The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  Clara broke out into fresh sobs. “She was pouring herself more wine and our hands collided on the table and she dropped the carafe.”

  “Oh, there, there.” The woman pulled Clara forward into a gentle, warm hug. “Shhhh.” She ran her hands through Clara’s hair, and for a minute Clara imagined that she was a little girl again and Oma was soothing her in a strong, safe embrace.

  “Well, you just try to stay away from her for a while, if you can. Give her time to collect herself. I imagine she will see the error in her ways.”

  “Mrs. Quigley, I hate her!” Clara confessed, feeling guilty for the words.

  “Hush, Clara, hush. We don’t want anyone hearing that kind of talk. I understand why you feel that way, of course.” The old woman patted her back. “But we must remember our lot in life, Clara. We’re servants. Without them we’d have no roof over our heads. No food. No clothing. Would you want to have to sleep out here on a night like this? With this war going on?”

  Clara bristled from the injustice of it.

  “My dear Clara.” The old woman pulled away from Clara and held her eyes in an encouraging stare. “I was coming over here with something that might lift your spirits. I’ve got a letter for you from Caleb.”

  FOR DAYS Peggy refused to rise from her bed, but stayed sunken in her feather mattress, bed curtains closed, and she complained that she could neither sleep nor eat. Clara kept trays stocked with food by her bedside, but other than that, she gave her mistress a wide berth.

  Peggy’s labor pains came in the middle of the night. At first, Clara had thought she was having a nightmare, given the shrill screams that permeated her dreams on her straw mat. But when she awoke, she saw that Barley had risen from the straw, and Arnold’s panicked face was just inches from hers in the firelit room.

  “Clara, run and fetch Mrs. Shippen now,” Arnold ordered. “Hurry! Mrs. Arnold has broken her water.”

  Clara stood in the corner of the bedroom, staring in horror at a scene very different from what she’d imagined childbirth to be. Now she understand how her own birth had killed her mother all those years ago—it was impossible to see how any woman would survive this ordeal. What would happen to her if Peggy died in childbirth? she wondered. She wiped the thought away, praying for the life of the baby and the mother. All throughout the night, Clara kept a steady supply of clean rags and fresh pots of hot water at the ready while Mrs. Shippen and Hannah led the screaming Peggy through the birth.

  The sound of Arnold’s lopsided limping reverberated on the floors below. He paced from room to room, ale mug in hand, until the sun came up. Before the doctor had time to stir from his bed and arrive at the Arnolds’ cottage, little Edward Shippen Arnold arrived, screaming less than his mother who delivered him.

  “It’s a boy.” Mrs. Shippen handed the tightly bundled baby to Arnold, who entered the room only after he was assured that the labor was over.

  “Good God, there’s blood everywhere.” Arnold stared at his wife on the bed, aghast.

  “It’s nothing but the normal birthing scene.” Hannah shushed him, looking down at the baby. “Congratulations, General. Your son is beautiful.”

  “And . . . and my wife?” Arnold still had not looked at his son, but rather kept his gaze on Peggy, who seemed to have slipped into a fretful sleep.

  “She’ll be fine,” Mrs. Shippen assured him, looking approvingly at her grandson. “She just needs rest. And a bath. Clara, will you strip the sheets and wash them?”

  LITTLE EDDY was a quiet, contented baby. He had his mother’s blue eyes, but they lacked the calculating, restless expression that had seemed to settle permanently behind hers.

  Hannah and Mrs. Quigley began to visit the Arnold cottage often, finding any excuse to stop by and take turns holding Little Eddy. The baby, like the first signs of the spring thaw, promised to breathe new life into the Shippen household, and Clara hoped that her domestic situation might finally begin to improve.

  “Look at these legs.” The housekeeper squeezed Little Eddy’s chubby calves as she lingered in the kitchen after delivering Clara a fresh stack of firewood.

  “You’re so lucky to have a baby in the house, Clara.” Hannah did not peel her eyes from the little boy as she spoke. “It’s so quiet in the Shippen home these days.”

