The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  Clara nearly dropped the coffeepot. Arnold shot her a pleading look, which seemed to beg the maid to protect his secret. Clara swallowed hard and assumed a mask of cool composure. She wished he had found it on his own, that she had not been the one to show him.

  “Sugar, Clara?”

  “We are out of sugar, my lady,” Clara replied.

  “Of course we are,” Peggy sighed.

  “The whole city is without sugar, Peg. Don’t take it so hard,” Arnold said.

  “I bet they have sugar in London.” Peggy leaned her head to the left. “But bravo, Benny, I’m astonished that you suspected such a thing. I will be sure to scold Stansbury for leaving us such little information with which to work.” Peggy took a sip of her black coffee. “So? What did Monsieur André have to say for himself?”

  Arnold handed Peggy the transcribed letter, which she read in silence.

  Clara reentered the dining room, bearing a platter of eggs and ham, in time to hear her mistress’s response.

  “Is that it? It seems an awfully vague response,” Peggy agreed. “That’s all he has to say to our offer?”

  “Do you think he shows me disrespect with a message of this brevity?” Arnold asked, scooping himself a pile of eggs.

  “I think it more likely that André is being excessively cautious at this point. Perhaps trying to gauge how serious we are.”

  “So, you recommend we respond?” Arnold pulled on his whiskers as he always did when his mind was working quickly.

  “Absolutely.” Peggy nodded, stabbing a piece of ham from the platter Clara held.

  Arnold gestured to his wife. “Fetch me a quill. I shall do it presently. If he wants to test our mettle, he shall see Benedict Arnold has no weak stomach for such correspondence.”

  “But wait, my darling Benny.” Peggy’s voice curled around the pet name. “We must first decide: What do we stand to gain? We have the high ground in the negotiations right now, as we have the goods he is intent on acquiring.” Peggy was coy, always aware of how best to capitalize on her advantage.

  “We will see what he offers.” Arnold nodded.

  “Not so fast.” Peggy pressed her hand authoritatively into her husband’s to stop him from reaching for the quill. “We have Mount Pleasant, and the land tract offered by New York. And you are a major general in the Continental Army. Are we expected to just throw that all away on some vague assurance that we’ll be compensated? No, no, no. England must understand that the friendship of the Arnolds comes at a high price.”

  “Darling, you seemed so resolved. Are you wavering?” Arnold looked from his wife’s face to her belly. “This must be exhausting for you. Why don’t you take a rest?”

  “Absolutely not.” Peggy flatly rejected the suggestion. “I’m negotiating. André can be wily, so we must force him to give us specific guarantees.”

  “What would you have, Peggy?” Arnold asked.

  Peggy cocked her head, deep in thought. “How do you think it sounds . . . Lady Margaret Arnold?”

  “You mean, you’d like a title?” Arnold looked surprised.

  Peggy’s lips curled into a taut little smile.

  “To be named an aristocrat?” her husband asked.

  “I think the only thing that sounds better than General Benedict Arnold is Lord Benedict Arnold.” Peggy turned to her husband, her face as serious as stone.

  “Ha!” Arnold looked at her with undisguised wonder. “You know what, my brilliant little wife?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I think we could do quite well as a pair of aristocrats.”

  ARNOLD AGONIZED over the letter, and how best to respond to André. After a day of ruminating, Peggy convinced him to seek counsel from Stansbury.

  “Clara, you are to deliver this to Joseph Stansbury in his shop on Market Square. You know the china merchant?”

  Clara nodded her head. “Yes, General.”

  “See to it that nobody else is in the shop when you deliver it to him. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Do not come back without a response, and see to it that he burns this paper before you leave his shop. Are you clear?”

  Clara entered the shop and was relieved to find that she and the merchant were alone. She hoped for as brief an interview as possible. “Good day, Mr. Stansbury.”

  The merchant looked up as Clara walked in. He was impeccably dressed in a rose-colored suit and matching cravat. “The Arnolds’ maid.”

