The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

  “You are too liberal with your compliments, sir.” Peggy smiled at the compliment and managed a perfectly timed blush.

  “Not so, Mrs. Arnold. Am I not correct, lads? Are not these peaches delectable?” Washington looked around at his men, inspiring a chorus of agreement. “Or perhaps our meal is sweetened by the company.”

  “General Washington, I had no idea you were a flirt.” Peggy spoke to him as if it were just the two of them, and Clara could see that her lady’s spirits had lifted noticeably under his attentions.

  “Oh, terrible flirt,” Washington answered, mouth full. “I love the society of women, love to dance, love to play jokes. It is the only diversion that can truly soften a man after the sights of war.” Washington winked at Peggy, a boyish mischief glimmering in his pale blue eyes.

  “In that case, you must find the separation from Mrs. Washington very taxing?” Peggy was moving her food around on her plate but barely eating.

  “Indeed.” Washington rested his fork on his plate and took his chin in his hands, thinking his answer over. “I miss my wife dearly. She is my best friend and closest confidante. I urge Martha to join us at camp whenever it’s possible.”

  “I read that she’s spent every winter with you since the war broke out. What a strong woman she must be,” Peggy said, sipping her tea. “To pass on the comforts of Mount Vernon to encamp with you and your men.”

  “She is a strong little lady.” Washington smiled. “Though I suppose she’d have to be, putting up with me. But it’s the Marquis here who is farthest from his wife.” Washington pointed with his fork at his aide. “And Hamilton is engaged.”

  “Is that so?” Peggy turned to Hamilton, who nodded. “Well, congratulations, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “If I may be so bold”—Hamilton straightened his posture—“Mrs. Arnold, your husband has the best post in the army, because it allows him to carry out his duties while also remaining with you.”

  “Well, Mr. Hamilton, my husband would gladly give up this comfortable post for one that drew him out to the battlefield with the rest of you, but his leg injuries suffered at Saratoga and the Canadian campaign make that impossible,” Peggy said, an edge now apparent in her voice.

  Hamilton’s face flushed a deep shade of crimson. “Of course, I meant no disrespect to General Arnold. I simply meant to say—”

  Washington interjected. “I know that Alexander, like all of us, appreciates the heavy sacrifice which your husband so selflessly made on behalf of these colonies.”

  Peggy nodded. “Yes, I’m sure he does.”

  “Why, Arnold once shot his own horse out from under him in retreat to prevent the Brits from getting the beast,” Washington spoke, before erupting into appreciative laughter. “What a man Benedict Arnold is!”

  “After the Battle of Norwalk, that’s right.” Peggy nodded, smiling with tight lips.

  “No one questions your husband’s valor,” Hamilton insisted. “I simply meant that, any man who lives with you, occupies a most fortunate post.”

  “I understand your point now, Mr. Hamilton.” Peggy looked at the dark-haired man. “Now, who needs more ale?”

  Clara rounded the table, refilling each ale mug that was offered to her. As they grew full on food and beer, their chatter grew boisterous and merry, each of them vying for their hostess’s attention. Peggy managed to dole out her charms liberally, blossoming like a tulip under the sunshine of male flattery. Washington, it seemed to Clara, liked to laugh loudly and often, and his aide Alexander Hamilton appeared well-practiced in provoking his good cheer.

  When the platters of food had been scraped of their last morsels, Clara returned to the kitchen. “Mrs. Quigley, they need more ale—” Clara rounded the corner into the kitchen, but stopped short when she saw them. A man Clara had never seen before sat at the table, struggling through labored breath to drain a mug himself. Mr. and Mrs. Quigley looked down at the man, their faces white. The man was dressed in the colonial military uniform, with a tri-cornered hat, a musket around his midsection and a tattered, navy coat. He did not look up when Clara entered the kitchen.

  “Clara.” Mrs. Quigley looked to her, shifting the baby on her hip. “Here’s a messenger come for General Washington. From south of the river.”

  Clara’s heartbeat hammered in her throat at the announcement. “Are you from North Castle Fort?” she asked, but she already knew his answer.

