The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  “Infamous, I daresay.” Arnold raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Oh,” Peggy gasped, bringing her hand to her cheek in a gesture of exaggerated modesty. “Infamy is not a good thing, I fear.”

  “They say that you had an army of British men at your feet.” Arnold eyed Peggy up and down, as if to size up the woman behind the tales he’d been told.

  “And they say that you had an army of British men on their feet, running in the opposite direction of Saratoga,” Peggy rejoined.

  Arnold and his aide erupted in delighted laughter. While Peggy’s figure seemed to blossom, growing more irresistible under the attention, Clara noticed Christianne Amile’s posture experiencing the opposite effect—the poor girl appeared to be sagging beside the distracted Arnold like a wilting flower.

  “Her wit is as quick as they say it is,” Arnold said to the ambassador and the other gentleman beside him, a dapper, dark-eyed attendant with white powder in his hair. “Miss Shippen, allow me to introduce you to my companion: His Excellency, the French ambassador, le Comte Conrad Alexandre Gérard.”

  “Ah, l’homme d’honneur, the guest of honor.” Peggy curtsied, bowing her head as she offered her hand to the ambassador for a kiss. “Votre Excellence, Your Excellency.” She was delighted, Clara could see, to be playing the coquette once again.

  “Enchanté.” The count flashed a toothy smile at Peggy. “Zee honneur is all mine. And I see zat you speak French, mademoiselle.”

  “Mais bien sûr. But of course, Excellency. All the young ladies who hope to think of themselves as accomplished must speak French. We may not be as impressive as the ladies of your court in Versailles, but I do hope that we don’t disappoint you entirely.”

  “But you do not disappoint in the slightest, mademoiselle.”

  “Is Your Excellency enjoying himself tonight?” Peggy focused on the ambassador as if his response alone was all that interested her.

  “Mademoiselle Shippen, I must admit I have been somewhat homesick for my mother country. But when I gaze on you, your beauty, well, I could be back at Versailles.”

  “The ambassador is much too kind.” Peggy fixed her gaze on Arnold, flashing a beguiling smile. “We all know that the French court is the height of gentility. Nothing like our rough little assembly of colonial patriots. Nevertheless, I am happy to provide some small succor to an ally of our cause.”

  Our cause? Clara was stunned at hearing her mistress bandy such language. And poor Christianne, standing beside Arnold, was completely forgotten.

  A pair of guests now approached to pay their respects one final time before taking their leave. Arnold bid them a quick farewell and then turned back, repositioning himself so that he stood closer to Peggy than the ambassador. “Now, Ambassador, with beauty such as this to protect, do you not agree that you must aid us in our fight, monsieur?” Benedict Arnold had locked his eyes on Peggy and now seemed unwilling to remove them. At this close distance, the vast difference in their age was glaring; to Clara it seemed that Arnold was twice Peggy’s age.

  “Major General, I am overcome by your kindness.” Peggy dropped her eyes to the floor demurely, leaning forward so that Arnold might steal a furtive look down the front of her gown.

  “Miss Shippen, will you allow me to make one more introduction?” Arnold moved closer to her, so that the ambassador and Christianne Amile were now entirely removed from the conversation. Sensing their exclusion, the two of them splintered off into their own, less-than-easy dialogue.

  “Please, sir,” Peggy said in her breathless manner, a performance Clara had only seen used on Major André.

  “Miss Shippen, please meet my aide-de-camp, Major David Franks.”

  “A pleasure, Major Franks.” Peggy extended her hand to the man beside Arnold.

  “The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Shippen,” Major Franks stammered, clearly the latest in the line of men to fall enchanted before her that evening.

  “I hope you’re taking good care of our national hero, Major Franks?” Peggy cocked her head. “He’s a special favorite of General Washington’s. We Philadelphians would not want anything to happen to him while he was here.”

  “I . . . uh . . . well, I try, Miss . . . Miss . . .” Major Franks groped for her name.

  “Shippen.” Peggy obliged him, and Arnold erupted in jocular laughter.