  “Clara Bell, sir.” Clara glanced around at the array of colorful plates and bowls that lined the walls of his shop. Did this man paint them all himself with those long, spindly fingers?

  “What do you seek? Something for Miss Shippen, I mean, Mrs. Arnold?” Stansbury asked, coy, apparently enjoying his role as plotter even more than her lady was.

  “I have a letter for you, sir.” Clara spoke in a hushed tone, ill at ease in this shop.

  A flick of Stansbury’s long, ringed forefinger told Clara to hand the letter over. But he hesitated before reading. “Will that be all?”

  Clara shifted her weight. “If you please, sir, I am to wait here until I may return with your response. The Arnolds wish for you to burn that letter once you’ve finished reading.”

  “Those Arnolds, they always have their demands.” Stansbury smirked. He opened the letter, the contents of which Clara had already surmised: they wondered how much they needed to promise in order to gain a noble title.

  The merchant scrawled off a quick note in reply, issuing no such demands of discretion as he sent it back with Clara. How incredibly reckless, Clara thought. Still, she could not help but resist peeking at his response as she rushed home.

  My dear Arnolds—You demand too much. Money can be paid, but a title? That decision rests with the king alone. Better to take the money, then, perhaps you can buy a title?

  Yours faithfully, J.S.

  “Fine.” Peggy read the letter alongside her husband. “Stansbury makes a good point. The money is the most important thing anyway, since all else issues from gold and silver. But we will do it for no less than ten thousand pounds. Plus a regular salary —you’ll ask for a rank of general in the British Army.”

  “For a sum that large, we’ll have to offer him something big.” Arnold thought it over. “Like a port.”

  “Philadelphia?” Peggy suggested. “It’s your city, after all. You could arrange it.” How blasé she was, Clara marveled, bandying about the name of her city as if it were for sale.

  Arnold made a face. “Too risky with Washington nearby. He’d come to the rescue of this city for certain.”

  “If you please, General and Mrs. Arnold, if there’s no reply necessary at this time, perhaps I might be excused?” Clara looked down at the floorboards, anxious to retreat to the safety of the kitchen.

  “We’re done with you for now—you may go.” Peggy waved her hand, and Clara willingly took her leave.

  THAT NIGHT, after his wife had gone to bed, Arnold limped into the kitchen.

  “Clara Bell.” He rested his rusty cane on the edge of the table and seated himself opposite the maid. Clara, who had been in the midst of her evening prayers, stood up, rigid, at the sudden appearance of her master. “General Arnold.”

  “Please, sit, sit.” He stretched his wounded leg out under the table.

  “What can I do for you, sir? Perhaps some tea, or a mug of ale?”

  Arnold put the heavy dictionary on the table between them, its appearance casting a pall over Clara’s peaceful evening vigil. She hadn’t noticed that he carried it.

  “Clara, I was wondering if you could explain to me once more how to use André’s code. I’ve got the book here, and the letter we’ve drafted, but I thought perhaps you might help me get it into those numbers he used.”

  Clara felt a panic at the realization that she was to be enlisted once more in this plot. She hesitated. She couldn’t help but see the image of Oma’s stern face in her mind. And Cal, somewhere north of here, fighti
ng for the revolution. How was it that she could assist the Arnolds in this treason? She couldn’t, she had to say no.

  Sensing her apprehension, Arnold nudged her. “Come now, Clara Bell. I’ve always been good to you, have I not?” His taut face showed his own inner turmoil—balancing the awareness of his own treason with the demands of his wife and family.

  “You must help me, Clara, so that I can keep you in my employ. If you don’t help me, things will be very hard for Mrs. Arnold and me, and we may have to dismiss you.”

  Clara’s shoulders sagged. “Give it here, sir.” She sighed, her heart heavy. She’d help him tonight, and wrestle with the consequences alone, in private, later. Better to know what was being hatched, she consoled herself, if it was going to be happening around her. Using the code André had created for them, Clara translated Arnold’s letter:

  My Dear Mr. Anderson,

  Thank you for your thoughtful reply.

