The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  The carriage slowed to a halt before the Penn mansion, an old brick home awash in the golden glow of predusk sunlight. Three steps from the street led them to a white door beneath a crisp white pediment, which stood out against the redbrick façade. The music and chatter filling the front hall spilled out through open windows onto the street. “This is nice,” Peggy admitted begrudgingly.

  “See, you’re glad I insisted you come,” Betsy gloated. She herself looked very pretty in a simple gown of light green silk with pink ribbons, and she had confided to Clara that it was Neddy’s favorite dress.

  “I didn’t say that,” Peggy retorted, stepping out of the carriage and taking Caleb’s outstretched hand.

  When it was her turn to be helped down by Cal, Clara extended her hand.

  Was it her imagination, or did he give her hand a gentle squeeze? “Have fun in there,” he whispered. She could never tell if he was teasing her or being earnest.

  The ladies made their way up the front steps and were welcomed into a spacious hall, filled with wigged footmen carrying trays of Champagne and a military band playing upbeat music on the fife and drums.

  “Marching music,” Peggy grumbled, accepting an outstretched glass of Champagne.

  “I’m going to go find Neddy.” Betsy took a glass for herself and left her sister’s side without another look.

  “Peggy Shippen, is it you?” A brunette beauty in a cream-colored gown glided toward them. “Have you finally deemed us worthy to grace us with your presence once more?”

  “Oh, hello, Meg.” Peggy smiled halfheartedly, exchanging kisses on the cheek with a young woman Clara immediately knew to be Meg Chew.

  “I have not seen you in ages, Peggy. I hope you are well?” Meg studied Peggy’s appearance from the top of her hair down to the hem of her gown.

  “Quite.” Peggy took a gulp of Champagne. “And you, Meg?”

  “Oh, I’m just splendid.” Meg Chew tossed her head, sending her flower-trimmed curls bouncing. “It feels good to have an occasion to put on a gown once more, does it not?”

  “Indeed,” Peggy agreed, looking as glum as a weed next to her rival’s splendor. She took another sip and drained her glass.

  “But when was the last time I saw you, Peggy?”

  Peggy shrugged her shoulders, still looking around at her fellow partygoers. Clara guessed that she was seeking some gentleman to deliver her from this exchange. Finding none, Peggy turned to her maid, proffering her empty flute. “Please fetch me more Champagne, Clara.” Clara curtsied and took the glass, seeking out a wigged footman.

  “Oh, I recall it now, the last time I saw you, Peggy, was just before the Meshianza Masque.”

  “Excuse me, some more please.” Clara found a nearby footman. Returning to the ladies’ conversation, she saw that Meg Chew was still chatting gaily.

  “You know, I must tell you, I felt downright awful for attending the Meshianza with Major André in your place.” Meg placed her long fingers on Peggy’s hand. “Peggy, it didn’t feel right. We just had so much fun playing dress-up together, dancing all night, pretending to be Turkish barbarians.” Meg tossed her head back in mock embarrassment. “We were like a couple of wild heathens!”

  “Oh, I know.” Peggy pulled her fan from her purse and waved it a bit too quickly. When she spoke again, her tone was one of forced gaiety. “He was so sad as well. And I just worried that my dress would be too tight on you, given that I’m so much more petite than you are, Meg.”

  Clara was standing there holding out the glass of Champagne, watching Peggy’s face twist into a wicked grin. “But don’t feel too sorry for me, Meg. You see, Johnny rushed to escort you home safely and then he came over to see me.” Leaning close, Peggy whispered, “We had quite the evening, as well.”

  Peggy was exaggerating, Clara knew. She was neglecting to tell Meg that Major André had left in a hurry once the battle had begun, and that she hadn’t heard from him since his departure. But she must have been satisfied by the deflated look on Meg Chew’s face.

  “Oh, good,” Meg said, her lips curling into a forced smile. “And have you heard from Major André since he arrived in New York?”

  Peggy shook her head. “No, he told me he could not write across enemy lines.”

  “I see,” Meg replied. “Well, if I hear from him, I’ll be sure to fill you in on his news. I know you must be very anxious to hear of his well-being just as I am. We were all such dear friends, weren’t we?” Clara marveled at how these women could trade such cutting barbs, all the while maintaining the picture of smiling amity.