  “Miss Shippen, you must go easy on Major Franks,” General Arnold interjected. “He’s a young man and therefore, I fear, ripe for heartbreak. I am older, more seasoned in the beguiling ways of the fairer sex. I am less at risk against your charms myself.”

  “Well I’ve always loved a challenge.” Peggy flashed a dazzling smile as she inched closer to Arnold, lowering her voice so that it seemed as if she spoke only to him.

  “Ah, the little lady says she is up for a challenge.” General Arnold looked down at Peggy as if he would gobble her up.

  “I am up for the challenge,” Peggy replied with a lopsided grin, and then, leaning in so that just Arnold could hear her, she breathed the words in his ear. “The question is, General Arnold, are you up?”

  THE MOOD in the carriage on the way home was tense, and Betsy seemed to flinch each time the horses dragged them over a deep rut in the cobblestones.

  Finally, Betsy looked across the carriage at her sister and broke the silence, demanding to know why she had waged such a full offensive of charm and attention on a man whom she had earlier declared her sworn enemy. Clara, utterly confounded by her mistress’s behavior, also could not understand what she’d just witnessed.

  “I can’t figure out why you care who I flirt with, Bets, unless you’re worried I’m coming after Neddy.” Peggy spoke calmly, which further inflamed her sister’s irritation.

  “You’d never,” Betsy gasped. “And besides, Neddy would never throw me over. Especially not for you.”

  “Suit yourself,” Peggy said.

  “He would not! You’re not his type. Neddy told me so himself.”

  “I don’t care if I’m Neddy Burd’s type.” Peggy tittered, glancing out the carriage window.

  “It was shameless, Peg, the way you fawned all over General Arnold like that,” Betsy continued. Through the coach opening, Clara saw Caleb laughing to himself—he was far enough removed that he found the Shippen girls endlessly entertaining.

  “And that poor Christianne Amile . . . Such a nice girl, and completely smitten by Arnold, and you waltz right in and elbow her into the corner,” Betsy continued. “I thought she was your friend.”

  All Peggy offered by way of an answer was a giggle.

  “And a man that old! He’s thirty-seven, Peg. You’re only eighteen. Father would never let him court you.”

  “Does Father have a say in what I do?” Peggy asked, unfazed.

  “But you would not want him to court you, would you?” Clara piped up, seeking clarification.

  “Why ever not?” Peggy stared back at her maid, defiant.

  “No, she’d never,” Betsy answered. “You would not, right, Margaret Shippen?”

  Peggy looked derisively at her sister. “Are you trying to sound like Mother?”

  “Peggy, I mean it. You are not actually interested in Benedict Arnold, are you?”

  “Oh, you girls are such simpletons.” Peggy leaned her head back against the carriage and sighed. “Bets, I expect it from the farm girl”—she pointed at Clara—“but you?”

  “Sometimes I really do not understand you, Margaret Shippen.” Betsy looked at her sister disapprovingly.

  “It’s simple enough to understand, even for a pair as naïve as you two,” Peggy spoke clearly, calmly. “If you can’t break the rules, you might as well seduce the man who makes them.”

  IV.

  My lady is wavering between hysteria and spells of eerie quiet. The hysteria I can manage; I’m familiar with her tantrums. At least when she’s in the throes of a fit, she’s screaming exactly what is on her mind. It’s the cool, calculating calm that has always unnerv
ed me more. When she’s like that, no one—not even me—is capable of understanding what is happening behind those icy blue eyes.

  Mistress disappears, grabbing a goose-down pillow and holding it over her face. I hear her muffled screams, which she releases into the feathers, and I’m glad for their quieting influence.

  “My lady, they are approaching.” I watch out the window as they ride up in a storm of churning dust, leather boots, and horse hooves. The dog in the kitchen barks and pushes his way out our front door, sending a few of the approaching horses into skittish whinnies.

  His head stands out from all the rest, even with their identical tricornered hats and matching dark blue officer’s coats. General Washington always stands out, on account of his unusual height. His ease atop the horse is surprising.

