The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  “You want to hold the reins, or shall I?” he whispered into her ear, and a shiver ran along her neck.

  “I can,” she answered, affecting a cool tone that did not at all reflect her inward state.

  “I knew you’d say that.” He clucked and Buckwheat started at a trot.

  “Oh my,” Clara exclaimed, startled. Her weight shifted back toward him as she struggled to regain her balance.

  “It’s not Miss Peggy’s coach, but I hope you’ll manage,” Caleb teased. “Hold on tight, Clara Bell.” Cal dug his boots into the horse’s broad sides and Buckwheat picked up his pace—pulling them forward at an ever-increasing pace.

  “Cal!” Clara squealed in delight. “This is too fast—slow us down!”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He wrapped his arms even tighter around her waist and she surrendered to the rhythmic forward movement of the horse. Effortlessly, their bodies slipped into a perfect harmony, rising and falling with each thunderous step of the hooves. The saddle suddenly felt like it was made for the two of them. She couldn’t help but smile as she felt the wind whipping her hair; she saw the world gliding by beneath them as they galloped north.

  “We’re flying faster than the birds!” Clara lifted her arms and let out a laugh.

  “I think old Buckwheat’s got even more in him. What do you say, Clara Bell?” Cal shouted over the rush of the wind, spurring the horse faster.

  Then they were weightless, and each time Clara let loose a peal of excitement, it only prompted Cal to answer her with a laugh of his own.

  “Did I say we were going several miles? I meant we’re going to Canada,” Caleb shouted over the whir of the wind in their faces.

  “That’s fine with me,” Clara answered him. She could have ridden like this for hours, days even.

  After a journey that felt too short, Caleb slowed the horse. “Whoa, Buck.” He calmed the animal, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on the surface of its backside. “Easy, boy.”

  Clara looked around. They had stopped in a small meadow dotted with wildflowers on the bank of the Hudson. The hill sloped gently to their right, the river’s languid waters flowed to their left. She looked around her and saw no other sign of human life anywhere, just the birds that flitted about in the grass and a family of deer that grazed on the distant hill, unconcerned by the sudden intrusion.

  “Where are we, Cal? This is beautiful,” Clara exclaimed, giving him her hand as he helped her down from the horse.

  “Well, we’re at my home,” Cal answered matter-of-factly.

  “Pardon?” Clara was certain he was teasing her as he always did.

  “This is Little Farm,” he answered her and, for once, there was no humor in his face. “Or at least, it will be. Do you approve?”

  Clara gazed back over the land, the soft slope of green that met the wide river, astonished anew by how beautiful this piece of earth was.

  “This is your home, Cal?” Surely he was teasing her—how could a penniless orphan become owner of such a farm?

  “Will be. When the war’s over. Colonel Israel Putnam is giving out tracts of land to all of us who have served. The new country will need people to farm the land. I picked this one because I liked the view of the river.” Caleb walked forward lazily toward the water. “What do you think?”

  “It’s . . . it’s lovely.” Clara fell into stride beside him.

  “I was planning to build the house right over there”—he pointed to the crest of the gently sloping meadow—“about halfway between the river and the tree line, so the house would be bright and give a great view of sunset.”

  She closed her eyes, imagining the new cottage on the hilltop, Cal tying up his horse outside of it at suppertime. That lucky girl, Sarah Williamson, greeting him on the porch.

  Clara closed her eyes and forced the image from her mind. She had had her chance with him, years ago. She’d squandered it, and so her present unhappiness was her own fault. She wouldn’t be like Peggy, blaming others for her own misfortunes. She wouldn’t hate a girl she’d never met, simply because that girl had been wise enough to accept Cal’s love when it was offered. Regaining her composure, she asked, “And you’ll work the fields?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Hopefully with the help of a few sons some day.”

  Clara lowered her eyes, wishing her heart would slow its pace. Once more, she willed herself not to hate Sarah Williamson. Not to envy her life because it was a life with Cal.

