The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  “Yes, of course.” Clara nodded, rolling her sleeves up to her elbows. “And then for Mr. Hamilton and the rest of the aides we’ll make beds on the sofa and the floor in the parlor.”

  “How terrible, asking these men to sleep on the floor.” Mrs. Quigley sighed, shaking her head. “I suppose we could give the Hamilton gentleman the nursery and you could bring Little Eddy in here with you.”

  “Ma’am, they’ve slept on much worse, including the frozen ground of Valley Forge. I’d guess that a soft sofa under a wooden roof will be a welcome luxury.”

  “Fine.” Mrs. Quigley nodded. “So the beds are set. You’ll have to bring them each a pitcher of water, but you can do that later. And I’ll have my husband make sure to stack the fireplaces with fresh logs. Though it’s so warm I can’t imagine they’ll want a fire.”

  “Right,” Clara agreed politely.

  “And they’ll all want fresh candles, and probably fresh paper and ink to write letters.”

  “I’ll see to that.” Clara made a mental note to pull these items from the storeroom.

  Mrs. Quigley ran through her plans aloud. “My husband will handle their horses when they arrive.”

  “And General Arnold and Mrs. Arnold will be on hand to greet them. We will have breakfast ready for them,” Clara concluded. But who will be on hand to stop the treason?

  Mrs. Quigley’s brow furrowed. “Lord help me, this meal will never be ready. And we need to help the missus dress, and feed Little Eddy.”

  “There now, Mrs. Quigley. I will help with the mistress and Little Eddy. Everything will be well.”

  But Clara was lying and she was certain her face said so. Everything was very far from well. These small worries like breakfast and clean bed linens would prove moot if the Arnolds had their way. Had Caleb even received her message about André’s visit? If so, it was strange that he had not answered. Were men waiting down the river to apprehend Major André? The man was, at that very moment, somewhere in No Man’s Land bearing the top-secret documents that General Arnold had given him. Each second that passed, the spy was closer to General Clinton and the British. In his possession, André had the means to capture not only West Point but also the three thousand colonial men currently stationed there. Also in André’s possession was the knowledge that Washington, and his entire military party, were bearing down on the Arnolds’ home, and that the commander of the entire army would be sleeping tonight within easy striking distance of British gunships and regiments that would soon be marching north to reclaim this stretch of the Hudson. Clara saw all of these pieces moving together and had no idea how they could possibly end in anything short of calamity.

  “Clara, have you gone deaf?”

  Clara snapped back to the present moment: the hot kitchen, the disgruntled housekeeper.

  “I said your lady will want some of these peaches. Might want to take them up to Miss Peggy in bed.”

  Clara stared at the bowl of ripe fruit. “Ah, yes. Of course.”

  “Clara, you’ll give yourself the brow of a woman with twice your years if you keep fretting so.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Just a daydream,” Clara responded, taking the small bowl from Mrs. Quigley.

  “No time for a daydream on a day such as this. Now see if you can dress her as quickly as possible—we’ll want her to be ready to greet them when they arrive.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Clara said. Walking up the stairs, she could not shake the feeling that her entire life, and the world around them, was about to crumble. She leaned against the wall of the narrow, dark stairway to steady herself. One thing and one thing only was for certain—today was the last day before everything changed; it was how that change would look that remained to be seen.

  Clara knocked on the bedroom door, pressing her ear to the wood to listen for a stirring within. “Mrs. Arnold?”

  “Come in,” came a chirp from the other side of the door. Clara turned the knob and entered to find Peggy, fresh-faced and smiling, sitting upright in bed. Her room was warm with morning sunlight, but she still rested beneath the white bed linens.

  “Good morning, Clara.” Peggy tugged on her muslin nightcap and shook her head gaily, allowing her blond curls to come cascading around her rosy cheeks. “What a glorious day, nay?” Peggy looked out the window.

  Clara entered the bedchamber.

  “You brought me peaches?” Peggy eyed the fruit.

  “I did, my lady.”

  Peggy yawned. “Is Little Eddy up yet?” She took the outstretched bowl of fruit in her hands.

  “Not yet, ma’am.” Clara pulled open the drapes and let the sunshine steep into the bedroom.

