The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (18 page)

“Get down, you beast! Get down!” Peggy tried ineffectively to swat the dog with her parasol, then kicked it with her small leather boots. “Somebody do something!” Peggy shrieked. Passersby chuckled as they walked on.

“Off of the lady, Barley! You no-good mongrel!” A burly, bold-featured man, his brown hair flying in the wind, hollered in their direction from the open window of a carriage. “You mutinous dog. Come now!” The brawny man tipped his head and then let out a guffaw, before speeding off in the carriage, the wheels splashing lumpy mud on both Clara’s and Peggy’s petticoats.

“My heavens,” Peggy gasped in horror, her wide eyes following the carriage down the street. “Who was that wild man?”

Clara looked to Caleb, who was watching the carriage with admiration painted across his features. “That, ladies, is the Hero of Saratoga. The Cripple of Canada.” Both Peggy and Clara looked to him, awaiting further explanation. “The man who took all of your new hats and dresses, Miss Peggy. The new commander of Philadelphia. That is Benedict Arnold.”

“I
REFUSE
to go.”

Clara looked up from her position in the corner, where she sat stitching a new nightgown for Miss Peggy. It was a balmy evening in
early July, but still a fire was lit in the parlor. Her mistress now threw the invitation into this fire, spitting at it once for good measure.

“I flatly refuse. Anything hosted by that . . .
impostor
 . . . Benedict Arnold—no, I would never think of attending.”

“Please just listen, Peggy,” Betsy spoke diplomatically. “It’s the first social event since the Americans took over the city, and it would give you a chance to see all of your friends—Meg Chew, Christianne Amile, Becky Redman—they are all going.” Betsy was sitting in a wooden chair before the drawing room fire, diligently stitching the pieces for her bridal trousseau, while her sister paced the room. Clara sensed a newfound ease, a certain confidence in Betsy ever since the British had left. It was as if her status in the household had somehow risen and she suddenly found herself on more equal footing with her younger sister.

“Peggy, you would not have to talk to Benedict Arnold at all. There will be other gentlemen there.”

“But it’s
hosted
by Benedict Arnold,” Peggy protested. “It’s bad enough this city threw a parade for him when he arrived. But have we really sunk so low as to attend his parties?”

“The party is given in honor of the French ambassador,” Betsy answered. “As such it shall be a very genteel crowd.”

Peggy pursed her lips in a scowl. “All gentility left this city with the British army.”

“And it shall be in the Penn mansion. Even you, the favorite of the British regiment, has never been invited to a party there.” Betsy held up the beginning of a shift, checking the length of the arm.

“To think of that creature occupying the Penn mansion. Why, he’s not fit to share the same continent as General Howe, let alone displace him from his quarters.” Peggy looked into the fire angrily, watching the invitation from Major General Arnold as it smoldered in the flames.

“Well, I shall go,” Betsy said, staring down at her needlework.

“Betsy, you cannot,” Peggy gasped, incredulous.

“Why can’t I?” Betsy looked up. “Neddy is a supporter of the colonials.”

Peggy pursed her lips into a tight frown, and Clara was grateful that it was Betsy on the receiving end of that stare and not herself.

“There, I said it,” Betsy continued, defiant. “Now that the British are gone, I will say it as if it’s not some secret of which I’m ashamed—my fiancé wants to serve for General Washington. And besides, I’d quite like to attend a party. It’s been so long.”

“Betsy, setting aside the fact that you’ve just told me you plan to marry a traitor”—Peggy shook her head—“for us to go to Arnold’s ball is to lend credibility to the event. Of course they want the Shippen girls there. That’s why it’s so important we snub them. Our absence will send a message that we do not consider him a friend, don’t you see?”

“I see, yet I don’t understand the point in deliberately affronting the new military governor of Philadelphia.”

“Why are you suddenly taking such an interest in your social diary, Bets?”

“Benedict Arnold is likely to be here for a long time, and we need not make an enemy of him,” Betsy reasoned.

“Bendict Arnold will always be my enemy,” Peggy retorted, turning back to the fire. “Driving Johnny and the British out, allowing all the riffraff back in, shutting down the shops.
I hate the man, and I always will!”

I
N THE
end, Stansbury succeeded in convincing Peggy to attend Arnold’s ball by appealing to her vanity: if she removed herself from
society at the height of the season, wouldn’t she lose her status as Philadelphia’s favorite belle? Might she be ceding her title too willingly to Meg Chew, or Christianne Amile, or Becky Redman?

Peggy agreed to attend, though that didn’t stop her from hurling insults at the evening’s host. “I see no reason why that old cripple should host a dance when he himself cannot walk without a cane.”

The evening of the event arrived, a warm night in early July when the days were long. Clara opened the bedroom windows, allowing the aromas of the garden and the chirps of birdsong to float in while Peggy dressed.

“If I’m going to go, I might as well go looking my best.” Peggy stood with Clara before the mirror, eyeing her figure in nothing but her shift and her corset. “My goodness, I’ve turned to skin and bones since the British left. Look at me.” Peggy turned a slow circle before the mirror, tracing her hands from her waist to her hips.