  “Thank you, Meg. You are too kind,” Peggy said through clenched teeth. “Oh, Clara, you’re back.” Peggy noticed her maid beside her and reached for the glass of Champagne. After several gulps, Peggy looked once more at Meg. “Excuse me, I think I drank that too quickly. I must go sit.”

  “Oh dear, yes, go rest. And please do take care of yourself. I hate seeing you so . . . well, so much less vibrant than you used to look.” Meg Chew cocked her head, a sympathetic pout puffing out her lower lip.

  “Your concern for me is so touching, Meg.” The ladies curtsied and Peggy turned on her heels, pulling Clara down a hallway. Once they reached the safety of a private library away from the crowds, Peggy slammed the door.

  “The nerve!” Peggy trembled, jerking her head of curls in tight, tense movements. “That imbecilic cow! She thinks Johnny would write her before he’d write me? Why, it was all I could take not to claw that stupid smile right off her face!” Peggy stomped her feet as she approached the mantelpiece. Her hands trembled, and Clara was afraid she might spill her glass of Champagne all over the carpet—or worse, hurl it across the room.

  “Come now, Miss Peggy, you mustn’t let Miss Chew upset you so.” Clara reached forward and removed the glass from Peggy’s hands, placing it on the mantel. “You know that you were the favorite of Major André.”

  “Oh, forget it, Clara. What does it even matter, really?” Peggy collapsed onto the sofa and kicked her feet up, clutching her abdomen where it was held in by the unforgiving corset. “I’m not a fool. I know Johnny is gone.”

  “Oh, miss.” Clara knelt down beside her mistress. Through the door of the library she heard loud clapping, a thunderous cheer, coming from the front hall. Someone had made a roaring entrance into the party. “It may seem that way, but the party out there seems quite gay. Why not at least try to enjoy yourself for a little while?”

  WHEN PEGGY had collected herself and reentered the hall, the large space teemed with women in bell-shaped ball gowns and colonial gentlemen exchanging news about George Washington and the Continental Congress. The women appeared to Clara as familiar faces—the same Tory belles who had mingled so happily with the British officers at Lord Rawdon’s soiree. But the landscape of male faces was entirely new. These men did not wear perfectly powdered wigs, and their jackets were not the bright red of the Crown’s men. These men were scruffier—their suits less tailored, their pants frayed, their faces whiskered. Peggy would not have agreed, but Clara found the informal mood preferable to that of the stilted card party at Lord Rawdon’s.

  At the center of the hall, surrounded by a dozen or so admirers, stood two new faces—late entries to the party. One of them wore a beige silk suit and a fine wig of bright orange curls. His face was made-up like a woman’s, blanched with white powder and bright rouge on his cheekbones. Standing beside him was a broad-chested American officer who had a small crowd in uproarious laughter over something he’d said. Clara studied this second man—his animated gestures, his large, prominent facial features, his unruly tufts of graying brown hair that were barely contained by a ribbon tied at the nape of his neck. While his upper body appeared athletic and robust, he stood in a slightly stooped posture, leaning on a jeweled cane. That man, Clara knew, was the host, the same man who had splashed them with his carriage.

  “Benedict Arnold.” Peggy was watching him as well.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Clara said, no
dding. She scanned the room—there was only one couple in the hall that seemed as unhappy as her mistress. The couple, abstaining from all Champagne or hors d’oeuvres, stood in the corner, muttering only to themselves. The man, with a long, oval face and pale blue eyes, appeared to be about the same age as his host. The lady, a few years older than the Shippen girls and dressed in plain homespun, looked as though she’d just bit into a lemon wedge.

  “Miss Peggy, who are they?” Clara remembered Mrs. Quigley’s instructions that it was rude to point, and instead gestured with a subtle nod of her chin. “That couple in the corner? They seem even more bored than you.”

  Peggy turned her eyes in the direction of Clara’s glance. “Good gracious, they are back? Well, now we know for certain that there will be no fun in Philadelphia all season.”

  “But who are they?” Clara studied the man—tall, thin, serious. He, like the woman who accompanied him, wore the homespun garb that was customary among the patriots.

