The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  “My darling wife, I can’t leave you when you’re upset like this.” Arnold hovered at the doorway, his brow creased in worry.

  “No, no. You must go. Go now so you’ll be back in time for Christmas. It will be cause to celebrate indeed if you come back with your name cleared and your purse full with the money they owe you.”

  Arnold looked down at his wife, his posture stooping. “Even just to have my name cleared would be a victory, isn’t that right, Peg?”

  Peggy thought about this. “We need the money, Benny.” Peggy clung to his cloak, pulling his hand onto her belly. “So we can finally move. Do it for our son.”

  “I understand. I’ll do what I can.” With his head low, Benedict Arnold walked through the door, out into the blustery winter wind and the waiting court-martial.

  THAT AFTERNOON, Clara showed Joseph Stansbury into the small parlor, where Peggy sat disconsolately before the fire.

  “Is that Peggy Shippen buried under that pile of quilts?” Stansbury marched into the room, his heeled shoes clicking on the wooden floor, causing the loose boards to groan.

  “Stansbury.” Peggy’s face brightened as she said his name. “Just what the doctor ordered to lift my spirits. Oh, don’t you look fine! Of course, you always look fine. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear the same suit twice.”

  “Business is good, madame.” Stansbury doffed his plumed cap and sat down opposite Peggy. He eyed her appearance, taking in her plain calico dress barely visible under a mound of tattered quilts Mrs. Shippen had given them. The British merchant withheld his ordinary compliments to Peggy’s appearance, Clara noticed.

  “You called me Peggy Shippen just now. It’s Peggy Arnold, don’t forget.”

  “Oh! Apologies, old habits persist, Madame Arnold.” The merchant winked.

  “You know my Benny left this afternoon for his trial in New Jersey?” Peggy held her hands before the fire to warm them.

  “Good gracious, what a charade.” Stansbury smoothed a loose wisp of his powdered hair, tucking it neatly back into place.

  “Shall I have Clara bring us tea?” Peggy offered.

  “Tea? Are you the same Peggy Shippen—sorry, Peggy Arnold—I used to know? Let us have wine.” Stansbury chuckled, and snapped his fingers for the maid.

  “Wonderful idea,” Peggy agreed, calling for her maid. “Clara, bring us some wine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Clara curtsied.

  “Oh Stan, if I had known you were coming I would have cleaned myself up. I look a fright.” Peggy brushed her hair off her face. “I just never have any reason to dress, or put on rouge, or style my hair. No one invites me anywhere, at least not while these charges are pending. I heard Meg Chew hosted a soiree last weekend?”

  Stansbury nodded, averting his eyes.

  “She failed to invite me,” Peggy said, her tone sour. “Not that it matters. I’d be mortified to step foot out of doors in my condition anyway . . .” Peggy lifted the quilt to show her growing belly.

  “Nonsense, Peggy, you have the glow of an expectant mother.”

  “None of my old dresses fit me. I have to squeeze myself into this shapeless calico.”

  “Well I think you look as radiant as you ever did at a ball.”

  Peggy’s voice grew wistful. “Remember the balls? Oh, we went to some fun ones, didn’t we?” She leaned in and took her friend’s hand as Clara served them each a glass of wine.

  “To you, my lady.” Stansbury held his glass high.

  “To fun!” Peggy’s eyes twinkled.

  “The two are one and the same.” Stansbury winked.

  “I’m not so fun anymore, I’m afraid.” Peggy shook her head. “No one ever visits. Most days it’s just Benny and me in here. And Clara. And Lord knows, if Papa didn’t pay Clara’s wages, I wouldn’t even be able to afford her.” Peggy took a sip of wine and smacked her lips, savoring the taste.

  “It must be very trying for you, Peggy.” Stansbury shook his head. “A girl like you is meant to be dressed in silk, not calico.”

  “Silk? Ha! I haven’t been allowed to buy anything on credit in six months.”

  “I don’t know how you tolerate it, Peg.”

