The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  “ ‘The declaration of Spain in favor of France has given universal joy,’ ” George Washington was quoted as saying in the Pennsylvania Packet. “ ‘The poor Tory droops like a withering flower under a declining sun.’ ”

  And yet, there was one Tory who did not appear to be withering, but rather seemed to be blooming before Clara’s eyes.

  “A splendid day for a picnic.” Peggy looked out her bedroom window as Arnold’s carriage halted on the cobblestone street below. The door opened and Barley the dog hopped out, followed by Arnold’s hulking frame, tenuously supported by his jeweled cane.

  “His leg continues to worsen,” Peggy observed, her shoulders dropping. “He can barely walk.”

  For their picnic, they chose a meadow of sun-warmed grass beneath a willow on the bank of the Schuykill, a half hour’s ride out of the city. Clara stepped out of the carriage, carrying the picnic hamper, and admired the spot. Their view along the river looked directly across at Mount Pleasant, one of Pennsylvania’s largest mansions.

  The mansion had been constructed in the fashionable Georgian style and was made up of white and red brick. Rows of clean windows pierced its façade, including a grand picture window in the middle over the front door. Atop the house was a rooftop balcony, and Clara imagined sitting up there on a pleasant night, looking down on the shimmering surface of the Schuylkill. The leaves on the surrounding trees had just begun to change color, and the tapestry of rich amber, bright yellow, and deep burgundy surrounded the mansion. Somewhere in the distance, a fire warmed a farmer’s cottage, filling the meadow with the welcoming scent of the cozy hearth.

  Arnold had prepared a hamper full of apples, goat’s milk cheese, bread, marmalade, wine, and grapes for the occasion. Clara had slipped into invisibility, as she always did when Arnold and Peggy became consumed with each other. As she spread the blanket out on the grass, her thoughts turned to Cal, and how nice it would be for them to take such a picnic as this one. It wasn’t until she noticed Barley nosing his way into the food hamper that Clara came back to herself.

  “How about some wine, Clara?” Peggy sat on the blanket, adjusting her straw hat to shield her eyes from the sun.

  “To your health, madame. You look fairer today than you’ve ever looked before.” Arnold kissed Peggy’s cheek, clinking her wineglass against his own. Her coral gown was the perfect complement to the shades tinting the leaves on the trees, and her cheeks had a rosy hue from the gentle breeze.

  “Benny, you say that every day.” Peggy took a sip of her wine.

  “Because it’s true, Peg—every day that I see you, you are prettier than the day before.”

  Peggy smiled, feeding herself a slice of apple. “You seem nervous today.” She looked at him, watching him drain a full glass of wine. He gestured toward Clara for a refill.

  “Please don’t drink too much wine, Benny.”

  “Why not?” Arnold asked, his face wounded.

  “Because you’ll fall asleep in the middle of our picnic,” Peggy answered, handing the wine bottle to Clara. “Put that back in the hamper.”

  “Can’t I take a nap beside you?” Arnold asked, frowning as the maid tucked the wine out of sight.

  “No, that’s not fun for me,” Peggy answered, her tone flat. Arnold put his glass down, picking at a piece of bread. They ate in silence for several minutes before Arnold spoke again.

  “I suppose I’m nervous because . . . well, because there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” Arnold looked at the river, at the dog, everywhere but at Peggy. Clara took several steps away from their picnic blanket, a swell of discomfort rising within her as she sensed the serious nature of the conversation.

  “Miss Shippen, I think it’s apparent that I feel a great . . . affection . . . for you. A feeling which, I confess, sometimes I allow myself to indulge in. In my daydreams, sometimes I allow myself to wonder—could a woman of your beauty, your spirit, your kindness, ever feel this way in return for me?”

  Peggy looked him squarely in the face, blinking as she answered, matter-of-factly. “Yes.”

  Arnold was stunned and lost the words with which he had intended to continue. “I . . . I . . . I beg your pardon?”

  “Benedict Arnold, I could be in love with you, yes.” Peggy swatted a fly, her curls bouncing under her bonnet as she ducked her head. “Of course I could be in love with you. But I’m not. At least, not yet.”

