The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (41 page)

“The British must be sick of sharing the Hudson with the ragtag colonials, no?” Peggy was strolling her father’s gardens with Stansbury on a warm summer afternoon, twirling her parasol as she watched Clara and Little Eddy chase the birds on the lawn. “How is it possible that they both claim the Hudson?”

Stansbury spoke quietly. “The British control it from New York City up to about thirty miles north. And the colonials have it from West Point up.”

“If Benny could deliver the fort at West Point, he would deliver the rest of the river?”

Stansbury nodded. “It would enable England to cut the colonies in half.”

Peggy looked to her son, momentarily distracted by the sound
of his laughter as Clara ran toward a bird, prompting it to fly before them.

Stansbury was not to be distracted. “André knows this, as does his general, Clinton. They are eager to reach an agreement with you both, madame.”

“As are we. Benny has written Washington again, insisting that West Point is the only assignment he will accept.”

“Will Washington oblige?”

“I think he will. He feels guilty about Benny’s court-martial, and that rude letter he sent as punishment. He’s always had a soft spot for my husband.”

“And
you
have always had a soft spot for John André.”

“Oh, Stan, you’re naughty.” Peggy chuckled.

“So are you.” The merchant smirked. “So, what are you asking for as recompense, you delicious little spy?”

“The post of general in the British Army,” Peggy answered boldly. “And twenty thousand pounds.”

“Ha! Is that all?” Stansbury quipped. “So you’ve upped it from ten to twenty thousand.”

“Well, we deserve it! Benny would be handing over the critical fort, and with it, thousands of American troops. And to whet André’s appetite and let him know that we mean what we say, he told him a little secret.”

“Which is?” Stansbury asked.

“Washington expects a fresh arrival of eight thousand troops for his northern campaigns in New England this summer. The French fleet will arrive off the east coast of Rhode Island by the end of the month.”

“Well, that should get his attention.” Stansbury hooked his hand under Peggy’s. “I will be amazed, Peggy Shippen, if you pull this off.”

“What’s stopping me?” Peggy challenged him with a look.
“My husband knows how to win on the battlefield. It’s all brute strength and fighting. But spy work is different—it requires poise, and self-control, and grace. It’s like a delicate dance. And if anyone knows how to dance, it’s me.”

Clara’s face burned as she listened to the two of them burst out into laughter.

My Good Sir and Lady,

The General is much obliged to you for the useful intelligence regarding the French fleet and we are assured now, more so than ever, of your ardent desire to assist us in our cause. We are interested in being delivered West Point.

Mr. Anderson,

I am leaving for West Point, having secured the post. Now that I understand how crucial it is to my side, I feel compelled to raise my asking price to 20,000 pounds sterling.

I have a son now, and I must think about my family and my future. After all, the alternative is staying very comfortably on the current side, where I enjoy fame and high repute.

I will let you decide whether you deem my friendship worth the asking price.

Write your response to me at the post at West Point, where I am henceforth commander.

Mr. & Mrs.

“A
LL THREE
of you work for me now,” Peggy said coolly, her voice devoid of emotion.

“Begging your pardon, my lady? Judge Shippen?” Mrs. Quigley stood between her husband and Hannah in the study of the Shippen mansion, looking back and forth from the judge to his daughter.

“What can you mean, sir?” Mr. Quigley’s posture was erect, formal as always.

“What we mean,” Judge Shippen began to speak, but his daughter cut him off before he could finish.

“My father has turned you three over to me. He and Mother shall be moving in with Betsy and Neddy and no longer have need of your services. The Burds have servants at their house. But my husband and I will need you at West Point.”

“West Point—but isn’t that in New York?” Hannah’s voice betrayed terror. “And what about Brigitte? What’s to become of my sister?”

“Your sister will move with my parents to Neddy and Betsy’s,” Peggy answered, looking to the door, bored of the conversation.

“You mean, Judge Shippen, that you are going to dismiss me after all these years and keep Brigitte?” Mr. Quigley looked stung.

“It’s not that I would not wish to bring you, Quigley. You know how much I’ve valued your service all of these years,” the judge spoke, his voice as flimsy as a reed. “It’s just that . . . it suits our budget
better if we keep only one servant.” The judge now avoided looking at any of the servants he addressed. “I would not wish to split you from your wife. And Brigitte has become invaluable in tending to Mrs. Shippen, who, as you know, suffers gravely from her headaches these days.”

