The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  My Dear Mr. Anderson,

  I am writing as an old friend—the lady with whom you danced after the Meshianza so many years ago. Not at the Meshianza, but after the Meshianza. You and I are alone in the world in knowing about that moment, so I trust by now you’ve understood whose hand pens this missive, and will react with appropriate discretion.

  As you have likely heard, since you’ve left my town, I’ve made a new friend. He is remarkably good—generous, honest, and heroic. And he is interested in meeting you. To be frank, we’ve learned that you have been promoted to a position of prominence in your trade. You sell lace, right? Well, we may have some very valuable lace which you may be interested in trading for.

  You know how I always loved lace.

  If you are interested in hearing more, you may write me.

  Your dear friend,

  Madame la Turque

  “Bravo.” Stansbury joined Peggy in chuckling as he folded the letter back up. “Splendid, Peggy, I especially love your signature: Madame la Turque. Oh, he will know for certain who you are!”

  “Precisely,” Peggy agreed.

  You and I are alone in the world in knowing about that moment, Peggy had written, forgetting completely that Clara had been present.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Peggy’s eyes sparkled with mischief. Arnold alone seemed to understand the gravity of their situation.

  “Ahem!” Arnold cleared his throat. “Fun? We could all hang for this. Fun? I think not. Stansbury, when will you deliver this letter?”

  “General”—Stansbury wiped the jollity from his face—“I can leave for New York tomorrow.”

  “Good, yes. The sooner the better. What we ask is that you bring us a response in return. Once this . . . Anderson . . . has proven he can be trusted, we shall begin to discuss more specifics.”

  “A very wise plan, sir,” Stansbury agreed.

  “Well then, we wish you a safe trip. And remember, whatever you do, you breathe a word of this to no one, you understand?” Arnold leaned forward, his eyes fierce. “If you fail in this mission, and give us away, we will all most certainly be hanging from the gallows by spring.”

  CLARA COULDN’T carry the burden alone. She had to share the news with someone. But who could she tell? Oma was gone; even the life she’d led with Oma seemed as if it had belonged to another girl, another Clara. Caleb was miles away. The thought of writing about a possible treason in a letter to a soldier was ludicrous; his letters were certain to be censored. The Quigleys and Hannah would never believe such a wild development, and even if they did, they’d most likely scold Clara and tell her to stay out of the Arnolds’ affairs.

  Betsy could stop it. Yes, Peggy’s sister would feel bound to interfere, especially with her husband fighting for Washington. But Peggy had always overpowered her older sister; she’d do so this time as well. And Peggy would no doubt sack Clara for telling Betsy about the plot.

  Clara was ruminating over this, seeking in vain the name of some confidante, when she nearly bumped into Mrs. Quigley. “Clara, girl, watch where you’re going, would you?” Mrs. Quigley was out back, carrying a large sack from the direction of the barns. Clara had been on her way to the big house to send a letter to Cal along in the morning post.

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Quigley, I was just coming to see you. May I help you with that?”

  “Please do, child.” Mrs. Quigley handed the sack to Clara. “Goose down. It’s time to restuff the quilts. The judge and the missus are always complaining of the cold nights, as if they don’t realize it’s winter.” Mrs. Quigley opened the back door and led Clara into the Shippens’ kitchen.

  “What brings you here, girl?”

  Clara deposited the sack of goose down on the floor beside the table. “I’ve come with a letter for Cal, I mean, Caleb. Would you post it with the rest of the letters?”

  “Certainly.” Mrs. Quigley nodded, pouring two cups of tea for herself and Clara.

  “Where’s Hannah?” Clara asked, looking around the ordinarily bustling kitchen.

  “She complained of some pains”—Mrs. Quigley creased her brow— “so Mr. Quigley and I have suggested that she spend the morning in bed.”

  “What kind of pains?” Clara asked, taking the mug of tea that Mrs. Quigley offered her.

  “Just the aches and pains of growing old. Something you do not need to worry about.” Mrs. Quigley smiled, her expression weary. She pointed at Clara’s letter, which rested on the table between them, unclaimed. “I’m happy to see that you’ve written Caleb. He’ll be glad to hear from you.”