  Cal still looked out over the land. “A place of my own. Not too bad for an orphaned stableboy, eh?” Cal sighed, lowering himself down onto the grass. Clara sat down beside him, and they looked out at the river in silence. A gust of wind stirred up the surface of the water, causing it to ripple like shards of glass.

  “That’s what this new country—this thing called America—is all about, Clara. It’s a nation of people standing up and taking their own destinies in their hands. Saying, ‘I can live my life better than some king can tell me how.’ ”

  Clara thought about this. Caleb had always believed in the country—in America, in George Washington, in freedom. His was a patriotism that did not rise and fall with his own political fortunes; it was not a venture through which to gain fame or glory.

  “You can do the same, Clara.” Caleb nudged her. “You don’t need to waste your life with Peggy Shippen. Aren’t there things you want?”

  I want to live here, with you, she thought, tortured by how immediately these words came to her. Their faces were close now, his honey-colored eyes just inches from her own. She longed to reach out and touch him, to stroke his cheek with her finger; to share a moment of tenderness that matched the warm feelings she felt for him inside. She remembered back to the evenings when he’d lingered in the kitchen, late at night, stealing the only opportunities he could find to be alone with her. How, years ago, it had made her uncomfortable. How young, how stupidly innocent she had been.

  “Well?” He raised his eyebrows, his hazel eyes catching the light of the sun as he looked at her with genuine interest. He was the only person she knew who never made her feel as if she were invisible. The first person who’d ever even suggested that she ought to think about herself. Even Oma, who had clearly loved her and dedicated her years to giving Clara a life—a home, work, food—had always just told her to work hard and be a good servant. And she had been, she had served Peggy obediently every day.

  She had to answer, so she did it with a half-truth. “I suppose I’d want to be my own master. To have my own family, my own home.” Clara looked around. And then, she could not bite her tongue any longer. “I’m certain Sarah Williamson and you will be very happy here.”

  Now it was Cal’s turn to be tongue-tied. “Sarah Williamson?” He repeated the name, confused.

  “Yes.” Clara nodded. “Your aunt told us about your new sweetheart.” She tried to sound light. “We’re all very happy for you, Cal. Even if you have yet to tell me.”

  There, she had done it. He knew that she knew. And she would be all right with it. They would be friends, just as they had always been. Perhaps some day she might even be able to be friends with this Sarah. Perhaps.

  “Clara.” Cal’s voice was thoughtful. “Clara, you are mistaken. Sarah Williamson is not my sweetheart.”

  Her mind careened, and she was grateful to be sitting. “But your aunt told us. She is your friend’s cousin, isn’t she?”

  “She is. And a very nice girl. For a while I thought that, perhaps, there was something there. . . .” His voice trailed off. Clara could not calm her frantic heart, or ignore the hope that had been kindled like a tiny flame within her.

  Now Cal looked at her intently, those hazel eyes holding her in a steady gaze. “Clara, I don’t love Sarah Williamson.”

  “Why not?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Cal laughed, a short sigh of a laugh. And then he raised his eyebrows. “Because she is not you.”

  Clara was so delirious with joy that she susp
ected she might break out into laughter and tears at the same time. Did this mean Cal still loved her? But how could she have gotten so lucky as to have been given a second chance?

  “Clara.” Cal’s voice was soft now. “Surely you must know . . .”

  What she did know was that, if given this second chance, she would not squander it. “Cal, I love you.” She had not expected to feel so light, so free, after finally saying those words. But then, she’d not expected to have the chance to say them, either. She laughed at herself, before continuing. “I’ve loved you for years. I only just realized it, when I thought I had lost you forever. Cal, please know—”

  But before she finished her thought, his lips were on hers, silencing her excuses. Forgiving her for how long she had taken to see what was obvious. There, in the golden light of the midday sun, with the fields and the river as their only witnesses, Cal kissed her. It was only the second time in her nineteen years that she’d ever been kissed, and she felt shy at first. But as his lips touched hers, his hand moved to take hers in his, she softened into his touch. And now she kissed him with a fervor that made up for all the nights she’d imagined being kissed by Cal. It was even better than she had thought possible. It was the truth, what she was meant to be doing. Why had she waited so long to allow him to kiss her?

