The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (22 page)

“My daughter, well, in fact . . .” The judge stammered, grasping for some suitable reply, but was interrupted.

“Can it be true?” All eyes in the room turned to the doorway, where Miss Peggy stood, a vision in bright blue silk, ruby jewelry in her hair and on her limbs. Now Clara understood her lady’s particular
interest in her wardrobe earlier that morning—she wore the colors of Betsy Ross’s flag.

“Can it be true that Major General Benedict Arnold is paying me a visit in his first week here?” Peggy crossed the room, her face the image of flattered humility. Arnold wrestled with his wounded leg as he struggled to his feet, leaning on his jeweled cane as he bowed. Peggy extended her hand to him for a kiss.

“Miss Shippen, thank you for taking my visit.” Arnold looked at her, his large features lit up with boyish excitement.

“It is I who must offer thanks, General Arnold.” The scent of Peggy’s rosewater perfume wafted as far as the threshold of the parlor, where Clara stood, awaiting further orders from the judge or her mistress. “I shall be able to tell my grandchildren some day that I once received the hero of the colonies in my own parlor.” An intangible attraction bounced between the two of them, Clara noticed. Some subtle shift that made all the men—Arnold, his uniformed attendants in the corner, even her own father—sit up a little more straight, a little more alert. Even Clara found it hard to peel her eyes from her mistress’s dazzling entrance.

“Ahem.” Judge Shippen shifted in his chair, looking from his daughter to the large man, twice her age, who had come to court her in his home.

“General Arnold, may I sit beside you?” Peggy tiptoed to his side, nearly stepping on the dog before she noticed him curled up at his master’s feet. “Oh, ho! And who is this adorable little creature?” Peggy leaned over, clucking sweetly at the dog.

Peggy hated dogs, and this one especially. That much Clara knew.

“This here is Barley.” Arnold stroked the dog behind the ears, offering him a generous piece of cheese. The judge cringed as he watched.

“I think I saw him in the street once, shortly after you came in.” Peggy smiled, as if the memory were a sweet one. “He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Can’t blame him!” Arnold retorted, guffawing at his own joke.

“What a charming little name, Barley.” Peggy petted the dog once, her hand recoiling the moment Barley attempted to lick her.

“Aye, he’s named after the essential ingredient for his favorite drink—ale.”

“How clever.” Peggy tossed her curls back so that her ruby earrings danced alongside her laughing features.

“Stuck by me loyally in Canada during the siege of Quebec, more loyally than some of my own men, mind you. Plus we love ale, don’t we, Barley?” Turning back to Peggy, Arnold stretched his hand out and one of his aides placed a chair for her on the other side of Barley.

“The siege of Quebec is now a famous tale. I hope you don’t mind my saying so.” Peggy fluttered her eyelashes toward the floor. “There is nothing I’d love more than for you to regale us with some of the tales of your heroism.” Peggy stared only at the officer, as if oblivious of her father, and everyone else in the room. “Perhaps you can tell us how you came to be General Washington’s most favored compatriot?”

“Oh, ho ho! Is that what they say about me? Miss Shippen, you are too kind. The general, Mr. Washington, is a good man. Too fair to have a favorite. I can oblige with my tales though, if you’d like. Which battle would you like to hear about, Miss Shippen?”

“Oh, there are so many from which to choose. Where to begin?” Peggy furrowed her brow as if she were genuinely confounded. “We’ve been hearing of your bravery at Canada, and then
also at Fort Ticonderoga, and of course at Saratoga. I can’t pick which one I’d like to hear first.”

The general laughed, an unchecked, booming laugh that roared like cannon fire. “How about I regale you with a little bit from each one?”

“Oh, but that would take ages.” Judge Shippen rearranged himself in his chair. “How about you pick one, the most riveting story. We would hate to waste too much of your time, General Arnold.”

“I’ve got time, Judge. How about over a jug of ale, shall we say?” Arnold looked to his host. “If I may be so bold as to beg some ale from you? We soldiers don’t like telling tales without it.” Arnold smiled, an expression of mischievous merriment, and Clara decided that perhaps Benedict Arnold was not entirely unattractive.