  His face did not clearly spell his emotions—was he hopeful? Discouraged? Clara could not tell, most likely because he himself did not know what to make of Peggy’s stony declaration. “These things take time, I realize that. It only makes me appreciate you more, Peg, that you are allowing your feelings to progress in a modest and natural way. It speaks of a genuine attachment, not some passing fancy.”

  “Well, it’s not just that I want to take things slowly,” Peggy answered, her tone dry. She was usually all affection and playfulness with Arnold; right now, Clara noted, she seemed crisper than the autumn air. “There’s something else.”

  “What is it, my love?” He leaned toward her, his face heavy with yearning. “Please just tell me what it is, and I will do it. If you require me to run to the moon to prove my love, it is not a task too large.”

  Peggy arched her eyebrows. “You will not be running anywhere, Benny, we both know that.”

  Arnold stiffened his posture. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do to prove my devotion. And win yours in return.”

  Peggy looked dreamily out over the river. Her reticence only seemed to further agitate her suitor.

  “Well? What is it? In what way am I deficient?” Arnold asked. The skin where his whiskers sprouted from his cheeks flushed a deep red. “I am sure that, whatever it is, a remedy exists.”

  Peggy glanced back to meet Arnold’s eye. “I so love to dance. I can’t imagine myself marrying someone who couldn’t dance with me.”

  Clara felt that the slightest breeze could have knocked her flat on her back. Arnold had just finished professing his ardent devotion to Peggy, and she had answered him by telling him that she loved to dance?

  Clara wished that Cal had been there to witness the scene, for she felt certain that he would never believe her. Here was a man who had spent the past six months courting her mistress—feeding her, spoiling her with gifts, giving her whatever she desired—and Peggy was sitting opposite him, finding fault with the fact that he had been crippled while serving his country?

  Clara was tempted to stare, open-mouthed, just as Arnold was doing, but she concealed her amazement, pretending instead to be distracted with throwing a stick for Barley.

  “Benny, it’s one thing that you’re so much older than me; that fact we cannot change. But to think that you might not be able to keep up with me, not for a lack of energy, but because of your condition.” Peggy jerked her chin down toward Arnold’s left leg, which was extended on the blanket. “I suppose I have always maintained hope, ever since I met you, that perhaps you could grow stronger, and heal. Reteach yourself to walk, my love, and then I would reconsider your offer.”

  For once, Benedict Arnold seemed to see Peggy Shippen’s behavior for what it was, and not through the glossy sheen of love and admiration by which he’d been dazzled. The look on his face shifted, Clara saw. The hopeful and besotted suitor now appeared as a tired old man, stunned and offended.

  “I think the picnic is over,” Arnold answered. And from the silent tension that hung in the carriage throughout the ride back to the Shippen home, Clara deduced that her mistress had finally found the boundary of male indulgence.

  V.

  I hear General Washington and his party arrive at the front.

  “Anyone else fancy a bite to eat?” When Washington speaks to his officers and attendants, it is all casual camaraderie. Yet it is visible in their expressions, their movements, their attentiveness—they revere him as a god among men. As he crosses from the horse post to the house, his party moves with him like a school of fish gui
ded in perfect unison.

  George Washington is as the newspapers say he is: “always the tallest man in his company.” He removes his tricornered hat, yet still he must bend as he passes through the doorway so as to avoid grazing the crown of his head.

  “Mrs. Arnold will be right down,” I say, with a quick curtsy. To my shock, he stares me broadly in the face as he replies: “Thank you, young lady.” He has a deep voice and an open, friendly manner about him that soften the impact made by his imposing figure and his formal military regalia. He is dressed in a uniform coat of a deep navy blue with gold buttons and cuffs. Epaulets of gold satin and fringe rest atop his broad shoulders, enhancing their already wide appearance. Under the military jacket is a snugly tailored vest of white and breeches of nankeen. A light blue sash crosses from his right shoulder to the left side of his waist, and a neckerchief conceals his thick neck. Leather riding boots with spurs climb over thick calves until they reach his knees. He seems to take up half of the space in the drawing room as he looks around approvingly.

