The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  Neither our interests nor our offers have changed.

  Your humble servant,

  Anderson

  “Well,” Peggy said, self-satisfied, as she spread cheese on a piece of bread. “Didn’t I say so?” She grinned. “I quite like him calling us ‘Sir’ and ‘Lady.’ ”

  Arnold studied the letter. “Well, no, Mr. Anderson. We had not heard that you were fired upon.”

  Peggy snatched the letter from her husband’s hands and perused the message herself. “Well, Benny, everything looks to be in order. Thank God! The thought of returning to that tiny cottage in Philadelphia.” Peggy shuddered. Just then, Clara heard footsteps.

  “Someone’s coming.” Peggy pulled the letter onto her lap and out of sight as the door to the dining room opened.

  “Franks!” Arnold rose, greeting his aide cordially as he entered the sunny room.

  “General Arnold, Mrs. Arnold, good morning.” The aide removed his cap and bowed to them.

  “You always have a knack for showing up at breakfast time, my good man,” Arnold roared. “I do not think it’s coincidental. Please, join us.” Arnold offered a chair to Franks. “Coffee?”

  “If you please.” The aide nodded, sitting down between them at the table. Clara poured him his coffee the way he always took it, black.

  “We’ve just received news this morning from General Washington himself.” Franks served himself a thick piece of smoked trout.

  “Indeed? And how is the old giant?” Arnold rapped the table as if delighted to hear it.

  “Very well, from the sound of it. He sends his regards to you, of course, Major General.” Franks beamed with pride at being able to deliver such flattery to his superior. “General Washington plans to come here in a few weeks’ time. Around the morning of the twenty-fourth. He’s asked if he might stay with you while he visits West Point.”

  Peggy dropped her fork, causing it to clamor to the floor. Franks looked at her. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Mrs. Arnold.”

  “No, no.” Peggy reached down for her dropped silverware. When she came back up to the table, her face was a mask of composure. “No, you haven’t at all, Major Franks. It’s just that, well, I’m so delighted that the general wishes to stay with us.”

  “It’s an honor indeed.” Franks concurred, taking a satisfied slurp of his black coffee. “He intends to inspect West Point. So, General Arnold, you and I have our work cut out for us the next few weeks.”

  “We most certainly do,” Peggy agreed.

  Franks threw a quizzical glance in her direction before turning back to his plate. He did not notice that the Arnolds seemed to have lost their appetites, but Clara did. When he’d finished his meat and was serving himself seconds, Franks spoke.

  “So, have you heard the big news this morning, General?” Franks wiped his mouth with the tablecloth. “A British warship by the name of the HMS Vulture was fired on overnight. Down around Tarrytown. They’re not sure what it was doing venturing so close to our lines.”

  “Ah, yes, I did hear that.” Arnold nodded, his face taking on a countenance of deep concern. “Damn redcoats, trying to test our mettle?”

  “Appears so,” Franks answered. “Who gave you the account? I wonder if it was similar to what I heard.” Franks turned to his boss.

  “Oh, I just heard from a source. I’ve got spies all through these woods working for us. I can’t reveal their names. You understand, Franks.” Arnold winked conspiratorially.

  “Of course,” the aide answered obsequiously.

  “Good man.” Arnold smiled at his attendant.

  “Seems the Vulture slipped back behind British lines unscathed in the early morning,” Franks continued. “Probably some of Clinton’s men up from New York City.”

  “Aye, the sneaky lobsterbacks,” Arnold agreed. “No matter. We’ll get them next time, won’t we, Franks?”

  “We certainly will, sir,” Franks agreed. “What a ghastly name for a ship carrying a bunch of redcoats, nay? The Vulture. I get chills just thinking about it.”

  They ate on in silence. Clara noticed that her mistress was merely moving the food around on her plate.

  Franks broke the silence. “General Arnold, there’s one more thing. I am hesitant to raise the issue with you, but I do feel that you should know what is being said by some of the men.”

  Arnold ceased cutting his meat and looked at his aide. Clara’s back stiffened, and she was certain that Peggy and Arnold felt panic.

  “You’d like to hear what some people are claiming, would you not?” Franks asked again.

