The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (38 page)

C
LARA DID
not sleep that night. She was present when Arnold told his wife of his finding the next morning at breakfast. “So there
I was, sitting with the darned book in my lap, and I suspected that there had to be something more to this dictionary than initially met the eye.”

Clara nearly dropped the coffeepot. Arnold shot her a pleading look, which seemed to beg the maid to protect his secret. Clara swallowed hard and assumed a mask of cool composure. She
wished
he had found it on his own, that she had not been the one to show him.

“Sugar, Clara?”

“We are out of sugar, my lady,” Clara replied.

“Of course we are,” Peggy sighed.

“The whole city is without sugar, Peg. Don’t take it so hard,” Arnold said.

“I bet they have sugar in London.” Peggy leaned her head to the left. “But bravo, Benny, I’m astonished that you suspected such a thing. I will be sure to scold Stansbury for leaving us such little information with which to work.” Peggy took a sip of her black coffee. “So? What did Monsieur André have to say for himself?”

Arnold handed Peggy the transcribed letter, which she read in silence.

Clara reentered the dining room, bearing a platter of eggs and ham, in time to hear her mistress’s response.

“Is that it? It seems an awfully vague response,” Peggy agreed. “That’s all he has to say to our offer?”

“Do you think he shows me disrespect with a message of this brevity?” Arnold asked, scooping himself a pile of eggs.

“I think it more likely that André is being excessively cautious at this point. Perhaps trying to gauge how serious we are.”

“So, you recommend we respond?” Arnold pulled on his whiskers as he always did when his mind was working quickly.

“Absolutely.” Peggy nodded, stabbing a piece of ham from the platter Clara held.

Arnold gestured to his wife. “Fetch me a quill. I shall do it presently. If he wants to test our mettle, he shall see Benedict Arnold has no weak stomach for such correspondence.”

“But wait, my darling Benny.” Peggy’s voice curled around the pet name. “We must first decide: What do we stand to gain? We have the high ground in the negotiations right now, as we have the goods he is intent on acquiring.” Peggy was coy, always aware of how best to capitalize on her advantage.

“We will see what he offers.” Arnold nodded.

“Not so fast.” Peggy pressed her hand authoritatively into her husband’s to stop him from reaching for the quill. “We have Mount Pleasant, and the land tract offered by New York. And you are a major general in the Continental Army. Are we expected to just throw that all away on some vague assurance that we’ll be compensated? No, no, no. England must understand that the friendship of the Arnolds comes at a high price.”

“Darling, you seemed so resolved. Are you wavering?” Arnold looked from his wife’s face to her belly. “This must be exhausting for you. Why don’t you take a rest?”

“Absolutely not.” Peggy flatly rejected the suggestion. “I’m negotiating. André can be wily, so we must force him to give us specific guarantees.”

“What would you have, Peggy?” Arnold asked.

Peggy cocked her head, deep in thought. “How do you think it sounds . . .
Lady
Margaret Arnold?”

“You mean, you’d like a title?” Arnold looked surprised.

Peggy’s lips curled into a taut little smile.

“To be named an aristocrat?” her husband asked.

“I think the only thing that sounds better than
General
Benedict Arnold is
Lord
Benedict Arnold.” Peggy turned to her husband, her face as serious as stone.

“Ha!” Arnold looked at her with undisguised wonder. “You know what, my brilliant little wife?”

“Hmmm?”

“I think we could do quite well as a pair of aristocrats.”

A
RNOLD AGONIZED
over the letter, and how best to respond to André. After a day of ruminating, Peggy convinced him to seek counsel from Stansbury.

“Clara, you are to deliver this to Joseph Stansbury in his shop on Market Square. You know the china merchant?”

Clara nodded her head. “Yes, General.”

“See to it that nobody else is in the shop when you deliver it to him. Understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Do not come back without a response, and see to it that he burns this paper before you leave his shop. Are you clear?”

Clara entered the shop and was relieved to find that she and the merchant were alone. She hoped for as brief an interview as possible. “Good day, Mr. Stansbury.”

The merchant looked up as Clara walked in. He was impeccably dressed in a rose-colored suit and matching cravat. “The Arnolds’ maid.”

“Clara Bell, sir.” Clara glanced around at the array of colorful plates and bowls that lined the walls of his shop. Did this man paint them all himself with those long, spindly fingers?

“What do you seek? Something for Miss Shippen, I mean, Mrs. Arnold?” Stansbury asked, coy, apparently enjoying his role as plotter even more than her lady was.

