The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  He turned to Clara. “Clara, as the proof is right here in plain daylight for all to see—you were alone in the kitchen and the brooch visible on your bed—you will have to be punished. I am sorry.”

  Clara began to weep. She had never been flogged, and certainly not over a false accusation. And after the beating—then what? Would she be relieved of her post?

  “Please, General, I would never . . .” Clara struggled to form some protest, to reiterate her innocence.

  “Clara, come with me.” Arnold was stern as he grabbed her arm and walked with her out the kitchen door. “Mr. Quigley, see to it that my wife is put in bed and that she stays there. That’s an order.” Arnold turned, escorting the maid out the door to the north side of the yard.

  Arnold limped forward in silence, Clara running alongside him and begging, through her tears, to be pardoned. He paused under a thick oak tree. “Hush, Clara.” He reached up and with his knife, clipped a small branch from overhead. He began to carve it into a switch.

  “General Arnold, please, spare me! I would never steal from you or your wife!”

  “I know.” He looked at her, his eyes full of pity. He kept carving the switch.

  “But . . .” Clara staggered. “I didn’t do it.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why must I be flogged?” She looked at the switch, watching as his knife sliced it into a tool to inflict punishment.

  “Do you think it escaped me that my wife asked me to go into the kitchen, for no apparent reason, as the brooch was lying visible? And if you were guilty, why would you not have hurried to hide the evidence of your crime as soon as I entered the kitchen? Instead, you sat with me, perfectly calm and polite, pouring me tea and talking about your sweetheart.”

  Clara stared at him, allowing her mouth to fall open. So then he knew she was telling the truth! “Then, sir, you believe me?”

  “And, Clara Bell, if you were guilty, and my wife truly believed that you had stolen her favorite piece of jewelry, wouldn’t she have demanded that we dismiss you? Throw you out into the woods? Instead, she accuses you of stealing her brooch, one worth your entire year’s wages, and all she demands is that you be flogged?”

  “But, then, General”—Clara’s hopes lifted slightly at the realization that he knew her to be innocent, but her spirits sank lower when she noticed he was still fashioning the switch—“then why will you still beat me?”

  “I don’t intend to beat you, Clara,” Arnold sighed, exasperated. “My wife has been put to bed in her bedchamber on the south side of the house. We are under a thick tree on the north side of the house. Completely concealed from her view.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Right now she’s in bed, listening for the sound of the switch landing on your back, and your subsequent cries of pain. Let’s just give her what she wants and we will all move forward.” Arnold replaced the knife into his pocket and raised his switch. “There will be no peace in the house until the punishment is doled out.”

  “Please, no!” Clara screamed, bringing her hands protectively to her face.

  “When I land this switch on the side of this oak tree, you will cry out as if it struck your backside. I will do it ten times. Do you understand?” Arnold looked at her, his face expressionless.

  Understanding dawned on her. She could have collapsed in relief. “Yes,” Clara answered quietly.

  IT WAS a humiliating charade—General Arnold beating a tree as Clara cried out in contrived pain. When it was over, Clara and Arnold turned, wordlessly, and walked back to the house. Arnold entered through the front door, Clara through the back. She found the Quigleys and Hannah in the kitchen.

  “Clara.” Mrs. Quigley ran to her. “Clara, my poor dear.”

  “Come here, love.” Hannah rose from the table, her face twisted in empathy. “Clara, we heard the whole thing. What a brute.”

  “I’m fine.” Clara slumped into a chair. “Can I have some tea?”

  “Clara.” Mrs. Quigley’s eyebrows angled toward each other. “Aren’t you hurt?”

  “Let me see the wounds on your back. We need to put ointment on them right away. I’ve got some dandelion milk.” Hannah fussed over her shirt.

  “He didn’t do it.” Clara swatted the old cook’s hands away.

  “He didn’t?” Mr. Quigley asked.

  “But we heard it,” Mrs. Quigley argued.

  “No.” Clara shook her head. “He hit the oak tree each time.”

  “Oh, thank heavens.” Hannah crossed herself, as all three of them stooped in relief.