“My apologies, Major General, we do not keep ale in the house,” the judge replied.

“Not a problem.” Arnold whistled, prompting a young, wigged attendant to appear at the parlor doorway. “Franks, you remember Miss Shippen?”

“How do you do, Miss Shippen?” The aide bowed, looking bashfully at Peggy.

“Why, hello, Mr. Franks.” Peggy waved to him. “Wonderful to see you again.”

“Franks, be a good lad and fetch a jug of ale from the carriage and bring it in here, would you?” Arnold turned back to his host. “I always travel prepared. Another thing that life in the military has taught me.” Arnold winked, and if he noticed the judge’s anxious expression, he chose to ignore it.

“Miss Shippen, can I tempt you to join me?” Arnold turned to Peggy.

Peggy cast a sideways glance toward her father before turning
her attention back on Arnold. “You may tempt me all you like.” Her light eyes sparkled. “I’d love to join you in a drink, sir, to toast your brave exploits.” Without looking at her maid, Peggy ordered: “Clara, fetch two mugs.”

“Just one drink, Peggy, my dear,” the judge interjected.

By the time Arnold was done telling about the Battle of Saratoga, the two of them had nearly finished the jug, and Arnold was reclining with a full belly, holding his mug for his dog to lap up the final drops with his tongue.

“You see,” Arnold sat back, his left leg outstretched, his voice loud and commanding, “the musket fire from that damned lobster-back soldier in Saratoga had gone right into the old wound in my left leg. The leg which had already been shot in—”

“In Quebec, certainly. The winter’s siege of 1776, of course.” Peggy completed his sentence, leaning forward past the edge of her seat.

“That’s absolutely right.” Arnold smiled approvingly at his devoted listener.

“Such pain you must have endured. Please, go on, General.”

Arnold lifted his empty mug, examining its emptiness, before continuing. “So now, in Saratoga, this musket bullet lodges right beneath my left knee. They insisted that my life was in peril if they did not amputate.”

“Oh my,” Peggy gasped, pulling her newly stitched handkerchief to wipe a tear from her cheek.

“Am I upsetting you?” Arnold paused. “I can stop.”

“Yes, perhaps she has heard enough,” the judge spoke, participating for the first time in what felt to Clara like hours. “It might be prudent to continue this another time.”

“Please do not stop!” Peggy leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Arnold. “I must hear the end.”

“Such a brave little lady.” Arnold nodded his head. “All right, so,
while the surgeon removed his tools to saw my left leg off, I ordered my men to fix their muskets on him. I told him, ‘Doctor, stop it right there! If I lose my leg, you lose your life.’ ”

Peggy put a trembling hand to her heart.

“They said I’d never walk again, but”—Arnold paused for full effect—“you see me here today.”

“And how happy it makes me to see you here. It’s a wonder.” Peggy nodded.

“And so, at the end of the day, after our victory at Saratoga we had split up Burgoyne’s British army to the north from Howe’s British army to the south. And we finally secured the allegiance of the French. And I kept my leg. Not too bad for a day’s work, if I do say so myself.” Arnold winked, tipping his empty mug to his lips to see whether he might sponge one last drop.

Judge Shippen nodded, satisfied that the tale was complete, and mumbled something about checking on his wife. When Arnold did not take his host’s cue, the judge abandoned his hopes of showing the general out, and instead excused himself from the room. Peggy now sat alone with her suitor.

Using her new handkerchief to dab the corners of her eyes, she said, “You must have endured such hardship, General Arnold.”

“Miss Shippen, please do not cry.”

“Fear not, General, they are merely tears of admiration.” Peggy made an elaborate display of fanning out her handkerchief, and Arnold noticed its pattern.

“What a nice handkerchief.”

“Oh, this old thing?” Peggy handed it to him and Arnold looked it over, studying Clara’s handiwork—the small cluster of stars and the patriotic slogan underneath. “ ‘Don’t tread on me,’ ” Arnold read aloud, a smile spreading across his face. “Well, you are quite the patriot, Miss Shippen.”