  “It’s anything but quiet here,” Clara said, smiling to herself as she spooned the baby a mouthful of warm milk. Even though Clara was finding her mistress more and more difficult, she couldn’t help but fall in love with the sweet little baby she now had responsibility over—the baby who cooed as she fed him and dressed him. Who perched happily on her hip as she carried out her household tasks.

  March brought with it longer days and the welcome signs of the coming spring—the faint warbles of birdsong; a lone bud poking out from the barren tree boughs; a breeze that felt docile and less like a biting wind. Nevertheless, spring also brought a sour thought: Clara knew that the approaching warmth would mean a resumption of fighting between the colonials and the British, and she hated to think of Caleb stepping out onto the battlefield.

  Clara knew from his letters to her and his aunt that Caleb was still stationed on the Hudson at Fort Verplanck. He wrote her often, and though he never spoke of anything more than friendship, Clara found that he was still the only person in whom she felt comfortable confiding. In her letters she filled page after page discussing her work, her love for Little Eddy, her complaints against her mistress.

  On one account, her situation with the Arnolds had improved that spring: Clara no longer fretted over the Arnolds’ communication with André. Ever since his refusal to name a price or specific reward, the Arnolds had withdrawn their offer. André had not come calling, as they had expected him to. Finally, a man had resisted Peggy’s bait.

  THE VISITOR arrived on a pleasant morning, when the air was gentle and the sun was shining down on a lawn of new grass. Clara sat outside, bouncing Little Eddy on her knees, when a carriage rolled to a halt.

  Joseph Stansbury appeared before her, a bored expression on his face. He ignored the baby on Clara’s lap. “I’m here for General Arnold.” He wore a suit of crimson silk and a pleated linen neckerchief around his collar. His powdered wig sat beneath a matching crimson hat.

  Barley growled at the visitor, and Clara silently agreed with the mutt’s sentiments.

  “Well, are you going to let me in, or not?”

  Clara reluctantly rose and led Stansbury into the house.

  “Yoo-hoo, Peggy?” Stansbury marched into the front of the Arnolds’ home. “Anybody at home?” The merchant made himself comfortable before the fire, removing his cap to reveal a head of tight curls.

  “Oh, Stan, what a delightful surprise.” Peggy hopped down the stairs, looking simple but fresh in a muslin gown of pale pink. She kissed her visitor on the cheek. “Stan, did you see my baby?” Peggy gestured toward her maid, who handed her the plump little bundle. Little Eddy began to cry, his arms reaching back toward Clara.

  “Oh, it’s yours? Goodness, I thought you were letting that maid answer the door with her bastard child on her hip.” Stansbury tossed his head backward and erupted in laughter.

  Peggy slapped the merchant on his shoulder and laughed. “Oh, Joseph Stansbury, you are awful !” She shuffled the baby awkwardly from one hip to the other, causing Little Eddy to cry louder. “No, this is my little Edward. You’ve been in New York for so long, you probably forgot I was expecting.”

  “I had to escape. Philadelphia is bad enough these days, let alone in the winter. New York was so much more fun.” Stansbury stroked the baby’s pudgy hand with a long, impeccably clean finger. “Nice to meet you, Edward.” The baby erupted in fresh wails.

  “Oh, he’s giving me a headache with this howling.” Peggy handed the baby back to the maid and sat. “Clara, get him to quiet down and behave, will you?”

  Peggy turned back to her guest. “Are you hungry, Stan? Clara, bring a bowl of figs. And some almonds. Now, Stan, tell me why
I shouldn’t be mad at you—your spy has flatly refused our offer.”

  “You might feel differently when you see this.” The merchant waved a piece of paper before Peggy. “I’ve carried it from New York, from a certain handsome major.”

  “Johnny?” Peggy ripped the paper from his hands and tore it open with unmasked relish. “I thought he had dropped us.”

  “Au contraire.”

  “It’s short,” she noted.

  “But you will not be disappointed.” The merchant leaned over Peggy’s shoulder and read along with her.

  Circumstances have changed. If you could attain the post at West Point, we would be willing to discuss exact compensation with you.

  Peggy gasped. Just then, Arnold limped into the room. “Benny, he’s come crawling back. André is desperate for our help!”

  “Is that so?” Arnold winced, clutching his left knee. “And what does he ask from us in return?”