  When he pulled his lips from hers, Clara had not yet had her fill, and she reached for him again. But he didn’t allow her to kiss him. He raised a finger between their lips, asking: “What took you so long, Clara?”

  Her mind was fuzzy, and she blinked, trying to answer the question. “I’m asking myself the same thing, Cal.”

  He took her fingers and threaded them through his own. “I had pretty much given up on you, Clara.”

  She didn’t respond, but instead put her head on his shoulder.

  Still looking out at the river, he said, “I’m glad that my aunt told you about Sarah Williamson.”

  Clara lifted her head, looking at him. “Cal, that’s not why you wrote to Mrs. Quigley with your news, is it?”

  A smirk tugged on his lips. “I must confess, I was sort of hoping that my aunt would share the news that I’d met a girl. That it might make you a little jealous. Perhaps get you to wake up, at last.”

  Clara smiled, kissing him on the cheek. “I should be mad at you for toying with me that way.”

  “I had grown impatient, Clara Bell.”

  She smiled. She deserved that. Leaning toward his ear, she whispered, “Thank you for waiting for me, Cal.”

  “You were worth it, Clara Bell.” He kissed her again, his hand holding her cheek as he did so.

  They sat beside each other for a long time, silently watching the current of the river as it meandered past. She felt warm from the sun and her love for Cal, so freshly declared. But her joy gave way to a darker, more practical concern. How would they ever be together? With him going back to his camp, and her returning to the Arnolds, a future with Cal seemed far from certain.

  Caleb’s thoughts seemed to have turned down a similar path. “We’re getting close to the end of this war.” Caleb’s posture stiffened. “It won’t be long now. And when it’s over, I want to marry you.”

  Her heart leapt with joy. “Nothing would make me happier, Cal.” She leaned forward to kiss him, but he quickly pulled his head back.

  “But your letters have me very concerned.”

  Grinding her teeth, she thought, Thank you, Miss Peggy, for ruining my engagement. But it was so much bigger than that. The future with Cal, the future of the entire nation, was in peril—she understood the difficulties they faced better than anyone.

  “Clara, it sounds an awful lot like treason, what you’re describing to me.”

  She had been so happy a moment ago, so hopeful for the idea of a life with him. And now her stomach was twisted in knots. “It is,” she said.

  “What is the latest?”

  “They are communicating with André.”

  “I gathered that from your messages. And?”

  “I don’t know what to do, Cal. I see no way of stopping it.”

  Caleb sat in thoughtful silence while Clara told him of all that she knew—of the correspondence the Arnolds had undertaken with Major André, of their efforts to get the assignment at West Point, of their plans to turn over the fort to André and Clinton.

  “Just as Washington is planning to strike New York City too.” Caleb grinded his teeth. “That snake. Sorry, Clara, I know he is still your employer.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve thought far worse about her over the years,” she said.

  “If there was any way to prove that he was planning this, I’d shoot him myself,” Caleb fumed.

  “But that’s the problem, Cal. There’s no way to prove Arnold’s plot. He burns all the letters once he’s read them. And they never use one another’s names. They could always just point to the names and say that clearly the letter wasn’t intended for Arnold, but that he intercepted it to have it investigated.”

  “Yes.” Caleb thought this through, his face pensive.

  “I’ve been agonizing over this,” Clara said.

  “Have they met—Arnold and André?” Caleb asked.

  “Not yet. But André did request a meeting with Arnold.”

  Caleb listened. “That’s interesting. That would mean he’d have to come north to meet with Arnold. That could be our opportunity.”

  “You think so?” Clara considered it.

