The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (29 page)

“There she is. Hello, Clara Bell.” Caleb was walking between the Quigleys, a noticeable bounce in his step. Just ahead walked Judge Shippen and his wife, whose hands were pressed to her ears in an effort to muffle the din in the street. Accompanying the judge and his wife were Betsy and Neddy Burd, who had joined the family for the evening. Peggy had dined with Arnold, and Clara had not yet seen her that evening.

“What is all of this?” Clara asked, looking around at the crowd in the street that seemed to be multiplying by the second. She was determined to stay close to Cal and not to get separated in the throngs. Enough of her shyness, enough of her breathless panic. She cared for Cal, and he seemed to care for her, too. Tonight was
the night that she might finally let him kiss her. The thought brought a happy flush to her cheeks, and she smiled in his direction before burrowing more deeply into her scarf.

“Oh, just a fun little New Year’s tradition, dearie. Didn’t you and your grandmother ever do it?” Mr. Quigley held a lantern to light their path. He wore his formal suit even in the frigid midnight temperatures.

“Nothing like this, sir,” Clara answered.

“Let me guess, Clara Bell.” Cal teased. “Always asleep by midnight?”

She threw Cal a sideways glance and noticed his smile, his energetic gait—what had him feeling so merry?

“Well, here in Philadelphia, the town gathers in the square, and when the church bells strike midnight, we all offer up a yell and bang the pots and pans like it’s the end of the world.” Mrs. Quigley chuckled. “It’s to ward off the bad spirits, usher in good luck for the New Year.”

“Oh, I see.” Clara laughed, hustling to stay apace with Caleb as they marched through the crowded street.

“Caleb, my dear, you be sure to make a special wish at midnight. You are the one who needs the luck this coming year. More so than any of us,” the housekeeper said, before she was jostled by a young man running past her. Clara could not help but detect the look of concern that had crossed Mrs. Quigley’s face as she had spoken to her nephew. And the mischievous glimmer in Cal’s eye.

“What does your aunt mean?” Clara asked. She saw that the Quigleys and Hannah had been separated from them by the growing crowd.

“I’ve got news, Clara Bell.”

Clara pulled her scarf higher around her ears, turning to face him. “What is it, Cal?”

He stopped short and she paused to face him. The crowds rushed past them toward the square, as Clara and Cal faced each other, an island in the stream of bodies. His eyes were alight, his gaze intense. Her stomach did a turn as she realized just how terribly she longed to kiss him. And then, for some reason she could not explain, she understood that that would no longer happen.

“I’m leaving,” Cal said.

A short punch of air left her mouth, filling up the frigid night with a misty little cloud. She could not answer as she stared at him. After what felt like an eternity, Cal continued. “Seeing General Washington right before Christmas made me think; he was rushing off to meet his men and continue the fighting. And just last week, he issued an urgent call for more volunteers. This country needs men to fight if we are to have any chance at winning our freedom.” Cal paused. “How can I stay back? Hanging around the Shippen home, serving no purpose . . .” Cal allowed the words to drift off but he did not finish his thought.

“Of course you serve a purpose, Cal.” Clara tried to keep her voice steady, even as she heard it catch on the words.

“But here is my chance, Clara, to serve something so much larger than myself. Or than any of us. How can I not answer the call?”

Her shoulders dropped as she saw the resolve on his face. The determination.

“The cause is liberty, Clara. Think about it, I have the chance to serve General Washington!” Cal’s voice teemed with excitement, with passion. And though Clara’s heart felt as if it had been trodden over by every reveler in the packed square, she forced a smile. She could not rob him of any of his happiness in this moment. “Of course you must go, Cal.”

And then, the square erupted in noise, and Clara instinctively brought her fingers to her ears.

The clock struck midnight, and the square around them roared with a din the likes of which Clara had never heard. All around her, servants and gentlemen alike were cheering and hugging, banging pots and pans in between kisses and well wishes.

“Happy 1779!

