The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (10 page)

Clara focused in on the sounds. A blurred outline slowly took shape as Clara’s eyes adjusted to the night. Two figures. Peggy and Major André, sitting beside each other near the river.

“I thought I’d never be able to steal you away from our gracious host, the esteemed Lord Rawdon.” Major André’s genteel British accent was easily detectable now that Clara had located them.

“Fortunately General Howe provided sufficient distraction,” Peggy answered, leaning toward her companion. They clinked glasses and then Peggy drained her Champagne. Clara noticed, with horror, that André did not sip from his own glass, but instead offered his drink to Peggy as well. She drank it.

“If I were Lord Rawdon, I’d have never let you out of my sight, not for one minute. Not when every other gentleman in that tent is just waiting on his opportunity to pounce on you.” Major André leaned in toward Peggy playfully—was he tickling her?—prompting her to erupt in laughter.

“Oh, Johnny, I’m so glad it was you who pounced first.” Peggy hiccupped, and the two of them leaned toward each other.

Clara watched, shocked, as Major André took Peggy’s chin in his hand and pulled her face to his. Before Clara could protest, Major André was kissing Peggy. These were not the tame kisses a gentleman placed on a lady’s hand or a lady’s cheek—these were brazen kisses, kisses that ought to offend a lady’s sense of decorum. Clara wanted to run in between them, to intervene, but she noticed
with horror that her mistress was happily returning the kisses. But then, to her relief, Peggy pulled her lips away.

“I am not sure I shall allow you to kiss me any longer.” Peggy edged her body away from André’s, staring back toward the tent as if she might leave him alone by the river. She still had the hiccups.

“Why not, my darling? Why would you torture me?” André reached his arms toward Peggy, but she swatted them away, crossing her arms like a petulant child.

“You certainly spent enough time talking to
her
tonight,” Peggy said with a pout, and Clara knew instantly to whom her mistress referred.

“My darling.” André’s shoulders sagged, his body entirely willing to play the part of the penitent lover. “I was merely being polite. I can’t outright reject her when she speaks to me. You know that Meg means nothing compared to . . .”

“Don’t say her name,” Peggy answered, her tone icy.

“Fine.” André threw his hands up in defeat. “I shall not.”

“Do you prefer her?” Peggy turned on him, and even in the dark, Clara could sense how intently she stared at him.

“Not at all, my darling. How many times must I tell you?” Yes, but did he not say the same thing to Meg Chew? Clara wondered.

André’s hands inched closer to Peggy’s body, and this time she did not swat them away. She did, however, turn her face when he tried to kiss her.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me that I’m your favorite, Johnny.”

André was consumed by his desire, Clara could tell; he would say whatever he needed to say in order to resume kissing her. “You are my favorite, Peggy.”

“And you love me, and me alone?”

“You know I do, my darling Peggy.”

“Then tell me. Say it.”

“Why must you torture me?”

“Say that you love me!”

“I love you, Peggy Shippen.”

“Fine, you may kiss me now.”

“I think you like to see me suffer, my darling.” André leaned toward her, placing a long, slow kiss on the side of Peggy’s neck. And then it was whispers Clara could not fully detect, soft kisses, a giggle. And then suddenly, in the middle of the dark, inconspicuous night, Major André and Peggy were lying down beside each other, spread out in the grass. Clara strained her ears and detected more whispers, a sigh. When Johnny’s hands stroked Peggy’s bare neck, threatening to rove even lower, Clara was certain that her mistress would at last remember her virtue and protest. But to her shock, the only protest issued from Peggy’s mouth was a sigh. Clara could have fainted in shock.

To think of the proper young woman she’d watched at dinner just a few hours ago, discussing politics with her uncle and father—a doctor and a judge! What would Peggy’s father think if he knew about his daughter’s scandalous behavior? He’d be devastated.

