The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  How she missed him! Cal, the boy who had once sat beside her at every meal, was now a world away. He wrote of his fort in New York, but to Clara, it might as well have been England, it seemed so impossibly distant. And he was living a life about which she knew nothing. Yes, he still cared for her, of that she was certain. But nowhere in either letter did Cal speak of an emotion stronger than a deep friendship. The realization that she had missed her chance filled her with a regret so deep that she could have drowned in it. For how long she sobbed, she did not know. The fire had expired and the kitchen was dark, and she was certain that her face was patchy with tears when she heard the summons.

  “Clara!”

  Clara’s shoulders dropped. She folded Cal’s letter and tucked it alongside the other two in the folds of her petticoat.

  “Clara!” Peggy had risen from her nap and seemed to be in the parlor. “Clara? Come at once!” Peggy’s voice carried irritation, and Clara reluctantly rose from the kitchen table.

  “Here I am, my lady.” Clara hurried into the parlor.

  “Clara, there you are. I had worried you’d gone deaf.” Peggy sat, rubbing her bulging belly. “Where were you? There’s a draft in here.”

  “I’ve just come in from the big house, Miss Peggy.”

  “Why did you go there?” Peggy looked at her maid, fresh-faced from her nap.

  “To see whether there was mail for you and General Arnold,” Clara lied.

  “Oh, and was there?”

  “Yes, in fact, there is a letter for the general.” Clara slipped her hand into her skirt pocket and retrieved the letter Mrs. Quigley had given her.

  “Good.” Peggy took the letter. “Now light this fire; you’ve let out all the warm air on your walk outside.”

  “Yes, madame,” Clara answered, but she was alarmed by how Peggy’s face became pinched when she looked at the envelope in her hands. “Mrs. Arnold, is everything quite all right?” Clara asked.

  “A letter from Washington.” Peggy looked up, waving the letter. “It’s from Washington! Benny! Oh, Clara, go wake my husband. Benny, wake up, come downstairs!”

  Arnold rushed from bed and pulled himself down the stairs, tucking his linen shirt into his breeches as he entered the parlor. “Give it here.” Arnold waved his wife toward him and propped himself up on the chair. The dog settled in at his feet. Arnold opened the letter.

  With trembling hands, he held the note and read aloud. Clara, lighting the hearth before them, could not help but overhear its contents.

  My dear friend, General Benedict Arnold: I would be much happier in an occasion of bestowing commendations on an officer who rendered such distinguished services to his country as Major General Arnold.

  “As he ought to,” Peggy snarled, interrupting.

  “Quiet!” Arnold showed rare frustration, and read on.

  But, in the present case, a sense of duty and a regard for candor oblige me to declare that I consider some of this conduct imprudent and improper.

  Arnold read on with trembling hands as Washington commended the court for finding corruption and correcting it speedily during the recent trial.

  Even the shadow of a fault tarnishes the luster of our finest achievements. I reprimand you for having forgotten that, in proportion as you have rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you should have been guarded and temperate in your deportment toward your fellow citizens.

  Washington concluded this censure by sending his personal regards to the Arnolds. “Well, we do not return the warm feelings.” Peggy spat.

  Arnold summarized the remaining sentences: “And he expresses his hope that both I and the Pennsylvania Council will move forward without hard feelings. But, how is that even possible? And why doesn’t he chastise Reed for his nastiness in the affair?”

  “What is this? It looks like there is something more, at the bottom.” Peggy pointed and Arnold looked down at the paper.

  At the end of the letter, Washington had scrawled a postscript.

  Postscript: Let General Arnold be made aware of the fact that I’ve sent a copy of this letter to the Continental Congress for their records as well, so that they may be assured that the punishment decided upon by the court was fully meted out.

  Arnold lifted his eyes from the letter, staring blankly into the room as if he saw nothing before him.

  “He hasn’t. He couldn’t have . . .” Arnold stammered, hopeless. “The Congress will no doubt leak this letter, and news of my shame, to the papers.” His face had drained of blood, his skin now paler than his white linen shirt.