  “The Reeds. Joseph and Blanche Reed. Blanche Reed once fancied herself to be in the same circle as Betsy, Meg, Christianne, Becky, and me. Can you imagine? Just look at how she dresses.”

  “And her husband?”

  Now Peggy lowered her voice. “Oh, yes. Joseph Reed is fanatical. One of the first to advocate separation from the Crown. Apparently he’s too radical even for that tobacco farmer, George Washington.” Peggy spoke the name with disdain. “Joseph Reed of course fled when the British sacked the city, but I guess he’s come back now, like some buzzard hoping to pick the last morsels of life from the carcass of our precious Philadelphia.”

  “I see,” Clara said. Sensing Peggy’s worsened mood, Clara regretted her question.

  “Hello, Peggy.” They both turned to see a young woman of Peggy’s age approaching. She had a pretty smile, though her shapeless frame was less alluring than Peggy’s or Meg Chew’s.

  “Oh, hello, Christianne.” Peggy turned to the newcomer, a genuine smile lighting her face. Unlike Meg Chew or the Reeds, this was a guest whom Peggy seemed relieved to see. They kissed each other’s cheeks.

  “Lovely party, isn’t it?” Christianne stared at Peggy, admiring her gown.

  “I suppose so,” Peggy answered in a clipped tone.

  “I’m happy to see you.” Christianne studied every inch of Peggy’s appearance—from her dress to her amethyst jewels to her curled hair. “I think you look lovely; I’m not sure why Meg Chew had said that you had given up on society.”

  Peggy frowned. “So she is spreading rumors about me?”

  Christianne threw a guilty look in Meg Chew’s direction before answering Peggy. “She said that you flatly refused to socialize now that André was gone.”

  “She wishes I had given up.” Peggy snapped. “I simply have no appetite for boring parties, not when I’m used to the fun we had with the officers, that’s all.”

  “Did you see that the Reeds are back?”

  “Yes,” Peggy said. “That’s how you know that the fun is gone.”

  “Well, I think that tonight is just lovely.” Christianne looked around the room, her eyes roving in the direction of General Arnold.

  “Perhaps.” Peggy shrugged. “I can’t find Joseph Stansbury. Where is he?”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard?”

  Peggy shook her head.

  “He’s gone to New York on urgent business.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “I’m not sure of what type. All I know is”—Christianne paused, as if to make sure she had Peggy’s full attention when she delivered the last part of her sentence—“is that Major General Arnold told me that he’d sent Stansbury to New York on business.” A self-satisfied pause. “Have you met Major General Arnold and the ambassador yet?”

  “No.” Peggy was fanning herself, already bored with the conversation.

  “Oh! Major General Arnold is such a nice man. Over there.” Christianne nodded toward the two men. “That’s the French ambassador, the finely dressed one with the orange hair. And beside him”—Christianne’s voice was pregnant with admiration now—“that’s Benedict Arnold. The American war hero.”

  “Seems like a vulgar type, no?” Peggy looked at the American officer like she’d look at a plate of day-old food.

  “Oh, not at all. I’ve just met him,” Christianne answered, her cheeks reddening to match her giddy tone. “He’s lovely. So very nice. And humble. To think, he single-handedly turned the tide of the entire war with his bravery at Saratoga.”

  “I’d like to ask him when he will open Philadelphia’s shops again so we can buy fabric,” Peggy grumbled.

  “That’s you, Peggy Shippen, always thinking about your next dress.” Christianne giggled. “If you’d like, I could ask him,” Christianne offered. “He is the one in control of such matters now, after all.”

  Peggy thought about this but did not respond to her friend’s offer.

  “Well, I am going to go back to him. He’s telling the story of his winter siege in Canada. The first time he was shot in the legs. But of course, he was shot again in Saratoga. Can you believe the bravery?” Christianne kissed Peggy once on the cheek and scurried off, weaving her way through the crowd surrounding Benedict Arnold.

  “Ridiculous how they’re fawning all over him like he’s King George the Third,” Peggy mused, glowering at the general and his surrounding admirers.

  “Did you hear what he did when they tried to amputate his wounded leg?”

  “Pointed his gun at the surgeon and told ’em he’d rather die than be without his leg!” Two guests shoved their way past Clara and Peggy in an attempt to get closer to Arnold.