Major André was removing his coat now, prompting Clara to stagger backward with fresh horror, as her mind flashed back to scenes she’d accidentally witnessed on the farm, scenes she’d unwittingly walked into in the hay loft or the rear stall of the dairy barn. She was reminded of what she had heard about how she herself had been conceived—the disgraceful act that Clara’s own mother had performed out of wedlock, the act that had ultimately taken her mother’s life. No, she didn’t survive the childbirth, Oma
had told Clara, because of the cardinal sin that she’d participated in to create Clara’s life.

And now her mistress, the well-bred, highborn Miss Margaret Shippen, was sprawled in the grass with a man who was not her husband, while all of Philadelphia society reveled just feet from her! Such a thing, if discovered, would ruin Miss Peggy. Clara had to intervene, before this went so far as to be irreparable to her lady’s reputation. Perhaps Miss Peggy didn’t know what her kissing would lead to, what that man was capable of doing to rob her of her virtue.

“Miss Peggy.” Clara edged down the hill toward her mistress, her voice shrill.

Her mistress did not respond, but rather kept running her fingers through John André’s black hair, now loose of its ribbon. Clara experienced fresh horror as she saw, through the feeble light of the moon’s reflection, that Major André was allowing his hand to wander toward the hem of Miss Peggy’s skirt. Why did her mistress not protest?

“My lady, Miss Peggy!”

This time both Peggy and Major André looked up.

“You’re wanted, my darling.” Major André kissed Peggy’s bare neck, sounding irritated by the distraction.

“Oh, it’s just my maid,” Peggy answered him. “Clara, go away.” Peggy shooed her maid with her hand and refocused her attention on wrapping her arms around Major André’s waist.

Clara turned toward the tent, desperate. Fortunately, no one in the tent was looking in their direction; they were too consumed by their Champagne and dancing. But then her situation went from desperate to dire when she spotted the familiar figure of Mrs. Quigley. The housekeeper was standing at the entrance of the tent, scanning the crowd for some sign of Miss Peggy. Just a matter of minutes now before they were discovered, and Clara would be
tossed out of the Shippen home before she’d even spent a night there.

A fresh giggle, followed by a prolonged sigh, told Clara that Miss Peggy had no intention of rebuffing her companion’s roving hands.

“
Mon Dieu
, Peggy Shippen,” André spoke in a low, husky voice.

Clara turned back now toward the couple. “Miss
PEGGY
! Please!” Clara was astounded that she had found herself in this position.

“There you are.” A familiar voice. Robert was beside her, carrying two flutes brimming with Champagne. “I’ve brought some refreshments for us. What are you doing down here by the river?”

“Robert.” Clara felt weak with relief. “Thank goodness you’re back.”

“Did you miss me?” Robert grinned, his features delighted at her reaction. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.” He was moving toward her. Was Clara imagining it, or did he appear like he might try to kiss her? Were all the men at this party completely mad?

“Robert, please.” She stepped away from him and shook her head, diverting his attention. “Look, down there!” She pointed at the two figures reclined on the lawn. “My lady and Major André are down there acting
very
indiscreetly. And Mrs. Quigley is going to see. She will most likely embarrass my mistress and most definitely dismiss me.”

“Where am I looking?” Robert narrowed his eyes in concentration.

“
There!
At Major André and Miss Peggy.” Clara pointed.

“Oh, I see.” Robert looked from the housekeeper back to the couple down by the river. “Yes, that’s a problem, you’re certainly
right about that.” He took a few steps closer to Peggy and the major.

“Major André.” Robert cupped his hands and called in their direction, his voice much more assertive than Clara’s had been. “Major, the old woman is coming back.” Then, under his breath, “So you might want to remove your hand from under Miss Shippen’s hoopskirt.”

When Clara saw the two figures separate at that warning, she was so relieved she could have kissed Robert.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she sighed. “Thank you, Robert. Thank you.”

“Maybe’s it’s not an enviable post you have here after all.” Robert smirked, still standing too close.