  “Ha! He is obligated by a sense of ‘duty’? Does he even know what the word means?” Peggy’s voice was thick with indignation. “It’s an affront to your honor! After you’ve sacrificed so much. Here we are, living like servants. And with a child on the way.”

  Peggy looked to her husband, her eyes wild. But his silence only seemed to spur her to further outrage. “You know what I think? I think Washington is an impotent leader, just like he is an impotent husband! He’s been married to that hag Martha for how long? Ten years? And yet they have no children!”

  Peggy railed like a fury, pacing back and forth, while Arnold stood in a stunned silence.

  “And he allows Martha’s brats from her first marriage to keep the Custis name while they are living in his house. He’s impotent! Weak! If he had any vigor, he’d order Congress to pay you back!”

  Peggy stared at her husband, burning him with her gaze. “Well?” she shrieked. “What do you have to say, Benedict Arnold?”

  If Peggy was growing louder with her frustration, Arnold had retreated into a still, stony silence. Finally, he spoke. “It would appear that no honor or loyalty remain, either in Congress or among the leaders of my beloved army.”

  “That’s precisely what I have been telling you.” Peggy fumed.

  “Then, what is left for me? I wish they had simply ordered my execution, rather than have me live like this, with a blackened name. I cannot go back to an army that has labeled me corrupt.”

  “Nor should you,” Peggy agreed, indignant.

  “Then there’s nothing left for me.” Arnold practically collapsed into the armchair, stretching his injured leg out before him.

  “There is another way . . .” Peggy glided toward him, balancing on the arm of his chair. “A way back to honor, and fame . . . and fortune.” She ran her fingers through his hair. He looked up at her, questioning her with his expression.

  “There is an army left in this world that still venerates honor. Still loves this land and the people of this land. And they would welcome you into the fold with open arms, rather than insult you.”

  Arnold’s body moved back, away from his wife. “You cannot mean I should defect . . .”

  “Benny.” Peggy took her husband’s hand in her own. “That is precisely what I mean.”

  In a harried whisper, almost as if he were afraid, Arnold leaned toward his wife. “Peggy, I will not hear this. And I’ll ask that you never raise such a preposterous suggestion ever again!”

  But Peggy’s voice was perfectly calm, even soothing. “My darling, Benny. You haven’t even heard what I have to say yet.”

  “B-but . . .” Arnold stammered, “but . . . it could never be done. We’d be hanged as traitors.”

  “What if I told you I could arrange it all?” Peggy spoke confidently, quietly.

  “I’d say that you had gone mad. And I’d beseech you not to hazard our lives and the life of our child, Peggy.”

  “You think I’d risk my child’s life?” Peggy pulled Arnold’s hand onto her belly. “No, I wouldn’t risk my child’s life. After all, it is for my child that I’d even consider such an option.”

  “Peggy!” Arnold’s hand recoiled from her belly, as if it were hot to the touch. “My darling wife.” He paused, and Clara yearned for him to quiet her, to stop Peggy Shippen’s scheming once and for all. Arnold studied his wife curiously, as if realizing in that moment that he’d never actually unde
rstood her true nature. Both Clara and Peggy held their breaths as they awaited his judgment.

  And then, finally, Arnold spoke.

  “Tell me more.”

  “I’VE THOUGHT it all through.” The two aspiring traitors sat in their dark dining room, the light of a lone candle dancing off their faces as they ate the carrot soup and bacon provided by Peggy’s father.

  “Stansbury told me that a certain Major John André, with whom I used to be, er, friends, is now the chief of British intelligence. He enjoys a special closeness with General Clinton in New York City.” Peggy refilled her husband’s ale mug.

  “Yes, I know of Clinton. And I’ve heard of André,” Arnold said, scooping himself spoonful after spoonful of soup.

  “Well, Stansbury sees Johnny, I mean Major André, all the time in New York. And Stansbury can be trusted.”

  “Yes, but can André be trusted?” Arnold took a gulp of his ale. “Who’s to say he will protect our confidence if we approach him?”