  “Benny tries to stay optimistic. But with Reed besmirching his name to the papers every day—calling him a cheat, and a thief—my husband gets overcome.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Stansbury replied, looking around the sparsely decorated interior of the small cottage. “It’s drafty in here, isn’t it?”

  “I’m always freezing in here.” Peggy made a face. “I don’t know how I shall survive the winter. Will I die of the cold or the boredom first?”

  “You and your husband should be in the Penn mansion.” Stansbury sipped his wine. “Hosting dinners and dances every night.”

  “Or Mount Pleasant.” Peggy sighed. “But how could we? Not when Congress still owes my husband the thousands that he paid out of his own pocket back in ’seventy-five.”

  “Such ill treatment from his so-called friends. No wonder he is overcome at times.” Stansbury tented his long, thin fingers before his face in thoughtful silence. “You weren’t made to live in a drafty cottage, Peggy Shippen. Too bad our country doesn’t have royalty—then you could just go to Court to pass the winter.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Peggy’s eyes glimmered at the mere thought of it.

  “We used to live like royalty, didn’t we, Peg? Card games at Lord Rawdon’s, dinners and dances every night.”

  “Oh, I think of those days very often, Stansbury. How I used to flit about on the arms of the British officers, sipping Champagne and eating oysters. Dancing until the sun came up.” Peggy stared into the fire, a feeble smile on her face. “And now look at me . . . I’m poor . . . and fat.”

  “You are not fat.” Stansbury tittered. “You are expecting a child.”

  “Remember what my waist was like? Now I would break a corset if I even tried to squeeze into one.” Peggy curled her lips into a pitiful pout. “You know what I do sometimes? When I’m so terribly bored and it’s been day after day of looking out the window at the cold? You know how I keep myself entertained, Stan?”

  Stansbury finished his wine and summoned Clara. The maid refilled his cup. “How? Do tell.”

  “I console myself with the fact that, somewhere in the world, there is still fun like the fun we used to have . . . I imagine what your trips to New York City must be like. I close my eyes and imagine myself there with you, dancing and flirting. Listening to the violins. Do you attend parties with the British officers?”

  “I do. They are crawling all over New York, still as dapper as ever. It’s just like it used to be in Philadelphia. Remember that winter we had? When André and the men were here?”

  “I could never forget it,” Peggy answered, her voice dripping with nostalgia. “New York must be so beautiful in the snow with all of those redcoats at Christmastime. I’d give up an entire year of this life just to have one night there.”

  “It’s too bad I can’t smuggle you with me on my next business trip up there.” Stansbury smirked. “You are far too recognizable to make it across the enemy lines.”

  “Not anymore.” Peggy heaved a sigh. “I bet André would not even know me in this state. But please, Stansbury, do tell me what it’s like up there. Let me pretend I’m there, even just for a minute.”

  “Well”—Stansbury thought—“General Clinton is in charge now. He is a great fan of entertainment. Much more so than Howe was. Clinton wants plays, and Masques, and music recitals constantly.”

  “How marvelous.” Peggy imagined it.

  “So it will be no surprise to hear that André has risen in the ranks and is a well-known favorite of Clinton’s.”

  “No surprise at all.” Peggy nodded, wistful in her remembering. “André could charm the boots off the devil if he wanted to.” Peggy drained her wineglass, snapping her fingers to demand another refill. Clara poured her lady more wine and then chose a perch in the corn
er to take up a pile of Arnold’s clothes. It seemed all his pants and jackets, patched so many times before, needed new mending. The corner was cold, being far from the fireplace. Clara’s fingers felt brittle as she worked, but she knew her mistress would not want her too close when she had a visitor.

  “And he’s charmed his general, that’s for sure,” Stansbury said. “He’s just recently been promoted, in fact.”

  “Oh? And what is André’s new post?”

  “Peggy.” Stansbury paused, his face suddenly serious. “John André is now the chief of British Intelligence.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, John André’s job is to recruit spies,” Stansbury said quietly.

  “Spies?” Peggy’s eyes narrowed. “How very dangerous.”

  “Indeed.” Stansbury nodded.

  “How does he find them?” Peggy asked.