  She’d written him the evening before. Her hand was nervous and untrained, and her cursive had looked untidy and juvenile compared to Peggy’s. She’d read it through after it was complete, sealing it in the envelope before she could lose her resolve:

  Caleb,

  Hello. How strange it is to be writing you. It’s less preferable than how it used to be, sitting beside you at the table, exchanging news. I did get the message from your aunt, and the separate note just to me. You should know that I think of you often and return the fond feelings.

  It is heartening to hear you safe and so happily adjusted to your new life as a soldier. It sounds as though you’ve made a handful of friends already. Why does this not come as a surprise? I hope you have some furlough to visit the home of the friend you mentioned, that John Williamson. I imagine some time away would come as a relief, even if you do seem to be enjoying your work very much.

  Life goes on here as you knew it, and yet, much has changed. You’ll have heard the outcome of the Master’s Court Martial by now. And that Miss Peggy is set to have her baby in the early spring. The Christmas holiday had a very different feeling this year, but I thought of you and our times together often. In the meantime, I shall keep your letters close to me. Just promise you shall take good care of yourself, and do come back and visit us, should you ever have the chance.

  Fondly,

  Clara Bell

  “Here is the letter.” Now in the kitchen, Clara handed the parcel to Mrs. Quigley. “Thank you for sending it for me.”

  “Of course, dear.” The housekeeper nodded. “Tell me, Clara, how are things going in the Arnold household?” Mrs. Quigley took a sip of tea. “They must be preparing for the wee one’s arrival.”

  Now was her chance, Clara thought, her nerves coiling inside her like a ball of twine. They were alone in the kitchen, with no one to overhear, and perhaps Mrs. Quigley might offer sage advice.

  “Mrs. Quigley, things are frightful. Miss Shippen, I mean, Mrs. Arnold, has begun corresponding with John André again.”

  Mrs. Quigley’s eyes rounded into two vast orbs. “André, that English fellow from a while back?”

  “The very same.” Clara nodded.

  “But that cannot be true. Miss Peggy is married now.”

  Clara spoke in a hushed tone, fearful that someone might overhear her confession. “Indeed, ma’am, but General Arnold knows all about it. In fact, he is party to their exchanges.”

  “But why on earth would the Arnolds be conferring with Major John André?”

  The truth poured forth from Clara like a flood: Peggy’s disgust with her current circumstances; Arnold’s frustration with Reed and Washington; the bathtub conversation; the letters transmitted through the china merchant. Mrs. Quigley remained attentive, absorbing the news in stunned silence as their tea grew cold between them. When Clara had finished, several minutes passed before Mrs. Quigley could collect herself and form a reply.

  “Well, Clara.” The old woman shook her head, speaking in barely a whisper. “This is either the wildest mistruth a girl like you could ever concoct, or you seem to have found yourself in the thick of some terrible mischief.”

  “Mrs. Quigley,” Clara stammered, stung. “I tell you no lie.”

  “But how could you possibly know all this?” Mrs. Quigley narrowed her eyes, and they singed with disbelief.

  “They speak right in front of me, as if I were invisib
le.” Clara felt a stinging frustration, threatening tears; how could the housekeeper accuse her of falsehoods? “Mrs. Quigley, you may believe me, I assure you. We all live under that same very small roof; you would not fathom how much I am forced to overhear.”

  “Well, you’ll take my advice and you’ll keep it at that: hearsay.” Now Mrs. Quigley cast a leery glance over her shoulder before continuing. “You’re not to repeat this, Clara, do you understand me? This sort of talk could cost you your neck.”

  Clara’s frustration was mounting, spilling out in defiant words. “But Mrs. Quigley, don’t you think we ought to alert—”

  “Clara Bell, enough!” Mrs. Quigley spoke with a sharpness that shocked Clara, so unexpected and out of character was the censure. “I said: you are not to repeat this. It is for your own good. We cannot allow such dangerous rumors to be swirling like this. Especially when your employer is a man as powerful as General Arnold. I will not tolerate it, do you understand me?” Mrs. Quigley’s cheeks smoldered a deep red. Her words were terse but her meaning was clear to Clara: speak about what she knew again, and she’d lose her job and her home.

