The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  “My lady, Miss Peggy!”

  This time both Peggy and Major André looked up.

  “You’re wanted, my darling.” Major André kissed Peggy’s bare neck, sounding irritated by the distraction.

  “Oh, it’s just my maid,” Peggy answered him. “Clara, go away.” Peggy shooed her maid with her hand and refocused her attention on wrapping her arms around Major André’s waist.

  Clara turned toward the tent, desperate. Fortunately, no one in the tent was looking in their direction; they were too consumed by their Champagne and dancing. But then her situation went from desperate to dire when she spotted the familiar figure of Mrs. Quigley. The housekeeper was standing at the entrance of the tent, scanning the crowd for some sign of Miss Peggy. Just a matter of minutes now before they were discovered, and Clara would be tossed out of the Shippen home before she’d even spent a night there.

  A fresh giggle, followed by a prolonged sigh, told Clara that Miss Peggy had no intention of rebuffing her companion’s roving hands.

  “Mon Dieu, Peggy Shippen,” André spoke in a low, husky voice.

  Clara turned back now toward the couple. “Miss PEGGY! Please!” Clara was astounded that she had found herself in this position.

  “There you are.” A familiar voice. Robert was beside her, carrying two flutes brimming with Champagne. “I’ve brought some refreshments for us. What are you doing down here by the river?”

  “Robert.” Clara felt weak with relief. “Thank goodness you’re back.”

  “Did you miss me?” Robert grinned, his features delighted at her reaction. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.” He was moving toward her. Was Clara imagining it, or did he appear like he might try to kiss her? Were all the men at this party completely mad?

  “Robert, please.” She stepped away from him and shook her head, diverting his attention. “Look, down there!” She pointed at the two figures reclined on the lawn. “My lady and Major André are down there acting very indiscreetly. And Mrs. Quigley is going to see. She will most likely embarrass my mistress and most definitely dismiss me.”

  “Where am I looking?” Robert narrowed his eyes in concentration.

  “There! At Major André and Miss Peggy.” Clara pointed.

  “Oh, I see.” Robert looked from the housekeeper back to the couple down by the river. “Yes, that’s a problem, you’re certainly right about that.” He took a few steps closer to Peggy and the major.

  “Major André.” Robert cupped his hands and called in their direction, his voice much more assertive than Clara’s had been. “Major, the old woman is coming back.” Then, under his breath, “So you might want to remove your hand from under Miss Shippen’s hoopskirt.”

  When Clara saw the two figures separate at that warning, she was so relieved she could have kissed Robert.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she sighed. “Thank you, Robert. Thank you.”

  “Maybe’s it’s not an enviable post you have here after all.” Robert smirked, still standing too close.

  Clara did not have time for this man’s flirtation, but rather kept her eyes pointed on her mistress as Major André wished Peggy good night, whispering some salacious secret into her ear before rising. Peggy stayed on the lawn, adjusting her jewelry, ensuring that her dress was in place and her hair had not gone lopsided, while André rose and strode toward his secretary. “Balmor, let’s go. I’ve had enough of this party.”

  “Well, Miss Clara Bell, it’s been a pleasure. Don’t blame yourself for tonight getting sort of . . . out of hand.” Robert placed his hat on his head. “This Philadelphia society may be genteel, but it’s not tame. In fact, sometimes it makes the French court at Versailles seem like a nunnery in comparison.” Robert tipped his hat once with a small bow, and then he disappeared into the night with his master, who was muttering something about a tavern.

  Silently, Clara approached her mistress. Peggy was looking out over the river, her pale skin glowing in the light of the moon reflected off the water’s calm surface. She stirred when she heard Clara beside her.

  “Oh, Clara,” Peggy spoke calmly, as if she had not just mortified her new maid. “Hello, Clara.” Peggy’s voice was soft, girlish. “Sit beside me.”

  Confounded, Clara obeyed, sitting down slowly on the grass as the river lapped the shore. She was furious with her mistress, having just been forced to witness such a scene of her indiscretion.