  “Aye.” The messenger drained his final sips of ale and looked up at Clara for the first time. His face was rosy and rutted with a travel-weary expression. “Hell of a time finding General Washington, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He spoke like a backwoodsman. “They sent me up from North Castle to find him in Danbury, Connecticut. Only, by the time I got there, Washington had departed for West Point. I took the low road, thinking I’d catch up to him on his way ’ere, but he came by the upper road, through Fishkill.”

  “They have just finished breakfast,” Clara told Mrs. Quigley. Turning back to the messenger, she said, “I’ll take you in to see him.” Clara left the kitchen with this windswept man on her heels. So, the hour had come.

  In the dining room, the Marquis de Lafayette was making a joke about Mother Nature’s gift for forming perfect, round circles, and it wasn’t clear whether he was talking about Mrs. Arnold’s peaches or her famous figure. Washington roared with laughter while Peggy feigned modest embarrassment. Her smile, however, told the men that they had not offended her in the slightest.

  Clara stood at the threshold of the dining room. “Mrs. Arnold.” She looked to her mistress. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, there’s a messenger here for General Washington.” Clara could have told her mistress in private, thereby delaying—or even thwarting—the messenger and his news, but she was certain to speak loud enough so that Washington himself would hear.

  Peggy, who had been serving spoonfuls of peaches, could have seared a coal-hot scar into Clara’s skin with the intensity of her gaze. “Not now, Clara, the general is enjoying breakfast. All correspondences shall wait until we’ve finished.” Peggy turned from Clara and resumed scooping the peaches, as if to put the matter to rest.

  “If you please, ma’am.” Clara remained in the room. “This messenger says it is of a very urgent nature.”

  Peggy fixed her eyes on Clara and the maid detected a momentary, barely perceptible look of panic. But, aware that the whole party was watching, Peggy simply smiled and nodded her head. “Thank you, Clara.” Her eyes said: you shall pay for this later. But Peggy continued: “Tell this messenger to come in, please. If there’s an urgent message for General Washington, then of course he must have it.” Peggy’s voice was smooth like syrup, her face now betraying not the slightest concern. “More perfectly round peaches, Monsieur le Marquis?” Peggy cooed, and the men laughed.

  Clara stepped aside to allow the entry of the ragged messenger. The men, accustomed to soldiers like him, took little note of his untidy uniform. It was Peggy who seemed to study his appearance with special interest—his jacket had the same dusty and mud-matted look of the earlier messenger from North Castle. On his face he wore the harried and exhausted expression worn by the man who had delivered the fateful message to Arnold hours earlier.

  “More ale for the men, Clara,” Peggy said, averting her eyes as the messenger hurried to Washington with a packet of parcels. Her heart must have been beating as quickly as Clara’s was, but her pale face was as calm as a pool of still water.

  “Where do you come from?” Washington turned to the man, pushing his massive frame back from the table.

  “North Castle, sir,” the messenger replied. “On an urgent errand from Colonel Jameson, Your Excellency.”

  “What is Jameson up to that can’t wait until I’ve finished savoring Mrs. Arnold’s peaches?” Washington quipped good-naturedly, but he took the envelope from the man’s hands.

  It seemed as though Washington held the sealed envelope for an eternity. “Really, though, Mrs. Arnold, I shall have to tel
l Thomas Jefferson that he could learn a thing from you. He fancies himself quite a farmer.”

  Clara swallowed hard as Peggy forced out a short snap of a laugh. At last Washington broke the seal and pried open the fold, turning to Peggy. “You and your husband shall have to come visit me in Virginia. I have my own orchard as well.”

  Peggy let out another short, labored laugh, trying not to look at the letter, now resting open in Washington’s hands. The general took a slow sip of tea before he lowered his eyes and focused on the cache of papers.

  “Let’s see what we have here.” He lifted the parchment in front of him. The room was silent, all conversations put on hold until the senior commander finished reading. The paper concealed Washington’s face from view, so that none of them could gauge his reaction to the words he was reading—words that both Clara and Peggy already guessed. Clara noticed how the letter began to quaver like a windblown leaf in Washington’s large, strong hands. Then the paper lowered. Washington lifted his eyes, peering over the top edge of the parchment, his face drained of color.