  “I understand, Mrs. Quigley.”

  THE WIND was so fierce that Clara didn’t hear the visitor leave the package. It was not until she went outside to fetch a fresh load of firewood that she saw it: a parcel waiting in the snow outside the Arnolds’ cottage.

  “My lady.” Clara reentered the parlor, handing the parcel to Miss Peggy. “Something’s arrived for you and the general.”

  “What is it?” Peggy summoned Clara to her perch before the fire. She was making a rare attempt at knitting. The start of a pair of baby’s booties sat in her lap.

  “It’s unmarked, ma’am.” Clara studied the bulky package wrapped in brown paper. “Doesn’t appear to have come via the post.”

  “Fetch my husband,” Peggy replied, taking the package and turning it over in her hands.

  Clara woke Arnold from his nap and told him that his wife requested his presence in the parlor, that a package had arrived for them. Arnold, groggy from sleep, limped down the stairs toward the armchair opposite his wife.

  “A package, eh?” Arnold’s breath, Clara noticed, was tinged with the sour smell of ale; he was drinking more these days.

  “Shall I open it?” Peggy did not await a reply before she tore through the brown paper, easily rending it in two. “It’s come from Stansbury.” Arnold looked on in keen interest.

  Clara hoped to slip from the room, having no interest in hearing any more of their plots or conspiracies. But Arnold called her back: “Clara, before you run away from us, fetch me some ale, won’t you?”

  “Make that two,” Peggy added. “After all, we are celebrating, aren’t we?” She winked at her husband.

  When Clara returned to the parlor, carrying two mugs of ale, Peggy was reading Stansbury’s note aloud to her husband.

  I hand-delivered the letter to André myself. André was intrigued, particularly when he heard from whom the letter came. He sent me back to you with the item included herewith.

  Peggy then reached back into the brown package and retrieved two items. The first was another letter on a flimsy piece of parchment.

  “What does it say?”

  “Nothing, it would seem,” Peggy answered her husband. “It’s a series of numbers—entirely devoid of meaning.”

  “Curious.” Arnold creased his brow. “And what’s that?” Arnold pointed at the second item retrieved from the package, which had the appearance of a thick book.

  “He sent us a book?” Arnold asked, taking the mug of ale from Clara.

  “It seems to be a dictionary,” Peggy answered, thumbing through the heavily bound volume. “Why would he send us a dictionary?” Peggy’s face went sour, and she shook her head at the ale Clara offered her.

  “Is this André fellow insulting me?” Arnold sat upright, indignant.

  “What could he possibly mean, sending us a dictionary?” Peggy still studied the book, puzzled.

  “He seems to imply, Mrs. Arnold”—Arnold’s voice was forceful now, as it became when he demanded the respect he felt was so often denied him—“that we simple colonials cannot write in a manner worthy of your stylish British spy!”

  PEGGY HOWLED and ranted so furiously that she tired herself out, and retired to her bedroom shortly after supper. The affront by André had been acute. More painful, Clara knew, than Arnold might even have guessed. She regretted ever initiating the communication, she yelled. Hadn’t she risked her honor and the respect of her husband in order to reach out to her former friend? And he’d responded by mocking them. He’d always been dismissive, aloof, behaving as if he were too important for her, a simple colonial girl. Her temper was so aroused that it served to quiet her husband, whose own ego had been so bruised that he vowed never to receive Stansbury in their home again.

  “Throw that dictionary in the fire, for all I care!” Peggy railed, as she marched upstairs and shut herself into her bedchamber.

  Arnold didn’t burn the volume, but he did give it to Clara to dispose of it with the remainder of the family’s rubbish. Clara decided against tossing it. It seemed wasteful. And besides, now that she was planning to write regularly to Cal, a dictionary might be a handy book to keep nearby. She took it with her into the kitchen and began to flip through it. It was curious that a dictionary would be the weapon by which André had chosen to insult the Arnolds. Perhaps there was more to this book than the Arnolds had perceived.