“I suppose I am.” Peggy nodded, lowering her eyes. “I carry it with me, always. I stitched it to resemble Betsy Ross’s flag. And you see?” Peggy stood up and did a theatrical twirl, allowing her bright blue dress to flare out to half the size of the parlor. “I wore my blue dress with my red jewels in the hopes that I would remind you of our new flag.” Peggy smiled, and Benedict Arnold erupted in laughter.

“Bravo!” Arnold’s laughter rumbled up from his broad chest and belly. “I daresay, the most beautiful little patriot in all thirteen colonies.”

“If it would please you, I’d ask that you keep my handkerchief.” Peggy placed a pale, smooth palm on top of his thick, rough hand, folding it over the white linen. “As a memento, so that perhaps you’ll always remember me, and this visit we had together. I know I will cherish the memory always.”

“I cannot take this from you.”

“Why ever not? I’ll stitch another. I’m always stitching; I can’t stand for my hands to be idle,” Peggy said.

“Well, then, I will keep the handkerchief, of course. But please know that even without it, I would never forget the sweet memories of this visit. Not even if I lived for a thousand years.”

Peggy averted her eyes to the wooden floor, blinking with chaste humility as she spoke. “Oh, sir, you are too kind. I don’t know what I did that I should be so honored with both your visit
and
your kind words.”

“You have made me feel so welcome in Philadelphia. And I am so encouraged by your show of patriotism. It gives me hope in the cause.” Arnold sat back, massaging his left knee.

“Are you enjoying Philadelphia, sir?” Peggy finished off the last of the ale by pouring it in his mug.

“Very much.” Arnold took a sip.

“And the Penn mansion?”

“Oh, it’s very comfortable. Though awfully big for just me.”

Peggy nodded. “I’d never had the pleasure of setting foot inside before last night’s party. That awful British general who occupied it before you, what was his name? Howell?”

“Howe.” Arnold corrected her.

“Oh, yes, Howe. Now I remember.” Peggy shrugged her shoulders. “Not that memorable, I suppose.” The two of them shared a laugh. “Well, he was in there before you, and he never invited us poor Philadelphians into his home.”

“He didn’t understand the people. Wasn’t one of ’em, the way I am.”

“How I admire your humility.” Peggy smiled. “Speaking of the people,” she continued, “it’s been quite hard for all of us, not having any stores opened in Philadelphia.”

“Oh, I plan to reopen them.” Arnold waved his hand nonchalantly as he smacked the cork stopper back into the neck of the empty ale jug. “We just had to close them for a bit while we did inventory. All those goods were shipped from England, you see. We didn’t want to be sending any more profits back for the Crown’s enrichment. Not when they’re trying to kill us all.”

“Well, where did everything go?” Peggy asked. “All those beautiful petticoats, and clocks, and china, and mahogany furniture. I hope you didn’t destroy it all.”

“No, my lady! We would never destroy such valuable items. We have them all safe and sound.” And then Arnold was struck by an idea, an idea he thought had originated in his own mind, even though Clara knew otherwise.

Arnold smiled as he asked, “Miss Shippen, would you like to see the goods?”

“I
T’S NOT
right. Something about it does not seem right.” Clara stepped into the quiet kitchen, muttering to herself as she searched out a late lunch. “Oh!” She started when she saw Caleb, hands stained bloodred beside the stove. “Caleb, what in heavens’ name are you doing?”

“Hello, Clara Bell. I didn’t mean to give you a fright.” He chuckled to himself, holding up his hands. “What does it look like I’m doing? Stewing cherries for Hannah, for the preserves. You’ll thank me when we have jam this winter.”

“I see.” Clara nodded, walking farther into the kitchen and removing a piece of brown wax paper from atop a half-eaten pigeon pie.

“That is one of Hannah’s tastiest dishes. You should have a slice.” Caleb watched her as he worked. “Where were you during luncheon?”

Clara wanted to tell someone, but she hesitated, pondering how much to divulge about how she’d spent the past hour. “Well, why should I tell you? You who seems to know everything, anyway.”

“I suppose I deserve that.” Cal wiped his hands and placed down the rag, approaching Clara. “I’ve been trying to apologize to you for days, Clara Bell.”