The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (26 page)

“My mother tells me that she hid under the bed on her wedding night,” Christianne whispered to Betsy, her tongue loosened by several mugs of mulled cider.

“I cannot blame her, after what I’ve heard about wedding nights,” Betsy replied, giggling.

“Elizabeth Shippen, mind your manners and remember that you are a lady.” Mrs. Shippen threw a barbed look at her daughter from where she sat, stitching in an armchair.

“Yes, Mother,” Betsy assented, momentarily halting her giggles.

“Clara?” Peggy called from her perch in the front hall. Peggy, uninterested in sewing, had sought privacy across the hall with Joseph Stansbury, and she sat there now as the china merchant tried to console her.

“Yes, Miss Peggy?” Clara paused before them.

“Have any letters come for me today?”

“I’m sorry, no, Miss Peggy.”

Peggy’s shoulders dropped.

“More cider, please, Clara!” Betsy called from the other room.

“And where’s my sugar?” Stansbury asked, gesturing toward his waiting teacup, as if sugar were easy to come by these days.

“Oh, Stan, we don’t have any sugar. Not since Arnold stopped—” but Peggy didn’t finish her thought before she pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window, crying once more.

“Don’t.” Stansbury put a hand on Peggy’s shoulder. “More cream, then.” He looked at Clara.

“Right away.” Clara curtsied and excused herself.

“I think Miss Peggy actually possesses genuine feelings for Benedict Arnold,” Clara said, stepping into the kitchen to refill the family’s mugs of cider. It was warm in there, and Cal was nibbling on a piece of Hannah’s fresh-baked pumpkin bread. Clara longed to take a seat beside him rather than return to the front of the house with its damp drafts and glum faces.

“Is it possible, Clara Bell? Can she feel real emotions?” Caleb
teased her, placing his fork down and refilling the cups Clara handed him.

“Caleb, I really believe she does.” Clara nodded. “And I need more cream too, for the merchant. And a bite of that pumpkin bread.”

“Of course you do.” Caleb handed her a sliver of bread, flashing a half grin that he sometimes fixed on her when they were alone.

“The two of you plan to eat all that pumpkin bread before the family’s had any?” Hannah hollered at them from the corner where she stood, spreading the pumpkin seeds on a rack for roasting.

“I mean it, though.” Clara finished her thought, her mouth full. “I believe Miss Peggy has fallen for Arnold.”

“Sweet, innocent Clara Bell sees only the best in others.” She didn’t know why, but the way Cal looked at her as he said it made her blush. Taking the cider and the cream saucer, she went back out into the front of the house.

Clara found Miss Peggy where she had left her, Stansbury holding her hand in his own as she stared forlornly out the window. “Can you write to him, Peg?” He was the only person who had not yet tired of Peggy’s perpetual gloom.

“I suppose,” Peggy answered, blowing her nose in one of the dozen “Don’t Tread On Me” handkerchiefs she’d had Clara stitch for her. “But is that unbecoming? Won’t that make me appear desperate?”

Clara delivered the cream to Stansbury and entered the parlor with the cider mugs. In spite of her faith in the genuine nature of Miss Peggy’s affection for Arnold, Clara nevertheless felt that her mistress deserved the punishment she was enduring. Hadn’t she always complained to Caleb about how Peggy Shippen had reduced Benedict Arnold, a war hero, to a groveling fool at her feet? And hadn’t Peggy met Arnold’s declaration of love with a cold, flat statement
that she could not love a cripple? It wasn’t kind. And Arnold had a right to be stung by her harsh rejection of him. But Clara did hope he’d return—both for the happiness of Peggy and the harmony of the Shippen household.

“Perhaps a bit of gossip might lift your spirits,” Stansbury spoke in his clipped British accent. “You’ll never believe who I crossed paths with last time I was on business in New York.”

“Who?” Peggy asked, eyeing her companion through her tears.

“A certain major. A certain dark and handsome Brit by the name of John André.”

“Oh,” Peggy gasped, momentarily pausing her sobs. The window beside her rattled as a gust of cold rain slapped the glass.

“He asks after you, Peg.” Stansbury leaned close. “Every time I see him, he asks about you.”

“He—he does?” Peggy’s face appeared soft in the gray light—a fleeting moment of vulnerability.

“He’s asked me if you would read his letter, if he wrote.”

But Peggy shook her head, her face now serious. “Stansbury, that is the past. A girlish fancy. I’ve set my sights on Arnold now. He’s the one I want.” The china merchant did not argue. “Besides,” Peggy continued, “everyone knows that the colonials are going to win the war. I’m not going to marry a Brit.” With that, Peggy leaned her head back and closed her eyes, a posture of defeat. The merchant was finally quiet, sipping his tea in silence beside her.

Clara looked past her mistress and out the window at the street below. The cobblestones were slippery in the cold rain, and passersby scurried along, their cloaks and capes pulled over their heads in futile attempts to remain dry. Carriages rolled by, pulled by horses with heads slumping against the onslaught of rain. And then one carriage stopped. Clara recognized the coach immediately, even though it hadn’t appeared outside their home in a month.

“Miss Peggy?” Clara spoke, still staring out at the street.

Peggy blew her nose and turned toward the maid. “Oh, what now, Clara?”

“Major Arnold has come calling.” Clara kept her gaze fixed out the window. The announcement triggered a flurry of activity. Peggy sat up, her back stiff as she turned toward the window. She saw what Clara saw.

“It’s Benny!” Peggy shrieked, a smile illuminating her face. “Oh! How do I look? I must look a fright, with all this crying. Oh, Clara, how is my hair?”