  It was the paper that accompanied the dictionary that struck Clara as especially odd: Why would André take the time to jot down a series of numbers if the message contained no purpose? His meaning must surely be hidden in the lines somewhere, as if there were some code that might be deciphered.

  That’s when the idea struck Clara. She turned her attention back to the thick dictionary. The first pair of numbers on the paper was written in André’s long, narrow cursive: 100–36. Clara opened the dictionary and fingered her way through the pages. When she arrived at page 100, it was as she had expected. And how about the second set of numbers? When she turned to the next number, she nearly dropped the dictionary. “Clara.” She looked up, gasping when she saw Arnold at the door of the kitchen. She hadn’t heard him enter.

  “General Arnold,” Clara stammered, fidgeting with the book.

  Arnold noticed the dictionary and narrowed his eyes.

  “I see someone is getting use out of that vile thing. What are you doing with that book?” Arnold limped toward the table, his empty mug in his hand—surely the reason he had come to the kitchen.

  “Sir, this is no ordinary dictionary.” Clara picked up the book, realizing for the first time the power held within its pages, should her suspicions prove correct. Oh how she wished now that she had burned the thing!

  But it was too late—Arnold’s interest had been aroused. “Whatever can you mean, you strange girl?” Arnold looked from Clara to the dictionary with eyes wide and probing.

  “You see, this dictionary is accompanied by this.” Clara picked up the small piece of paper.

  “That is just a bunch of nonsense”—Arnold scowled—“a series of numbers.”

  “It’s far from nonsense. It’s a code,” Clara corrected him. “The key to reading the message is hidden within this dictionary.”

  “How does it work?” Arnold asked, taking a seat at the table. “Fetch us some ale.” He gestured, urging Clara to sit beside him.

  Clara poured him a mug of ale and sat beside him, finding it both strange and deeply troubling that she was suddenly abetting Arnold in the reading of his treasonous letter.

  “How do you see a code in this, Clara?” Arnold asked, eyeing the letter over his full mug.

  “Sir, this number refers to the page, and the second number refers to the word on that page. So, for instance”—Clara riffled through the pages, looking at the note as she scrolled—“page 100 is the letter M. And the thirty-sixth word on the page is my. So the le
tter begins with the word My.” Clara stared at Arnold, a feeling of doom filling her gut when she saw understanding dawn across his features.

  “So it’s a letter, and not an insult after all?” Arnold asked, his eyebrows arcing in boyish hope. Clara nodded, stunned by how much this revered man craved respect.

  “Quills and paper, Clara, now,” Arnold barked, smiling fondly at his maid and, now, coconspirator. “Clara, you are brilliant.”

  Clara hated herself for blushing when her master offered this compliment.

  They worked side by side at the kitchen table, muttering together and flipping from page to page. Clara was the faster of the two in locating the pages and words, so she navigated the dictionary, spelling out the words to Arnold. It took them close to an hour to finish decoding the letter; the whole time, the feeling of regret grew heavier within Clara, until a sense of dread seeped into her very bones.

  “We have it.” Arnold stared at the page, his eyes frantic after the effort. “I shall read it.” He held the paper aloft and began to relay its contents.

  “My Dear Lady,

  You can be assured I remember the evening of the Meshianza vividly. I think of that night, and the other nights, often.

  I am very happy to hear from you, and to hear the overtures you’ve made. As you know, any correspondence between us must be carried out with the utmost secrecy. It is best to communicate via this dictionary, a copy of which I keep in my possession.

  As for your offer of sharing information that we might use to our advantage: we require more precise details as to what you can offer.

  We cannot discuss monetary compensation until the exact arrangements have been made and we know what we stand to gain.

  Fondly,

  John Anderson

  Postscript: The Lady may write me as often as she’d like.”

  CLARA DID not sleep that night. She was present when Arnold told his wife of his finding the next morning at breakfast. “So there I was, sitting with the darned book in my lap, and I suspected that there had to be something more to this dictionary than initially met the eye.”