  “Something we can deliver,” Peggy said confidently. “You must write to Washington immediately and ask to be made commander of West Point.”

  “WE DO not wish to raise any suspicions,” Arnold mused, propping his chin on his hands.

  “Why would you fear that asking for the post at West Point would raise suspicions?” Peggy sat down to breakfast beside her husband, fresh-faced and chipper. The dining room of their cottage was bright and warm, and it smelled of coffee and toast as she cracked open a soft-boiled egg.

  “Well, look at Washington’s reply to my initial query.” Arnold passed a letter to Peggy, who put her fork down and took it in her hands. “This is his response to my request to be transferred to Charleston.”

  Clara rounded the table, shuffling Little Eddy to one hip as she leaned over and filled each of the Arnolds’ coffee cups.

  “There’s my boy!” Arnold reached up for the baby, taking him onto his lap. The baby went to his father happily. “Aha! Look at how big he’s getting. You’re a strong one, aren’t you, Little Eddy?” The little boy picked up his father’s spoon and began banging it on the table.

  “Quiet.” Peggy snapped, looking up from the letter to her husband.

  “There now, Peg, I want my son at my breakfast table with me. Isn’t a man allowed that?”

  “Benedict,” Peggy softened her tone, “I’m trying to read.”

  “Well, Clara can keep him quiet.” Arnold handed his son back to the maid. “Clara, take my boy in your lap and join us at the table.”

  Both Clara and Peggy turned on Arnold with expressions of disbelief. “Why not? Clara’s practically part of the family anyway. And I want my son here with me. This affects him, after all.”

  And me too, Clara thought, avoiding her mistress’s smoldering eyes as she lowered herself into a chair, Little Eddy on her lap. Arnold leaned over to peruse the letter along with his wife.

  “Ha! Listen to this line by Washington,” Arnold scoffed, “ ‘I refuse to accept the idea that your days of fighting under our flag on the battlefield are over. You are a true hero, a soldier, and a friend of mine.’ So he thinks I’d still fight for him, the fool.”

  “Does he not realize that you are no longer able to fight?” Peggy’s tone went sour.

  Now Arnold became defensive. “Of course I could fight. If I wished to.”

  “But Benny, you just said . . .”

  “I would not fight for Washington, or his rebel cause. But it’s not because I can’t, Peggy.”

  Peggy heaved a sigh. “Benedict, your injuries make it impossible,” she mumbled, dipping a piece of bread in a soppy egg yolk.

  “I could fight, if I wanted to,” Arnold snapped, repeating himself.

  “Very well, then you shall. But for the British.” Peggy rubbed her hands together, dispersing a shower of bread crumbs before her. “Here’s what you must do—you must guilt that tobacco planter into giving you the post at West Point. Tell him you deserve it. Remind him of how much you are owed for your service these years. Say: ‘My wounds make it nearly impossible for me to walk or ride. As my leg disables me from being any use on the battlefield, but my heart refuses to stop serving, I write to ask to be put at the head of an outpost. West Point would be agreeable.’ ”

  Arnold bristled at this. “You would have me plead like a cripple, Peg. Washington knows as well as anyone that I still crave the battlefield.”

  Clara could tell that Peggy was laboring to remain calm and sweet. “Yes, but in order to secure the role as commander at West Point, you must pursue this line of persuasion, my dear husband.”

  Arnold considered this. Finally, he answered. “All right. I’ll write him that.”

  “Meantime, Benny, you’ll write André and tell him that you’ve secured the post as commander of West Point. It’s time we start discussing our . . .”—Peggy leaned forward toward her husband, her lips curling upward—“. . . compensation.”

  IF THEY could secure the post at West Point, they held the trump card. That much Clara knew. The gossip she heard on Market Street, at the baker, in the Shippen kitchen, all led her to believe that both armies were turning their focus from the south onto New York City and the Hudson River. Whoever controlled that waterway had the key to either dividing or uniting the colonies.

  “The British must be sick of sharing the Hudson with the ragtag colonials, no?” Peggy was strolling her father’s gardens with Stansbury on a warm summer afternoon, twirling her parasol as she watched Clara and Little Eddy chase the birds on the lawn. “How is it possible that they both claim the Hudson?”