  Peggy paused for effect. A knowing grin took hold of her face, her features aglow in the dim candlelight as she slipped backward into some distant memory from an evening long past. “André knows me. He’d never betray his old friend Peggy Shippen.”

  It was decided on New Year’s Eve. Arnold and Peggy ignored the noise outside Independence Hall, choosing instead to sit together by their fire to plot. Clara, ordered to stay indoors and tend to her pregnant mistress, strained her ears to hear the celebrations in the streets. She longed to hear the cheering of Mr. and Mrs. Quigley and Hannah, who had joined the revelry beneath the church tower. How much had changed in a year, she thought, remembering back to the night when she’d heard the “Liberty Song” and the ebullient wishes for victory. When Cal had told her he’d be enlisting. When Peggy had announced her engagement, then just a happy, hopeful bride with a doting groom. Clara willed her ears to hear, hoping at least to make out the cheers of all those strangers, their merry voices mingling with the church bells. But Clara heard nothing. Nothing but the low, determined voices of the two conspirators for whom she worked.

  “That is the best way.” Arnold agreed with his wife’s suggestion that Stansbury could carry the note to André for them—if he agreed to the task.

  “I’ll ask him,” Peggy answered her husband. “He won’t disappoint us.”

  “I MUST look very fine today for my visit with Stansbury.” Peggy found Clara in the kitchen on New Year’s Day. The maid looked longingly at her warm bread, spread with the rare scrape of butter and a drizzle of honey in honor of the holiday. She had not yet had a chance to eat.

  “Well? Come on,” Peggy beckoned her maid, taking the piece of bread for herself and nibbling while she walked. “You must help me dress.” Peggy trotted off toward the stairwell, her hungry maid following behind her.

  Peggy selected a gown of rich purple velvet, which she wore without stays, and a matching cap trimmed with long black feathers. Her reflection took up more space in the mirror than it once had, but, Clara decided, her face still dazzled when she smiled, her curls still bounced when she cocked her head.

  “How do I look? Can I still pass for someone who used to be the most popular belle in Philadelphia?” Peggy adjusted her cap.

  “Of course, my lady,” Clara answered dutifully.

  “Thank goodness I still have you to help me.” Peggy reached forward and took her maid’s hand in her own soft white palm. “Now Clara, you shall be my special helper today.”

  This pronouncement kindled trepidation within Clara.

  “You must go into town and pay a call to Stansbury.” Peggy pulled on her cuffed sleeves so that they fanned out to their full width around her elbows. “The store won’t be open on account of the holiday, but he’ll be in his apartment above. He’ll probably still be sleeping off his New Year’s Eve wine, if I had to guess.”

  “I am to pay a visit to him?” Clara asked, confused.

  “Yes, you,” Peggy answered flatly. Clara knew precisely why her mistress wished to visit with the china merchant; she wanted to enlist him in her treachery. But how did she, Clara, fit in?

  “But . . .” Clara knew better than to argue, but she was too confounded. “But, miss, I thought that it was you who had hoped to speak with the china merchant.”

  “I do!” Peggy sighed, exasperated. “But you think I’m going to go out in public like this?” She spread her palms over her belly. “No, the whole town would be scandalized, and everyone would be talking about how Benedict Arnold’s expecting wife paid a visit to the china merchant. Reed would probably even have them print an article that I’m shopping again. No, this must be done in stealth.” She leaned forward toward Clara. “That’s why you shall go fetch him. No one knows or cares who you are. Tell Stan that Benny and I wish to meet with him in private, and bring him back here. Do not take no for an answer, and do not leave the shop until you have Stan in tow.”

  THE TASK did not prove to be difficult at all. Stansbury not only agreed to accompany Clara back to the Arnolds’ cottage, he offered his coach to transport them. Whether it was to avoid the bitter winter weather, like he said, or to avoid the eager eyes of the town gossips who might see him walking with the Arnolds’ maid, Clara could not decide. Either way, it seemed to Clara that the china merchant had been awaiting an invitation to such a meeting.

  Clara led him into the house, lamenting the fact that she was now complicit in the nefarious plot. “General? Mrs. Arnold?” She scanned the empty drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Arnold did not seem ready for the guest they had been expecting.

