The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (17 page)

“Arnold Will Always Be My Enemy”

June 1778

Philadelphia, PA

F
OR DAYS
the streets outside roared with song and the ringing of church bells, and the crowds organized a parade to welcome their new military commander, Major General Benedict Arnold, and his ragtag horde of colonial conquerors. But Clara had never heard the Shippen home so quiet. No more invitations came, boasting of Champagne parties hosted by smitten British officers. André no longer sent poetry and drawings for Miss Peggy, and gossip and news no longer arrived after Peggy and Betsy’s cocktail parties. These days, when there was news to be had, it traveled in through the servants’ quarters.

“That new military governor, Benedict Arnold, has taken up residence in the Penn mansion.” Hannah arrived in the kitchen, red-faced from her morning outing to Market Street, as the rest of the servants were having their tea around the kitchen table.

“Well, he didn’t waste much time taking the nicest home for himself, did he?” Mrs. Quigley helped Hannah as the cook spread a cold chicken carcass out on a long wooden cutting board, its fractured
neck dangling akimbo. Clara slid to a seat farther down the table to have her breakfast.

“It’s all they are talking ’bout down in Market Square—how he’s closing everything down and routing out the loyalists.” Hannah began plucking the feathers from the lifeless bird with expert fingers. “Why, I went over to the spice merchant to pick up some salt, and Mr. Wyatt told me there was none to be had—not even for Judge Shippen himself. Benedict Arnold’s seized it all!” Hannah gave a good yank, and a fistful of downy feathers came free from the carcass, raining down over the breakfast table like a dusting of snow.

“So it was for the best that the judge did not side publicly with the British.” Mr. Quigley picked a loose feather out from his teacup. “It made his finances very difficult, but at least no one can call him a Tory.”

“Well, his daughters didn’t help him any, that’s for certain, what with Miss Peggy dancing with every British officer who came through town. We might not have evaded the Tory title just yet.” Hannah raised her eyebrows in warning.

“Will General Washington be coming anytime soon?” Mrs. Quigley asked. The housekeeper was struggling to collect the white feathers in a sack, which she’d give to Brigitte to refill the mattresses and blankets.

“He’s still camped up in New Jersey. Trying to chase the Brits north.” Hannah tugged on the dead bird, dislodging another large clump of feathers.

“I’m happy that chicken didn’t have to endure this fate while he was alive.” Clara eyed the balding carcass with a combination of sympathy and disgust.

“Good morning, all.” Caleb stepped into the kitchen from the direction of the stables, a piece of straw hanging out of his
mouth. Unlike Clara, Cal had managed to slip away from the Shippen home for a few hours on the day that the city gave its parade for Benedict Arnold. He had come back rosy and smiling, telling the servants at dinner what a merry man Benedict Arnold seemed to be.

Cal now eyed the chicken carcass on the table. “Planning to tar and feather someone this morning, Hannah?”

“You, if you’re not careful! Mind not bringing the whole hayloft in here with you the next time you come in?” Mrs. Quigley pulled the straw from her nephew’s mouth and poured both him and Clara full cups of tea.

Clara, who had enjoyed spending more time in the servants’ quarters the past few weeks, nevertheless felt ill at ease as she saw Cal enter the kitchen. He had been treating her with a cool cordiality since the night she’d kissed Robert Balmor.

“Will it be another day of moping and drawn shades for Miss Peggy?” Caleb turned his eyes on Clara, scooping a big spoonful of plum jelly onto his bread.

“That girl.” Hannah shook her head. “Crying in her bedchamber, looking at that Major André’s drawings and his lock of hair. You’d think she’d been widowed.”

“André didn’t even seem that torn up about leaving her.” Mrs. Quigley wrinkled her brow. “Certainly not the way Miss Peggy was.”

“Don’t imagine he was, from the looks of it. He’ll be in New York and onto his next victim by now.” Hannah sighed.