  “So there is someone left in this house with a sense of decency.” Mr. Quigley pounded the table with an angry fist.

  “Why does she hate me so much?” Clara asked miserably, weeping as she took a fresh mug of peppermint tea from Hannah.

  “She doesn’t hate you, dear.” Mrs. Quigley rubbed her back in a soothing gesture.

  “She does,” Clara moaned.

  “She’s threatened by you. She wants to make sure you stay in your place,” Mr. Quigley answered.

  “But how could I ever threaten her?” Clara demanded.

  Mrs. Quigley thought about it, answering after a few moments. “Well, I suppose there are a couple reasons. Her husband is fond of you, firstly.”

  “He’s fond of all of us. He’s a kind man,” Clara argued, but she couldn’t help but notice the meaningful look that passed between the Quigleys and the cook.

  “Her son prefers you to her,” Mrs. Quigley continued.

  “Her son cries out in terror every time he goes from your arms to hers,” Hannah interjected.

  “That’s my fault?” Clara demanded defensively. “It’s my fault that she has no interest in her child and he in turn fears her?”

  “Of course not,” Hannah answered.

  “I don’t understand,” Clara continued. “She too used to be so fond of me, bringing me everywhere, confiding in me, giving me that fine gown for Christmas years ago.”

  “Yes, well, she’s changed, there’s no doubt about that.” Mrs. Quigley nodded.

  “Clara,” Mr. Quigley said, pausing momentarily before he explained his thoughts. “Many things in Peggy’s life have not turned out the way she had hoped they would.”

  Clara thought this over and knew it to be true. But still, it did not explain things. “Why does she blame me for that?” Hadn’t everyone in that kitchen tasted bitter disappointment in their lives, as well?

  “She doesn’t blame you,” Mr. Quigley explained. “But she takes it out on you, that much is apparent. You seem to occupy a unique role for her—she’s reliant on you, and yet you are the one she punishes when she is dissatisfied with something.”

  “Why me?” Clara asked.

  “Who else can she take it out on?” Mrs. Quigley answered. “Her family is gone. Her son is but a wee lad. And she can’t alienate her husband—she needs to keep him charmed or he’ll stop doing what she orders him to do. Apart from her family, you are the closest person to her on this earth.”

  Clara considered this, finding it odd to think that she, Clara Bell, played an important role in Miss Peggy’s life: that Miss Peggy needed her and depended on her. All Clara had ever thought about before was the central role that Miss Peggy played in her life.

  “My dear Clara.” Hannah put a soothing hand on her. “I suppose the true test of character comes when facing life’s harshest blows and disappointments. When things don’t turn out how you had hoped they would, do you grow bitter? Spiteful? Blame others and spread your misery? Or do you keep your head high and walk with grace, meeting the struggles which God has placed in your path?”

  Clara looked at Hannah, the kind, elderly cook, separated from her home and her sister, going about her work for a selfish mistress and never complaining: quite exactly the image of the suffering servant. Clara did not need help deciding which path the cook had taken. Or which path her mistress had taken.

  “Here, here, we are a sorry lot.” Mrs
. Quigley placed her hands determinedly on the kitchen table. “I’ve got some good news that might cheer us a bit.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Quigley looked to his wife while Clara took a sip of tea.

  “I’ve heard from my dear nephew, Caleb, and it seems that he’s had some good luck as of late.”

  Clara’s heart lurched.

  “Has he now? So what news from our favorite soldier?” Hannah asked.

  “Seems our young lad has been promoted to corporal.”

  “Well done, Caleb.” Mr. Quigley beamed. Clara smiled into her teacup, feeling her spirits lift at the thought of Cal.

  “And there’s another piece of news,” Mrs. Quigley continued. Was Clara imagining it, or had the woman’s tone shifted? Did the old woman now sound a bit hesitant?

  “What else?” Hannah asked, refilling Clara’s tea.

  Mrs. Quigley paused a moment, her brow creased. When at last she spoke, her eyes landed on Clara. “Seems he’s met a lady.”