“Long live the colonies!

“To liberty!

“God Bless George Washington!

“And Benjamin Franklin!

“To France!”

The square was full of midnight revelers, and swelling in size every minute. Many in the crowd held candles or lanterns aloft, and the faint light from the wicks illuminated the flakes of snow as they fell, cloaking the city in an ethereal glow. Somehow, in the mayhem of hugs and cheers and song, Clara had lost Cal. She pushed back against the jostling crowd, looking for him.

“Cal?” She called out to him, but her voice was a feeble cry against the torrent of noise. Wine bottles and mugs of ale were being passed around as the crowd broke out into sporadic verses of “The Liberty Song.”

Some even yelled prayers in honor of their local military commander, whom Clara knew to be in the crowd, somewhere, with Peggy.

As she listened to the bells, and watched the laughter and hugs of strangers, Clara felt oppressed by sadness. Cal was leaving. This new year would be a year with him gone. Removed entirely from her life. And it would be the first year of her life that she would live entirely without Oma’s presence. She had no idea what the future with Miss Peggy held for her, and she could not help but feel desperate when she thought about how little control she had over the events unfolding around her. These thoughts hung heavy on her
and suddenly, amid the crowds and cheer of the square, Clara felt lonelier than she ever had in her life.

“Happy New Year, girl.” Mrs. Quigley appeared, taking ahold of Clara to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Happy New Year to you as well, Mrs. Quigley.”

“Clara, what is this? Don’t cry, my girl.” Mrs. Quigley pulled her in for another hug. “There, there. You’ve got much to give thanks for, Clara, my dear. None of this sadness.” As the old woman pulled away, she whispered, “Your grandmother would be proud if she could see you tonight.”

“I don’t know about that.” Clara sniffled. “But I do hope she is looking down on me,” Clara answered, managing a feeble smile as she choked back further tears.

“Aye, that she is, my dear.”

“Happy New Year, Clara Bell.” Mr. Quigley joined them, giving Clara a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Same to you, Mr. Quigley.”

“We are glad to have you with us,” Mr. Quigley replied, allowing the hint of a smile to curl his lips.

“And I am grateful in return, sir.”

“Let us offer a prayer for our general, and his men down in Middlebrook, New Jersey. May they survive the winter, and live to win the war in the New Year.”

Clara looked through the crowds, frantic to find Caleb, but all she saw around her were the faces of happy strangers. Meanwhile, the church bells kept ringing, chiming out a merry chorus while the crowd sang out in unison the refrain of “The Liberty Song.”

In Freedom we’re born and in Freedom we’ll live.

Our purses are ready. Steady, friends, steady;

Not as slaves, but as Freemen our money we’ll give.

And then, through the masses, there emerged a familiar face. Then a second familiar face.

“Clara.” Peggy was weaving her way through the mob, pulling a limping Arnold and his silver-topped cane behind her. “Clara, there you are!” Peggy wore a hooded cape of scarlet, the wisps of blond hair peeking out from under the cape and ringing her face like a snow-laced crown.

“Miss Peggy, General Arnold, Happy New Year.” Clara offered a smile as her mistress and Arnold approached. But Peggy didn’t want a smile, she wanted a hug, and she pulled Clara to her.

“Oh Clara, I am so happy.” Peggy’s laughter glittered like the snowflakes, mingling in the air with the chiming of the church bells. “Oh, Clara, isn’t it wonderful? Benedict and I are getting married!”

T
HOUGH
C
LARA
had dressed Peggy Shippen every day for a year, wedding tradition dictated that the bride’s mother and sister dress her on her wedding day. Betsy had returned home for her sister’s wedding. That morning, Clara made herself useful in the bedchamber, serving them breakfast on trays and running errands when they needed the curling iron reheated or fresh vials of rosewater poured.

Peggy had woken early that morning. It was early April and the days were not yet long, so it was dark when Peggy called her mother and sister to her bedroom. Clara answered their summons and brought up trays of tea and toast while the ladies shook off their grogginess.