“You have to wonder how many Philadelphia belles are left behind, crying in their beds with André gone north.” Cal looked at his aunt as he took a sip of tea. “And that Robert Balmor, André’s secretary, I imagine he broke a few hearts as well. Or, at least one.” Caleb turned his eyes on Clara, and her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.
Caleb had not told his aunt and uncle what he knew, mercifully, but he had seemed determined to torment Clara with his knowledge.

Clara lifted her chin and took a sip of her tea. She cared nothing for Robert Balmor, and in fact had felt relief each time she’d remembered that both he and André were gone. Letting that man kiss her had been foolish and naïve, but it was none of Cal’s business.

“Well, regardless of how sad it made Miss Peggy to see André go, I think we can all sleep easier at night knowing that the dashing major is hundreds of miles away from the Shippen home. That boy was trouble.” Mrs. Quigley nodded.

“Indeed, Mrs. Quigley, we all feel nothing but relief.” Clara looked directly at Caleb and placed her teacup down, a little too firmly. Cal noticed as the cup spilled, and he raised an eyebrow.

“O
H,
I
look a fright! I’m so pale. And my hair, it’s so flat. Clara, you must do me up, like I used to look. I don’t want Stansbury thinking my looks have left along with the British.”

Peggy had surprised Clara that morning by declaring her intention to dress and pay a visit to the china merchant.

“I could use a little bit of gossip to cheer me up. Of course, there isn’t likely to be much gossip now that the city has been abandoned.”

Philadelphia was far from abandoned, Clara wanted to say, but she bit her tongue. No, in fact, as she looked out on the cobblestone streets, the city felt more alive now than it ever had while under British occupation. Colonists in support of Washington and the Continental Army had returned in hordes, once again taking up residence and reopening shops to sell soaps, candles, yarn, and tobacco.
The residents who walked the streets might not dress as elegantly as the British had, but their faces were animated with greetings, grins, and hearty laughter.

“If I’m going calling, I might as well look my best,” Peggy sighed while Clara styled her hair. Her vanity had returned, at least. That, Clara decided, was a sign that her despair was lifting.

“Have that stableboy accompany us,” Peggy said, “in case I buy anything. Though of course Papa will tell me there is no money to buy anything new.”

Clara reluctantly invited Cal, who agreed to join them on the outing. As they set out into the early summer day, Peggy marched a few feet ahead of them, clutching her parasol tightly as if she planned to use it for protection against the city’s residents rather than from the sun. Clara and Caleb walked behind, avoiding eye contact or the free conversation that they had previously shared.

“What a vulgar town! It looks like Boston!” Peggy gasped as they turned onto Market Street. Colonial soldiers marched by in a loose formation. Clara agreed it looked sloppy when compared with the tight regimental movements of the British troops, but the sight still thrilled her.

“You’d think they could at least coordinate their outfits. Now I see why Johnny always referred to them as ragtag.” Some of the men barely looked dressed at all—their breeches fraying at the bottoms, their toes peeking out from disintegrating boots, their jackets mended so many times you could no longer tell what the original color had been.

On nearly every corner, merchants had set up impromptu stands selling fruit, fish, and flowers, and small boys ran down the streets, asking for pennies in exchange for the latest news from the military engagements to the south and the north.

“Enlist now and join General Washington in the fight against
tyranny! Let’s show that blind tyrant what real leadership looks like!” A local militia leader stood on an empty fruit crate, calling out to the crowd of young men that had gathered around him.

Clara glanced at Caleb, his eyes fixated on the militia leader. She longed to share some communication with him, to ask him if he was as excited by the scene as she was. But when he turned toward her, she lost her courage and averted her eyes, turning them back to the figure of her mistress.

“Well?” Miss Peggy had noticed them lagging behind. “Keep up, you two.”

They sped up, walking for several moments in silence. Eventually, Cal spoke.

“Sure looks different around here with the redcoats gone.” Caleb kicked a pebble a few feet ahead of their steps.

“Aye.” Clara nodded. “A change for the better.”

Caleb glanced sideways at her but offered no reply.