  The news struck Clara like a blow, a blow worse than that from which Arnold had spared her. Mrs. Quigley still looked at Clara, and she was certain that the housekeeper studied her reaction. Clara swallowed hard, throwing her shoulders back.

  “Oh?” Her voice was feeble, her effort at composure a failure. Now it was not only Mrs. Quigley, but both other servants who turned toward her as well.

  “He’s visited the home of a certain friend, a fellow named John Williamson. Seems as though Caleb met one of John’s cousins there, a young lady named Sarah Williamson.”

  Clara’s mouth was drier than if it had been stuffed with cotton.

  “Is it serious?” Hannah asked.

  “From the sound of it, yes. Serious enough for Cal to write me to tell me about her, which is a first. He’s never spoken to me of a girl. Not even back when he had such a fancy for . . .” Mrs. Quigley looked up at Clara but let her words trail off, unfinished. “Clara dear, are you all right?” Mrs. Quigley put a hand on her shoulder.

  Clara nodded, grasping for words. But none would come.

  “Your cheeks are white as snow.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am. I had better go and check on Little Eddy.” Clara pushed herself away from the table, her legs feeling as if they might quake beneath her. She didn’t walk toward the stairs, as she had said she would, but instead pushed her way through the door and into the yard. She just barely made it out into the blinding sunlight before her resolve gave way, and fresh sobs burst forth from her tightening chest like a flood overrunning a dam.

  THE ONE benefit of her alleged beating was that Clara was excused from her duties at that evening’s dinner, as Peggy expected her to be in bed recovering. Clara accepted this reprieve willingly, wandering through the fields until well past sundown. At last her tears stopped, but her mind continued to race. The space within her, the space that had pulsed with joy and hope whenever she had thought of Cal, had been scorched. Replaced now by a leaden feeling of despair. Cal had a sweetheart. Cal now looked at another the way he had once looked at her. Those hazel eyes, once so full of longing, of earnest affection, now rested on another girl. A girl who would surely not be so foolish as to squander his love, as Clara had done. So, that was why Cal had written her so little of late. He was writing another girl, a girl who now occupied his attention and his thoughts.

  It was dark when Clara wandered back into the home, having skipped the servants’ supper. She did not speak to the others when she entered the kitchen, but rather she muttered something about feeling ill as she lowered herself onto her straw pallet, backside to them all. Though it was a warm evening, Clara pulled the blanket around her body and curled up, into a cocoon from which she wished she’d never have to stir. Hannah, sweet Hannah, was a small comfort as she rustled about the kitchen, replacing the dishes after the evening meal had been cleared. But the person she longed for, the only person whose face Clara wished to see, was Cal.

  The next morning, Clara dressed and found the Arnolds in the dining room at breakfast, careful to move slowly as if her back were tender.

  “Oh, good morning, Clara! How did you sleep?” Peggy looked up from her breakfast when the maid entered, in a rare acknowledgment of her servant’s presence. She fed her baby a small bite of scrambled egg. “You stayed abed so late that I was forced to fetch Little Eddy myself.”

  “Not well, my lady,” Clara answered, finding even the act of speaking to be exhausting.

  “All these servants do is complain,” Peggy muttered. “Well, Clara, Little Eddy’s just finished eating. Why don’t you take him so that my husband and I may speak with our guest here, Major Franks?” Peggy pointed to her dining companion on her left. Franks nodded politely at Clara.

  “Yes, my lady.” Clara took the baby and exited the dining room.

  “So, Franks, you were telling us about your inspection of the defenses at West Point.” Peggy resumed the conversation, and when Clara heard the topic she paused, just on the other side of the door.

  “Are they in good condition?” Arnold asked.

  Franks’s nasally voice traveled to where Clara stood, just out of sight. “I am sorry to say, General Arnold, that after having completed a thorough investigation of the works there, I must report that the defenses at West Point are deplorably weak.”

  “How horrid!” Peggy said, with what sounded less like horror than delight.

  “Yes, it’s quite regrettable. The commander before you did not keep things up well.”

  “We shall have to rectify that situation, shan’t we?” Arnold answered.

  “Yes, and quite soon, sir. Especially now that we hear that General Washington is planning an offensive to take back New York City before the coming of winter.”