  “Of course.” Arnold lowered his silverware to the plate, his face ashen.

  “It’s some . . . complaint . . . that a number of the men around here are making about you.” Franks looked down at his plate. Peggy reached for her husband’s hand.

  “What is it, Franks?” Arnold’s voice was hoarse, quiet, as he took his wife’s hand in his.

  “They say that you—” Franks paused.

  “Yes? Tell me, Franks.”

  “Well, they say that you . . .” Again the aide lost his resolve to make the accusation.

  “Out with it, man!” Arnold roared. Peggy gasped, putting her hand over her heart.

  Finally, Franks spoke. “They say that your eating habits are not what they should be.”

  Arnold and Peggy looked at each other, erupting in relieved laughter. “Is that all?” Arnold pounded the table with his fist. “My eating habits! That is what they are complaining about?”

  “Well, yes.” Franks looked on uneasily, apparently unsure of the comedy of his statement. “You see, your men are starving. And they hear that you and your”—he looked at Peggy—“family . . . are eating meat and potatoes and butter at every meal.” The aide looked guiltily at the breakfast spread from which he had just partaken.

  “They say that you should not be keeping an entire milk cow for yourself. That the milk cow is intended to provide milk and cheese for the men over at the fort.”

  Clara tripped at the name. Milk Cow. Her code word with Caleb for George Washington. But then she calmed herself, believing that Franks merely meant the cow in the stable from where the Arnolds got their milk, butter, and cheese.

  “It wouldn’t be the Continental Army without some form of slander flying against my name.” Arnold sloshed his coffee around in his cup. “What else do they say, Franks?”

  “Well, it’s quite serious, sir,” Franks answered. “They say that your habits are causing some of the soldiers to go without.”

  “What do they expect me to do?”

  Again Franks looked at the full table before them. “They say that a true officer should be eating salt cod and root vegetables at every meal. Like they are. Like . . . er, like General Washington does.”

  Arnold took his napkin out of his collar and slammed it on the table, causing his startled aide to jump back from the table. “Do they demand that General Washington and the others surrender the use of their legs, as I have? Or their personal fortunes?”

  The aide offered no response to this.

  “I am the general here, Franks, lest you forget. A rank which I have earned with my blood and my fortune. And if my wife wants fresh milk and cheese, she will have it.”

  “Thank you, Benny.” Peggy glowered at Franks as she bit into her buttered bread.

  “Do you understand?” Arnold leaned toward Franks, bellowing. “Do you understand?”

  “I do, sir.” The aide blanched.

  “You may go now, Major Franks.” The aide did not need to be told twice. Franks hopped up from the table, leaving his plate full, and crossed the room in two strides.

  Once the door had shut behind Franks, the two conspirators sat alone in silence. Peggy eyed her husband, waiting for him to speak. He did not, but simply turned his attention back to finishing off the last of his beef and ale. Peggy sipped her wine and Clara retreated farther into the corner of the room.

  Finally, Arnold broke the silence.
“Some nerve that man has, coming here and eating from my table.”

  “While insulting how your acquire the very same food you feed him.” Peggy shook her head, sipping her wine.

  “But did you hear what he said before that?” Arnold arched his brows. “It appears, my dear, that we may have just reeled in the biggest fish of them all.” Arnold turned to his wife, his cheeks flushed and rosy.

  Peggy turned to him, as if ready to burst. “Benny, you heard him. Washington wants to come here!”

  “At last fate seems to smile upon us.” Arnold stroked his gray whiskers.

  “Benny.” Peggy rose from her chair and moved to her husband’s lap. “There will be no denying us a title when we deliver Washington!”

  Arnold thought this over, eventually nodding. “You are quite right.”

  “André had asked us if our conditions had changed.” Peggy gasped. “They have.”

  “Yes, I would say they have.” Arnold gnawed on his lower lip, his face fixed with determination.

  “Imagine us, turning over the leader of the Continental Army.” Peggy’s calm, cool tone caused the flesh on Clara’s neck to prickle.

  Arnold wrapped his arms tighter around his wife’s waist, his eyes ablaze. “More milk in your coffee, Lady Arnold?”