  “Perhaps we should try to meet him?” Clara prodded tentatively.

  “Oh, what for?” Peggy threw another petulant glance toward Arnold. He stood in conversation with Christianne Amile, who had managed to jostle her way back to his side. “Look at Christianne—never managed to get any attention from the British gentlemen, now in a swoon over that American. That just goes to show how inferior their tastes are. I’m surprised they don’t all think Blanche Reed is a beauty.”

  Peggy stood alone, with no suitors and no company but Clara, drinking several more glasses of Champagne in quick succession. Clara knew Peggy clung to her haughtiness as the last line of defense against utter despair. Finally, eager to clear the sour and unattractive smirk from her lady’s face, Clara proposed a new tack. “Well then, let’s at least pay our respects to the French ambassador,” Clara suggested.

  “Oh fine, him I will talk to,” Peggy agreed, draining the remnants of a final glass. “He has at least spent some time in a royal court.” Clara did not respond with the thought that then crossed her mind: that Miss Peggy had not spent any more time in a royal court than the rest of the colonials at the party.

  “Maybe we can ask him why his king would be so foolish as to side with the rebels.” Peggy giggled, her tongue made reckless by Champagne and bitterness. “Fine,” she sighed, her head tilting to one side. “Let us go pay our respects.” She took Clara’s hand and began weaving her way through the thick crowd.

  There was much shoving and elbowing, as people waiting in a line did not appreciate Peggy cutting in front of them.

  “Watch out, Miss Shippen.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Shippen.”

  Irritated guests felt less need to pay homage to this woman now, her status so visibly diminished since the departure of her British admirers.

  “This is ridiculous,” Peggy snapped. “I don’t wait in line to meet people.”

  “Behave, Peg.” Betsy had appeared beside them in the crowd. She looked away from her sister toward the center of the crowd. “Major André is not the l’homme d’honneur in Philadelphia anymore. Benedict Arnold is. From the looks of it, Christianne Amile is his favorite. So the gentlemen will be lining up to dance with her now.” Betsy watched her sister, the hint of a gloating smile spreading across her features.

  “Oh, we’ll see about that,” Peggy an
swered, fixing her gaze on Arnold as the fog of Champagne seemed to lift from her eyes. Clara noticed a look of determination cross her mistress’s face, which she hadn’t seen in weeks. She was not certain to what purpose Peggy had set her mind, but, whatever it was, she knew Peggy would have it.

  AS THE evening grew dark and the hall dimmed into the amber glow of candlelight, the crowds thinned. Guests—glutted on Champagne and rich desserts—sought comfort on the plush couches or departed for more private conversations in a dark study or on a shady garden path. Now only the host remained in the front hall, along with a small cluster of admirers. Around Benedict Arnold stood an aide-de-camp in the Continental uniform, the French ambassador, and Christianne Amile, who still looked on with the same smitten expression.

  “You see the way Christianne looks on like a hopeless puppy? The French ambassador must be so underwhelmed by our society here in the colonies. Perhaps I should give him a little excitement.” Peggy had at last inched herself close to their host, and she now fidgeted with her hair.

  “Hold this, Clara.” Peggy stuffed her fan and her empty glass into her maid’s hand and then glided the remaining distance across the room so that she stood before the major general.

  “Ah.” Benedict Arnold turned from Christianne when he saw Peggy approach, smiling politely as he had with all his guests. “And who do we have here?”

  “Major General Arnold, it is an honor to meet you, sir.” Peggy extended her tiny hand toward her host for a kiss, as she curtsied low. “I’m Margaret Shippen, but you may call me Peggy.”

  “I know who you are, Miss Shippen.” General Arnold took Peggy’s outstretched hand and held it to his lips, staring down at her in her curtsy. “My whole regiment knows who you are.” Christianne looked on as well, the smile slipping from her features.

  Peggy locked her eyes on Arnold, flashing her coquettish grin. “Am I that famous, General?” Peggy rose slowly from her curtsy, cocking her head to the side. It was like observing a flower blooming before her very eyes—Clara was as awestruck as the rest of the captive crowd as Peggy surged back to life under the heady glow of male flattery.