The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (36 page)

“I
do
!” Peggy sighed, exasperated. “But you think I’m going to go out in public like this?” She spread her palms over her belly. “No, the whole town would be scandalized, and everyone would be talking about how Benedict Arnold’s expecting wife paid a visit to the china merchant. Reed would probably even have them print an article that I’m shopping again. No, this must be done in stealth.” She leaned forward toward Clara. “That’s why you shall go fetch him. No one knows or cares who
you
are. Tell Stan that Benny and I wish to meet with him in private, and bring him back here. Do not take no for an answer, and do not leave the shop until you have Stan in tow.”

T
HE TASK
did not prove to be difficult at all. Stansbury not only agreed to accompany Clara back to the Arnolds’ cottage, he offered his coach to transport them. Whether it was to avoid the bitter winter weather, like he said, or to avoid the eager eyes of the town
gossips who might see him walking with the Arnolds’ maid, Clara could not decide. Either way, it seemed to Clara that the china merchant had been awaiting an invitation to such a meeting.

Clara led him into the house, lamenting the fact that she was now complicit in the nefarious plot. “General? Mrs. Arnold?” She scanned the empty drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Arnold did not seem ready for the guest they had been expecting.

“Mr. Stansbury, please, take a seat by the fire. I shall fetch my masters and some tea.” Clara ushered him to the chair closest to the blaze.

“Why, hello.” Peggy appeared suddenly, as if she were a gowned apparition conjured from the air. “Joseph Stansbury.”

“Peggy Shippen, you always did have a flair for the dramatic.” The merchant rose and kissed her on both cheeks, pulling her hands aside. “Love the dress. You look divine.”

“Thank you, Stan. You always look wonderful. Let me call that husband of mine in.”

“Wait.” Stansbury held stubbornly to Peggy’s hands. “Does he know about . . . our idea?”

“He knows. I told him.”

“And he supports us?” Stansbury’s voice betrayed his hope.

“He does now.” Peggy lifted a lone eyebrow, exchanging a knowing grin with her coconspirator.

“Excellent work, my dear. I knew you could pull it off.”

“Joseph Stansbury!” Benedict Arnold limped into the room, extending his hand for a rough handshake that looked like it might snap the merchant’s arm in half.

“General Arnold, an honor.” The merchant doffed his cap and bent into a low, obsequious bow.

“Stansbury, sit down.” Arnold limped over to a spot on the sofa beside him. Clara delivered their tea.

“You see how big my wife is?” Arnold handed his teacup back to Clara, asking the maid to bring him a mug of rum instead.

“She is radiant.” Stansbury nodded, spooning sugar into his own drink. “The image of maternal bliss.”

“Well, it’s because I’m so fortunate in my choice of husband. That is what gives me my glow.” Peggy nudged Arnold’s shoulder.

A tense silence stretched between the trio, with none of them sure who should broach the purpose of their assembly. Peggy ran her fingers along the handle of her teacup but didn’t touch her drink. Her husband gobbled down a mug of rum and asked Clara for a refill.

“Well,” Peggy finally spoke. “Stansbury, thank you for coming here. We would have come to see you at the store, but, you see . . .” She pointed to her belly.

“It is my pleasure,” the merchant answered. “I will admit I was hoping to get an invitation of this sort.”

“Yes.” Peggy nodded knowingly. “As you know, my husband and I have suffered a string of cruelties at the hands of certain people in positions of power. You know to whom we refer.” Peggy looked at the merchant, who nodded his understanding.

Peggy continued. “We’ve suffered for such a long time, and for no good reason. We have come to the conclusion that there is no harm in reaching out to a certain . . . friend . . . you and I share. A friend who might be able to present us with a better situation.”

“Your meaning is perfectly understood, madame.” Stansbury nodded.

“It is my understanding that you see this . . . friend . . . quite frequently when you travel to New York for business?” Peggy raised her eyebrows, orchestrating this exchange purely for the benefit of her husband. Arnold listened.

“Our paths cross often, my lady.” Stansbury nodded.

“Well then, if you would be willing, we ask that you would deliver to him a letter. It has been years, and I’d love to rekindle my friendship with the monsieur. Shall we call him—John Anderson?”

“He would answer to no other name.” Stansbury grinned back at her.

“You understand,” Peggy spoke, her voice lowered, “that if this plan works out, and we end up in the—er, situation we hope to, your reward would be handsome.”

“I thank you.” Another deep nod of Stansbury’s head. “But you know that my . . . inclinations . . . have always been toward one side, the side I believe to be in the right. The side which I believe you, Peggy, have always felt a loyalty toward as well.”

“My loyalty is to my husband alone. He may determine our politics,” Peggy answered smoothly, eliciting a proud blush from her husband’s whiskered cheeks. “Here.” Peggy slid a letter across the table to Stansbury. “You have a right to know the contents of the letter you deliver. Read it aloud so that my husband may approve as well.”

Stansbury retrieved from his pocket an oversized magnifying glass and unfolded the letter in his hands reverentially, as if he were handling some sacred text. In his nasal British accent, he read aloud.

My Dear Mr. Anderson,

I am writing as an old friend—the lady with whom you danced after the Meshianza so many years ago. Not
at
the Meshianza, but
after
the Meshianza. You and I are alone in the world in knowing about that moment, so I trust by now you’ve understood whose hand pens this missive, and will react with appropriate discretion.

