From her post, Clara heard doors opening and horses running to and from the house. She longed to see what was occurring. Had Arnold been caught? And what was to happen to West Point?
When the sun had dropped from its perch high in the sky, Clara decided that it was safe to take a break from her bedside vigil. Mrs. Quigley would likely be preparing supper for the men, and Clara would go seek out some food for herself and Miss Peggy.
“Miss Peggy,” Clara whispered into the bedroom, its corners illuminated by the sun’s slanted rays, “I shall go see about supper.”
“What is the point?” Peggy asked, surprising Clara with the crystalline clarity of her voice. “Why eat? Why live? We’ve failed.”
“Plenty to live for, madame. Perhaps you’d like me to bring Little Eddy up to you?” Clara suggested.
“I can’t bear to see the child. Not when his father has abandoned us like this.” Peggy turned her head, closing her eyes against the orange sun shining sideways into her bedchamber.
“Very well. I’ll still go and see about that food, nevertheless.” Clara rose and quit the room.
She slipped past the officers in the parlor and pushed the front door ajar, stepping out into the dusky yard for her first gasp of fresh air all day. To her left, the river was a placid ribbon of slow-flowing silver, emblazoned by the sun sinking behind the mountains of West Point.
Barley, having heard Clara exit the farmhouse, ran to her from the direction of the post road, tail wagging. “Poor pup.” Clara leaned down and stroked the coarse fur behind the animal’s ears. “You keep watch for your master, Barley, but he will not return.” The dog lapped a slobbery kiss onto the top of her hand as she pet him. “What shall become of you, Barley pup?”
Clara wondered the same for herself, for the Quigleys, for Little Eddy, for the whole household. How long would it be before Washington and his men departed? If they left having failed to apprehend Arnold, would they allow the traitor’s servants to make their own ways? But Peggy would never allow it. Which was precisely why Clara had taken steps to secure her own future.
She thought about Cal, guarding the woods, waiting for André to come out, and her loneliness began to gnaw at her, aching from within. She longed for him so deeply that she began to imagine him before her: there he was, crossing the yard, his right hand removing his tricornered hat to reveal his wavy, honey-colored hair. In the other hand rested the bridle leading old Buckwheat, the two of them walking beside each other in a lazy saunter. A lone piece of straw hung from his lips, disrupting that casual, familiar smile. This imagined Cal was so solid, so real, that Clara felt certain that if she reached forward, she’d be able to run her fingers through that tussled mane of golden hair.
Surely her eyes deceived her, for she could not actually be seeing Cal. But then, he spoke.
“Clara Bell.”
She shook her head in disbelief, blinking. “Cal?”
“Aye.” He cocked his head, making an odd face at her. Beside him, Buckwheat whinnied. “You are as white as snow, Clara Bell. Are you ill?”
“Cal, I’m so happy to see you.” She collapsed into him, pulling him close to her in a hug. Neither of them spoke for several minutes as he lifted his arms and returned the embrace, wrapping her up in him. She breathed him in, breathed in his familiar Cal scent, his nearness, the thick strength of his arms. She could have cried, she was so overjoyed.
“How about a kiss for a poor soldier?” He put his forefinger under her chin and lifted her lips to his. She happily obliged.
When she reopened her eyes, she looked up into the familiar hazel of his own. “How is it possible that you are here, Cal?”
“Message.” Cal retrieved a sealed paper from a pocket in his uniform. “From down the river for General Washington. You can imagine I was all too eager for the task when I heard a letter had to be delivered to this home.”
“What does it say? Have you any idea?” Clara walked beside him as he tied his horse to the front post. “Have they caught Arnold?”
“They didn’t say one way or the other. This note pertains to the prisoner, Mr. John André. Seems the British are already offering a huge sum to buy his freedom.”
“Washington will never accept,” Clara answered.
“And yet the letter had to be delivered anyway, did it not?” Cal grinned at her, and she felt overwhelmed. She leaned forward and stole another kiss.
“Cal, can you believe it? They stopped André. You stopped André.”