  Peggy looked back into her husband’s eyes, her expression gloating. He would give her the life she had always longed for, after all. “Please, my Lord Benedict. Let’s put that milk cow to work—otherwise, what would your men gossip about?”

  “Oh, I think we’ll give them something to gossip about soon enough, Peg.”

  Peggy giggled as her husband filled her cup to the brim, allowing it to spill over onto the white tablecloth.

  CLARA WAS frantic. Still, she managed to work all day without her mistress noticing her distraction. When at last she had the kitchen to herself that evening, she wrote Cal.

  Cal,

  Much news to report. The meeting did not occur. The “coq” did not show, and you’ve likely deduced by now that his was the vessel spotted last night.

  It’s been rescheduled—down the river, just north of the line on the 22nd. Coq will come by water and they will rendezvous at the home of Joshua Hett Smith.

  I will try my best to find an excuse to be included on this excursion, so that I may inform you of all the details. If I deem it safe, I will leave a note for you at the home.

  Cal, can you take action with this news? If not, I fear that the milk cow might be in danger.

  Clara Bell

  CLARA SENT the letter the next day, handing it to Franks on his way out of the house without the Arnolds seeing. “If you could post this on my behalf.” Clara leaned in, an exaggerated look of supplication on her face. “Please, Major Franks, it’s for a gent.” Clara lowered her eyes and a well-timed blush made the obsequious aide certain that the pretty maid’s very happiness rested in his hands.

  “I’d be happy to help you, Miss Bell. You can rest assured of my discretion.”

  All of that long, anxious week, she waited, seeking out the mail each morning, but no reply came. Meanwhile, it was perhaps her imagination, but Clara felt a gnawing suspicion that Miss Peggy was watching her even closer than usual. Her hawkish eyes seemed to keep Clara under their surveillance at all times. Did she suspect Clara? Would Clara be able to snatch away Cal’s letter before Miss Peggy knew of its existence? But the week progressed, and still no letter came.

  “Good gracious, girl, what are you waiting for?” Mrs. Quigley grew irritated at Clara as she lingered in the kitchen each morning, asking if that day’s post had arrived. “You look as though you’re expecting a letter from General George Washington himself.”

  No, Clara thought to herself. But nearly as important.

  September marched on, and all around them it seemed that the world was preparing for the arrival of General Washington. Major Franks and a stream of officers rode in daily from West Point, carrying maps and lists of troop numbers and plans for the fortifications and improvements at the camp. Arnold no longer simply feigned interest as he pored over the documents and listened to the briefings. Now he spent his days studying maps, asking questions, dispatching messengers across the river. His men, delighted by their commander’s heightened interest in the fort, dispatched every one of his orders dutifully.

  MEANWHILE, INSIDE the Arnold home, Peggy was preparing for the meeting with André.

  At the insistence of his wife, Arnold wrote André to tell him that their terms had in fact changed; the news of Washington’s coming visit gave the Arnolds even greater power. At the meeting at Smith’s, Arnold would turn over to André the plans and papers on West Point, which he had spent the month collecting. In return, André would deliver him a pouch of six thousand pounds. Once the fort was surrendered to the British, at the end of a highly unequal battle, Arnold would receive the remaining fourteen thousand pounds in silver he’d demanded. If Washington happened to be trapped in the battle, the Arnolds had every reason to expect an invitation into the ranks of the British nobility.

  “If we can deliver the biggest fish of them all—” Arnold started, allowing his wife to finish his thought.

  “Then this time next year, we shall be dining with King George the Third, as Lord and Lady Arnold.”

  CLARA, HAVING heard no reply from Caleb, still had to find a way to join the expedition. As the days dwindled, Clara struggled to plant this idea. Finally, on the eve of their trip, she tried her luck.

  “Clara Bell.” Arnold sat beside his wife on the porch, the two of them watching the sun slip behind West Point as dusk settled over the yard.

  “Hello, General, Mrs. Arnold.” Clara nodded to each one in turn, delivering the jug of ale that they had requested. “The river looks nice tonight, does it not?”

  “Is Little Eddy asleep?” Peggy asked, ignoring her maid’s small talk.