As you have likely heard, since you’ve left my town, I’ve made a new
friend
. He is remarkably good—generous, honest, and heroic. And he is interested in meeting you. To be frank, we’ve learned that you have been promoted to a position of prominence in your trade. You sell lace, right? Well, we may have some very valuable lace which you may be interested in trading for.

You know how I always loved lace.

If you are interested in hearing more, you may write me.

Your dear friend,

Madame la Turque

“Bravo.” Stansbury joined Peggy in chuckling as he folded the letter back up. “Splendid, Peggy, I especially love your signature: Madame la Turque. Oh, he will know for certain who you are!”

“Precisely,” Peggy agreed.

You and I are alone in the world in knowing about that moment,
Peggy had written, forgetting completely that Clara had been present.

“Isn’t this fun?” Peggy’s eyes sparkled with mischief. Arnold alone seemed to understand the gravity of their situation.

“Ahem!” Arnold cleared his throat. “Fun? We could all hang for this. Fun? I think not. Stansbury, when will you deliver this letter?”

“General”—Stansbury wiped the jollity from his face—“I can leave for New York tomorrow.”

“Good, yes. The sooner the better. What we ask is that you bring us a response in return. Once this . . . Anderson . . . has proven he can be trusted, we shall begin to discuss more specifics.”

“A very wise plan, sir,” Stansbury agreed.

“Well then, we wish you a safe trip. And remember, whatever you do, you breathe a word of this to no one, you understand?” Arnold
leaned forward, his eyes fierce. “If you fail in this mission, and give us away, we will all most certainly be hanging from the gallows by spring.”

C
LARA COULDN’T
carry the burden alone. She had to share the news with someone. But who could she tell? Oma was gone; even the life she’d led with Oma seemed as if it had belonged to another girl, another Clara. Caleb was miles away. The thought of writing about a possible treason in a letter to a soldier was ludicrous; his letters were certain to be censored. The Quigleys and Hannah would never believe such a wild development, and even if they did, they’d most likely scold Clara and tell her to stay out of the Arnolds’ affairs.

Betsy could stop it. Yes, Peggy’s sister would feel bound to interfere, especially with her husband fighting for Washington. But Peggy had always overpowered her older sister; she’d do so this time as well. And Peggy would no doubt sack Clara for telling Betsy about the plot.

Clara was ruminating over this, seeking in vain the name of some confidante, when she nearly bumped into Mrs. Quigley. “Clara, girl, watch where you’re going, would you?” Mrs. Quigley was out back, carrying a large sack from the direction of the barns. Clara had been on her way to the big house to send a letter to Cal along in the morning post.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Quigley, I was just coming to see you. May I help you with that?”

“Please do, child.” Mrs. Quigley handed the sack to Clara. “Goose down. It’s time to restuff the quilts. The judge and the missus are always complaining of the cold nights, as if they don’t realize it’s winter.” Mrs.
Quigley opened the back door and led Clara into the Shippens’ kitchen.

“What brings you here, girl?”

Clara deposited the sack of goose down on the floor beside the table. “I’ve come with a letter for Cal, I mean, Caleb. Would you post it with the rest of the letters?”

“Certainly.” Mrs. Quigley nodded, pouring two cups of tea for herself and Clara.

“Where’s Hannah?” Clara asked, looking around the ordinarily bustling kitchen.

“She complained of some pains”—Mrs. Quigley creased her brow— “so Mr. Quigley and I have suggested that she spend the morning in bed.”

“What kind of pains?” Clara asked, taking the mug of tea that Mrs. Quigley offered her.

“Just the aches and pains of growing old. Something you do not need to worry about.” Mrs. Quigley smiled, her expression weary. She pointed at Clara’s letter, which rested on the table between them, unclaimed. “I’m happy to see that you’ve written Caleb. He’ll be glad to hear from you.”

She’d written him the evening before. Her hand was nervous and untrained, and her cursive had looked untidy and juvenile compared to Peggy’s. She’d read it through after it was complete, sealing it in the envelope before she could lose her resolve:

Caleb,

Hello. How strange it is to be writing you. It’s less preferable than how it used to be, sitting beside you at the table, exchanging news. I did get the message from your aunt, and the separate note just to me. You should know that I think of you often and return the fond feelings.

It is heartening to hear you safe and so happily adjusted to your new life as a soldier. It sounds as though you’ve made a handful of friends already. Why does this not come as a surprise? I hope you have some furlough to visit the home of the friend you mentioned, that John Williamson. I imagine some time away would come as a relief, even if you do seem to be enjoying your work very much.

Life goes on here as you knew it, and yet, much has changed. You’ll have heard the outcome of the Master’s Court Martial by now. And that Miss Peggy is set to have her baby in the early spring. The Christmas holiday had a very different feeling this year, but I thought of you and our times together often. In the meantime, I shall keep your letters close to me. Just promise you shall take good care of yourself, and do come back and visit us, should you ever have the chance.

Fondly,

Clara Bell

“Here is the letter.” Now in the kitchen, Clara handed the parcel to Mrs. Quigley. “Thank you for sending it for me.”

“Of course, dear.” The housekeeper nodded. “Tell me, Clara, how are things going in the Arnold household?” Mrs. Quigley took a sip of tea. “They must be preparing for the wee one’s arrival.”