Clara did not have time for this man’s flirtation, but rather kept her eyes pointed on her mistress as Major André wished Peggy good night, whispering some salacious secret into her ear before rising. Peggy stayed on the lawn, adjusting her jewelry, ensuring that her dress was in place and her hair had not gone lopsided, while André rose and strode toward his secretary. “Balmor, let’s go. I’ve had enough of this party.”

“Well, Miss Clara Bell, it’s been a pleasure. Don’t blame yourself for tonight getting sort of . . . out of hand.” Robert placed his hat on his head. “This Philadelphia society may be genteel, but it’s not tame. In fact, sometimes it makes the French court at Versailles seem like a nunnery in comparison.” Robert tipped his hat once with a small bow, and then he disappeared into the night with his master, who was muttering something about a tavern.

Silently, Clara approached her mistress. Peggy was looking out over the river, her pale skin glowing in the light of the moon reflected off the water’s calm surface. She stirred when she heard Clara beside her.

“Oh, Clara,” Peggy spoke calmly, as if she had not just mortified her new maid. “Hello, Clara.” Peggy’s voice was soft, girlish. “Sit beside me.”

Confounded, Clara obeyed, sitting down slowly on the grass as the river lapped the shore. She was furious with her mistress, having just been forced to witness such a scene of her indiscretion.

Peggy turned her face so that she was just inches from her maid. Clara observed that the
pouf
of her hair had deflated, so that the curls now hung around her face. Her eyes were ablaze, her cheeks flushed, giving her a sort of mad, savage look. Clara decided in that moment that she’d never seen anyone more beautiful. “Oh”— Peggy leaned her head slowly on her maid’s shoulder, exhaling a slow, serene sigh. Clara stiffened, but tried not to show how nervous such a gesture made her. “Clara, now you know. I am so in love.”

II.

“All is lost.” Peggy repeats the words into the abandoned bedroom, as if through repetition she will find their sense, a meaning. “But I don’t understand.”

I turn and leave her alone in the bedroom as I make my way down the steps. I find Benedict Arnold in the cramped drawing room with the bewildered messenger.

“Did they say with whom this spy had conducted his rendezvous? Did this spy, this British fellow, offer up the name of his fellow traitor?” Arnold asks. The messenger, confused, shakes his head.

“I know nothing of the matter, sir, simply that I was to deliver this letter with haste.”

“But did you hear anything else, man?” Arnold towers over him. “The letter says the spy was apprehended with secret documents. Documents intended to give over the fort at West Point, and the body of our Commander Washington. Who gave him these documents?” Arnold waves the letter in the messenger’s face, his voice thundering down at the man from the deep recesses of his stocky frame.

“I do not think they know yet, General Arnold,” the messenger answers, apologetic. But this answer satisfies my master, convinces him that high command has not yet pieced it together. Has not yet discerned his own central role in the plot.

Perhaps there is still time. Perhaps he can avoid the hangman’s gallows after all. But Washington rides toward him this very instant, expected at the farm for breakfast. Expecting a casual breakfast with Benedict Arnold, one of his favorite generals, and Arnold’s
pretty wife. He must be quick. I know what he is wondering: should he take his wife with him or leave her behind? To leave her would be risky for her. And yet Peggy Arnold can take care of herself. She can play the role of siren; laughing, and flirting, and dancing until she’s clouded the judgment of every man in the room.

No one will suspect a flower of such beautiful bloom to conceal a serpent underneath. She can manage it. She can manage anything.

CHAPTER TWO

“Delicious Little Heathen”

May 1778

Philadelphia, PA

C
LARA WAS
summoned to Peggy’s room shortly after breakfast, and she found her mistress buried under a mountain of white silk, hoopskirts, gauze, stockings, and feathers. Clara’s shoulders dropped. She had hoped to dress Miss Peggy quickly so that she might report promptly to Miss Betsy for dressing; she had no interest in setting off another family spat this morning.