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for the Shippens.” She introduced herself with the same clipped diction as Oma.
    “Clara Bell,” Clara answered politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Breunig.”
    “It’s Hannah. But I’m sorry to say I don’t think anything’s a pleasure right now, not when this dessert still needs baking. But just stay out of my way and we won’t have a problem.” Hannah turned back to the kitchen and both Clara and Mrs. Quigley followed her.
    “Ah, so this is the young lady who needs the new wardrobe?” Clara turned to see a man with thinning hair the same gray hue as Mrs. Quigley’s.
    “Oh good, you’re here, Arthur.” Mrs. Quigley nodded at the man, who wore a formal white collared shirt with a tailored black jacket, cropped breeches, and buckled shoes. His thinning hair was combed back neatly. Clara noticed the servants in the kitchen stopping their harried work to curtsy as he passed them. “Hello, Clara Bell. My name’s Arthur Quigley. My first claim to notoriety is thatI’m married to Mrs. Quigley. My second title is that I’m the butler and valet for Judge Shippen.”
    “Mr. Quigley, it’s a pleasure.” Clara curtsied.
    “Arthur, I’ve just told Clara that we’ve made arrangements to assist her with the . . . deficiencies . . . of her wardrobe.” Mrs. Quigley addressed her husband formally, though Clara noticed the way her stern eyes had softened.
    “We shall be happy to help.” Mr. Quigley nodded. “Can you cook, Clara? In a pinch?”
    “No, sir. I’m sorry to say I’m not much use with cooking,” Clara answered.
    Mrs. Quigley leaned over the table and handed her husband the tray of neatly arranged wine goblets. “I would think with a grandmother such as yours it’d be the first thing you’d learn.”
    “Quite the opposite, I’m afraid,” Clara answered. “Oma always did all the cooking, never wanted anyone else to ruin her food. I learned all the ladies’ arts. Hair styling, sewing, mending.”
    “Well, Miss Peggy will certainly have you laboring at each of those tasks night and day,” Mr. Quigley answered, taking the wine decanter from his wife. “And have you met Miss Betsy as well?”
    Mrs. Quigley interjected, answering for Clara. “It seems that Miss Peggy required Clara entirely for herself this afternoon.” The housekeeper’s eyes rounded out the message, and Mr. Quigley nodded.
    “I see.” He turned back to Clara. “Best not to get involved in any territorial disputes, Clara. We’ve got enough men fighting a territorial battle across this continent, without starting another war in the Shippen household. You just keep your head down and do as you’re told, and if it gets too out of hand, you come to Mrs. Quigley or myself. Understood?”
    “Understood, sir.” Clara nodded.
    “You shall meet Miss Betsy at supper.” Mr. Quigley fidgeted with the collar of his shirt, as if to render its stiff creases even more crisp.
    “Who is this? There’s a face I don’t recognize.”
    Clara turned in the direction of a new voice in the crowded kitchen and found herself staring into a broad, smiling face. Like her, this man was younger than the other servants in the kitchen, with light brown hair and hazel eyes. He looked familiar. Yes, from his brown wool breeches and loosely fitted linen shirt, Clara could tell this was the guitar-playing groom she’d spotted outside the stables.
    “I think I saw you earlier,” the young man spoke first, grinning at her. “The name’s Little, Caleb Little.”
    “Nice to meet you.” Clara curtsied, lowering her eyes.
    “I saw you looking through the window,” he continued. She felt her cheeks grow warm.
    “And you are?” He raised his eyebrows.
    “Oh, right, I’m Clara Bell. The new lady’s maid for the Miss Shippens.”
    “Ah, Clara Bell, that’s an enviable post you have,” Caleb answered, cracking a lopsided grin. “I’m the stable groom.”
    “And the footman, don’t forget, so wash your hands and get