“But you would split me from my sister?” Hannah looked as though she might cry.

“This home has become, well, overly burdensome.” Judge Shippen apologized with his expression. “Mrs. Shippen and I no longer require all this space. And Betsy has been urging us to move in with her and Neddy for a while, but we didn’t want to leave Peggy. Not while she still lived here.”

“But now that Benny and I have been transferred to West Point, we’re leaving Philadelphia,” Peggy finished for her father. “Oh come on, Mr. and Mrs. Quigley, Hannah, how can you look so glum? Philadelphia has become so boring.”

“Philadelphia is our home, Miss Peggy.” Mrs. Quigley, usually so restrained, pushed back. “Has been for seventy years.”

“Well, now your home will be West Point,” Peggy said. “Besides, my husband and I have a post once more, and money. You’ll get wages. My father cannot pay you. Right, Papa?” Peggy looked at her father, who was resting his head in his hands.

“Believe me, Constance and John,” Judge Shippen looked up at the couple and then at the cook. “Hannah.” He paused, his voice catching on their names. “If there was another way, believe me, I would have found it. This is the only solution we could find without turning you out on the streets.”

The three servants stood silently, like thieves sentenced to the gallows. From her post in the corner, Clara watched the scene unfold, feeling a mixture of pity for the three of them who would be severed from their home, and relief that these three familiar people,
the only family she had, would be traveling north with her to New York. She would not have to go with the Arnolds alone, and that fact gave her undeniable comfort.

“Well, I believe we’ve talked through all the messy issues. Everyone understands?” Peggy arched her eyebrows in a question.

“Believe me, if I could afford it, I’d keep you all until the day I died.” Judge Shippen still looked pained. “But it’s just, with the war showing no sign of ending . . .”

“Well, my husband and I will see what we can do about that,” Peggy answered, and only Clara knew just what she meant by the clipped comment.

“Clara?” Peggy turned to her maid, acknowledging her presence in the corner for the first time in the conversation. “Prepare our things for the move to West Point.”

Clara walked out, alone, into the dark corridor, hugging the baby in her arms. Inside, she was a swell of warring emotions. Her three friends would be coming with her, but at what cost to them? Together, the whole band was taking a step closer to fulfilling the Arnolds’ planned treachery. And yet, in spite of these horrible facts, the news was not all bad to Clara. “Hear that, Little Eddy?” Clara whispered into his soft, squishy cheek. “We’re moving to West Point.” She’d finally be close to Caleb again.

VII.

She refuses to see anyone. Won’t allow anyone in the room without wailing like a cornered animal. Except me. So I sit beside her on the bed, dabbing her face with a moist cloth and trying to reassure her that she’s still alive, that her son is still alive.

“Clara, Clara, Clara. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me, Clara.”

The day is growing warmer and the bedchamber is stifling, as she will not allow me to open any windows. Her face is flushed from the heat and the overstimulation, and the neckline of her sleeping gown is moist where it clings to her white skin.

She sings a childhood song, her voice sounding feeble and shaky. When I look into her eyes, she returns my gaze, but her glassy blue eyes do not see me, of that much I am certain. “Oh, Bets, Mother always takes your side,” she says to me, mistaking me for her sister.

“There, there, Miss Peggy. It’s me, Clara. Surely you remember me?” I dab her furrowed brow once more with the moist cloth.

“Clara? No, no.” She smiles, correcting me.

“Shhh, Miss Peggy. It’s best you get some rest.” I reach behind her head and plump up a feather pillow for her, hoping that she will agree to sleep. But when I pull my hand back, she grabs me. Her grip is strong, and her eyes suddenly shine with a fierce blue lucidity, as if a veil had been lifted.

“They’re going to kill me, Clara,” Peggy says matter-of-factly.

I am not sure how to answer her. I don’t know if they’ve found her husband yet. If they know that she was as involved in the plot as he was. “There, there, Miss Peggy.” I dab her forehead once more.

“Ouch!” she screams, clutching her forehead.

“Have I hurt you, ma’am?”

“There is a scorching iron on my head,” she mumbles, nonsensically.

“Pardon, my lady?”

“There is a scorching iron on my head.” She points at her forehead, as if I might see the object she describes.

“My lady, there is nothing on your forehead except your own perspiration.”

“No, no, no,” she says, with the expression of someone half mad. “There is a scorching iron on my head, and only General Washington can remove it. Bring him here.”

CHAPTER SEVEN