  “What a lovely place!” He roars it good-naturedly to his riding companion, the Marquis de Lafayette. “Arnold has arranged for quite the plush perch for himself and Mrs. Arnold.” Washington and his young friend laugh, his laugh a booming, contagious sound that originates from somewhere deep within his barrel of a chest.

  The military party approaches the home as a unit, a herd, their camaraderie evident in the way they banter and jostle with one another, the way they quip like old friends. I suppose that is inevitable after the trials they’ve endured together: victory in battle, defeat in battle, the bone-numbing cold of their winter together at Valley Forge. They’ve been to hell and back, this group, and now all they expect is a nice warm breakfast with a fellow patriot and the charming wife of whom he’s so often boasted.

  “Here we are, men.” Washington steps down from his horse, his height alarming even after the stories I’ve heard about his uncommon stature. He removes his tricornered hat and uses it to point across the river. When he speaks, his men listen with rapt attention. “There stands West Point. The key to the continent. Boys, our future could be made or broken on those granite cliffs.”

  I wonder, as I study his large features—his placid eyes, his wide, honest brow—does Washington know already? Or is there still time?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “The Most Beautiful Little Patriot in All Thirteen Colonies”

  July 1778

  Philadelphia, PA

  CLARA, SIT.”

  “Yes, Miss Peggy.”

  “You seem to enjoy sewing.”

  Clara nodded, lowering herself into the chair opposite her mistress.

  “You are always fixing my gowns, since they are as old as Abraham and Sarah.”

  Clara lowered her eyes, smiling under her mistress’s flattery. “I try, miss.”

  “And you stitch all of my shifts and undergarments.”

  Clara waited to see where her mistress was directing the conversation.

  “How would you like to help me with something very important?”

  “I’d like nothing more than to be helpful.”

  “Good, then you must teach me everything you know about stitching. And you must do so in the next quarter of an hour.”

  It was the morning after the party given by Benedict Arnold for the French ambassador. Clara noticed, with surprise, that her mistress had risen early, attended breakfast with her family, and even spoken kindly to them at the table. After the morning meal, she had requested that Clara bring her a cup of tea, a fresh kerchief, and her stitching frame so that she could do some needlework in the parlor. It was the last thing Clara had expected to hear from her mistress, and for a brief moment she had entertained the foolish thought that her mistress might actually have been interested in a morning of simple, industrious activity.

  “I will try, my lady.” Clara now set down the tray of tea on the table and joined her mistress in the parlor. “I see you have your stitching frame set up. That’s the first step.”

  “Yes, but why must I use this contraption?”

  “To keep the linen taut, my lady.”

  “Very well. I want to sew in little golden stars, and then I want to stitch a motto on this kerchief.” Peggy looked at the blank kerchief. “And I’ll finish with my initials, of course.”

  “All right then. We shall start with the stars. Which color?” Clara held up two spools, one of a dark gold and one of a cheery yellow.

  “Hmm, which one looks more like the color of the stars on the rebel flag?” Peggy eyed her options, brow furrowed.

  “I suggest we select this one.” Clara picked the gold spool, intrigued to find out more about their morning’s task.

  “Fine.” Peggy nodded her agreement. “You thread the needle, Clara. I don’t want to prick my fingers.”

  Clara prepared the needle and handed it to Peggy, a long tail of golden thread dangling behind it. “Now, would you like your embroidery in the corner of your kerchief? Or right in the middle? You must choose your spot.”

  “Right in the middle,” Peggy answered.

  “Then right about here is where you should make your first stitch.” Clara pointed to the center of the kerchief, stretched out over the circular stitching frame.

  “Oh, I feel so clumsy, and my hands will shake and ruin it. Can you do it for me?” Peggy handed the threaded needle to her maid, smiling imploringly.

  “All right then. I’ll do it this time, and you watch so that perhaps you’ll be up for it next time.”

  Clara sewed quickly with expert hands as her mistress hovered, looking on with half interest. Peggy instructed Clara to stitch a miniature constellation of gold stars, just like Betsy Ross had done, offering criticism whenever she didn’t approve of a star’s size or position.