  “Mr. Stansbury, please, take a seat by the fire. I shall fetch my masters and some tea.” Clara ushered him to the chair closest to the blaze.

  “Why, hello.” Peggy appeared suddenly, as if she were a gowned apparition conjured from the air. “Joseph Stansbury.”

  “Peggy Shippen, you always did have a flair for the dramatic.” The merchant rose and kissed her on both cheeks, pulling her hands aside. “Love the dress. You look divine.”

  “Thank you, Stan. You always look wonderful. Let me call that husband of mine in.”

  “Wait.” Stansbury held stubbornly to Peggy’s hands. “Does he know about . . . our idea?”

  “He knows. I told him.”

  “And he supports us?” Stansbury’s voice betrayed his hope.

  “He does now.” Peggy lifted a lone eyebrow, exchanging a knowing grin with her coconspirator.

  “Excellent work, my dear. I knew you could pull it off.”

  “Joseph Stansbury!” Benedict Arnold limped into the room, extending his hand for a rough handshake that looked like it might snap the merchant’s arm in half.

  “General Arnold, an honor.” The merchant doffed his cap and bent into a low, obsequious bow.

  “Stansbury, sit down.” Arnold limped over to a spot on the sofa beside him. Clara delivered their tea.

  “You see how big my wife is?” Arnold handed his teacup back to Clara, asking the maid to bring him a mug of rum instead.

  “She is radiant.” Stansbury nodded, spooning sugar into his own drink. “The image of maternal bliss.”

  “Well, it’s because I’m so fortunate in my choice of husband. That is what gives me my glow.” Peggy nudged Arnold’s shoulder.

  A tense silence stretched between the trio, with none of them sure who should broach the purpose of their assembly. Peggy ran her fingers along the handle of her teacup but didn’t touch her drink. Her husband gobbled down a mug of rum and asked Clara for a refill.

  “Well,” Peggy finally spoke. “Stansbury, thank you for coming here. We would have come to see you at the store, but, you see . . .” She pointed to her belly.

  “It is my pleasure,” the merchant answered. “I will admit I was hoping to get an invitation of this sort.”

  “Yes.” Peggy nodded knowingly. “As you know, my husband and I have suffered a string of cruelties at the hands of certain people in positions of power. You know to whom we refer.” Peggy loo
ked at the merchant, who nodded his understanding.

  Peggy continued. “We’ve suffered for such a long time, and for no good reason. We have come to the conclusion that there is no harm in reaching out to a certain . . . friend . . . you and I share. A friend who might be able to present us with a better situation.”

  “Your meaning is perfectly understood, madame.” Stansbury nodded.

  “It is my understanding that you see this . . . friend . . . quite frequently when you travel to New York for business?” Peggy raised her eyebrows, orchestrating this exchange purely for the benefit of her husband. Arnold listened.

  “Our paths cross often, my lady.” Stansbury nodded.

  “Well then, if you would be willing, we ask that you would deliver to him a letter. It has been years, and I’d love to rekindle my friendship with the monsieur. Shall we call him—John Anderson?”

  “He would answer to no other name.” Stansbury grinned back at her.

  “You understand,” Peggy spoke, her voice lowered, “that if this plan works out, and we end up in the—er, situation we hope to, your reward would be handsome.”

  “I thank you.” Another deep nod of Stansbury’s head. “But you know that my . . . inclinations . . . have always been toward one side, the side I believe to be in the right. The side which I believe you, Peggy, have always felt a loyalty toward as well.”

  “My loyalty is to my husband alone. He may determine our politics,” Peggy answered smoothly, eliciting a proud blush from her husband’s whiskered cheeks. “Here.” Peggy slid a letter across the table to Stansbury. “You have a right to know the contents of the letter you deliver. Read it aloud so that my husband may approve as well.”

  Stansbury retrieved from his pocket an oversized magnifying glass and unfolded the letter in his hands reverentially, as if he were handling some sacred text. In his nasal British accent, he read aloud.