  “That makes one Arnold man still in bed. My husband has been up since before dawn.” Peggy nibbled on a peach, sucking the juices that slid down her fingers. “Didn’t sleep a wink last night and rowed over this morning to examine West Point. He’s nervous because Washington arrives this morning.” Peggy spoke to her maid as if Clara were deaf, or dumb, and hadn’t been privy to the planning and scheming of the past year. Even the past few days! Of course Clara knew why Benedict Arnold was nervous, and it didn’t have to do with whether General Washington would be satisfied with the breakfast he was served at the Arnolds’ home.

  Just then a low, distant sound—like a faint heartbeat—began to hum its way through the bedroom windows. Horse hooves. Clara crossed the room to look out the window, seeing a lone rider emerge from the post road.

  “What is it?” Peggy asked her maid.

  “There’s a rider approaching from the north,” Clara answered, watching the horse as it galloped across the Arnolds’ lawn. “The rider’s horse looks to be bearing the livery of General Washington.”

  “Good gracious.” Peggy fluttered her eyelashes. “Are they here already?”

  “No, ma’am. Looks like it’s just the one man,” Clara answered, still staring out the window as a dark-haired figure came into view. “Must be an advance member of the party.” She turned back to her mistress. “Mrs. Quigley is busy in the kitchen and Mr. Quigley is preparing the stables. I better go greet this visitor.” Clara grabbed the chamber pot and left her lady still in bed.

  Clara studied the man through the window before opening the front door. He was young, Clara noted, with a deep skin tone and a pleasing face. His wavy hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. He stood on the porch, having tied his horse to the front post. Clara noted that the horse did in fact bear the Washington family crest of the griffin, indicating that this man outside the house enjoyed a close relationship with their commander in chief. She opened the door.

  “Hello, miss.” The visitor bowed deeply, allowing Clara a moment to take in his appearance from up close. He wore a navy blue coat, white breeches, buckled boots and gold epaulettes on his shoulders. Slung across his chest was a musket. “I come with a verbal message from General George Washington for General and Mrs. Benedict Arnold.” The dark-haired man spoke with an accent altogether unfamiliar to Clara. It didn’t sound as if it originated in either Britain or the colonies.

  “Please, come inside, Mr.—”

  “The name’s Alexander Hamilton.” He smiled, his features bright from the exertion of the ride. This was the man from the West Indies, Clara realized. The young colonel who had won General Washington’s respect after his fighting in New Jersey.

  “Colonel Hamilton, it’s an honor to meet you.” Clara curtsied, her voice low.

  “Are the Arnolds available for the message?” Hamilton arched his eyebrows.

  “I’m afraid not at the moment, sir,” Clara answered. “Mrs. Arnold is still abed, and General Arnold has gone across the river on an errand to West Point.”

  Hamilton cocked his head, looking out over the Arnolds’ expansive lawn. “I’ll give the message to you, then. The general sends word that he has been delayed this morning, as he has stopped to examine the fortifications at Mount Fishkill. He expects to be several hours late to breakfast. And here is where the message gets esp
ecially salacious . . .” Hamilton paused, his thin lips spreading into a smile. “His Excellency, General Washington, wishes me to tell you that his men send their special apologies to Mrs. Peggy Arnold. They are more upset at the prospect of distressing the lady than of being tardy. General Washington believes that the men are all half in love with her.”

  Clara had to quell the urge to scowl as Colonel Hamilton smiled at her. She curtsied politely. “Thank you, sir. I shall deliver the message.” Hamilton nodded his thanks.

  “Colonel Hamilton, may I invite you in for tea as you await the remainder of your party?”

  “I thank you, but I am to ride back north to meet them.” Hamilton slid his hands back into their riding gloves and made to return to his horse. Taking the reins in his hand, he turned to Clara once more. She felt her heart lurch, her lips parted in a gasp. She had Hamilton alone; couldn’t she tell him all that she knew? Couldn’t she spare Washington, and all of them, from their ill-fated trip to this home? But before she had the courage to deliver the words, Hamilton smiled and said: “I fear it will have to be several hours for me as well before I can lay eyes on the famous Mrs. Arnold.”