  “Possibly. But there would have to be proof on André’s person that linked him to Arnold. Or a signed letter. Otherwise he could just say he was traveling on official business on behalf of General Clinton. Crossing enemy lines on official orders is not in and of itself a war crime.”

  Clara thought this over.

  “If André comes north to meet Arnold, tell me.” Caleb looked at her intensely. “All right?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “All right.”

  “Clara, we must stop it. It’s our future together.” He paused, looking out over the river, at the tiny gray speck that stood on the opposite hill, West Point. Lifting his hands, as if to hold all of this land in his arms, Caleb said: “The future of all of this.”

  VIII.

  It is backbreaking work—rowing so hard, so long. His arms burn with the exertion, his brow grows moist with sweat.

  But the other option is to have his neck broken at the gallows. To die a traitor. He would not have that. Not after all that he has sacrificed for this country, not after being insulted, cheated, and lied to. No, if anything, he is the victim of untold treachery.

  Her face haunts him as he rows. The panic, the confusion. How could he have put her in such a dangerous position? How could he have left her to fend for herself among that pack of wolves? It was too much to think about.

  Perhaps he should go back. Turn the boat around. Rescue her.

  But they will have arrived by now. They are most likely stabling their horses at his barn this very moment. Do they know yet? he wonders.

  He keeps his eyes fixed firmly down the river, where he hopes to spot the full sails of the Vulture at any time. They will welcome him aboard as a hero. The hero’s treatment he has so long deserved, so long been denied.

  He feels no remorse for John André; the man chose his own fate. Nor does the fault lie with him that the fool got himself caught. The man always seemed to walk with excessive swagger. And now he may hang. But that matters not. What he cares about is reaching the ship. That, and his wife. He grows sad as he thinks of her as he’d seen her this morning. Sleeping beside him, her blond curls giving her the cherubic appearance he’d always loved.

  “Oh,” he cries out, with nothing but the river to hear his doleful lamentation. Wouldn’t it be better to die beside her than to live without her? Would she ever be reunited with him in this life?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “The Biggest Fish of Them All”

  August 1780

  West Point, New York

  I SAW YOU riding awa
y with that stableboy. The one that always smelled like horse filth.” Peggy was in bed, watching Clara build her evening fire. Clara wanted to take one of the logs she was stacking and hurl it toward the bed. Instead, she bit her tongue and continued to unload the logs over the hearth. Nothing would quench the happy glow inside her, the one that burned ever since Cal’s kiss had touched her lips.

  “Oh my goodness. You . . . you are attracted to him?” Peggy pulled the feather quilt around her shoulders and Clara swore she overheard a titter of mocking laughter.

  Clara’s silence seemed only to propel Peggy to further taunts. “I always just figured he was trying to seduce you and that you, pure little Clara Bell, didn’t understand what was going on. Like when Robert Balmor kissed you so brazenly and you allowed it.”

  Clara’s face burned at the mention of that name—in shame, in embarrassment, in anger. How dare Miss Peggy compare the two?

  “Oh, Clara, best not to get yourself attached.” Peggy spoke with maternal care, a tone that Clara knew to be entirely conjured. “He’s on the wrong side, which means he shall hang before this war is over. And besides, he’s probably in bed with a different tavern wench every night.”

  Arnold opened the door just then, limping in without knocking. “Peggy.” He moved toward the bed in several brisk strides. “André didn’t await a reply. He’s written again.”

  “Oh?” Peggy slid out from under the bedsheet, sitting upright. Clara’s interest too was roused.

  “He wants to meet.” Arnold’s face bore the signs of strain.

  “To meet?” Peggy rose from the bed, walking to the mirror and studying her appearance as if her husband had told her eighteen-year-old self that John André stood outside the bedroom door. She turned from front to back, examining her curvy figure beneath the thin linen shift she wore. Clara knew Peggy well enough to know intuitively what her mistress was thinking: she was wondering if André would find her attractive after all this time.