  Peggy turned her face so that she was just inches from her maid. Clara observed that the pouf of her hair had deflated, so that the curls now hung around her face. Her eyes were ablaze, her cheeks flushed, giving her a sort of mad, savage look. Clara decided in that moment that she’d never seen anyone more beautiful. “Oh”— Peggy leaned her head slowly on her maid’s shoulder, exhaling a slow, serene sigh. Clara stiffened, but tried not to show how nervous such a gesture made her. “Clara, now you know. I am so in love.”

  II.

  “All is lost.” Peggy repeats the words into the abandoned bedroom, as if through repetition she will find their sense, a meaning. “But I don’t understand.”

  I turn and leave her alone in the bedroom as I make my way down the steps. I find Benedict Arnold in the cramped drawing room with the bewildered messenger.

  “Did they say with whom this spy had conducted his rendezvous? Did this spy, this British fellow, offer up the name of his fellow traitor?” Arnold asks. The messenger, confused, shakes his head.

  “I know nothing of the matter, sir, simply that I was to deliver this letter with haste.”

  “But did you hear anything else, man?” Arnold towers over him. “The letter says the spy was apprehended with secret documents. Documents intended to give over the fort at West Point, and the body of our Commander Washington. Who gave him these documents?” Arnold waves the letter in the messenger’s face, his voice thundering down at the man from the deep recesses of his stocky frame.

  “I do not think they know yet, General Arnold,” the messenger answers, apologetic. But this answer satisfies my master, convinces him that high command has not yet pieced it together. Has not yet discerned his own central role in the plot.

  Perhaps there is still time. Perhaps he can avoid the hangman’s gallows after all. But Washington rides toward him this very instant, expected at the farm for breakfast. Expecting a casual breakfast with Benedict Arnold, one of his favorite generals, and Arnold’s pretty wife. He must be quick. I know what he is wondering: should he take his wife with him or leave her behind? To leave her would be risky for her. And yet Peggy Arnold can take care of herself. She can play the role of siren; laughing, and flirting, and dancing until she’s clouded the judgment of every man in the room.

  No one will suspect a flower of such beautiful bloom to conceal a serpent underneath. She can manage it. She can manage anything.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Delicious Little Heathen”

  May 1778

  Philadelphia, PA

  CLARA WAS summoned to Peggy’s room shortly after breakfast, and she found her mistress buried under a mountain of white silk, hoopskirts, gauze, stockings, and feathers. Clara’s shoulders dropped. She had hoped to dress Miss Peggy quickly so that she might report promptly to Miss Betsy for dressing; she had no interest in setting off another family spat this morning.

  “Oh! There you are!” Peggy, who seemed in no hurry to dress, rose and took her maid by the hand, pulling her down onto the fabric-strewn floor beside her. She was still in her white-linen sleeping shift, her loose hair tumbling around her shoulders. Her face looked fresh and cheerful. “Did you have fun at Lord Rawdon’s?”

  Clara hesitated. Oma had told her to always tell the truth, but she wavered; were maids honest to their ladies, or did they choose the answer that was most polite?

  Peggy didn’t await a reply, but rather retrieved a letter from her pocket and waved it before Clara. “Johnny sent a letter first thing this morning. He said his secretary, Robert Balmor, enjoyed speaking with you.”
r />   “Oh, well, I don’t know about that, Miss Peggy.”

  “Oh, now I believe I see my modest maid blushing,” Peggy teased. “Something is different about you today, Clara.” Peggy studied her maid, her eyes roving freely over Clara’s figure. “You have new clothes.”

  Clara couldn’t help but allow a sheepish smile. That morning during the servants’ breakfast, Mrs. Quigley and Caleb had entered the kitchen with a large pile of women’s clothing.

  “Special delivery for Miss Clara Bell.” Caleb unloaded an armful of fabric onto the table: shifts, wide-sleeved blouses, gowns and petticoats in wool and cotton calico, fichu neckcloths, muslin and lace mobcaps, aprons, and even one formal gown—very basic to be sure—of midnight blue silk. Surely they couldn’t mean that all those clothes were for her—the pile was far too fine and far too plentiful.

  “Mrs. Quigley.” Clara looked to the housekeeper, placing her teacup down so as not to spill a drop near the clothing. “I’d have to work six months without wages in order to pay for half of this.”

