The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (16 page)

“Johnny.” Peggy rose from the chair and ran to him, collapsing into his arms. “Oh, you’re all right! You’re all right! I was so worried.” She began to lay desperate kisses on his neck, but he pulled her off with uncharacteristic indifference. Clara quickly understood why—on the threshold of the room appeared Judge Shippen and his wife, her face appearing even more pinched than usual. Betsy, the Quigleys, and Hannah joined the small assembly, all listening intently for the update.

“Peggy.” Major André’s voice was formal as he removed his tricornered hat. “Judge Shippen, Mrs. Shippen.” He bowed reverentially.

“What news?” Judge Shippen placed a tenuous arm on his wife’s shoulders.

“I come to take my leave.” André stared at the hat he held in his hands.

“What?” Peggy gasped as those outside the room began to whisper to one another in confused urgency. Clara held Robert’s eyes for a brief moment before she lowered them. He, too, would be going.

“Philadelphia is lost,” André explained. “The French are threatening to engage our navy off the coast, and the Crown has made the strategic decision to abandon the city.”

Peggy winced at the word:
abandon.

“We have been ordered to evacuate the city immediately.” Major André now addressed the judge, avoiding Peggy’s eyes.

“But how can this be?” Peggy’s face was white, her voice as flimsy as a wisp of cloud.

“General Clinton, our new commander, has ceded the city to the rebels.”

“Where shall you go?” the judge asked, his lips in a tight line.

“We will retreat to New York, where we will consolidate our forces without the molestation of rural raiding parties and a hostile local population.”

Peggy melted into her hoopskirt, stopping only when her tiny frame landed on the carpeted floor.

“She’s fainted.” Clara approached her mistress. Betsy and Mrs. Quigley huddled over her, striving to revive Peggy. Robert carried her to the sofa, where he placed her down and felt her forehead.

“Clara, run to the kitchen and fetch the smelling salts,” Mrs. Shippen said.

“Yes, madame.” Clara obeyed. When she returned to Peggy’s side, André had placed his hat back atop his head, ready to depart.

“We cannot linger long, I’m sorry to say.” André turned from the judge to his secretary. “Balmor, we must go.”

“I’m awake, I’m awake.” Peggy opened her eyes, pushing aside the salts Clara brandished and trying to rise from the sofa. “Johnny, you can’t really mean it.”

Mrs. Quigley prevented Peggy from jumping up.

“Peg, I regret if I have caused you distress.” André approached the sofa and took Peggy’s hand in his. Clara, aware that Robert was still trying to catch her eyes, turned her attention instead on Judge and Mrs. Shippen, just in time to see Mrs. Shippen scowl.

“This is inappropriate—look at him taking her hand!” Mrs. Shippen hissed into her husband’s ear.

Peggy either did not hear or did not heed her mother’s scolding. “Johnny, you cannot leave me,” Peggy begged. “Remember what you told me—the promises we’ve made?”

“I must go. I am to escort the general out of the city.” Another
explosion shook the windows in their frames and the noise seemed to rouse André, fortifying his resolve. Dropping Peggy’s hand, he rose from the sofa and adjusted his hat.

“Judge Shippen, Mrs. Shippen.” He nodded his head. “Misses Betsy and Margaret Shippen.” Another jolt of his chin as he allowed his eyes to rest momentarily on Peggy. With that, he turned on his heels, nodding at the judge before walking stiffly to the door.

“
Wait!
” Peggy shrieked, rising from the sofa and flying across the hall to stop him at the door. Outside, the scurrying troops hustled past, frantic to complete last-minute duties before the evacuation. “Johnny, how can you leave me?” Peggy took the scene in through wide, unblinking eyes.

“I am honor-bound to serve my king, at the expense of my own wishes, Miss Shippen.” André’s voice was soft now, apologetic. “I do regret the sadness it may cause. But I must do my duty.”

“Take me with you!” Peggy pleaded, wrapping her arms around André.

