The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  It was a staggering sight. Her mistress and Arnold, sitting opposite each other in the crowded, bubbly tub. Peggy, her breasts swollen from the pregnancy, swabbed warm, soapy water on her husband’s scruffy neck and cheeks. He looked terrible—exhausted and cold, and as if he hadn’t had a shave in weeks, but he seemed to be thawing under his wife’s tender ministrations.

  “Now, my darling husband, you must tell me how the court-martial went.”

  Clara poured the first bucket of steaming water over the tub, grateful for the heavy cover of the foamy, wildflower-scented bubbles.

  “Oh, Peggy. My sweet Peggy. It was insufferable. The whole thing.” Arnold waved his hands in defeat, splashing the sudsy water over the surface of the tub. “My leg ached after the journey. And to see Washington’s face, Peggy. He looked at me, limping around, with such pity. It was just mortifying.”

  “So, what did he say?” Peggy picked up a sponge and began scrubbing her husband’s thick arms.

  “Well, first of all, Reed—for all his delaying and posturing, claiming he had damning evidence that would prove my corruption—the fool had absolutely no one to testify. And no proof,” Arnold growled, pulling on the hairs of his beard.

  “As we knew would be the case.” Peggy ran her soapy fingers through the thick graying hairs on her husband’s chest. “So they cleared your name?” She spoke slowly, languidly, as if to calm her husband’s ire.

  “On the contrary, my lady.” Arnold’s fist pounded the water again, this time splashing Clara’s petticoat as she stood there, refilling the tub water. “They threw out all the charges but three. That . . . court”—Arnold could not hide the thick contempt in his voice—“found me guilty of making a personal gain from selling private goods, using the public wagons for my personal use, and . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “And?” Peggy prodded, her jaw clenched tightly.

  “Favoring loyalists.”

  Peggy nodded her head, absentmindedly weaving her finger through a loose curl. After a long pause, she asked, “The penalty?”

  “Negligible. A light reprimand from Washington. But the indignity was enough to cause me to hate Reed and the entire Continental Congress forever; I might as well have been tarred and feathered. And by my own countrymen.”

  “It’s not right.” Peggy looked fixedly toward the steamy windows. “It’s just not right. A reprimand from Washington, ha! You know how I feel about that tobacco planter.”

  “I know, Peg, I know,” Arnold conceded. “But he is still our commander. And if I know Washington, he will refrain from issuing any reprimand. He will state publicly that he has, but he will not. He’s an honorable man, even if no one else is, and he knows that all I have left to me are my character and good name. He did seem to sympathize with me throughout the entirety of the trial.”

  “Well, even so. You might think Washington has honor. But that damned Continental Congress. I’m guessing that they said nothing about reimbursing for you the thousands they still owe you?”

  He looked down, silently shaking his head.

  “How can we go on, then?”

  They sat in brooding silence for several minutes. Eventually, Peggy spoke. “Benny, I know you still feel fidelity to Washington.” She cocked her head. “Because you’re a good and loyal man. But I think Reed and the Pennsylvania Council, along with the whole Continental Congress, are a pack of lying criminals.”

  “You’ll hear no argument from me on that score, Peg.”

  “You know something, Benny?” Peggy took a long sip of rum. “The British have been offering peace since 1778. That’s two years of fighting that we’ve been forced to endure now, patriots being forced to kill their own brothers. And why?” Peggy leaned in, whispering now. “Because the Continental Congress wants to prolong this war. All they care about is making a profit off this war. That is why they are coming after you like this—to distract the public. To make you the enemy, so that no one notices how corrupt they are!”

  Clara bit her tongue at the statement. Never mind the fact that the Continental Congress, far from making a profit, had been driven to near bankruptcy funding the war. But she merely wished to dump in the last pails of water and leave this scene.

  “Peggy.” Arnold looked at his wife, his cheeks rosy now from the warmth of the bath. “I had no idea you were such a little conspirator.”

  “Benny, those are the facts, plain and simple.” Peggy spoke with a carefully spun nonchalance, but Clara detected the intensity lurking beneath her words. Arnold sat opposite Peggy, uttering not a word as he stared at her—at her hair, which was even thicker with curls from the pregnancy, her cheeks flushed from the steam, the ripe and enchanting fullness of her face and figure. Peggy let him gawk, let the silence hang between them, heavy, like the fog of the steamy water.