“No, Clara.” Cal shook his head. “You stopped André. You ought to feel very proud.”
She felt many things, too many to explain aloud. Too many to even understand just yet. Rather than try, she took a deep breath, her eyes still fixing on Cal. He was the one thing that felt safe, certain to her. And then she asked, “I wasn’t sure whether you got my message.”
“I did. But I didn’t want to write back. Too risky. Just in case Arnold or the missus had seen it first. I figured I’d find a chance to slip away and come see you in person, once everything was settled.”
“I’m glad you did,” Clara said, taking his hand in hers.
They stood opposite each other a moment, no words passing between them. Eventually, Cal sighed. “He really did it. Or tried to, at least.”
“They really did it,” Clara corrected Cal. “Only he ran, and she remains.”
Cal followed her eyes as Clara looked up at the house, toward the bedroom window that sat, darkening, with Miss Peggy on the other side of it. “I have to admit, I held out hope until the last that Arnold would change his mind.” Cal ran his fingers through his hair, tussling several waves loose. “He was a good man, once. A great man.”
Clara nodded but said nothing. She knew too well, had seen too close, to imagine that a change had been possible in the end.
“Clara?”
“Yes, Cal?”
“Are my aunt and uncle all right?”
Clara nodded. “They bear no guilt, Cal. They never even allowed me to tell them fully of the plot.” Clara paused. “They are remarkably strong, considering what they’ve weathered.”
“You all are.”
Clara shrugged her shoulders. “They’re inside. They will be happy to see you.”
“Aye.” Cal nodded. “Well, let me go in and deliver this to General Washington. But first, I need one more kiss.”
CAL LATER found Clara by the river, where she sat, awash in the last few minutes of sunlight. As the golden disc slid behind the western mountains, a tattered colonial flag cut a silhouette against the sky over West Point. The fort remained in American hands.
Cal sat down beside her on the shore of the river. For several minutes they stared at the fort, but neither of them spoke. “So, Clara Bell, here we are.”
“Here we are.” Clara nodded, turning to him. “When must you go?”
“Not tonight. I’ve been given some time off. When Colonel Putnam heard that my farm was just adjacent to this home, he told me I may have a few days up here to see my family and settle some matters.”
Clara could have leapt with joy, and she was certain her face betrayed that. “How very important you are, Cal,” Clara teased. He smiled back at her.
“I suppose, Cal, if you have the night off, then you have time for another kiss?”
“I have nothing else planned.”
“Good.” She put her palm to his cheek, savoring the feel of his skin. “Then you had better kiss me.”
“If you say so, Clara Bell.” They stayed on the hillside as the sun dipped below the horizon, the last rays of light filling the yard. Clara felt as though they had years of lost time for which to atone, years in which she should have been telling Cal of her love for him. She looked forward to making it up to him, to showing him how deeply she loved him every day for the rest of her life.
Clara could have happily remained out there all night, but Cal pulled away from her before she was ready, his face suddenly serious. Tucking a loose curl behind her ear, he a
sked: “But what about you, Clara Bell? How will we get you away from this home? Do you think Miss Peggy will allow you to just get up and leave?”
“No,” Clara answered, looking out over the river with a determined gaze. She was certain Peggy would not let her go. “But I have a plan that will give her very little choice.”
WHEN CLARA returned to Peggy, having made a plan to meet Cal the next day, the bedchamber was dark and her mistress had slipped into a fretful sleep. Clara lit the candles around the room, her heart glowing even in the shadows of this darkness. Nothing would dampen her spirits now.
“No! No! Johnny, don’t leave me!”
Clara looked upon her mistress, her expression tormented even as she slept. The beautiful woman moaned in the throes of a nightmare that had now come true. And it was only Clara who knew, fully, the nightmares that haunted Peggy.