  “Now, below the stars, I want you to stitch a motto,” Peggy directed.

  “What’s that, my lady?”

  “I want you to write: ‘Don’t Tread On Me.’ ”

  Clara looked into Peggy’s face. “Miss, you want me to stitch in the patriots’ motto? The one Mr. Benjamin Franklin came up with?”

  “That’s right.” Peggy stared back at her maid, defiant. “That’s what I said. Do it.”

  “Well . . . all right. If that’s what you say.”

  “It is what I say,” Peggy answered. “And do it quickly, as I’ll need it today.”

  So her lady had gone from Tory to patriot in one day; she must have enjoyed herself at the party last night after all.

  HANNAH HAD not yet started to cook the midday dinner, and Brigitte had barely emptied the chamber pots, before Major General Benedict Arnold knocked on the front door of the Shippen home, asking if he might call on Miss Peggy Shippen.

  “I knew he’d be here before luncheon.” Peggy watched through her bedroom window as his formal carriage rolled to a halt, flanked by a military escort of soldiers atop strong horses. When the coach door opened he limped out, supported by his silver-tipped cane.

  Clara knew from her mistress’s satisfied expression that the day was going according to some precise plan she had laid out, as if they were all mere marionette puppets, playing in a show that they themselves did not know existed.

  “Well?” Peggy turned to her maid. “What are you waiting for? He’s limping his way up the front steps—hadn’t you better go answer the door?”

  “MAJOR GENERAL Benedict Arnold to see you, sir.” Clara found the words surprising, even as she uttered them.

  “Please show him in.” Judge Shippen received the burly American officer in the parlor, his shock at the visit plain on his face. “Major General Benedict Arnold, I am certain that we do not deserve the honor of a visit from our new governor so soon after your arrival to our city. This is too kind of you.”

  “Hullo and good day, Judge.” Benedict Arnold limped his hulking frame into the parlor. Clara recognized the same swarthy dog from the day Arnold’s coach had sped past Peggy.

  Judge Shippen fidgeted with the sleeves of his threadbare coat as he directed his guest. “Welcome, General Arnold, please sit.”

  “Much obliged, Judge Shippen.” Arnold doffed his tricornered cap and took the seat offered him. His frame appeared too hefty for
the finely carved wood beneath it.

  “Thank you for receiving me, Judge.” Benedict Arnold’s voice was a strong baritone, reverberating off the upholstered walls of the Shippen parlor.

  “But of course, General Arnold. And I must offer my sincere regrets on behalf of my wife; Mrs. Shippen suffers from chronic headaches. Perhaps if we had had more notice of your visit, she might have—”

  “Down, Barley, sit!” Arnold bellowed at his dog, the mutt’s tail wagging precariously close to a porcelain vase. “What was that you said, Judge? Oh, no worries about the missus.” Arnold propped his jeweled cane against the chair’s armrest and stretched his wounded left leg out before him. “Feels good to take a load off, eh, Judge?”

  “Indeed, General,” Judge Shippen answered, his lips pressed tightly together.

  “Mind if I smoke in here?” Arnold removed a pipe from the pocket of his military jacket.

  “As you wish, please.” Judge Shippen nodded. “And perhaps something to eat?”

  “I’ll never turn down food, Judge, as you can probably tell from my frame.” Arnold patted his belly with one thick hand as he lit his pipe with the other.

  “Clara?” Judge Shippen summoned the maid into the room. Clara noted the twitch in the judge’s jaw as he told her to bring them a plate of apples, cheese, and nuts.

  “Right away, sir.” Clara curtsied and left the judge coughing in a cloud of Arnold’s smoke. Not only did the judge disapprove of tobacco smoke in his home, he wasn’t particularly fond of receiving visitors, especially those visitors whose political alignments were as clear as the ones held by the city’s new military commander. Nor did he seem enthusiastic about exhausting his limited food stores on superfluous midday visits.