“I knew this would not go well,” Robert muttered under his breath. Clara lingered near the front window, ready to provide the smelling salts should her mistress collapse again. For the first time, she looked directly at Robert and addressed him. “So you will go to New York as well, Robert?”

“Where he goes, I go,” Robert answered.

“You are not traveling light.” Clara pointed to the wagon behind their horses.

“You know our quarters have been at Benjamin Franklin’s mansion? Well, André decided to leave the old mad scientist with a little surprise upon arrival back home. He’ll walk in to discover his very large portrait missing, as well as his books, his china, and some lamps.”

“That’s as good as stealing, Robert.” Clara looked back at the mountain of confiscated goods.

“I do not give the orders.” Robert shrugged his shoulders. “Besides, they are treasonous criminals. Everything they have, they owe to King George.”

Clara bristled at this. “Many in Philadelphia agree with those so-called
treasonous criminals.
”

Robert arched his eyebrows, pausing a moment as he stared at her with a new expression. Was it surprise? Contempt? “Don’t tell me, Clara, all this time I’ve been sweet on you, and you’ve been a rebel sympathizer?” Robert’s tone teetered on mocking when he spoke next. “Such a pretty little neck you have. It’d be the loveliest one at the gallows.”

He stared at her, but Clara averted her eyes, looking out over the roiling street. “Benjamin Franklin and George Washington simply believe that the people in the colonies have the same God-given rights as any subject of your king.”

“Last time I checked, Clara, he was
your
king as well as mine. And divinely anointed at that.”

“How has God anointed King George any more than he has anointed the common cobbler? Or you and me?”

“Well, aren’t you quite the little daughter of liberty?” Robert stared at her, and Clara let her silence answer him. He opened his mouth to continue but another explosion rocked a nearby street and both Clara and Robert’s attention returned to the scene before them.

“Balmor, ready the coach,” André barked at his secretary over the din. Robert turned once more toward Clara, tipping his hat as he took his leave. “Miss Bell, no hard feelings. I wish you the best.”

“And the same to you, Robert.” Clara curtsied, noticing that Robert did not look at her again as he hurried to the coach.

Peggy was clinging to André in the doorway, refusing to let him go. “Johnny, you cannot leave me!” She was trying to kiss him, but André kept thwarting her attempts. “You love me, remember? You told me!”

“I am very sorry, Miss Shippen. More sorry than you know.”

“Edward, get hold of your daughter,” Mrs. Shippen hissed at her husband, aghast. “How can she carry on like this?” The servants huddled nervously, awaiting orders as they looked out over the street and the more immediate chaos on the doorstep.

“Let them have their goodbye. It will be over soon,” the judge answered.

“Will you write? I’ll come visit you,” Peggy pleaded.

“It will be impossible to cross enemy lines.” If André was feeling any emotion, it appeared to be embarrassment as he tried once again to free himself from Peggy’s stubborn grip.

As he shook her loose, Peggy’s shoulders sunk. “Then you must promise me . . .” She began to sob. “After the war is over, after you win, come back and get me. I’ll go anywhere with you—London, Paris, New York. Anywhere!”

André’s stoicism was unflappable. “My lady, I fear our victory is not the certainty we once hoped it would be. I am not in a position to make any promise like that.”

This left Peggy bereft of hope, and she closed her eyes. When she opened them, she stared up at her lover through a veil of tears. “Then, at least, leave me something to remember you by, my love?”

André looked to the loaded cart behind him. “How about something from the Franklin mansion? A cup and saucer?”

“No.” Peggy wept, overwrought with grief. “I don’t want something from Benjamin Franklin, I want something from
you
!”

“Such as?”

“How about a lock of your hair?” Peggy ran her hand tenderly through his dark waves.

André reached into his pocket, removing a small silver blade. Delicately, with careful hands, he reached to the bottom of his ponytail and sliced a thin strand of his dark hair, which he presented to Peggy.

“Would you like a lock of my hair as well? To remember me?” Peggy asked, running her fingers through her own curls.

