The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (40 page)

“It’s nothing but the normal birthing scene.” Hannah shushed him, looking down at the baby. “Congratulations, General. Your son is beautiful.”

“And . . . and my wife?” Arnold still had not looked at his son, but rather kept his gaze on Peggy, who seemed to have slipped into a fretful sleep.

“She’ll be fine,” Mrs. Shippen assured him, looking approvingly at her grandson. “She just needs rest. And a bath. Clara, will you strip the sheets and wash them?”

L
ITTLE
E
DDY
was a quiet, contented baby. He had his mother’s blue eyes, but they lacked the calculating, restless expression that had seemed to settle permanently behind hers.

Hannah and Mrs. Quigley began to visit the Arnold cottage often, finding any excuse to stop by and take turns holding Little Eddy. The baby, like the first signs of the spring thaw, promised to breathe new life into the Shippen household, and Clara hoped that her domestic situation might finally begin to improve.

“Look at these legs.” The housekeeper squeezed Little Eddy’s
chubby calves as she lingered in the kitchen after delivering Clara a fresh stack of firewood.

“You’re so lucky to have a baby in the house, Clara.” Hannah did not peel her eyes from the little boy as she spoke. “It’s so quiet in the Shippen home these days.”

“It’s anything but quiet here,” Clara said, smiling to herself as she spooned the baby a mouthful of warm milk. Even though Clara was finding her mistress more and more difficult, she couldn’t help but fall in love with the sweet little baby she now had responsibility over—the baby who cooed as she fed him and dressed him. Who perched happily on her hip as she carried out her household tasks.

March brought with it longer days and the welcome signs of the coming spring—the faint warbles of birdsong; a lone bud poking out from the barren tree boughs; a breeze that felt docile and less like a biting wind. Nevertheless, spring also brought a sour thought: Clara knew that the approaching warmth would mean a resumption of fighting between the colonials and the British, and she hated to think of Caleb stepping out onto the battlefield.

Clara knew from his letters to her and his aunt that Caleb was still stationed on the Hudson at Fort Verplanck. He wrote her often, and though he never spoke of anything more than friendship, Clara found that he was still the only person in whom she felt comfortable confiding. In her letters she filled page after page discussing her work, her love for Little Eddy, her complaints against her mistress.

On one account, her situation with the Arnolds had improved that spring: Clara no longer fretted over the Arnolds’ communication with André. Ever since his refusal to name a price or specific reward, the Arnolds had withdrawn their offer. André had not come calling, as they had expected him to. Finally, a man had resisted Peggy’s bait.

T
HE VISITOR
arrived on a pleasant morning, when the air was gentle and the sun was shining down on a lawn of new grass. Clara sat outside, bouncing Little Eddy on her knees, when a carriage rolled to a halt.

Joseph Stansbury appeared before her, a bored expression on his face. He ignored the baby on Clara’s lap. “I’m here for General Arnold.” He wore a suit of crimson silk and a pleated linen neckerchief around his collar. His powdered wig sat beneath a matching crimson hat.

Barley growled at the visitor, and Clara silently agreed with the mutt’s sentiments.

“Well, are you going to let me in, or not?”

Clara reluctantly rose and led Stansbury into the house.

“Yoo-hoo, Peggy?” Stansbury marched into the front of the Arnolds’ home. “Anybody at home?” The merchant made himself comfortable before the fire, removing his cap to reveal a head of tight curls.

“Oh, Stan, what a delightful surprise.” Peggy hopped down the stairs, looking simple but fresh in a muslin gown of pale pink. She kissed her visitor on the cheek. “Stan, did you see my baby?” Peggy gestured toward her maid, who handed her the plump little bundle. Little Eddy began to cry, his arms reaching back toward Clara.

“Oh, it’s yours? Goodness, I thought you were letting that maid answer the door with her bastard child on her hip.” Stansbury tossed his head backward and erupted in laughter.

Peggy slapped the merchant on his shoulder and laughed. “Oh, Joseph Stansbury, you are
awful 
!” She shuffled the baby awkwardly from one hip to the other, causing Little Eddy to cry louder. “No,
this is my little Edward. You’ve been in New York for so long, you probably forgot I was expecting.”

“I had to escape. Philadelphia is bad enough these days, let alone in the winter. New York was so much more fun.” Stansbury stroked the baby’s pudgy hand with a long, impeccably clean finger. “Nice to meet you, Edward.” The baby erupted in fresh wails.

“Oh, he’s giving me a headache with this howling.” Peggy handed the baby back to the maid and sat. “Clara, get him to quiet down and behave, will you?”

Peggy turned back to her guest. “Are you hungry, Stan? Clara, bring a bowl of figs. And some almonds. Now, Stan, tell me why I shouldn’t be mad at you—your spy has flatly refused our offer.”