  Stansbury spoke quietly. “The British control it from New York City up to about thirty miles north. And the colonials have it from West Point up.”

  “If Benny could deliver the fort at West Point, he would deliver the rest of the river?”

  Stansbury nodded. “It would enable England to cut the colonies in half.”

  Peggy looked to her son, momentarily distracted by the sound of his laughter as Clara ran toward a bird, prompting it to fly before them.

  Stansbury was not to be distracted. “André knows this, as does his general, Clinton. They are eager to reach an agreement with you both, madame.”

  “As are we. Benny has written Washington again, insisting that West Point is the only assignment he will accept.”

  “Will Washington oblige?”

  “I think he will. He feels guilty about Benny’s court-martial, and that rude letter he sent as punishment. He’s always had a soft spot for my husband.”

  “And you have always had a soft spot for John André.”

  “Oh, Stan, you’re naughty.” Peggy chuckled.

  “So are you.” The merchant smirked. “So, what are you asking for as recompense, you delicious little spy?”

  “The post of general in the British Army,” Peggy answered boldly. “And twenty thousand pounds.”

  “Ha! Is that all?” Stansbury quipped. “So you’ve upped it from ten to twenty thousand.”

  “Well, we deserve it! Benny would be handing over the critical fort, and with it, thousands of American troops. And to whet André’s appetite and let him know that we mean what we say, he told him a little secret.”

  “Which is?” Stansbury asked.

  “Washington expects a fresh arrival of eight thousand troops for his northern campaigns in New England this summer. The French fleet will arrive off the east coast of Rhode Island by the end of the month.”

  “Well, that should get his attention.” Stansbury hooked his hand under Peggy’s. “I will be amazed, Peggy Shippen, if you pull this off.”

  “What’s stopping me?” Peggy challenged him with a look. “My husband knows how to win on the battlefield. It’s all brute strength and fighting. But spy work is different—it requires poise, and self-control, and grace. It’s like a delicate dance. And if anyone knows how to dance, it’s me.”

  Clara’s face burned as she listened to the two of them burst out into laughter.

  My Good Sir and Lady,

  The General is muc
h obliged to you for the useful intelligence regarding the French fleet and we are assured now, more so than ever, of your ardent desire to assist us in our cause. We are interested in being delivered West Point.

  Mr. Anderson,

  I am leaving for West Point, having secured the post. Now that I understand how crucial it is to my side, I feel compelled to raise my asking price to 20,000 pounds sterling.

  I have a son now, and I must think about my family and my future. After all, the alternative is staying very comfortably on the current side, where I enjoy fame and high repute.

  I will let you decide whether you deem my friendship worth the asking price.

  Write your response to me at the post at West Point, where I am henceforth commander.

  Mr. & Mrs.

  “ALL THREE of you work for me now,” Peggy said coolly, her voice devoid of emotion.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady? Judge Shippen?” Mrs. Quigley stood between her husband and Hannah in the study of the Shippen mansion, looking back and forth from the judge to his daughter.

  “What can you mean, sir?” Mr. Quigley’s posture was erect, formal as always.

  “What we mean,” Judge Shippen began to speak, but his daughter cut him off before he could finish.

  “My father has turned you three over to me. He and Mother shall be moving in with Betsy and Neddy and no longer have need of your services. The Burds have servants at their house. But my husband and I will need you at West Point.”

  “West Point—but isn’t that in New York?” Hannah’s voice betrayed terror. “And what about Brigitte? What’s to become of my sister?”

  “Your sister will move with my parents to Neddy and Betsy’s,” Peggy answered, looking to the door, bored of the conversation.

  “You mean, Judge Shippen, that you are going to dismiss me after all these years and keep Brigitte?” Mr. Quigley looked stung.

  “It’s not that I would not wish to bring you, Quigley. You know how much I’ve valued your service all of these years,” the judge spoke, his voice as flimsy as a reed. “It’s just that . . . it suits our budget better if we keep only one servant.” The judge now avoided looking at any of the servants he addressed. “I would not wish to split you from your wife. And Brigitte has become invaluable in tending to Mrs. Shippen, who, as you know, suffers gravely from her headaches these days.”