  “He has . . . sources . . . on the colonial side.” The merchant paused, allowing Peggy to take another sip of her wine. “You know Peggy, I’ve been thinking.”

  “A dangerous pursuit. Why would you ever try such a thing?” Peggy giggled, hiccupping.

  “No, I’m serious. You know how much I hate to see you suffering—in this tiny house, with no servants, no new clothing, no fun.”

  “Please, Stansbury, don’t remind me. I’ll cry.”

  “No, I simply mean to say that it’s not right. Not after everything your husband has done. A woman like you should be glistening in jewels rather than shivering in calico. To see Reed slandering you both the way he has—spying on you while you shop and alleging that Arnold burned entire villages in Canada, killing everyone in sight.”

  “It’s preposterous, I know.” Peggy’s volume increased with each sip of wine. “We Arnolds have been robbed of our fortune in this war, and have been called all sorts of names. And these are the men whom our so-called . . . revolution . . . has made into heroes.”

  “Peggy.” Stansbury’s voice was low. “If Washington doesn’t appreciate your husband, there may be others who do.” The windows beside them rattled in their frames, shaking against a violent gust of wind outside.

  “But Stan, Washington is the head of the army. He must be the one to say—”

  “I don’t mean on this side.” Stansbury held his thin hand out, like a seductive invitation to dance. “There is another way.”

  Peggy stared at her friend, her expression passing from confusion to understanding. And then to disbelief.

  “Stan, surely you’re not suggesting—” Peggy shook her head. She threw a glance in the corner toward her maid, but Clara had buried her face in the darning work and appeared not to have overheard.

  “Stan, this is highly dangerous talk. To suggest that Benedict—” Peggy’s voice remained low.

  “I’m not suggesting anything, I’m merely stating a fact. Your husband is in debt and his name has been besmirched by the colonials. The . . . other . . . side might not treat him so roughly. No, they are much more genteel. They appreciate people like you. In fact, they’d likely give you both a hero’s welcome.”

  Peggy cleared her throat, sitting in silence a moment before answering. “Stan, you know my husband; he’s a man of character. He loves this country, he’d never—”

  “Yes, but he’s also a man who loves his wife. And with another mouth to feed soon.” The merchant looked at her belly, causing her to cover it with her hand protectively. “He’d listen to you, Peggy.”

  “Stan, he would never speak to me again if I even breathed a word of this. You can’t be serious.”

  “André is in charge of finding spies. It could be done. And it could be done quickly. Imagine . . . spending next winter in New York.” Stansbury paused, leaning forward. “Or even better, London! Can you even imagine how much fun we’d have together at Christmastime at Court?” The merchant raised his eyebrows.

  “Stansbury!” Peggy looked around the room, as if afraid that they would be heard. Clara, though her heart was hammering against her rib cage, still did not look up from her corner. Peggy, satisfied that her maid either did not hear or could not understand the nature of their discussion, continued in a low voice. “Stan, are you suggesting treachery? We could be hanged just for having this conversation.”

  The china merchant shrugged his shoulders. “Your husband once said there was nothing in the world he wouldn’t do to make you happy, Peggy Shippen. Just . . . think about it, that’s all I’m asking.” Stansbury looked around the room, at the ragged curtains that shivered in the drafty air of the windows, at the threadbare carpet that covered only a fraction of the cold, rough floor planks. He turned back toward Peggy, allowing his eyes to linger on the faded collar of her too-tight dress. Finally he looked into Peggy’s eyes, speaking in a suggestive, haughty tone. “That is, unless you’re happy here.”

  “IF WE’RE to succeed,” Peggy whispered, leaning her forehead against the cold windowpane, her breath clouding the glass as she exhaled, “we can’t have him thinking that he’s betraying his country. No, his character would never abide such a thing. But rather, we must convince him that it is his country that has already betrayed him. If the break has already been made, he commits no wrong.”

  Clara hesitated in the doorway, watching as her mistress spoke to herself, alone in the empty bedroom.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Peggy?” Clara knocked on the wooden door.