  “WELL, MRS. Quigley, your wish has been granted.” Clara entered the kitchen. Her heart still racing from her failed attempt to warn Hamilton, she lowered herself into a chair. The housekeeper had been joined by her husband, and Mr. Quigley was rushing to load serving platters with cream, sliced peaches, sizzling bacon, and thick yellow butter. Mrs. Quigley stood beside her husband, kneading a mound of dough.

  “How so, girl?” Mrs. Quigley barely looked at Clara, her cheeks smeared in flour.

  “You have a couple hours longer to prepare. A gentleman from Washington’s party has just sent word that they will be a few hours late.”

  “Late?” Mrs. Quigley lamented. “Now the loaf will burn, the tea will oversteep, and the peaches will start to attract the flies.” Mrs. Quigley sulked under a cloud of flour but kept kneading the dough.

  “He’s the commander of the Continental Army.” Mr. Quigley fidgeted with the pewter buttons of his coat as he checked his reflection in the silver teapot. “I am sure he will have no difficulty facing down a few flies.”

  “I’m sure he will!” Mrs. Quigley mumbled. “Clara, you best go and inform the missus of the delay.”

  “Clara, who was that at the door?” Peggy sat up in bed when she saw her maid reenter the bedroom.

  “It was a Mr. Alexander Hamilton sending word that General Washington’s party is to arrive late.” Clara crossed the room and replaced the now emptied chamber pot. “Are you ready to dress, my lady?” Clara pulled the bedroom window open, letting in a breeze of fresh morning air.

  “He’s to arrive late? No bother,” Peggy answered merrily, still nibbling on the peaches in her lap.

  “Mr. Alexander Hamilton and General Washington both sent you their special apologies for the tardiness,” Clara said, trying not to clench her teeth.

  “Alexander Hamilton. I’ve heard of him,” Peggy answered. “He’s supposed to be quite handsome. Of course, no man looks truly dashing without the regimental redcoat of the . . .well, never mind.” Peggy turned to Clara, her eyes glimmering with girlish mischief.

  Clara averted her gaze, wishing Peggy would get out of bed so that she could change the linens while there was a lull in the morning’s activities.

  “Well, I suppose I shall dress,” Peggy yawned, stretching her arms overhead.

  There was a loud noise from downstairs as someone slammed the front door.

  “Benny, is that you?” Peggy slid out of the large bed and called out her bedroom door.

  “I’m back!” Arnold hollered up the stairs.

  “Where have you been?” Peggy called back to him.

  “Out on the river,” he answered her through the floorboards. “West Point is ready.”

  “But for what?” Peggy lifted an eyebrow and sniggered. Then, calling back to her husband, she answered: “I’m just finishing up dressing. Be right down.”

  Clara was staring into the wardrobe, helping her mistress determine which dress to wear, when she detected the second set of hooves. Barley heard it too, and began a round of wild barking. The window-rattling noise started faint but grew louder, more urgent, its tempo signaling a rapid approach. Peggy and Clara turned to each other, listening to the frenzied pace of the horse hooves clamoring like a drumbeat outside the open window.

  “Is Hamilton back? Did he forget something?” Peggy asked her maid. Clara crossed the room and looked through the open window. But this was not Hamilton returning.

  “No, my lady,” Clara answered, studying the small, hunched figure that approached, clinging to a black steed that looked as if it were racing to outrun the Apocalypse. “This is a new rider,” Clara said.

  “Another messenger? Goodness, we must be the busiest home on the Hudson this morning.” Peggy chuckled, tugging at the loose sleeves of her white linen nightdress. “Don’t they know we are set to receive Washington and his party for breakfast this morning? You’d think they could withhold these tedious errands for at least one day.” Peggy sighed, her face beautiful beneath the frame of her loose blond curls. “Better go see what they want.” Peggy gave Clara a nod, and her maid obeyed, leaving the bedroom to make her way down the narrow wooden staircase.

  “Scoot, Barley dog.” Clara edged the barking dog gently aside from the front door. From her perch on the front step, she shaded her eyes and stared up the road. The rider was not liveried in the general’s crest, and therefore not from Washington’s camp. He approached the house at alarming speed, urging his weary horse forward with the spurs of his dusty boots. Halting just feet in front of Clara, uniform filthy and hair matted with sweat, the man hopped down from the horse.