  “Yes, yes,” Arnold said excitedly.

  “We would not want anything to go wrong for General Washington,” Peggy said.

  “Precisely so, Mrs. Arnold. We would never want to do anything to diminish General Washington’s chance of success.” The aide finished his eggs and coffee, a placid smile on his face as he thanked the Arnolds for the generous meal.

  CLARA, MEANWHILE, felt frantic. There was only one other person who knew about the plot, but could she write Cal? Could she stand to speak to him, even now that she knew about his attachment to another girl? And did he even care to hear from her? But he had said he remained a faithful friend. Surely writing to him was better than taking no action. Still, her hands trembled as she penned her letter that night.

  Caleb,

  How can I intervene in this plot? Believe me, it gives me terrible pain to watch things unfolding and to be forced to sit back and not breathe a word to anyone.

  It’s all done so secretly, and with their belief that I know nothing, I see no way I can involve myself in their affairs. I have my place as a servant and they could easily throw me out, were I to overstep my place.

  You would not believe how sad we are here. Mistress has been a fury lately. I have been warned that if I take one more step out of line, I shall be dismissed from the household.

  It sounds as if things go very well for you. Your aunt has told us your happy news.

  —CB

  “FINALLY!” PEGGY ran into her bedroom, hopping on the feather mattress with a letter in her hand. Clara dared not look up from the floor, where she sat scrubbing the wooden planks.

  “BENNY!” Peggy’s call was answered by the familiar sound of her husband’s limping stride as he climbed the steps.

  “What is it, Peg?” Arnold lumbered into the bedroom.

  “Oh, just a letter. From a certain . . . John Anderson!” Peggy waved the paper. “Fetch the wine from my table, Benny, this calls for a celebratory drink!”

  “What does he say?” Arnold crossed the room quickly, carafe of wine in hand, and joined his wife on the bed. Clara must have been invisible on the floor, because Peggy did not ask her to leave before she blurted out the contents of the message she’d just read.

  “It’s settled,” Peggy said, a g
rin pulling up the corners of her lips.

  “Settled?” Arnold took a slurp of wine straight from the carafe before handing it to his wife.

  “Settled.” Peggy took a satisfied swig.

  “What will we get?”

  “Clinton has agreed to our conditions,” Peggy answered.

  “All of them?” Arnold asked, incredulous.

  Peggy nodded slowly. “The British will pay twenty thousand pounds upon completion of the transaction. You, my husband, shall get a general’s commission in the British Army in exchange for arranging the surrender of West Point to the British under General Henry Clinton.”

  Clara nearly overturned the bucket of sudsy water.

  “Benny.” Peggy reached for his thick, rough hand. “Benny, we did it!”

  “Peggy.” Arnold looked at his wife, bringing the wine to his lips but lowering the carafe without taking a sip.

  “Yes, Benny? Why do you look at me like that?”

  “Peggy, it’s settled.”

  “It’s settled!” She hugged him close and he kissed her. Clara rose to leave the room.

  “But, Peg.” Arnold pulled away. “I don’t know. It feels . . .”

  “What?” Peggy’s voice was irritated. “It feels what, Benedict?”

  “It feels wrong, somehow.”

  “We are not backing out now, Benedict Arnold.”

  Her husband turned away from Peggy’s stare, stroking his whiskers.

  “Benedict, we’ve gone too far down this path to lose our resolve now. Here, take some more wine, it will give you courage.”

  “Courage? Courage, you say? I’ve faced death itself on the battlefield. I’ve watched as a surgeon carved a bullet from my knee.” Arnold turned to his wife, stung. “I don’t need courage, Peggy.”

  “I know that, I know.” Peggy ran her fingers through his graying hair in an effort to assuage him.

  “It is a loss of honor that I worry about,” Arnold fumed, shrugging off her attentions.

  “It is not you who has surrendered honor, Benny.” Peggy scooted her body closer and tugged on her husband so that he lay beside her on the bed. “Benny,” she cooed, her tone more intoxicating than the wine they had nearly finished. “We must follow this through. We must do it—for our sons.”