  After several minutes, Arnold spoke. “You know, I’m starting to believe that you may be right.” Arnold stroked his beard as he thought.

  “I know I’m right. Anyhow”—Peggy sighed, sliding her body through the water to be nearer to her husband—“enough politics. I’m exhausted—it’s tiring being this large with your baby.” She smiled invitingly, caressing her swollen belly. “I think I’ll have one more mug of rum cider and then get in bed, Benny. Will you join me? You must be fatigued from your journey.”

  “I’d love to join you in bed. Though I can’t promise I’ll want to sleep.”

  “Who said anything about sleeping?” Peggy giggled like her eighteen-year-old self, and whatever she did below the surface of the water caused Arnold to simper in boyish delight. He rose from the bath and Clara spun quickly so that she could avert her eyes before the image of her master’s naked body was seared into her mind.

  CLARA MISSED Cal. Where was he on this cold December day? she wondered. Did he have a fire to keep him warm? Did he have shoes, or had they fallen apart during the grueling winter, like the shoes of so many of the other soldiers she’d heard of? She sat at the small table of the Arnolds’ kitchen, alone in the world, with no one in whom she might confide. No creature who cared for her except perhaps Barley, the mutt. The only sound she heard was the crackling of the logs in the fire, the rattling of the windows against the bitter wind, and the giggling of her mistress from where she lay upstairs with Arnold.

  Her mistress had complained of the boredom stretching out across the winter—but her mistress at least had some companionship. Her husband, her friend Stansbury. A baby growing inside of her to prepare for. And, if she chose to, Peggy could cross the garden and go see her parents. All Clara had were the other servants, and she only saw them for a few minutes at a time. And without Cal, it wasn’t the same anyway. But perhaps they would have news from him over in the big house. Clara had an idea and grabbed her cloak. She would use this time while the Arnolds were enclosed in their bedroom to cross the yard to the Shippens’ kitchen.

  “Good afternoon, Hannah.” Clara paused at the doorway, kicking her boots to dislodge the snow that had collected up to her ankles from the short walk. The cook was cutting into a thick side of salted pork, scraping off pieces of bacon for the family’s dinner. The scent made Clara’s mouth water.

  “Ah, Clara Bell.” Hannah looked up as she walked in. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, and a welcome one at that. How are things going over in the Arnold household?”

  “How shall I answer that?” Clara looked out the window through the darkening courtyard toward the little cottage.

  “That good, eh?” Hannah offered her a sympathetic smirk. “There, there, let’s see that smile we all miss so much, Clara.”

  Clara offered the old woman a feeble smile.

  “Come in, stay awhile.” Hannah waved her forward and Clara obeyed.

  “It smells delicious in here, Hannah.” Clara leaned over a cauldron that sat warming over the hearth.

  “Carrot ginger soup,” Hannah said. “You’ll come over and fetch some at dinnertime for your mistress.”

  “Aye.” Clara nodded, eyeing
the warm concoction hungrily.

  “So, she let you out?” Hannah asked, sampling the soup on the tip of the wooden spoon.

  “She’s napping.” Clara slipped her cloak off and hung it on a hook, taking a seat at the table. “May I trouble you for a cup of tea, Hannah?”

  “Certainly, my dear.” Hannah reached for the pot heating over the flames and poured steaming water into a mug. “So, the general is home? I thought I saw the carriage dropping him off.”

  “Indeed, he just returned.”

  “His limp seems to be getting worse by the day.”

  “And the journey to New Jersey for the court-martial didn’t help,” Clara answered.

  Hannah placed the tea before Clara. “How did it go? Was he cleared?”

  “Of all but three charges.” Clara blew on the scalding liquid. “Using the wagons, profiting from the goods, and favoring loyalists.”

  “You mean marrying a loyalist, right?” Hannah winked, slowly stirring the carrot soup. “Clara,” she continued, “I don’t mean to offend your lady, but, if you don’t mind my asking—didn’t he do those things? I heard you telling Caleb about the goods he had back at the Penn mansion.” His name, spoken aloud, pulsed through Clara.