  “Oh, Clara.” Peggy turned to face her maid, her large belly protruding out from under the shape of her dressing gown. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “The hot water is ready. Would you still like your bath?” Clara shifted her weight, struggling against the oppressive load of the pails of water.

  “Yes, come in.” Peggy opened the front of her gown and dropped it to the floor, standing before Clara in her brazen nakedness. Clara blushed at the immodesty, even after years with Peggy. “I’m so large I’ll probably float in the water,” Peggy grumbled as she stepped laboriously into the tub. “Hurry up and pour it in. I’m freezing.”

  Clara tipped the first bucket, splashing her mistress with the warm water she’d hauled from the kitchen fire. Then she poured the second bucket, and the third, and the fourth, hurrying up and down the stairs with the heavy loads that gave her an ache in her back.

  “Now bring me my soaps,” Peggy ordered once the tub was full, lapping the water onto her face.

  “Which flavor would you like, miss? Bayberry? Lemon?”

  “Wildflower.” Peggy demanded the one bar that Clara didn’t already have in her hands. Clara found the soap in Peggy’s dresser and slid it into her mistress’s wet hands.

  “Ahhhh, this is nice.” Peggy slipped down into the water, submerging her head under the surface. The room around them filled with the floral fragrance of the steamy tub—the bedroom windows fogged with condensation, and the air filled with the balminess of a Turkish bath. Clara had to admit it was a nice contrast to the rest of the drafty cottage.

  She heard a stirring below, and the voice of Major Franks ordering the horses to halt. When the front door opened downstairs, Barley erupted in excited yelps.

  “Hello? My Peg?” A familiar, thunderous voice rang out from below the floorboards.

  “Benny’s home,” Peggy gasped, sitting upright in the bathtub. “Benny, I’ll be right down,” Peggy yelled. Then, turning to Clara, “No, I’ve got a better idea. Clara, go tell my husband that I’m in the bath and I’m waiting for him.”

  “Will you dress first, my lady?” Clara assumed, fetching the muslin dressing gown off the hook.

  “No. Tell my husband that I would like him to join me in the bath.”

  “In the bath?” Clara did not attempt to mask her embarrassment.

  “That’s what I said, Clara.”

  Clara descended the stairs and entered the drawing room, where she found a red-faced, frozen Arnold poking the fire in a desperate attempt to coax some additional heat from its embers. “General Arnold, welcome home.” Clara curtsied.

/>   “Clara! It’s good to see you.” Arnold smacked his thick hands together and blew on them. His hair, Clara noticed, appeared entirely gray. “Where is the lady of the house?”

  “Mrs. Arnold has asked me to tell you that she is in the bath.” Clara cleared her throat, balling her fists by her side. “And she’d like you to join her.”

  Arnold raised his eyebrows, intrigued by the invitation, only prompting Clara’s blush to turn a deeper shade of purple.

  “Well, I suppose I should obey my wife.” Arnold removed his dirty, snow-covered cloak and tossed it onto the chair. He limped to the stairs and pulled his way up with uncharacteristic agility.

  “Benny, you’re home.” Peggy beamed as her husband entered the steamy room.

  “And what a homecoming.” He clapped his hands at the sight of his wife.

  “My, you look frigid, Benny. Look at the tip of your nose, as red as a cherry,” Peggy said from the bathtub.

  “Look how big you’ve got while I was gone.” Arnold stooped down, kissing his wife first, and then her belly, which protruded above the surface of the sudsy water.

  “Clara?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “General Arnold is frozen from his travels. Fetch us some more hot water and two mugs of hot rum cider.” Peggy turned back to her husband, her voice inviting now, like the balmy tub water. “Benny, why don’t you get out of those weary travel clothes and join me? There’s room for two in here, even if I am as large as a house.”

  “If you say so, my dear.” Arnold kicked his boots off, landing them on the wooden floor with unceremonious thuds.

  Clara knocked at the door, shifting her weight nervously. No response but the sound of Peggy’s giggles from within. Clara knocked again. “I have the fresh bathwater, my lady.”

  “Yes, Clara, come in,” Arnold answered her.