“Clara, is it ready?” Peggy was the only one who had risen fresh-faced and brimming with energy. “Show me the gown.”

“Yes, Miss Peggy.” Clara ran to her own room and fetched the white lace gown she had been tasked with preparing for the day.

“It looks just as it did when I wore it,” Mrs. Shippen noted, running her hands along the bottom of the skirt to fluff it. “What a blessing that you are my exact size.”

“I suppose,” Peggy said, tight-jawed. She had wanted a new gown, but her father had told her he could afford either a new dress or wine for the wedding feast. Peggy, reluctantly agreeing that her mother’s old gown had been flattering to her figure, had opted for the wine.

“I would have happily worn it, Mother,” Betsy interjected as she unfastened the long line of buttons down the back of her sister’s gown.

“Elizabeth, we tried to squeeze you into it and it did not fit,” Mrs. Shippen replied with a sigh. “I wasn’t going to have you tear it in two at your wedding supper.” Betsy frowned and handed the gown to her mother, who finished unfastening the remaining buttons.

“You could have had it, Bets,” Peggy said. “I longed for a new gown.”

“Now is not the time for extravagance, Margaret,” Mrs. Shippen answered.

“It’s not so terribly plain, I suppose, thanks to the lace trim Clara added around the sleeves and collar.” Peggy looked to her maid, smiling. “Once I add the pearls that Benny gave me, I shall look quite nice, I hope.”

Mrs Shippen ignored the remark and began tying her daughter’s stays. “You aren’t going into your marriage with many linens, Margaret.”

“Yes, Peg, your trousseau is lacking,” Betsy agreed. “I sewed for months before marrying Neddy.”

“Why would I stitch away for months to sew all my household
linens? Benny will just buy us the tablecloths and sheets we need,” Peggy said. Clara saw her mother and sister exchange anxious glances. “Mark my words, ladies, today will be the last day of my life that I will have to do without.”

Mrs. Shippen creased her forehead as she looked at her younger daughter. “I fear I didn’t teach you enough of Mr. Benjamin Franklin’s messages on the value of frugality.”

“Oh, Mother,” Peggy sighed. “Mr. Franklin again? I’m sick of
Poor Richard’s Almanack
and those tiresome sayings.”

“Men are always very generous during the courtship, but they appreciate a wife who can manage a household on a budget.” Mrs. Shippen ignored her daughter’s protests.

“I run my house on our budget each month, Mother,” Betsy said.

Clara, who was holding the gown ready for when the corset was laced, saw that Peggy clenched her teeth but held her tongue.

“You’ll have to watch yourself, Peg, especially with all the money he must be spending on fixing up Mount Pleasant,” Betsy mumbled. “That must cost a fortune.”

“Quite true. Margaret”—Mrs. Shippen’s brow knit as she looked at her younger daughter—“I wonder how, on an army salary, he afforded that mansion.”

Peggy shrugged. “Nothing wrong with an army man doing a bit of business on the side. He’s a savvy businessman.”

“What sort of business?” Mrs. Shippen reached to Clara for the gown. Clara wondered, had Mrs. Shippen really not heard the rumors around town about Major General Arnold’s black market trades? She herself, a maid, had heard hints of the accusation at the spice trader, the butcher, the tea merchant.

Peggy was eager to change topics. “How should I know, Mother? Arnold does not like me to trouble myself with concerns
over money,” Peggy answered. “As long as it’s there, I don’t care how he comes by it.”

Mrs. Shippen and Betsy exchanged a troubled look before helping Peggy into the gown. Peggy waved her maid forward. “Clara?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Are my flowers ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Peggy had asked Clara to weave a crown of white flowers, a springtime version of the headdress she had so loved at Christmas, garnished with snowdrops, Dutch crocuses, and hints of pink cherry blossom. Clara had also fashioned a bouquet for the bride to carry with her during the wedding ceremony.