  We all hear the footsteps at the same time and turn to see my lady descending the stairs.

  “General Washington!” Her voice is sweetened with the tones of pure delight, as if seeing him is the high point of her year. My lady’s attire is unusually casual, but he does not know this—he probably credits the abnormally warm September weather. She wears a cool dress of white linen with lace detailing at the sleeves and collar. A sash of light blue, stitched with pink and yellow flowers, ties snugly around her waist, showcasing her famous figure. Her blond hair is not piled high on her head, but in a loose chignon bun that rests on the nape of her neck. She looks early-morning fresh, unblemished, excruciatingly beautiful. You’d never know that inside she teems with anxiety and anger.

  “It is the legendary Mrs. Arnold.” Washington and his men bow deeply upon her entrance. She extends her hand for a kiss from the general.

  “I must confess, my lady, my men were worried about being late this morning only because they didn’t want to keep the charming Mrs. Arnold waiting.”

  She laughs, and for the first time I see that her gestures are labored, forced. But Washington suspects nothing; for even now, Mrs. Arnold still shines brighter than most women.

  “I think they are all half in love with you.” Washington offers the compliment with a gallant smile.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s not true.” She clutches her side, takes a moment to collect herself, and then walks toward the dining room. They follow her.

  When she speaks again, her voice is cool, calm. “General Washington, Excellency, I must make apologies for my husband. Major General Arnold is not here this morning because he is preparing a grand reception for you over at West Point.”

  “Is that right? It’s very kind, but surely not necessary. His presence at breakfast would have been all the reception I needed.”

  “Yes, well.” She tries to smile, but her frailty is obvious. At this point, General Washington takes note.

  “My lady, are you well?”

  “Oh.” She manages a smile. “With the little one consuming all of my energy . . . I’m afraid I’m left with very little with which to entertain. It’s nothing—simply what ails all new mothers. I’m quite all right, thank you.” She ushers them toward the dining room table, which is spread with two loaves of bread, slices of ham, bowls of fresh cream, sliced peaches, a pot of tea, and a pitcher of ale.

  They sit at the table, with Washington at one end and my lady at the other. Their chatter is boisterous and merry, with all of them vying for their hostess’s attention. Washington likes to laugh loudly and often, and his aide Alexander Hamilton appears well-practiced in soliciting his general’s merriment.

  As I’m refreshing the men’s ale mugs, a messenger comes in. He wears the same ragged uniform as the man who delivered the fateful message to Arnold hours earlier, as well as the same harried, exhausted expression. My hands begin to tremble, rattling the pitcher of ale.

  “Yes, come in,” my mistress says, her voice smooth like syrup, her face betraying not the slightest concern. “Marquis de Lafayette, more peaches?” She doesn’t look in the direction of the messenger as he hastily hands General Washington the letter. I pour the ale, trying to steady my hands.

  “Where do you come from?” the general asks the messenger.

  “North Castle, sir,” the messenger says. “On an urgent errand from Colonel Jameson, Your Excellency.”

  “What is Jameson up to that can’t wait until I’ve finished tasting Mrs. Arnold’s delectable peaches?” Washington quips good-naturedly, but he opens the envelope.

  It’s the general’s quick gasp that pulls all our eyes to him. The letter quavers like a wind-blown leaf in his hands, and over the letter appears his face, now drained of all color.

  “He has betrayed us. Benedict Arnold has betrayed us.” Washington says it with quiet incredulity. “If not him, then in whom can we trust?” My eyes, like all those in the room, stare into the beautiful face of my mistress.

  I see, as the men do, the panic, the bewilderment and despair of a woman who has just found out that her husband is a traitor. I see all that, but I also see something they do not; I see that the pain she shows is nothing more than a mask. A painfully beautiful mask.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Stuck in the Mud”

  November 1778

  Philadelphia, PA

  I’VE RUINED everything!” Peggy was inconsolable. “I took an incredible risk, saying what I said. I knew it was hazardous . . . that he might take it the wrong way. But I thought his affection for me was strong enough that it would sustain such a blow. Oh, it was so foolish.”