Peggy, who had always thought of her maid as invisible. This woman who had alternately spoiled and abused Clara for years, taking her for a simple, timid extension of her own life and plans; taking her maid’s blind, stupid obedience for granted, even to the point of bringing her along to plot treason. Clara had been so invisible to this woman that Peggy had allowed her to sit by, watching plans of treachery unfold, never guessing that Clara herself could play a part. Never guessing that Clara had a mind and a heart of her own, her own desires for a life and for love.
Peggy wouldn’t let Clara go without a fight. No, she’d resist Clara’s departure; and Peggy knew how to get her own way, of that, Clara was all too certain. But hadn’t Clara been learning from her mistress all this time? Observing, obeying, taking it all in with perfectly polite silence? Wasn’t she finally prepared to stand up for herself, even if it meant going against Peggy Shippen Arnold?
As the house darkened, the Quigleys lit candles and fireplaces, and a loud commotion downstairs told Clara that Hamilton and Lafayette had returned from their ride south. She ran down the stairs to hear their news with the rest of the crowd.
“Any news?” someone asked as the door slammed.
“Where’s Arnold?” another soldier demanded. The men showered the two new arrivals with questions while Barley the dog barked, confused by the frenzy of activity as he sought out his master in the crowd.
“He slipped away,” Lafayette said, his French accent exacerbated by fatigue. “Arnold has escaped the hangman’s noose.” The muffled sounds of swears and chatter filled up the room, but Clara didn’t hear the rest. She had her hand over her heart, overcome by her relief that Arnold would not hang.
SEVERAL MINUTES later, someone knocked quietly outside Peggy’s bedchamber. Clara walked toward the door while her mistress stirred, sitting upright in bed.
“Who is it?” Peggy asked, rubbing her puffy eyes.
“It is I, my lady, George Washington.” He remained on the threshold, hesitant to enter.
“Come in,” Peggy answered.
Two men, Washington and Hamilton, peeked their heads into Peggy’s bedroom. They each held candles, casting a dim light across the room.
“Mrs. Arnold?” Washington refrained from pointing his eyes toward the bed. “Are you well?”
“General Washington, Colonel Hamilton.” Peggy’s face was splotchy and her hair disheveled, but she had regained composure, and she even conjured a smile when she saw the men. “Please, please come closer. You will see that I am much recovered.” She adjusted the nightdress that Clara had slid her into.
The two men approached cautiously. “Mrs. Arnold, I cannot tell you how relieved we are to see that you’ve recovered,” Washington now looked at the resting woman with paternal sympathy.
“These are for the lovely lady.” Hamilton tiptoed behind Washington. Clara had to steady herself when she saw, to her utter shock, that Hamilton carried in his arms a bouquet of flowers. “From your garden, Mrs. Arnold.” Hamilton smiled sheepishly. “We hoped they might lift your spirits.”
So this was the punishment for orchestrating the worst treason of the war—a bedside visit from George Washington and freshly picked flowers from Alexander Hamilton?
“You are too kind, Mr. Hamilton. Clara shall put those in water for me.”
“May I?” Washington approached the bed.
“Please.” Peggy urged both men forward. “You are so good to visit me in this state. I must confess, I remember very little from yesterday morning’s events.”
“We are just happy to see you revived, my lady.” Washington pulled a chair up to the bed and sat beside Peggy. Hamilton stood behind him. “Mrs. Arnold,” Washington continued. “Hamilton and Lafayette have just returned from south of the river. The bad news, from my point of view, is that your husband has escaped us. He has slipped past the lines and is in New York City this evening. We will be unable to capture him and send him to the same fate as that of John André.”
Peggy exhaled a long, deep sigh. Taking her face in her hands, she concealed her expression and began to weep, quietly, into her palms. Whether she wept for her husband’s deliverance or André’s death sentence, Clara did not know.
“Mrs. Arnold,” Washington continued, “we would have liked to have had justice, of course. The only positive I see in the present situation, however, is that your husband will survive. And knowing that that is a comfort to you, helps me to accept the outcome more easily.”