  “Can I help you?” Clara stood, sentry-like, before the front door to the farmhouse.

  “I need to speak with Major General Benedict Arnold.” The man, breathless, careened toward the house, the cloud of dust his horse had kicked up surrounding him like a shroud. “Take my horse, I must speak to the general!” Alarmed, Clara stepped down toward the horse, and the messenger did not wait for an invitation before he pushed his way through the door.

  Clara tied the horse quickly, listening to the commotion in the front of the house as the new visitor hollered Arnold’s name. “Where is Major General Benedict Arnold? Urgent message for Benedict Arnold from the south Hudson!”

  The south Hudson. Where André had been traveling. With her heart in her throat, Clara entered the home and waited at the threshold of the small parlor. She heard Arnold approaching, his telltale plodding on the wooden floor—lopsided, uneven—followed by a curt nod in her direction. “Thank you, Clara.” Then Arnold greeted the messenger, his gravelly voice courteous but stern with his subordinate.

  “What is your aim, man?” Arnold demanded. “Barging in on us like this on the morning we are to receive His Excellency George Washington, and with the lady of the house not yet arisen and dressed?”

  The dusty messenger made no apologies as he answered quickly.

  “I assure you, Major General, you will pardon my urgency when you see the message I’m now delivering to you. I was told to deliver it posthaste.” Arnold turned to Clara and she saw the concern rippling across his features.

  “Good heavens, where are you coming from?” Arnold asked.

  “North Castle Fort, down the Hudson. A day’s ride. I was dispatched two days ago by a Colonel John Jameson.”

  “And what is the crisis down there?” The alarm in Arnold’s voice was noticeable, even as Clara heard him endeavoring to remain calm.

  “A certain John Anderson has been apprehended while en route to New York. He had a pass signed in your name and a parcel of papers taken from under his stockings, which I think are of a very dangerous tendency.” The messenger struggled to calm his breath.

  When Arnold answered, his voice had a quiver that Clara had never before heard. “Papers? Well, where are the papers?
”

  “The papers have been sent to General Washington,” the messenger answered.

  Arnold took the smaller man by the collar, nearly lifting him from the floor as he growled into his face. “Washington?”

  “Aye.” The messenger hung like a limp fish on the end of the line, dangling a few inches off the ground.

  “Why did they not come to me?” Arnold demanded. “I am the commanding officer in these parts!”

  “Colonel Jameson’s orders, sir, are that they be sent directly to General Washington. We heard that he was in the area. I . . . I . . . can’t breathe. Please, sir!”

  Arnold dropped the man, allowing him to crumple into an unhappy heap on the wooden floor. But Arnold wasn’t done questioning him. “And does Washington have the papers yet?”

  “I do not know, sir.” The messenger pulled himself to his feet, his face still aggrieved from the rough treatment. “Another rider departed from Colonel Jameson’s command post at the same time I set out. I was to ride directly to you to give you word of the apprehension. The other rider was to give word to Washington and to deliver the papers to him, so that the general might find out from where the treachery originates.”

  After a long pause, her master spoke. “Give it here then.”

  The messenger transferred the letter to Arnold. A long, excruciating silence followed. Clara struggled to quiet her breath, her pounding heart, as Arnold read the message. Had Peggy overhead any of this? Clara wondered.

  “Somehow, sir, the spy obtained a pass with your signature on it.” The messenger broke the silence. Was he implying anything?

  Looking up from the paper, Arnold addressed the messenger. “This is high treason, and we will react immediately. Clara, run upstairs and fetch my quill and parchment. In fact, on second thought, I shall come with you. You, man, let me prepare my answer to your colonel. Meantime, go into the pantry for some water and bread. My servants will see to it that you are taken care of.” Arnold began limping away from the messenger before he’d completed his sentence.

  Clara turned and fled back up the stairwell, certain now that Arnold was right behind her. She heard her master’s gait, with its familiar lopsidedness, but with an urgency she hadn’t heard in years. She flew up the steps as he labored behind her, pulling his thick frame up the stairwell.