  As my life, my honor, and everything is at stake, I will expect some certainty before I commit. Are you interested in discussing the port at Charleston?

  I would be amenable to the idea, not only of turning it over, but switching sides myself. My defection might create a movement to your cause. It would cost you ten thousand pounds sterling, and a comparable rank in your Army.

  Your friend,

  A

  A,

  We would be interested in discussing Charleston.

  I understand that you have had some difficulties at your current post, and have expressed an interest in obtaining a new position. Perhaps if you were able to arrange it so that you could become commander at Charleston, and turn it over? I am certain that you know that the southern colonies are my general’s priority of late.

  That, or, if you can offer us some intelligence that leads to a specific victory at the Hudson River fort at West Point.

  You will be rewarded beyond your highest expectations. No exact sum will be guaranteed at this time.

  In response to your latter offer, no need for you to switch allegiances. It’s better that you remain on the other side.

  Anderson

  “THE NERVE of that man!” Arnold spat in fury as he clutched André’s response, freshly delivered from Stansbury to Clara. “Flat out refuses to name a sum, as if it’s an unreasonable request!” Arnold read the letter again, massaging his wounded knee absentmindedly as he did so. The longer he stared at the letter, the more visibly agitated he grew.

  “They don’t want me on their side?” Arnold scoffed. “Don’t they know who I am? My defection would cause an entire counterrevolution! It would practically hand them the victory!”

  “Do not let them upset you.” Peggy was the vision of calm as she sat, mountainous, in bed. Her belly looked like it weighed more than the entire rest of her frame—she was prepared to give birth any day now. Clara had helped her undress and was preparing their evening fire when Arnold had stormed into the bedchamber with the latest response.

  “Let me handle this, Benny.” Peggy waved her husband toward the bed. He handed her the letter.

  “I shall reply, Benny. Sit down and rest. Have a drink.” Peggy dipped a quill in the thick black ink and worked quickly, smiling as she wrote. When she had finished, she spoke aloud: “How does this sound?”

  “Dearest Anderson,

  You’ve written of a night, years ago, that seems to me now to be little more than a dream. I’ve worn many lovely dresses in my life, but none can compare to the white silk dress I had made for that evening. To think that I never got a chance to dance in it, it still brings a tear to my eye. Perhaps we will be reunited someday and we can throw another Grand Masque and I can have that dance I was denied.

  You know how I love fine things. Dresses and ribbon and satin and shoes. I have so many fine things already. The only way I could give them all up is if you tell me what, in exact terms, I stand to gain.

  Please, my old friend, we need specifics. Perhaps I should come to New York for a shopping trip? You can tell me all about the fine things you are willing to give me, and in return, we will offer you that information which we have that you could stand to benefit from. You understand my meaning?

  I await your reply.

  Fondly,

  Madame la Turque”

  Monsieur & Madame,

  I am not in a position to offer money or a rank until I’ve gained a real advantage to which I can point.

  An accurate plan of the fort at West Point would be one such piece. Or numbers of boats on the Hudson, and the plans for said vessels this spring and summer.

  A face-to-face meeting with the lady is not necessary at this time, as I wish her not to burden herself by making the arduous journey. But I would like to meet her husband in person when the warmer spring weather arrives.

  “VAGARIES, EVASIONS, and more insults.” Arnold slumped over the most recent letter at the dinner table, allowing it to burn to ash in the candlelight. “And I don’t like that you offered to go to New York to meet him. And I like even less that he denied you. Who does this André character think he is? I see no way of working with him.”

  “There is indeed a way.” Peggy took the platter from Clara and served her husband a slice of mutton, pouring gravy over it. Then, with what sounded like admiration in her voice, she murmured, “I had forgotten how slippery Johnny . . . André . . . can be.”

  “As slippery as an eel, from the looks of his letters. Peggy, why did I let you convince me to begin these correspondences?” Arnold burned the last of the letter and ran his hands through his gray hair, ignoring his food.

  “Excuse me?” Peggy stared him down, defiant, as she scooped them each potatoes.