  The old cook continued. “All the goods he’d taken from the shops and then sold through that merchant, Stansbury.”

  Clara cocked her head, focusing her attention on the question. “I think he’s of the mind that the Congress owes him so much money, he is entitled to do a little profiteering on the side. That, and, he’s made the case that it’s what everyone in the army is doing, it’s just that he’s the only one getting punished.”

  “Ha! Everyone in the army doing it? I can guarantee you that General Washington is doing nothing of the sort. Why, he could be spending his winters in mansions or returning to Mount Vernon, but he sleeps out in the snow with his men just like he’s one of them.”

  “Washington seems to be the one man my master still finds to be honorable,” Clara agreed, taking a slow sip of her tea.

  “Oh, Clara, hello.” Mrs. Quigley entered the kitchen, carrying a bundle of papers. “How nice to have a visit from you. We miss you in this kitchen.”

  “I miss you too, more than you can know,” Clara answered, warming her hands on the outside of her mug.

  “It’s so quiet with both you and Cal gone,” Mrs. Quigley said distractedly, riffling through the papers she carried. Clara swallowed hard, lowering her eyes; the mere mention of his name quickened her pulse. She was about to ask Mrs. Quigley if she’d had any word from Cal, when the old woman continued. “When you go back over to the Arnolds’ cottage, remember to take some fresh candles and firewood with you. You must be running low. The judge worries about you all in that drafty little cottage. Every time he sees me he asks me if I’ve made sure his daughter has enough food, firewood, tea, candles.” The housekeeper poured herself a cup of tea.

  “Well, we appreciate Judge Shippen’s generosity, you can be sure of that.” Clara did not want to imagine what the environment in the Arnold home would be like if not for the judge’s generosity in feeding them and keeping them warm this winter.

  “Is General Arnold still not getting wages?” Mrs. Quigley wore a look of concern.

  “No. He got nothing for all the months while we were awaiting the trial, on account of his suspension.” Clara took another sip of her tea, savoring the warmth it kindled in her belly.

  “Oh dear. And with a baby on the way.” Mrs. Quigley sighed. “How is Miss Peggy tolerating it?”

  “She has her good days and her bad days,” Clara answered.

  “Look at you, Clara. You’ve become quite the diplomat!” Hannah laughed, turning to the housekeeper. “I don’t think Mr. Benjamin Franklin could have answered that question with more grace.”

  Clara smiled as she continued. “Miss Peggy will be happier now that her husband is back and the trial is over.”

  “Let’s hope, for your sake, Clara.” Hannah nodded, stirring the soup.

  Clara seized the lull in the conversation. “Mrs. Quigley, I don’t suppose you’ve had any word from Caleb?”

  “As a matter of fact, Clara, I’m happy you stopped in because I’ve just received a letter from my nephew and he asks after you specifically.” Mrs. Quigley began once more to sort the pile of papers with which she’d entered. “Here it is. There’s a parcel in his envelope, sealed, with your name on it.”

  “A letter from Cal?” Clara gripped her mug of tea to prevent her fingers from trembling.

  “Yes, he mentions you several times in the letter to me. You can read it if you like. And here’s the note especially for you.” Mrs. Quigley slid two papers in front of Clara and rose from the table, as if to give her privacy to read them. Clara took the pages in her hands, elated. The first was the letter from Caleb to his aunt.

  My Dear Aunt,

  I write to let you know that I am well. I hope you and the entire household are as well. I’ve been assigned to Fort Verplanck, which is in New York on the Hudson River, approximately 30 miles north of New York City. We are in the southernmost fort of Colonial-occupied New York, while immediately to our south it is British territory. But do not let that give rise to concern—the two sides honor the battle lines with all proper respect and formality, with passes required to cross the lines, etc. etc.

  As winter assignments go, I am one of the lucky ones, given that I am at a fort with a roof over my head and a fire to keep me warm. Washington and his men are down in Morristown, New Jersey, out in the open, so that their fiercest enemy this winter shall not be the one they meet in battle, but the cruel cold.