  “Nonsense, girl.” Mrs. Quigley poured herself a cup of tea and sat beside Clara. “They were just sitting in the closet collecting dust. All the maids who have passed through here over the years have left clothes behind. Of course, they might not all fit.”

  Just then Clara lifted a petticoat of white and yellow ticking that appeared easily twice her size. “But you’re a seamstress, or so you claim to be. You can alter them.” Mrs. Quigley took a sip of her tea. “Besides, it’ll be good practice, since you’ll be mending the family’s clothing. Miss Betsy’s and Miss Peggy’s especially.”

  “But I can’t keep all of these.” Clara unfolded a calico petticoat with the pattern of small cherry blossoms and examined the fine stitching. “Surely we must donate some of these to the poor?”

  “Clara, you’re as poor as they come.”

  Clara could not help but laugh at the old woman’s candor.

  “Now put that dress down and finish your tea before it gets cold.”

  “Consider it your uniform, Clara.” Mr. Quigley entered the kitchen, looking smart in a black suit of lightweight wool and white knee-high stockings. “During the day you’ll wear just a basic dress and the apron and linen cap. And then at night, you’ll need something respectable to go calling with Miss Shippen.”

  “I was telling my husband how well you held up last night, being thrown into modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah like that.” Mrs. Quigley stared at her new employee appraisingly, betraying what appeared to be grudging admiration. “When I returned from the kitchens and did not see Miss Peggy in the tent, I panicked. Thought maybe she had escaped with that Major André! But then when I found the two of you, simply sitting side by side down on the bank of the river, I was so relieved.” Clara felt a pang of guilt at the praise. If only the old woman had witnessed the preceding scene as Clara had. “She seems to have taken quite a shine to you, Clara.”

  “Now, I don’t know about that, ma’am.” Clara averted her eyes.

  “Well, she didn’t bite your head off on the first night. That’s more than we all expected for you.” The housekeeper chuckled, looking at her husband with a knowing grin.

  “Just keep up the good work, Clara Bell. When Miss Peggy is happy, peace reigns in the Shippen household.” Mr. Quigley poured himself a cup of tea, and the kitchen of servants erupted in good-natured laughter.

  “Clara.” Peggy was now digging through the pile of silk on her bedroom floor. “Do you know about the Meshianza Masque?” Peggy’s eyes roiled with that same intensity that Clara had seen in them last night at her first sighting of John André.

  “No, my lady. What is that?”

  “Read this.” Peggy held out the daily paper, pointing at the front page. “It’s going to be a party, such a grand party, the likes of which Philadelphia has never seen.” Peggy turned her gaze to the article. “Read it aloud, Clara.”

  Clara turned to the journal and began reading: “ ‘The Meshianza is a Masquerade hosted in the honor of General William Howe, who is departing Philadelphia to return to London.’ ”

  “You must have seen the general at Lord Rawdon’s?” Peggy interrupted. “The short little man? I was so irritated when they stopped playing the music because he entered the tent.”

  Clara nodded, reading on at a quick pace; this chore was taking entirely too long. “ ‘General Howe’s men, laboring hard to organize a fête in their leader’s honor, have confiscated the mansion of rebel millionaire Joseph Wharton and intend to transform the space into a Turkish court and harem.’ ”

  “Did you hear that? A Turkish court and harem!” Peggy interrupted, clapping.

  “It sounds like quite the evening.” Clara offered the paper back. “Now, Miss Peggy, shall we get you dressed?”

  “Not yet, read on, it gets even better.”

  “ ‘Howe’s men shall dress to resemble the grand knights of the crusades who defended the Holy Land under King Henry IV. They will be divided into two camps for a jousting tournament, adorned as the Knights of the Blended Rose versus the Knights of the Burning Mountain.’ ”

  Peggy grabbed her wrist. “You’re coming to the part about me!”

  “ ‘Before a jousting tournament begins between the two armies, the knights will pause to receive favors from their ladies—twelve of Philadelphia’s favorite belles, admired not only for their beauty and virtue, but their steadfast affection for the British crown. These lovely maidens will be dressed à la Turque, in full Turkish garb like that which would have been witnessed in the harems of ancient Constantinople.’ ”

  Was Miss Betsy going to come in and find the new maid, who was supposed to be dressing both sisters, sitting on the floor reading the newspaper with Miss Peggy?