“You might feel differently when you see this.” The merchant waved a piece of paper before Peggy. “I’ve carried it from New York, from a certain handsome major.”

“Johnny?” Peggy ripped the paper from his hands and tore it open with unmasked relish. “I thought he had dropped us.”

“Au contraire.”

“It’s short,” she noted.

“But you will not be disappointed.” The merchant leaned over Peggy’s shoulder and read along with her.

Circumstances have changed. If you could attain the post at West Point, we would be willing to discuss exact compensation with you.

Peggy gasped. Just then, Arnold limped into the room. “Benny, he’s come crawling back. André is desperate for our help!”

“Is that so?” Arnold winced, clutching his left knee. “And what does he ask from us in return?”

“Something we can deliver,” Peggy said confidently. “You must write to Washington immediately and ask to be made commander of West Point.”

“W
E DO
not wish to raise any suspicions,” Arnold mused, propping his chin on his hands.

“Why would you fear that asking for the post at West Point would raise suspicions?” Peggy sat down to breakfast beside her husband, fresh-faced and chipper. The dining room of their cottage was bright and warm, and it smelled of coffee and toast as she cracked open a soft-boiled egg.

“Well, look at Washington’s reply to my initial query.” Arnold passed a letter to Peggy, who put her fork down and took it in her hands. “This is his response to my request to be transferred to Charleston.”

Clara rounded the table, shuffling Little Eddy to one hip as she leaned over and filled each of the Arnolds’ coffee cups.

“There’s my boy!” Arnold reached up for the baby, taking him onto his lap. The baby went to his father happily. “Aha! Look at how big he’s getting. You’re a strong one, aren’t you, Little Eddy?” The little boy picked up his father’s spoon and began banging it on the table.

“Quiet.” Peggy snapped, looking up from the letter to her husband.

“There now, Peg, I want my son at my breakfast table with me. Isn’t a man allowed that?”

“Benedict,” Peggy softened her tone, “I’m trying to read.”

“Well, Clara can keep him quiet.” Arnold handed his son back to the maid. “Clara, take my boy in your lap and join us at the table.”

Both Clara and Peggy turned on Arnold with expressions of
disbelief. “Why not? Clara’s practically part of the family anyway. And I want my son here with me. This affects him, after all.”

And me too, Clara thought, avoiding her mistress’s smoldering eyes as she lowered herself into a chair, Little Eddy on her lap. Arnold leaned over to peruse the letter along with his wife.

“Ha! Listen to this line by Washington,” Arnold scoffed, “ ‘I refuse to accept the idea that your days of fighting under our flag on the battlefield are over. You are a true hero, a soldier, and a friend of mine.’ So he thinks I’d still fight for him, the fool.”

“Does he not realize that you are no longer able to fight?” Peggy’s tone went sour.

Now Arnold became defensive. “Of course I
could
fight. If I wished to.”

“But Benny, you just said . . .”

“I
would
not fight for Washington, or his rebel cause. But it’s not because I can’t, Peggy.”

Peggy heaved a sigh. “Benedict, your injuries make it impossible,” she mumbled, dipping a piece of bread in a soppy egg yolk.

“I
could
fight, if I wanted to,” Arnold snapped, repeating himself.

“Very well, then you shall. But for the British.” Peggy rubbed her hands together, dispersing a shower of bread crumbs before her. “Here’s what you must do—you must guilt that tobacco planter into giving you the post at West Point. Tell him you deserve it. Remind him of how much you are owed for your service these years. Say: ‘My wounds make it nearly impossible for me to walk or ride. As my leg disables me from being any use on the battlefield, but my heart refuses to stop serving, I write to ask to be put at the head of an outpost. West Point would be agreeable.’ ”

Arnold bristled at this. “You would have me plead like a cripple, Peg. Washington knows as well as anyone that I still crave the battlefield.”

Clara could tell that Peggy was laboring to remain calm and sweet. “Yes, but in order to secure the role as commander at West Point, you must pursue this line of persuasion, my dear husband.”

Arnold considered this. Finally, he answered. “All right. I’ll write him that.”

“Meantime, Benny, you’ll write André and tell him that you’ve secured the post as commander of West Point. It’s time we start discussing our . . .”—Peggy leaned forward toward her husband, her lips curling upward—“. . .
compensation
.”

I
F THEY
could secure the post at West Point, they held the trump card. That much Clara knew. The gossip she heard on Market Street, at the baker, in the Shippen kitchen, all led her to believe that both armies were turning their focus from the south onto New York City and the Hudson River. Whoever controlled that waterway had the key to either dividing or uniting the colonies.