigley entered last, complaining that she did not have the luxury of taking a night off to attend a soiree, not when there was silver to be polished, china to be scrubbed, table linens to be pressed and sorted. But, Clara noticed, the old woman had changed into a clean, fresh dress of green and purple calico and had pulled her hair back tightly, giving her a more formal appearance than she’d modeled earlier in the day.
The carriage carried them west past the bustle of Market Street, just as the shop owners were shuttering their windows and wishing one another a pleasant night. As the last rays of daytime poured down, the Shippen carriage sped forward on an increasingly rural road toward the Schuylkill River.
“We are getting you new clothes, Clara.” Mrs. Quigley rested her hands in her lap, twisting a kerchief in tight knots. “It is not acceptable for you to be attending a soiree at Lord Rawdon’s looking like a farm hand.”
Clara, tired from the day, wished to reply that she would havehappily stayed home, that she would have preferred to retreat to her private, quiet bedroom and have an evening of peace, but Oma’s stern face remained in the fore of her mind, so she simply smiled politely and answered, “Yes, ma’am, thank you.”
As Caleb urged the horses to speed ever quicker toward the Schuylkill, Peggy’s mood soared. She did not look at her maid or her housekeeper, but rather kept her gaze fixed firmly out the window, staring at the sun-streaked river, which appeared as if engulfed in flames, and the darkening evening into which she could not wait to be set loose.
Caleb slowed the carriage as they approached a mansion, large and well-lit, perched on the hill above the river. In the indigo pall of twilight, a large British flag was visible where it hung at the front of the mansion. Peggy spotted their destination and pinched her cheeks, drawing a rosy blush from her ivory skin.
“Is this Lord Rawdon’s home?” Clara regretted the question the instant she saw Mrs. Quigley’s stern expression: servants were not supposed to break the silence. Peggy, however, seemed all too happy to reply.
“The British seized this house from a prominent rebel when he was forced to flee.” Peggy tugged on a loose wisp of golden hair, pulling the curl taut before allowing it to spring back into its coil. “How very fortunate for us. It makes a perfect spot for a summer fête.”
The horses pulled the Shippen carriage under a porte cochere and they were greeted by an entourage of wigged footmen. Peggy alighted from the carriage, clapping in delight at the military band that stood on hand to serenade the arriving guests. “Music !” Peggy exclaimed.
“Miss Shippen, welcome.” A middle-aged man in the bright red jacket of a British officer appeared, bowing opposite Peggy in a lowcurtsy. “You are a vision, Miss Shippen, as always.” Clara watched the greeting as Caleb helped her exit the carriage.
“Lord Rawdon, this is magical.” Peggy cocked her head, sending her strands of blond curls dancing around her cheeks. Had she practiced that perfectly coy mannerism before the mirror of her bedroom? Clara wondered.
“Miss Shippen, I hope you will do me the honor of allowing me to sit beside you at the card table this
Similar Books
