Read Online The Traitor's Wife: A Novel by Allison Pataki - Free Book Online
Authors: Allison Pataki
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evening?” Lord Rawdon, though nearly twice Peggy’s age and seasoned in battle, appeared cowed before his dainty gowned guest.
“But of course, Lord Rawdon. It would be my honor to be seated beside the host.” Peggy smiled, but turned her attention to the crowd of guests assembling farther down the hill. “Well, Lord Rawdon, I would not wish to monopolize your time. A host is in high demand at his own party.”
“Please, Miss Shippen, the others are gathering under the tent on the lawn. Once my guests have arrived and we are a full company, I will meet you there for cards and Champagne.”
“Thank you, Lord Rawdon.” That was all the permission Peggy needed to take her leave. Peggy curtsied once more, perfectly polite, before lifting her skirts up and walking briskly across the lawn.
“Better follow.” Cal directed Clara’s gaze toward the retreating figure of Miss Peggy and Mrs. Quigley, who labored to keep apace.
“Will you not join us?” Clara asked, her gaze darting between the familiar sight of Cal and the large crowd of elegantly dressed revelers down the hill.
“I’ll have to take care of them first.” Caleb cocked his head toward the Shippen horses. “Good luck, Clara Bell.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Don’t let them take your money atcards . . . these Redcoats are good at parting us simple Americans from our purses.”
Clara laughed. “Thanks for the warning, Cal.”
Cal led the carriage toward the stables to water the horses as Clara’s eyes traveled down the lawn toward the tent. A canopy hung against the velvety blue of the early evening sky, and a trellis draped in ivy welcomed the guests inside. Small, circular tables for parties of six were arranged throughout the tent, covered in white damask tablecloths and crystal Champagne flutes. Throughout the tent, arrangements of freshly clipped wildflowers spilled out of vases, their perfume mixing with the fragrances dabbed on women’s wrists to give the air a fresh, springtime aroma. Chandeliers of tiered candles hung overhead, and the light not only danced on the faces of the revelers but on the glasslike surface of the nearby Schuylkill River.
Clara trotted toward the figures of Mrs. Quigley and Miss Peggy and reached them just as they stepped inside the tent. Mrs. Quigley was pulled immediately into the task of fetching Champagne by a servant, and Clara stood alone beside her mistress before the assembly.
“Oh my,” Clara sighed.
“What is it?” Peggy cocked her head toward her maid.
Clara, who had not realized she had uttered her thoughts aloud, stammered, “It’s enchanting, that’s all.” Her eyes traveled to the far corner of the tent, where a string quartet played a languid waltz that could barely be heard over the sounds of laughter, flirtatious compliments, and the occasional bawdy joke.
“Oh, yes of course.” Peggy waved a gloved hand, less interested in the décor and the music; Clara noticed her lady’s eyes darting from face to smiling face, seeking out one smile in particular.
“Hello, Peg.” A man, dressed in a suit of pale robin’s egg blue, waved as he crossed the tent toward Peggy.
“Joseph Stansbury.” Peggy leaned in and kissed the man, who appeared to have spent longer dressing than even Peggy herself. His cheeks were bulbous, cherry-colored orbs stained in blush, below a heavily powdered wig of tight curls. His heeled shoes looked as though they could have been chosen from Peggy’s wardrobe.
“I love this rose shade on you.” Joseph studied Peggy’s dress with interest, speaking in a distinctly British accent.
“Thank you.” Peggy performed a playful twirl. “I like the blue on you, Stansbury.”
“Yes, the blue would complement you nicely, with your eyes,” the man agreed, cupping his chin in his slender fingers, a ring on his middle finger catching a glint of candlelight.
“I’ll have to order a gown in that color. How is your store?” Peggy
“But of course, Lord Rawdon. It would be my honor to be seated beside the host.” Peggy smiled, but turned her attention to the crowd of guests assembling farther down the hill. “Well, Lord Rawdon, I would not wish to monopolize your time. A host is in high demand at his own party.”
“Please, Miss Shippen, the others are gathering under the tent on the lawn. Once my guests have arrived and we are a full company, I will meet you there for cards and Champagne.”
“Thank you, Lord Rawdon.” That was all the permission Peggy needed to take her leave. Peggy curtsied once more, perfectly polite, before lifting her skirts up and walking briskly across the lawn.
“Better follow.” Cal directed Clara’s gaze toward the retreating figure of Miss Peggy and Mrs. Quigley, who labored to keep apace.
“Will you not join us?” Clara asked, her gaze darting between the familiar sight of Cal and the large crowd of elegantly dressed revelers down the hill.
“I’ll have to take care of them first.” Caleb cocked his head toward the Shippen horses. “Good luck, Clara Bell.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Don’t let them take your money atcards . . . these Redcoats are good at parting us simple Americans from our purses.”
Clara laughed. “Thanks for the warning, Cal.”
Cal led the carriage toward the stables to water the horses as Clara’s eyes traveled down the lawn toward the tent. A canopy hung against the velvety blue of the early evening sky, and a trellis draped in ivy welcomed the guests inside. Small, circular tables for parties of six were arranged throughout the tent, covered in white damask tablecloths and crystal Champagne flutes. Throughout the tent, arrangements of freshly clipped wildflowers spilled out of vases, their perfume mixing with the fragrances dabbed on women’s wrists to give the air a fresh, springtime aroma. Chandeliers of tiered candles hung overhead, and the light not only danced on the faces of the revelers but on the glasslike surface of the nearby Schuylkill River.
Clara trotted toward the figures of Mrs. Quigley and Miss Peggy and reached them just as they stepped inside the tent. Mrs. Quigley was pulled immediately into the task of fetching Champagne by a servant, and Clara stood alone beside her mistress before the assembly.
“Oh my,” Clara sighed.
“What is it?” Peggy cocked her head toward her maid.
Clara, who had not realized she had uttered her thoughts aloud, stammered, “It’s enchanting, that’s all.” Her eyes traveled to the far corner of the tent, where a string quartet played a languid waltz that could barely be heard over the sounds of laughter, flirtatious compliments, and the occasional bawdy joke.
“Oh, yes of course.” Peggy waved a gloved hand, less interested in the décor and the music; Clara noticed her lady’s eyes darting from face to smiling face, seeking out one smile in particular.
“Hello, Peg.” A man, dressed in a suit of pale robin’s egg blue, waved as he crossed the tent toward Peggy.
“Joseph Stansbury.” Peggy leaned in and kissed the man, who appeared to have spent longer dressing than even Peggy herself. His cheeks were bulbous, cherry-colored orbs stained in blush, below a heavily powdered wig of tight curls. His heeled shoes looked as though they could have been chosen from Peggy’s wardrobe.
“I love this rose shade on you.” Joseph studied Peggy’s dress with interest, speaking in a distinctly British accent.
“Thank you.” Peggy performed a playful twirl. “I like the blue on you, Stansbury.”
“Yes, the blue would complement you nicely, with your eyes,” the man agreed, cupping his chin in his slender fingers, a ring on his middle finger catching a glint of candlelight.
“I’ll have to order a gown in that color. How is your store?” Peggy
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