Peggy dropped her hands, still tearful. “Oh, General Washington,” she choked out through her sobs. “You must think I’m so terrible, being happy that he survived. But he’s my husband. The father of my son. Surely you understand that this is a tremendous relief to me?” Peggy reached for Washington’s hands, and he took hers in his and kissed them in a tender gesture. Clara looked on, marveling at the scene. So André would hang while Arnold would join the British ranks. Peggy, the woman who had arranged the whole plot, would be allowed to go, untarnished, to her husband. Who had come out of this with the worse punishment, Clara wondered, André or Arnold?
“There is but one small consolation in this whole terrible drama, Mrs. Arnold.” Washington gazed at her, his eyes sad. “And that is seeing you smile right now. It makes me happy to see you recovered.”
Peggy sighed. “How will I ever recover? When I’m abandoned by a husband such as the one I have? But relieved, yes.”
“Mrs. Arnold.” Hamilton edged closer to the bed. “May we be so bold as to make the suggestion that you go stay with family in Philadelphia rather than trying to reunite with your husband?”
Peggy shut her eyes and released a slow exhale.
“It is wrong of us to speak of a man thusly to his own wife, but such a man as Benedict Arnold has proven himself a traitor,” Washington agreed with his aide.
“Yes, you’re right,” Peggy conceded, fidgeting with the bed-sheets. “I should go to my parents.” She paused. “But eventually I must go to my husband.”
“But he has betrayed you.” Hamilton’s voice had a hard edge. “He does not deserve you in any way.”
“It’s my duty though,” Peggy sighed. “My duty as a wife and a mother to go to him. Even if it means crossing over to the British.” She sunk her face into her hands and began to cry, now with exaggerated, theatrical sobs that Clara knew to be disingenuous.
Hamilton and Washington exchanged a forlorn glance. “Well, we will not stand in your way.” Washington looked at Peggy admiringly. “But Hamilton is right to say that Arnold does not deserve you.”
They were correct, Clara thought to herself. Arnold did not deserve her. No one deserved her.
WASHINGTON AND his men were gone in the morning—gone across the river to West Point to prepare the defense plans. Knowing that Arnold had slipped into British hands, Washington ordered them all to brace for an assault. The commander had promised Peggy the night before that she, her son, and her servants would receive a full military escort to Philadelphia, the treatment an officer’s widow could expect when crossing military lines to be reunited with her parents.
Peggy did not see the men off
the next morning, but rather stayed in bed. She rose in the late morning, having slept the deep, undisturbed sleep of a child. When she awoke, she summoned Clara.
“Clara, aren’t my flowers from Mr. Hamilton lovely?” Peggy said, her eyes restless as she looked around the room. “What a romantic fool that man was. I suppose I quite liked him.”
Clara did not answer, but rather swallowed hard as she slid the curtains open.
“Well, win or lose, at least we’ll get to go to England once this awful war is over,” Peggy mused, stirring milk into a cup of tea her maid had brought. “We won’t get the title,” she thought aloud. “That is a shame.”
Clara turned to her mistress now with unmasked disgust.
“But London will be so much more merry than this drab countryside. And we’ll have the money, at the very least. Perhaps Benny will take Eddy and me to meet the king, how lovely that would be! I suppose things didn’t turn out so rotten for us Arnolds after all.” Peggy splayed her arms overhead, stretching into a languid movement as she yawned out her next order: “You might as well begin packing our things, Clara. We shall leave as soon as Washington has arranged our escort.”
Clara decided that this was her time. She wouldn’t wait any longer.
“I’m not going, ma’am.”
“What did you say?” Peggy’s arms dropped from overhead, landing on her breakfast tray with a hard thump.
“I said I’m not going.” Clara shook out the bedding as she did on every morning, not bothering to look at her mistress.
“Of course you are coming to England. Where else would you go?”
“I’m going to stay here.”
Peggy laughed, certain this was a joke. “Stay here and do what?”
“Marry that stableboy. Remember Caleb, the one who . . . how did you refer to him? . . . the one who always smelled like horse filth?” Clara turned now and stared into her mistress’s cold blue eyes.
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