The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (21 page)

“It’s simple enough to understand, even for a pair as naïve as you two,” Peggy spoke clearly, calmly. “If you can’t break the rules, you might as well seduce the man who makes them.”

IV.

My lady is wavering between hysteria and spells of eerie quiet. The hysteria I can manage; I’m familiar with her tantrums. At least when she’s in the throes of a fit, she’s screaming exactly what is on her mind. It’s the cool, calculating calm that has always unnerved me more. When she’s like that, no one—not even me—is capable of understanding what is happening behind those icy blue eyes.

Mistress disappears, grabbing a goose-down pillow and holding it over her face. I hear her muffled screams, which she releases into the feathers, and I’m glad for their quieting influence.

“My lady, they are approaching.” I watch out the window as they ride up in a storm of churning dust, leather boots, and horse hooves. The dog in the kitchen barks and pushes his way out our front door, sending a few of the approaching horses into skittish whinnies.

His head stands out from all the rest, even with their identical tricornered hats and matching dark blue officer’s coats. General Washington always stands out, on account of his unusual height. His ease atop the horse is surprising.

“What a lovely place!” He roars it good-naturedly to his riding companion, the Marquis de Lafayette. “Arnold has arranged for quite the plush perch for himself and Mrs. Arnold.” Washington and his young friend laugh, his laugh a booming, contagious sound that originates from somewhere deep within his barrel of a chest.

The military party approaches the home as a unit, a herd, their camaraderie evident in the way they banter and jostle with one another, the way they quip like old friends. I suppose that is inevitable after the trials they’ve endured together: victory in battle, defeat in battle, the bone-numbing cold of their winter together at Valley Forge. They’ve been to hell and back, this group, and now all they expect is a nice warm breakfast with a fellow patriot and the charming wife of whom he’s so often boasted.

“Here we are, men.” Washington steps down from his horse, his height alarming even after the stories I’ve heard about his uncommon stature. He removes his tricornered hat and uses it to point across the river. When he speaks, his men listen with rapt attention. “There stands West Point. The key to the continent. Boys, our future could be made or broken on those granite cliffs.”

I wonder, as I study his large features—his placid eyes, his wide, honest brow—does Washington know already? Or is there still time?

CHAPTER FOUR

“The Most Beautiful Little Patriot in All Thirteen Colonies”

July 1778

Philadelphia, PA

C
LARA, SIT.”

“Yes, Miss Peggy.”

“You seem to enjoy sewing.”

Clara nodded, lowering herself into the chair opposite her mistress.

“You are always fixing my gowns, since they are as old as Abraham and Sarah.”

Clara lowered her eyes, smiling under her mistress’s flattery. “I try, miss.”

“And you stitch all of my shifts and undergarments.”

Clara waited to see where her mistress was directing the conversation.

“How would you like to help me with something very important?”

“I’d like nothing more than to be helpful.”

“Good, then you must teach me everything you know about stitching. And you must do so in the next quarter of an hour.”

It was the morning after the party given by Benedict Arnold for the French ambassador. Clara noticed, with surprise, that her mistress had risen early, attended breakfast with her family, and even spoken kindly to them at the table. After the morning meal, she had requested that Clara bring her a cup of tea, a fresh kerchief, and her stitching frame so that she could do some needlework in the parlor. It was the last thing Clara had expected to hear from her mistress, and for a brief moment she had entertained the foolish thought that her mistress might actually have been interested in a morning of simple, industrious activity.

“I will try, my lady.” Clara now set down the tray of tea on the table and joined her mistress in the parlor. “I see you have your stitching frame set up. That’s the first step.”

“Yes, but why must I use this contraption?”

“To keep the linen taut, my lady.”

“Very well. I want to sew in little golden stars, and then I want to stitch a motto on this kerchief.” Peggy looked at the blank kerchief. “And I’ll finish with my initials, of course.”

“All right then. We shall start with the stars. Which color?” Clara held up two spools, one of a dark gold and one of a cheery yellow.

“Hmm, which one looks more like the color of the stars on the rebel flag?” Peggy eyed her options, brow furrowed.

“I suggest we select this one.” Clara picked the gold spool, intrigued to find out more about their morning’s task.

“Fine.” Peggy nodded her agreement. “You thread the needle, Clara. I don’t want to prick my fingers.”

Clara prepared the needle and handed it to Peggy, a long tail of
golden thread dangling behind it. “Now, would you like your embroidery in the corner of your kerchief? Or right in the middle? You must choose your spot.”

“Right in the middle,” Peggy answered.

“Then right about here is where you should make your first stitch.” Clara pointed to the center of the kerchief, stretched out over the circular stitching frame.

“Oh, I feel so clumsy, and my hands will shake and ruin it. Can you do it for me?” Peggy handed the threaded needle to her maid, smiling imploringly.

“All right then. I’ll do it this time, and you watch so that perhaps you’ll be up for it next time.”

Clara sewed quickly with expert hands as her mistress hovered, looking on with half interest. Peggy instructed Clara to stitch a miniature constellation of gold stars, just like Betsy Ross had done, offering criticism whenever she didn’t approve of a star’s size or position.