“You look wonderful, Miss Peggy. Now, why don’t you go take a seat in the drawing room and I’ll show him right in.” Clara practically pushed her mistress away as she turned back toward the window. The carriage door opened and out hopped Barley the dog. There was a moment’s pause before Benedict Arnold emerged—his legs first, then the rest of his body—alighting from the carriage with uncharacteristic nimbleness. Yes, something was different. He had no cane. Clara could hardly believe her eyes as Arnold lowered his hat to shield his face from the rain and began to march across the street.

“Ready, Barley? Here we are.” Arnold climbed the Shippens’ stairs with a youthful vigor that Clara had never before seen in him. Before he could knock, Clara had opened the door.

“Major General Arnold!” Clara curtsied, not attempting to conceal her surprise or delight. “Please, come in.”

“Clara, good to see you.” Arnold’s merry voice roared throughout the hall, his mood as light as his footsteps. “Where is that pretty mistress of yours?” Clara had no doubt that Peggy could hear Arnold from the drawing room—his voice echoed off the walls.

“Benny?” Peggy appeared in the hall. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me, Miss Peggy Shippen.” Arnold spread his arms wide,
taking a theatrical bow before her. “Standing before you, like you requested.” He crossed the room without the aid of a cane, walking on both legs as if he’d never suffered a battle wound.

“Oh, Benny, look at you!” Peggy flew to him. Once together, they embraced, showing no modesty as he kissed her, right there before her father, mother, and sister and the parlor full of servants.

Stansbury looked on, a smile on his face as he turned to Clara. “Well, Cupid has given our general a more mortal wound than all the host of Britons!”

Clara watched the two lovers as they kissed, oblivious of their surroundings. But Clara couldn’t help but wonder: Was it Cupid who had determined this string of events, or had her mistress somehow arranged the entire thing?

P
EGGY WAS
rapturously happy to be reconciled with Arnold, so Clara braced herself for fresh fighting when she heard the news on Christmas Eve: Judge Shippen had turned down Arnold’s request for his daughter’s hand.

“Is it true?” Clara was in the pantry that evening with Mrs. Quigley, skimming the tops of the milk jugs to separate the cream. “Did the judge really tell Arnold he would not give permission for the major to marry Peggy?”

“That’s
Miss
Peggy to you, Clara, and don’t you be forgetting your place.” Mrs. Quigley looked at Clara sternly.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,
Miss
Peggy. Did the judge really tell General Arnold he could not marry Miss Peggy?” Clara scooped a dollop out of the next pitcher and added it to the bowl. Hannah would use the cream for Christmas dessert.

“Well, I don’t like to gossip.” Mrs. Quigley sighed, stopping up
the skimmed milk jugs. “But that’s what I heard His Excellency telling the missus when I was in there this morning.”

“We must ready ourselves for a storm.” Clara exhaled slowly. “Miss Peggy will be a fury.”

B
UT
P
EGGY
wasn’t in a rage, Clara noted with shock, as she entered her bedroom the next day. “Clara, hello,” Peggy called out to her maid from her spot under the bed cover.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Peggy.” Clara entered with trepidation, passing before her lady’s bed to deposit an armful of firewood on the hearth.

“Are those Hannah’s stewed apples I smell coming up from the kitchen?” Miss Peggy inhaled a long, languid breath, kicking aside the coverlet. “They smell absolutely divine.” Clara looked at Miss Peggy. Her mistress didn’t appear distressed at all. In fact, she appeared downright cheery this morning.

“Clara.” Peggy rose from her plush mattress and approached her maid. “I have something for you.” She tiptoed back to her bed and bent over, reaching under the bedframe to retrieve a large package wrapped in discarded newspapers with red ribbon. “Merry Christmas.” Peggy handed the package to Clara with an eager smile.

“For me?” Clara had never had a Christmas present before—at least not one wrapped with red ribbon. In past years Oma had made her a special breakfast on Christmas morning, and one year she had found a way to give Clara a basket of oranges—but a real, proper present?

“Miss Peggy . . . I can’t accept such a—”

“Don’t just stand there, open it.” Peggy giggled. Clara obeyed, peeling off the paper and carefully removing the red ribbon.

“May I keep the ribbon?” Clara asked, embarrassed by how silly her request must sound to Miss Peggy.

“I suppose, if you’d like. Go on, open it.” When Clara pulled aside the paper, she could not help but gasp.

Miss Peggy had given her a velvet gown of deep, nighttime blue. Around the collar and wrists were embroidered lace details that looked like fresh-fallen snow. The skirt was full, like one of the proper gowns worn by Peggy and Betsy Shippen to their balls. Clara held her present before her, afraid her dirty hands might sully the pristine velvet. This gown would likely have cost an entire year’s worth of her wages. For several moments, she did not speak.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Peggy looked at Clara, giggling. “What do you think?”

“Miss Peggy.” Clara turned from the gown to her mistress. “This is too generous. I’ve never dreamed of owning a gown like this. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Merry Christmas, Clara.” Peggy leaned forward and kissed her maid’s cheek.

“Miss Peggy, I . . . I can’t keep this.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course you can, and you’ll wear it to Betsy’s wedding next week. You’ll need something nice to wear.”

“Goodness.” Clara brought the lush velvet to her cheek and reveled in the feel of the plush, downy fabric against her skin.

“Do you like it?” Peggy smiled.

“Oh, Miss Peggy, I love it.”

“Good!” Peggy took Clara’s hand in her own. “I’m so glad. You are so good to me, and I wanted you to know how I cherish you so, Clara.”

“Miss Peggy, thank you.” Clara lowered her eyes, and then she remembered: “I have something for you too. Let me go and fetch
it.” Clara flew down the stairs to her bedroom and returned, several minutes later, carrying the gift she’d made for her mistress.