  Ignoring Peggy for the first time all morning, Washington stared into the eyes of Hamilton. “He has betrayed us. Benedict Arnold has betrayed us.” He said it with quiet incredulity.

  No one in the room spoke, but they all stared at Washington with questioning silence.

  Washington looked once more at the letter. “If not him, then in whom can we trust?”

  Clara’s eyes joined the gaze of all the others in the room as she turned to stare intently into the beautiful face of her mistress.

  “IT CAN’T be! How could he have done this to me?”

  Clara watched, horror-struck, as Peggy shrieked these words over and over again. Around the table, the men rose to their feet, their gazes alert as they awaited Washington’s orders.

  “How could he have done this to me?” Peggy was flailing her arms wildly, tearing at her hair as she sobbed. “He might as well have killed me.” Peggy pulled on the collar of her soft linen dress, tugging at it as if she had difficulty breathing. She pawed it so wildly that Clara watched, in horror, as she shredded her gown down the middle.

  Washington looked from Peggy to Hamilton in dismay as Peggy’s body slid from her chair and she collapsed into a sobbing heap on the floor. Clara could do nothing but stare at the scene in paralyzed bewilderment, wondering if this was genuine hysteria or Peggy’s best performance yet.

  “How could he do this to me?” Peggy’s whole body quaked as a stream of tears ran down her red cheeks. “I will be hanged now, simply for being the traitor’s wife!”

  “Please, Mrs. Arnold.” Washington’s face was stricken. He walked toward her, but she began to swing her hands violently so that he looked afraid to move any closer.

  “It can’t be!” Peggy’s hair had come loose now, and it flew around her face as she wrung her arms, tugging on the fraying fabric of her gown.

  “Alexander, please, help me.” Washington approached Peggy from the right, Hamilton from the left, and the two of them gripped her arms as she struggled, in vain, to wrestle them off.

  “I won’t let you kill my child,” Peggy snarled, raising two fists into the air as if she would fight. She swung one threateningly toward Hamilton’s face, but the Marquis stepped in and helped them stay her hands.

  “Please, Mrs. Arnold, you have gone mad!” Washington spoke firmly, but to no avail. After several minutes of struggling against the strength of the three men, Peggy gave up, surrendering into an unresponsive, sobbing heap.

  “I am ruined,” she whimpered. Washington patted her head in a paternal gesture as she cried into his broad chest. Had the men not been propping her up, she would have fallen backward on the floor, but instead she fell into Hamilton’s arms.

  “Oh.” Peggy’s body shook under the exertion of one final sob before her eyes shut.

  “Good gracious.” Hamilton looked down at Peggy. “Is . . . is she dead?” Hamilton turned to Washington, his mouth agape.

  “No, fainted,” Washington answered, removing his coat to cover Peggy’s torn dress. “Hamilton, take Mrs. Arnold upstairs and put her in bed. You, miss”—Washington looked directly at Clara—“will you please sit with Mrs. Arnold until she wakes? When she does, tell me immediately. The rest of you men, outside with me, now. We will discuss our plans for Arnold.”

  Hamilton scooped Peggy up and climbed the stairs with Clara following behind. “Please, direct my way,” Hamilton called back to Clara, who pointed him toward the Arnolds’ bedroom. As Hamilton reached the top of the stairs, Peggy’s head fell back. For just an instant, Peggy’s eyes opened, and Clara would have sworn that her mistress flashed a devilish glance at her maid. But before Clara could be certain, Peggy’s eyes were shut again.

  Hamilton entered the bedchamber and eased his hostess onto the bed. Peggy awoke almost as soon as she was deposited there, and immediately resumed her protestations. She saw Hamilton and Clara hovering over her bedside and looked at them, her eyes narrowed. “Stay back, you demons,” Peggy shrieked, peeling Washington’s coat off her as if it bore a contagious plague in its threads. Hurling it at Hamilton, she continued her tirade: “They are going to kill me and my son.” Peggy kicked off the bedsheet that Hamilton had placed over her. “I will not let you kill my son,” she hissed.

  “Please, Mrs. Arnold . . .” Hamilton looked helplessly at Clara, who had no answer for him.