  Peggy cried to Stansbury in the window seat of her home’s front hall, keeping her voice low so that her mother and sister, sitting in the parlor across from them, would not hear. The view onto the busy street only seemed to deepen Peggy’s melancholy, for none of the carriages that passed belonged to Arnold.

  “It’s so unlike you, Peg, to make such a misstep.” Stansbury mirrored her quiet tones as he looked through the window at the cold drizzle. “And you were so close to attaining your prize.”

  Peggy nodded.

  “Why did you offend him like that?” Stansbury asked, taking a cup of tea from Clara. “Bring me some sugar,” he ordered the maid, without glancing in Clara’s direction.

  “Because it’s the truth! I do want him to heal, to reteach himself how to walk. I don’t want to marry a cripple.” Peggy wiped her wet nose on the back of her palm.

  Since the afternoon of their picnic, Arnold had not visited the Shippen home. He had sent no gifts, no letters, no invitations. At first, Peggy comforted herself with the idea that Arnold’s pride had been wounded, but his affections remained as they had been. Days passed, threading together to form weeks. Finally, when the weeks had stretched to a full month’s time, and Arnold’s carriage still had not appeared through the window of her bedroom, Peggy began to lose hope. It was now just under two months until her sister’s wedding, and Peggy was predicting—for the first time in her life—that she herself would end up unwed, an old maid.

  That gray afternoon, a bundled and blanketed Judge Shippen sat in his armchair in the parlor, reading a thick book in determined silence. Beside him sat his wife. Mrs. Shippen and Betsy spent most of their free time stitching, working feverishly on the linens for Betsy’s trousseau that had to be ready for her Christmas wedding. On this chilly day, the only other visitor to appear at the Shippen door was Christianne Amile, who had come over to help Betsy sew. Having received a perfunctory greeting from a still-sulking Peggy, Christianne entered the parlor and took a seat beside Betsy in front of the fire. The afternoon was damp, and the two girls asked Clara to bring them warm cider to keep their fingers nimble as they sewed. The more Betsy and Christianne drank, the bolder they became, exchanging horror stories they’d heard from other women about their wedding nights.

  “My mother tells me that she hid under the bed on h
er wedding night,” Christianne whispered to Betsy, her tongue loosened by several mugs of mulled cider.

  “I cannot blame her, after what I’ve heard about wedding nights,” Betsy replied, giggling.

  “Elizabeth Shippen, mind your manners and remember that you are a lady.” Mrs. Shippen threw a barbed look at her daughter from where she sat, stitching in an armchair.

  “Yes, Mother,” Betsy assented, momentarily halting her giggles.

  “Clara?” Peggy called from her perch in the front hall. Peggy, uninterested in sewing, had sought privacy across the hall with Joseph Stansbury, and she sat there now as the china merchant tried to console her.

  “Yes, Miss Peggy?” Clara paused before them.

  “Have any letters come for me today?”

  “I’m sorry, no, Miss Peggy.”

  Peggy’s shoulders dropped.

  “More cider, please, Clara!” Betsy called from the other room.

  “And where’s my sugar?” Stansbury asked, gesturing toward his waiting teacup, as if sugar were easy to come by these days.

  “Oh, Stan, we don’t have any sugar. Not since Arnold stopped—” but Peggy didn’t finish her thought before she pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window, crying once more.

  “Don’t.” Stansbury put a hand on Peggy’s shoulder. “More cream, then.” He looked at Clara.

  “Right away.” Clara curtsied and excused herself.

  “I think Miss Peggy actually possesses genuine feelings for Benedict Arnold,” Clara said, stepping into the kitchen to refill the family’s mugs of cider. It was warm in there, and Cal was nibbling on a piece of Hannah’s fresh-baked pumpkin bread. Clara longed to take a seat beside him rather than return to the front of the house with its damp drafts and glum faces.

  “Is it possible, Clara Bell? Can she feel real emotions?” Caleb teased her, placing his fork down and refilling the cups Clara handed him.