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  “The river does look nice,” Arnold replied more good-naturedly, accepting his mug.

  “Let’s hope that it stays calm.” Clara kept her eyes only on Arnold.

  “At least until tomorrow,” he added, sipping his drink. “You know, Clara, that Mrs. Arnold and I will be setting off down the river tomorrow night? On business.”

  “Aye, sir.” Clara nodded. Of course she knew. “Such a long journey to make twice in such a short time. The rowing must get very tiresome. I hope you know that if you require assistance, I would gladly come to help with the labor.”

  Clara floated the idea, knowing that Arnold would never accept the offer. But she hoped that it might give rise to another idea.

  “Ha! Rowing? You?” Peggy reacted as Clara had guessed she would.

  “It’s kind of you, Clara.” Arnold smiled. “But I can’t ask you to row a boat.”

  “Understood.” Clara nodded, looking down the river toward the south. “Besides, I’d just be a distraction once I got there. They’d probably wonder why General Arnold brought two women with him to the meeting.”

  Arnold looked up at her, his eyes alert. And then, looking out over the river, he began to stroke his whiskers. After several minutes, he spoke. “Perhaps it’s not a bad idea that you join us, Clara.”

  Peggy turned, glancing at her husband in shock. “What are you saying, Benedict? Absolutely not.”

  “Perhaps Clara should accompany us down the river.” Arnold still stared out at the Hudson.

  “Why would she come? She has no cause joining us, Benedict.”

  “Peggy, you understand well the need to distract Smith. The last time around, he seemed adamant that he would join me when André arrived. I’ll need to present a serious diversion to keep him occupied. The only thing more disarming than a beautiful woman,” Arnold continued, looking between the two ladies, “is two beautiful women. We could dress Clara up as your sister.”

  “Absolutely not.” Peggy shook her head in slow determination. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Come now, Peg. Think about it: Smith is less l
ikely to wander off with you if it means it’s just him and another man’s wife; he’d think it indecent. If we hope to lure him away from my meeting with André, it would be helpful to have the two of you.”

  “I won’t have Clara masquerading as my sister.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Ha! Do you really think that Smith would believe the two of us could be sisters?”

  Arnold looked from his wife to Clara. “Yes, I think it could be quite plausible indeed.”

  Peggy gestured between the two women. “Look at the difference between us—I’m a lady, she’s a maid.”

  “But the only difference is in the clothing, really.” Arnold ignored, or didn’t notice, the irate look on his wife’s face. “And we will do one of those hairstyles . . . puffs . . . or whatever you call them.” Arnold waved his hands vaguely around his head.

  “Poufs!” Peggy snapped.

  “Right. Well, we shall dress her up like you. The two of you, side by side, will be the perfect duo to distract our oblivious host. You’ll play cards, and dance with him, and ply him with wine. And once he’s sufficiently enamored of you both, André and I will slip away to discuss the matters at hand.”

  “LET’S GET this over with.” Peggy reluctantly marched Clara to her wardrobe and stared inside. “He wants us to look alike, so you’ll need something pink.” Peggy winced, putting her hand to her waist. Peggy was already dressed in her outfit for the evening’s journey. “Goodness, these stays are tight.” She looked through the parade of dresses. “You can’t wear the magenta, because it’s too nice. I don’t want you wearing the silk one in light pink, it’s too similar to mine. You’ll wear this one.” Peggy pulled out a dress of peach-colored taffeta. It may have been her least favorite gown in the pink hue, but it was likely the most beautiful dress Clara would ever wear.

  It was strange. Dressing in this fine clothing after she’d spent years cleaning and mending these dresses. Clara obeyed, silently, as Peggy slid her into a shift, then a corset, followed by a wide hoopskirt, and finally the restrictive stays. How Peggy wore this bone corset every day, Clara could not understand, and it gave her some small insight into why Peggy was always so irritable. Clara had never been so immodestly poked, tugged, and yanked. Finally, once the undergarments were firmly in place, she slithered into the peach-colored taffeta. The gown felt like cool, smooth water running over her skin. As she watched the fabric sway, catching the light so that it reflected a faint shimmer of evening sunshine, Clara couldn’t help but admire the figure she cut in the mirror.