  I will confess I think about Hannah’s cooking often, and when I sleep, I dream sometimes that I’m back in the Shippens’ kitchen, sitting at a full table of ham and sturgeon, potatoes and mushrooms, tarts and bread and jam. I grow hungry simply by penning this letter.

  Please give my warmest affection to Uncle Quigley and the rest of the household, and especially the horses in the stables. I’ve included a separate note for Clara, which I ask that you give to her.

  I look forward to the day when I shall be able to tell you more about my adventures in person. Until then, imagine me looking sharp and incredibly handsome in the soldier’s uniform—for in your imagination, I can be so!

  With affection, your nephew,

  Caleb Little

  Clara read the letter in its entirety twice, savoring each word and swallowing the admission of just how terribly she missed him. She imagined his smile and his voice. How his words teased her—this letter a mere shadow of the real person with whom she longed to share a conversation. When she had finished the letter, Clara sat in silence, making a plan to read his other letter alone.

  “Keep it.” Mrs. Quigley smiled at her, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Pardon me?” Clara looked up.

  “Keep that letter.”

  “No, I can’t. It’s yours.”

  “Oh, don’t be a pest, child, I’ve read it through a hundred times—keep it. He’d want you to have it.” Mrs. Quigley paused. “My nephew was always so fond of you.”

  “I miss him,” Clara confessed, holding the paper a little tighter in her fingertips.

  “He misses you as well.” The housekeeper sipped her tea.

  “You should write him,” Hannah said.

  Clara looked back at the letter, at Caleb’s handwriting, and she imagined him working on it at night before the fire, up in Fort Verplanck.

  “Of course you should. He would wish to hear from you,” Mrs. Quigley agreed.

  “Do you think that perhaps he might be too busy?” Clara wondered aloud.

  “Not too busy to hear from home and a dear friend,” Mrs. Quigley pressed. “Write him.”

  “All right, then. I will.” Clara nodded, rising from the table.

  “Before you go—there’s a letter for your master in this pile. Where is it?” Mrs. Quigley riffled through her papers. “Ah! Here it is. Military busi
ness, from the looks of it.”

  “Thank you.” Clara smiled at the housekeeper, her spirits lifted by this visit, by the news from Cal. “Thank you.” She left the kitchen, stepping into the cold yard, and loped across the darkening orchard. Tonight, she would sit down and write to him. She had so much news for him. But first, she longed to hear what he had to say to her.

  In the warmth and brightness of the Arnolds’ empty kitchen, Clara opened Cal’s second, private letter. The trembling of her fingers made it tedious to unfold the note.

  His handwriting and manner of greeting were familiar, a salve to Clara’s nerves.

  Clara Bell,

  A previous letter to my aunt contains many more details about my assignment, my daily life, and the rest of that news. But I needed a word with you in private, Clara Bell. Perhaps the war has made this soldier sentimental. Or perhaps having some distance and some space has allowed me to see things more clearly. Regardless, I’ve had a heavy heart since the day I left, knowing that you and I did not have the chance to bid one another a proper farewell. Yes, we said our goodbyes, but in a room crowded with our fellow servants. In any event, I’d like you to know that I think of you often, and I hold you to be one of my best friends in this world.

  Heavens, that seems as if that were in another life, that day when I bid you farewell. How much has changed for me since then! The journey north, the assignment to my fort, the introduction to my fellow soldiers and patriots. Joining up was the best decision I could have made.

  One of my fellow soldiers, a fellow by the name of John Williamson, has family in these parts. Next chance we have for furlough, we will travel to meet his cousins and uncle. I look forward to a home-cooked meal, though I’m certain the supper will be lacking when compared with Hannah’s food. Did we not enjoy ourselves in the Shippen kitchen?

  I hope you are well, Clara Bell, and I would welcome the chance to hear from you. I’d write more, but my candle wick is about to expire.

  Your faithful friend,

  Cal

  Her hands trembled, forcing Clara to place the letter down on the table. As she read and reread his words, she saw him: blond hair, long and shaggy. His face soft with whiskers, lit up by the campfire as he sat, strumming on his guitar, pausing from his music to crack some joke. Perhaps even chewing on a piece of straw as he did. Taking her head in her hands, Clara wept.