“Now, below the stars, I want you to stitch a motto,” Peggy directed.

“What’s that, my lady?”

“I want you to write: ‘Don’t Tread On Me.’ ”

Clara looked into Peggy’s face. “Miss, you want me to stitch in the patriots’ motto? The one Mr. Benjamin Franklin came up with?”

“That’s right.” Peggy stared back at her maid, defiant. “That’s what I said. Do it.”

“Well . . . all right. If that’s what you say.”

“It is what I say,” Peggy answered. “And do it quickly, as I’ll need it today.”

So her lady had gone from Tory to patriot in one day; she must have enjoyed herself at the party last night after all.

H
ANNAH HAD
not yet started to cook the midday dinner, and Brigitte had barely emptied the chamber pots, before Major General Benedict Arnold knocked on the front door of the Shippen home, asking if he might call on Miss Peggy Shippen.

“I knew he’d be here before luncheon.” Peggy watched through her bedroom window as his formal carriage rolled to a halt, flanked by a military escort of soldiers atop strong horses. When the coach door opened he limped out, supported by his silver-tipped cane.

Clara knew from her mistress’s satisfied expression that the day was going according to some precise plan she had laid out, as if they were all mere marionette puppets, playing in a show that they themselves did not know existed.

“Well?” Peggy turned to her maid. “What are you waiting for? He’s limping his way up the front steps—hadn’t you better go answer the door?”

“M
AJOR
G
ENERAL
Benedict Arnold to see you, sir.” Clara found the words surprising, even as she uttered them.

“Please show him in.” Judge Shippen received the burly American officer in the parlor, his shock at the visit plain on his face. “Major General Benedict Arnold, I am certain that we do not deserve the honor of a visit from our new governor so soon after your arrival to our city. This is too kind of you.”

“Hullo and good day, Judge.” Benedict Arnold limped his hulking frame into the parlor. Clara recognized the same swarthy dog from the day Arnold’s coach had sped past Peggy.

Judge Shippen fidgeted with the sleeves of his threadbare coat as he directed his guest. “Welcome, General Arnold, please sit.”

“Much obliged, Judge Shippen.” Arnold doffed his tricornered cap and took the seat offered him. His frame appeared too hefty for the finely carved wood beneath it.

“Thank you for receiving me, Judge.” Benedict Arnold’s voice was a strong baritone, reverberating off the upholstered walls of the Shippen parlor.

“But of course, General Arnold. And I must offer my sincere regrets on behalf of my wife; Mrs. Shippen suffers from chronic headaches. Perhaps if we had had more notice of your visit, she might have—”

“Down, Barley, sit!” Arnold bellowed at his dog, the mutt’s tail wagging precariously close to a porcelain vase. “What was that you said, Judge? Oh, no worries about the missus.” Arnold propped his jeweled cane against the chair’s armrest and stretched his wounded left leg out before him. “Feels good to take a load off, eh, Judge?”

“Indeed, General,” Judge Shippen answered, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Mind if I smoke in here?” Arnold removed a pipe from the pocket of his military jacket.

“As you wish, please.” Judge Shippen nodded. “And perhaps something to eat?”

“I’ll never turn down food, Judge, as you can probably tell from my frame.” Arnold patted his belly with one thick hand as he lit his pipe with the other.

“Clara?” Judge Shippen summoned the maid into the room. Clara noted the twitch in the judge’s jaw as he told her to bring them a plate of apples, cheese, and nuts.

“Right away, sir.” Clara curtsied and left the judge coughing in a cloud of Arnold’s smoke. Not only did the judge disapprove of tobacco
smoke in his home, he wasn’t particularly fond of receiving visitors, especially those visitors whose political alignments were as clear as the ones held by the city’s new military commander. Nor did he seem enthusiastic about exhausting his limited food stores on superfluous midday visits.

Nevertheless, Judge Shippen was well-bred enough to know that the occasion warranted a courteous display. When she reentered the parlor with a tray of food, Clara found the judge conversing with his guest. “How are you finding our city, General Arnold?”

“Oh, delightful, just delightful.” Arnold disregarded the formality of his host, leaning forward like the two men were old friends.

“The food, Judge.”

“Thank you, Clara. Place it here.” Clara deposited the plate of food between them. Before she had stepped back from the table, Arnold had reached for an apple piece and bit into it with gusto. “I must tell you, Judge, the city has not disappointed. I had never seen so many pretty faces as I did at the party at my home last night.”

Judge Shippen’s cheeks blanched, but he managed a pinched smile. He looked at the food, but did not touch it.

“Nice to be in the society of gentlemen again, Judge.” Arnold exhaled a pungent fog of pipe smoke. Clara liked the familiar scent; it reminded her of Oma, who had sometimes spent the warm evenings on the farm indulging in her one vice. “Philadelphia seems like a genteel town—so different from the savage wilderness of Ticonderoga and Saratoga. Speaking of Philadelphia’s charms, Judge, is Miss Peggy Shippen at home this morning?”