  “I don’t like this so-called friend of yours. I plan to write him back and let him know just what I think of his sly tactics.”

  “Benny, you’re being hasty. Perhaps if we—”

  “They don’t want me on their side, they won’t name my reward. Am I to make a fool of myself dancing before them like some unwanted harlot? If they don’t want me, damn them!” Arnold slammed his fist on the dinner table, sending the dinner plates an inch in the air before they settled back down. Clara jumped back in shock.

  “Benny, you are being brutish.” Peggy glowered at her husband but remained calm.

  They sat opposite each other in silence. Arnold, at last, capitulated.

  “I’m sorry, Peg.” Arnold reached his hand toward hers, but she removed hers before he could touch it, lifting her wineglass to her lips.

  Arnold continued. “But I am fed up. And there’s no way I will hazard it all when they will give me no set reward.”

  “They will,” Peggy answered tersely, confidently. She summoned Clara to refill her husband’s empty wineglass.

  “You’ve read the letters just like I have, Peggy.” Arnold took the refilled wineglass in his huge hands and drained its contents with several gulps.

  “Let’s make them pursue us,” Peggy suggested.

  “How?” Arnold asked after several minutes, his lips stained red with wine.

  Peggy smiled, a coy, ballroom smile: the dazzling look she saved for the man she most desired. “We shall withdraw our interest. Then they’ll see what they have passed on.”

  Arnold stared back at his wife, his eyes twinkling. “You’re right, my love.”

  “Of course I’m right.” Peggy shrugged. Clara reached in front of Peggy to deposit a bowl of turnips, sliding her hand forward just as Peggy reached for the carafe of wine. Their hands collided, causing Peggy to drop the red wine.

  “Oh!” Peggy screamed, turning from the spilling wine to her servant, her eyes furious. “Now, Clara, look what you’ve made me do.”

  “Mrs. Arnold, I do apologize, I’m so sorry.” Clara’s heart faltered as she reached for the overturned jug of wine and righted it. Peggy looked back at the table, where the wine had spread from the table linens now to her full, protruding belly, her cream-colored petticoat. Peggy lifted her hand, and before Clara knew what was
happening, her mistress had landed a stinging slap across her face.

  “Rags and water, now,” Peggy spoke through a clenched jaw. “Or else I may lose my patience.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Clara dropped her gaze to the floor, her hand clutching her smarting cheek, and walked from the dining room.

  “My darling.” Arnold’s face was tense—“I’m not sure such immoderation was necessary.”

  “Oh, honestly, Benny, it’s like disciplining a child. You must be firm or they take advantage.”

  “Clara Bell is no child,” Arnold retorted. “She’s a perfectly able member of this household, and you ought to treat her with more respect.”

  “Careful now, Benny.” Peggy’s tone was icy. “Surely you don’t mean to side with the maid against your own wife?”

  Hearing this exchange, Clara did not return to the kitchen to fetch rags. No, Peggy could clean up her own spill. Instead, holding her face, her fingers wet from tears, she exited the kitchen and ran out into the yard. She picked up a fistful of snow and pressed it to her cheek. The tears that poured out against her will only made it sting worse.

  Clara crumpled down into a humiliated mass in the snow and cried. How dare Peggy blame Clara for her own spill, and then slap her like that? She never wanted to go back into that house—that miserable house where she was either utterly invisible or railed at for errors she didn’t make. There was a limit to how much she could endure—being called lazy, and idiotic, and dishonest.

  “Clara? Is that you?” Mrs. Quigley’s figure appeared as a dark shadow in the yard. “Clara, what is the matter?” The woman hunched down over Clara, helping her up out of the snow.

  “She . . . she hit me!” Clara stammered.

  “Oh, no.” Mrs. Quigley’s face registered unmasked disapproval. “Now, let’s have a look, there’s a good girl.” She gently lifted Clara’s hand away to reveal the cheek, red and puffy. “Gracious.”

  Clara covered her face in humiliation.

  “Well, what did you do?” Mrs. Quigley looked concerned as her tender fingers pressed snow onto Clara’s cheek.