  “Do not come any closer to me, you murderer!” Peggy fumed, her eyes listless as she glanced around the room.

  “No one seeks to do you any harm, Mrs. Arnold.” Alexander stood a ways back from the bed. “Please, it is I, Alexander Hamilton. And—” Hamilton turned to Clara.

  “And Clara,” the maid answered.

  “I won’t speak to either of you,” Peggy cried. “I want to speak to Washington!”

  Hamilton sighed. “Better go get him,” Hamilton turned to Clara. The maid nodded and descended the stairs. As she walked, she heard Hamilton endeavoring unsuccessfully to calm his hysterical hostess.

  Clara found Washington outside, encircled by his men as he delivered orders.

  “General Washington, sir.” Clara hovered on the porch. “Mrs. Arnold is awake, and is requesting you.”

  “Take me to her.” Washington told his men to await his further instructions and followed Clara back up to the bedroom.

  “Here he comes. I can hear him now. Listen.” Hamilton was still at Peggy’s bedside, attempting to mollify her.

  Washington followed Clara. “Mrs. Arnold.” He paused in her doorway. Peggy, seeing Washington’s frame upon her threshold, let out a wail and devolved into fresh hysterics.

  “No! That is not Washington! That is the man who is going to help them murder my child,” Peggy screamed, kicking her legs furiously in the bed.

  “You’d better go, sir.” Hamilton rushed at Washington, ushering him out of the room. “She is possessed of a fury!”

  “We mustn’t let her harm herself.” Washington stared at Peggy with a look of genuine pity. “She is clearly a victim in all of this, more distressed than even we are.”

  “Of course, sir,” Hamilton agreed. Lowering his voice, he addressed his commander. “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, how do you know that Arnold has betrayed us?”

  Washington hunched over, beckoning Hamilton close. Leaning toward his aide, Washington whispered so that Peggy would not hear from the bed. “They’ve found a redcoat spy, a Major John Anderson, trying to cross over into British lines near Tarrytown. He was picked up by some colonial men. Anderson was carrying maps, troop lists, and top-secret information in his boot. Who could have possibly given him that?”

  Hamilton stammered. “Arnold was planning to give him—this Anderson fellow—control of West Point?”

  Washington’s face was heavy with grief. “What’s worse—this Anderson carried a pass signed by Arnold, granting him access back over into British lines. He was dressed in plain clothes, and he came damn close to slipping back out, bu
t there was an informal patrol waiting for him. It was miraculous that these men happened to be out and had the wit to question Anderson.”

  Clara’s heart leapt with joy. Caleb! He had received her messages after all.

  “Benedict Arnold is not at West Point preparing a reception for us—Benedict Arnold is fleeing down the river to the British,” Washington said, his earlier good humor gone.

  Hamilton’s eyes burned in anger as he understood the situation. “We must catch him.” The aide stood up straight. “We must ride south and catch him before he can reach safety, that traitor.”

  “Lower your voice, Hamilton,” Washington placed a paternal arm on his aide’s shoulder. “We don’t want Mrs. Arnold to hear this. She already suffers enough. She need not know the full extent of her husband’s villainy.”

  “That is right, sir,” Hamilton nodded. “We should shield her however we can. Lord knows she’s been through enough, and will go through even more if her spy of a husband is apprehended.”

  “That is the matter at hand right now. We must apprehend Arnold,” Washington spoke with determination in his voice. “You and Lafayette, saddle up and ride south. Bring however many men you need to take Arnold down. I will go with the rest of the men across the river to ensure that West Point is prepared. If Arnold intends to lead the British up the river to attack West Point, we will be ready for him.”

  THE ARNOLD home had been transformed from the site of a cordial country breakfast party to a military headquarters, and the base for Washington’s defense of West Point. Having the colonial commander under the same roof was both a thrill and an unaccustomed comfort for Clara—no matter what happened now, she knew that Washington was in charge. The tyranny of Peggy Arnold had ceased. Nevertheless, Clara spent most of the following day with her mistress, sitting beside her bed as Washington had ordered. Peggy was still too distressed, she said, to rise from bed, and would see no visitors. Except Clara. So, Clara was forced to remain in the secluded bedroom.