“I have a letter for you, sir.” Clara spoke in a hushed tone, ill at ease in this shop.

A flick of Stansbury’s long, ringed forefinger told Clara to hand the letter over. But he hesitated before reading. “Will that be all?”

Clara shifted her weight. “If you please, sir, I am to wait here until I may return with your response. The Arnolds wish for you to burn that letter once you’ve finished reading.”

“Those Arnolds, they always have their demands.” Stansbury smirked. He opened the letter, the contents of which Clara had already surmised: they wondered how much they needed to promise in order to gain a noble title.

The merchant scrawled off a quick note in reply, issuing no such demands of discretion as he sent it back with Clara. How incredibly reckless, Clara thought. Still, she could not help but resist peeking at his response as she rushed home.

My dear Arnolds—You demand too much. Money can be paid, but a title? That decision rests with the king alone. Better to take the money, then, perhaps you can buy a title?

Yours faithfully, J.S.

“Fine.” Peggy read the letter alongside her husband. “Stansbury makes a good point. The money is the most important thing anyway, since all else issues from gold and silver. But we will do it for no less than ten thousand pounds. Plus a regular salary —you’ll ask for a rank of general in the British Army.”

“For a sum that large, we’ll have to offer him something big.” Arnold thought it over. “Like a port.”

“Philadelphia?” Peggy suggested. “It’s your city, after all. You
could arrange it.” How blasé she was, Clara marveled, bandying about the name of her city as if it were for sale.

Arnold made a face. “Too risky with Washington nearby. He’d come to the rescue of this city for certain.”

“If you please, General and Mrs. Arnold, if there’s no reply necessary at this time, perhaps I might be excused?” Clara looked down at the floorboards, anxious to retreat to the safety of the kitchen.

“We’re done with you for now—you may go.” Peggy waved her hand, and Clara willingly took her leave.

T
HAT NIGHT,
after his wife had gone to bed, Arnold limped into the kitchen.

“Clara Bell.” He rested his rusty cane on the edge of the table and seated himself opposite the maid. Clara, who had been in the midst of her evening prayers, stood up, rigid, at the sudden appearance of her master. “General Arnold.”

“Please, sit, sit.” He stretched his wounded leg out under the table.

“What can I do for you, sir? Perhaps some tea, or a mug of ale?”

Arnold put the heavy dictionary on the table between them, its appearance casting a pall over Clara’s peaceful evening vigil. She hadn’t noticed that he carried it.

“Clara, I was wondering if you could explain to me once more how to use André’s code. I’ve got the book here, and the letter we’ve drafted, but I thought perhaps you might help me get it into those numbers he used.”

Clara felt a panic at the realization that she was to be enlisted once more in this plot. She hesitated. She couldn’t help but see the
image of Oma’s stern face in her mind. And Cal, somewhere north of here, fighting for the revolution. How was it that she could assist the Arnolds in this treason? She couldn’t, she had to say no.

Sensing her apprehension, Arnold nudged her. “Come now, Clara Bell. I’ve always been good to you, have I not?” His taut face showed his own inner turmoil—balancing the awareness of his own treason with the demands of his wife and family.

“You must help me, Clara, so that I can keep you in my employ. If you don’t help me, things will be very hard for Mrs. Arnold and me, and we may have to dismiss you.”

Clara’s shoulders sagged. “Give it here, sir.” She sighed, her heart heavy. She’d help him tonight, and wrestle with the consequences alone, in private, later. Better to know what was being hatched, she consoled herself, if it was going to be happening around her. Using the code André had created for them, Clara translated Arnold’s letter:

My Dear Mr. Anderson,

Thank you for your thoughtful reply.

As my life, my honor, and everything is at stake, I will expect some certainty before I commit. Are you interested in discussing the port at Charleston?

I would be amenable to the idea, not only of turning it over, but switching sides myself. My defection might create a movement to your cause. It would cost you ten thousand pounds sterling, and a comparable rank in your Army.

Your friend,

A

A,

We would be interested in discussing Charleston.

I understand that you have had some difficulties at your current post, and have expressed an interest in obtaining a new position. Perhaps if you were able to arrange it so that you could become commander at Charleston, and turn it over? I am certain that you know that the southern colonies are my general’s priority of late.

That, or, if you can offer us some intelligence that leads to a specific victory at the Hudson River fort at West Point.

You will be rewarded beyond your highest expectations. No exact sum will be guaranteed at this time.

In response to your latter offer, no need for you to switch allegiances. It’s better that you remain on the other side.

Anderson