“No, I must go.” André shook his head. Noting the disappointment on Peggy’s face, André continued: “I’d rather you preserve this perfect little head of golden hair.”

“I reckon you’re just about as distraught as your mistress is.” Caleb sidled up to Clara, standing beside her on the step.

“Pardon me?” Clara turned to him, distracted by the scene before her, as well as the quarrelsome manner in which she’d bid farewell to Robert. “What do you mean?”

“I bet you are sad to see André go. Or, I should say, André’s secretary.” Caleb did not look at Clara as he spoke, but rather kept his gaze fixed on the street, his jaw clenched.

“You refer to Robert.”

“You’d know his name better than I would.” Caleb shrugged his shoulders, running his fingers through his hair. “Seems like you’re quite upset to see him leave, Clara Bell. And I shouldn’t wonder why, given the way you two feel about each other.”

“Caleb.” Clara shook her head, prepared to correct his error. “You are quite mistaken. In fact, we’ve just parted ways in an argument.”

“I’d argue with him too, if I were you. It’s not right for a man to kiss a girl one night, and then leave her the next day.” Caleb turned
his eyes on her for the first time, and Clara felt her cheeks flush at the accusation they held.

A panic gripped her. “Do Mr. and Mrs. Quigley know as well?”

Caleb spit out a quick, bitter laugh. “And here I was, thinking you were on our side. Sure didn’t look that way last night.”

“Caleb, please.” How could she explain herself?

“Not to worry, Clara, it was only I who had the pleasure of watching your midnight meeting with the major and his secretary.” Caleb tilted his head to one side, endeavoring to sound lighthearted as he spoke. “I think you all thought you were being stealthy, having your party outside in the garden. I guess you forgot that I sleep in the stables.”

“Caleb, it wasn’t how it looked.” She put her hand on his arm but removed it quickly, alarmed by the look he threw at her.

“Your secret is safe with me, Clara.” Without a smile, Caleb turned and walked toward the kitchen. Clara meant to follow him, but was distracted by the sound of André’s carriage as it rolled away from the Shippen doorstep.

“Johnny.” Peggy, clutching André’s lone raven-colored curl to her chest, watched the carriage go. Peggy brought the memento to her lips, kissing it as her tears splashed on her hands, her lips. Clara gazed at her mistress and could not help but pity her. She cradled the lock of hair so desperately, as if to comfort herself, to assure herself that John André, so quickly gone, had in fact existed.

III.

I haven’t caught my breath before there comes another knock on the door.

It’s that bothersome aide—the one who always lurked around the house and asked too many questions. I let him in and show him to the parlor, where he’s met by General Arnold.

“Greetings, General Arnold!” The aide enters with all the self-importance that often accompanies those delivering news about people more powerful than themselves. “General George Washington, accompanied by the honorable Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton, and the rest of his staff, shall be arriving in just a matter of minutes.” He smiles, thinking he’s just delivered an announcement that will make Arnold happy. He understands so little of what has actually gone on in this household.

Arnold looks to his aide, and I see he’s laboring to keep his face from betraying life-threatening panic. Managing some quick, mumbled statement about needing to go to West Point immediately, to “prepare the welcome reception for General Washington,” my master taps the aide on the shoulders in a gesture of forced camaraderie.

The aide looks at me, confused, and mutters a half-audible question. “A welcome reception? I thought the entire group was to breakfast here with Mrs. Arnold?”

I look down at the floor, feigning ignorance. It’s the cloak I’ve worn so long now; no one has ever suspected me of being capable of anything more.

Arnold departs the room and lopes into the dining room, from where he cuts into the buttery and flees, like a thief on the run, out the back door. He’s been crippled since his campaign in Canada years ago, but on this one occasion I see him run, run like a youth with strong bones and a light heart. He runs to the stable, and just seconds later he is atop his horse, galloping across the plateau of the yard and down the steep incline to the river. As the shrubs conceal the rapid steps of the horse, it looks like my master is in flight, soaring to the river, to the ship called
Vulture.
It almost looks like he might make it.

CHAPTER THREE