“You haven’t been eating enough, my lady.” Clara held the hair curler over the hearth to heat it.

“I’m sick of the food we have. It’s always the same: fowl or salt fish, potatoes without butter, vegetables. And there’s never enough of it.” Peggy turned to her third favorite line of complaint: after the topics of her hatred for Benedict Arnold and her aging wardrobe, she most often railed against the meals that Hannah prepared for the family.

“I can’t even have guests over. We don’t have enough food to give them,” Peggy said sourly.

“We will have better food, and more of it, once the war is over and your father starts his trading business back up.” Clara gave the answer she most often heard in the servants’ quarters.

Peggy frowned at this. “And in the meantime, I suppose I shall keep wasting away.”

“Now then, enough gloom for such a pretty evening. What would you like to wear to the party?” Clara posed the question with what she hoped would be contagious enthusiasm.

“I have an idea,” Peggy said, a devious smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Why don’t I wear the purple gown? It
is
the color of royalty, after all, and these colonials claim they don’t want a royal.”

“All right.” Clara agreed, crossing the room to the wardrobe. “The plum gown in velvet?”

“No! Lord, Clara, velvet? Do you mean to roast me alive? It’s July! I mean the taffeta, in lavender.”

“As you wish.”

“I
T’S A
shame there will be no men of import at the party.” Miss Peggy stared at herself in the mirror, sighing. For the first time since André’s departure, she’d taken an interest in fixing up her appearance, and she was resplendent in lavender taffeta with lemon-yellow piping, the stomacher of her gown cinched to rest snugly on her tiny waist. Her hair, its golden color enhanced by the summer sun, was piled high atop her head in her favorite style, and she wore amethyst jewels—a choker, a bracelet, and a pair of chandelier earrings.

“I suppose since we’re all so equal now, you might as well come with me tonight, Clara. After all, Mr. John Adams would say a maid is of the same status as her lady anyhow, nay?” Peggy fiddled with an earring, staring at Clara through the mirror. “Come with me tonight. I don’t much fancy the idea of chatting with Meg Chew, and Betsy is no fun. And that way if I wish to leave early, I can blame it on you falling ill.”

The invitation, however coarsely it was delivered, made Clara
smile; her lady wished to speak with
her
more than anyone else at the party. And how exciting to attend a fête at the home once occupied by the Penn family, and now presided over by the commander of the army in Philadelphia. If only Oma could see her tonight, attending such an event with the Shippen girls.

Mrs. Quigley had helped Clara select a simple, clean dress of pale yellow cotton, which fit her well and complemented her own blond hair. Mrs. Quigley had loaned her a necklace of small pearls, and Miss Peggy, in a moment of rare magnanimity, had even suggested that Clara borrow her hair curler. Though she was dressed in fabrics and accessories of much less value than Miss Peggy or Miss Betsy, Clara felt pretty as she prepared to depart for the mansion.

“You look nice.” Cal hopped down from the Shippen carriage, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. Clara waited out front in the warm evening. A carriage rolled past, its footman nodding his greeting, but otherwise the street was quiet.

“Thank you.” Clara turned from Cal back up toward the front door, hoping Peggy and Betsy would hurry up and come out. Standing here alone with Cal made her uneasy.

Cal had a piece of straw in his mouth. “Clara, I’ve been meaning to apologize.” He paused, shrugging his shoulders. “For my remarks about Robert. It was just that . . .”

“Finally!” The front door opened, and Betsy stood there. “Peggy, I thought you were going to keep me waiting all night.”

Peggy emerged behind her sister. “What are you in such a hurry for? It’s not as though the party shall be any fun.”

Betsy climbed quickly down the stairs, her skirt bunched up in her hands. Cal looked once more at Clara, his eyes full of the words he had hoped to say.

“We shall have to drive quickly, Cal.” Betsy extended her hand, and Caleb opened the coach door, helping her into the carriage.

The hour was close to eight o’clock, and yet the sun had not begun to set on what was one of the longest, warmest days of the year. As Caleb spurred the carriage onward, north up Market Street toward Sixth, Clara felt the breeze on her cheeks and pushed aside the troublesome, unresolved quarrel with him. It was a lovely evening and she allowed her mood to lift, even somehow managing to drown out the bothersome arguing of Peggy and Betsy opposite her.

“I suppose you’ll find Neddy and vanish for the rest of the evening to discuss boring things.” Peggy looped her pinky-finger through a curl of hair, looking away from her sister as she insulted her.

“There is nothing boring about Neddy’s military service, Peggy,” Betsy snapped. “His captain has commended his diligence and attentiveness so far.”

Peggy sighed. “I suppose that’s all everyone will be speaking about at the party, colonials this, and colonials that. I’m bored of it already. Thank goodness I’ll have you with me, Clara. We can leave early.” Clara nodded obediently, hoping she’d be able to stay long enough to catch a glimpse of General Arnold.

The carriage slowed to a halt before the Penn mansion, an old brick home awash in the golden glow of predusk sunlight. Three steps from the street led them to a white door beneath a crisp white pediment, which stood out against the redbrick façade. The music and chatter filling the front hall spilled out through open windows onto the street. “This is nice,” Peggy admitted begrudgingly.