  “Why did you stop reading, Clara? Keep going.”

  “ ‘Each maiden will remove favors from her turban, which she shall bestow on her Knight before the joust. Once the tournament is complete, the entire party will retire into the mansion for dinner and dancing. The evening will be concluded with a fireworks display.’ ”

  Clara lowered the paper to the sound of Peggy’s clapping. “This was all Johnny’s idea, having us dress up as the ladies of the Turkish harem while they dress as Knights.”

  Clara wondered if her mistress had bothered to read the article immediately below the piece on the Meshianza Masque; the report outlining how the French had announced their alliance with the American rebel troops, and how, at this very moment, Washington’s Continental Army was nearby, preparing to descend on Philadelphia and drive the British troops north.

  “Guess who my knight is.” Peggy’s blue eyes sparkled. “Guess who has asked to escort me.”

  Clara needed only one guess. “Major John André.”

  “That’s right.” Peggy picked up a strand of gauze and twirled it overhead, as if preparing for her role as a harem dancer. “That should knock the haughty smile right off Meg Chew’s face. Johnny chose me.”

  A knock at the door filled Clara with dread: she must have kept Miss Betsy waiting too long. But she was relieved to see Mrs. Quigley appear. “Miss Peggy, you have visitors. A Mr. Joseph Stansbury and a tailor from the clothing shop Coffin and Anderson.”

  “Send them in.” Peggy rose from the floor.

  “Your dressing gown, ma’am.” Clara stood up and retrieved her lady’s most conservative robe. Then she began to edge toward the door and Miss Betsy’s bedchamber; she certainly wouldn’t be dressing Miss Peggy in front of these two men.

  “No, Clara, you stay with me, wait until you see what they’re bringing.” Peggy tossed the dressing gown onto the bed. “Send them in at once, Mrs. Quigley.” Peggy clapped excitedly, dancing in her flimsy shift.

  “But my lady.” Mrs. Quigley looked as scandalized as Clara felt. “You’re not wearing anything but your nightclothes! Hadn’t you better put on a dress first?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Quigley,” Peggy said, unruffled by the old woman’s modesty, “but
they are coming with my dress. Send them in.”

  The two men entered, carrying with them a splash of color that seemed to brighten the entire room. The china merchant, Joseph Stansbury, paraded in wearing a tightly tailored suit of canary yellow, with an ornamental neckerchief and a chalky white wig. Behind him walked the tailor, his figure slumped under what appeared to be fifty pounds of white and scarlet silk.

  “There it is.” Peggy marveled, outstretching her hand to her friend, the merchant. Clara’s eyes took in the mountain of bright scarlet and cream-colored silk that had been fashioned into this gown.

  “My dear lady.” Stansbury kissed Peggy’s hand solicitously. “Voilà, it’s the gown of the season.”

  “Miss Shippen?” The tailor looked from the calico-clad maid to the nearly nude lady in her shift, apparently unsure of which lady was the intended recipient of the delivery.

  “Me,” Peggy replied. Turning to Stansbury, she grumbled, “Does he really not know my face?” The merchant shrugged.

  The two men, aided by Clara, helped Peggy step into her layers of costume. The dress was of white silk with long sleeves, with a rich scarlet sash tied around the waist to match the color of her knight’s garb.

  When it came time to fit the turban onto her head, they had difficulty, as Peggy was adamant that her blond curls must remain visible. After several attempts, the tailor withdrew in silence to the corner of the bedroom, crossing his arms as if to observe the scuffle from a safe distance. Clara appeased her mistress by tugging loose several ringlets of hair to frame her face. When Peggy was satisfied, she glided to the full mirror, admiring the effects of her costume.

  “I look like quite the Turk, don’t I?” She turned to Stansbury, her face teeming with excitement.

  “I’m not sure there were many Turks with blue eyes and blond hair,” the merchant answered, adjusting one of her feathers. “But you look divine!” He winked, and Peggy erupted in laughter.

  “Divine—or devilish?” Peggy cocked her head, her turban tilting to the side.