“I mean it.” A loose cluster of militiamen marched past, nodding their heads at Clara and Caleb. Peggy, Clara noticed, did not turn to acknowledge them.

“You don’t miss your Robert Balmor, then?” Caleb jerked his chin.

“He’s not
my
Robert Balmor, Caleb.” Even she was surprised by the edge in her voice, like the blade of a knife.

“Not anymore, since he’s left,” Cal answered. “I just never saw you as the type to get sweet on a redcoat, Clara Bell.”

Clara shook her head, preparing to defend herself from Cal’s accusations. Preparing to tell him that she had felt nothing for John André’s secretary, and that she now realized how foolish she had been to let Robert kiss her. How she had been swept up by her lady’s enthusiasm. But before she could form this answer, she noticed
Miss Peggy had halted, and she almost bumped into her where she stood.

The shop in front of them, Halbrooke hat shop, was closed. The door was barred shut, there was no movement inside. The hearth looked cold and gray, like a fire had not been lit in it for days.

Coffin and Anderson, the dress shop where Peggy’s Turkish costume had been sewn, was similarly shuttered. As they approached Joseph Stansbury’s china shop, they found a similar scene.

Peggy gasped. “Closed. All of them. What is the meaning of this?”

Caleb walked up to the storefront of Stansbury’s shop and pressed his face against the glass, peering inside. Clara looked down at her feet and saw a notice.

“Caleb, look.” He stepped beside her and Clara read aloud so that both he and Peggy might hear.

Martial Law has been declared by Philadelphia’s Military Governor, the Major General Benedict Arnold. All goods which were illegally brought into the colony of Pennsylvania on English ships from English shops are now the property of the Continental Army.

MILITARY GOVERNOR, MAJOR GENERAL BENEDICT ARNOLD

“What a nightmare.” Peggy stared at the words as if they carried news of the scarlet fever. “What have they done to poor Stansbury? And where did all of Coffin’s fine dresses go?”

“It makes sense, if you think about it.” Cal was still scrutinizing the notice.

“How, pray tell, do you think it makes sense?” Peggy turned,
incensed. Clara braced herself—she could have slapped Caleb for provoking Miss Peggy like this.

“All these goods were from the British.” Cal stared into Peggy’s face, undaunted. “They were selling to us Americans, then taking our money back to enrich the king. Isn’t it bad enough he was taking our wealth through illegal taxation? But to continue to fund his government with our own money? Arnold put a stop to it.”

Peggy stared at Caleb as she would a piece of rotting fruit on the street. “So you think all those perfectly fine goods should just be taken? You think Arnold has that right?”

Cal shrugged his shoulders. “He is governor now. He’s trying to make sure no more of our money ends up in King George’s hands.”

“They let these street urchins sell rancid meat on every corner, and then close down the artists who sew our silk? Oh, this is
ridiculous
!” Peggy walked on, leaving Cal and Clara behind.

“You know, you really shouldn’t provoke her like that.” Clara glowered at Cal before turning to catch up to her mistress.

“Why not?” Cal kept a pace beside Clara. “Am I not entitled to an opinion?” He seemed casually amused by the exchange.

“You may have your opinion, just keep it to yourself,” Clara snapped. “Now I shall be the one left to cheer up her sour mood.”

“I am a free man with my own opinions, and I’ll share them when there is a place for them. I suggest you begin to do the same, Clara Bell.”

Clara had an opinion on Cal and his prying ways, and she was about to tell him so when a dog bounded up Market Street, cutting a path directly for Peggy. Clara saw the muddy animal approaching and attempted to alert her mistress to look up from the notice, but she was too late. The dog leapt at Peggy’s skirt, now barking.

“Away!” Peggy shooed the dog in disgust, kicking at the speckled white mutt.

“Here, boy.” Caleb whistled, trying to distract the animal. “He just wants to play, don’t he?”

But Peggy’s kicking only served to further excite the dog, and he continued to jump at Peggy, clawing his way up her petticoat and dirtying the light blue silk in the process.