The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (43 page)

I
T WAS
a warm morning in early July, just days after their arrival. The rooster in the yard had not yet crowed, and no one in the house was stirring. Clara rose from the straw pallet, leaving Hannah snoring on her own pallet beside the fire, and wandered from the kitchen out into the north field. In the indigo predawn light, she walked past the one-room cottage the Quigleys occupied—a home originally built for the property’s groundskeeper. Only Barley the dog heard her moving, and he joined her in the yard.

“Hi, mutt.” Clara petted his ears, allowing Barley to amble along beside her.

The birds began to chirp, as if to coax the sun into rising and to welcome Clara into the peace of the field. It was the perfect solitude in which to pen a letter to Cal. She spread her apron down and sat in the cool grass, removing a paper and quill from her petticoat pocket. She hadn’t had a moment alone since their arrival at the Robinson
house, and solitude had proven hard to come by now that her sleeping arrangement involved sharing the kitchen with Hannah.

Nor had she received a letter from Cal in weeks, not since before she’d told him of their upcoming move. She wondered how he was doing, and how he would react to what she now had to say.

Clara believed she had found a way to tell Cal about the plot without the censors catching her meaning. Or, at least, that was what she hoped. At last, the thought of sharing her news with an ally filled her with relief. Mrs. Quigley had flatly refused to hear it, and had even forbidden Clara from speaking of it again. But Clara’s knowledge of the scheme, along with her guilt at having unwittingly abetted the Arnolds, weighed too burdensome on her now. The sight of the fort across the river, waiting each day for its ignoble fate, was like a censure to her. Caleb would know what could be done.

Caleb,

Please tell me how you are doing. I think of you often and hope you are safe.

I write you this letter not from Philadelphia, but from much closer—our new home across the river from the post at West Point. As you might have heard, the master’s assignment has recently changed. Is this close to where you are?

My feelings on this move are dreadfully mixed. I am thrilled to be here, in the beautiful country where I can roam the fields and smell the fresh, earthy scent of the river.

But I am saddened to tell you that some darker news also accompanies the relocation. Caleb, do you remember several Christmastimes past, when you claimed that you saw someone riding through Philadelphia in a carriage? You told us you had seen him, and none of us believed you (except me). You said he had a huge frame and he waved to the crowds. Do you now understand to whom I’m referring? Henceforth, let’s refer to that figure as “Milk Cow.”

Secondly, do you recall the person who often came visiting to the house? He was dark, and dashing, and he had a certain someone wrapped around his finger. He left in a great hurry, and we were not sorry to see him go. You now know to whom I refer. Let us call him the “Coq,” as he was finely plumed and inspired such “coquetry” as I have ever seen.

And finally, there was the man who came after the Coq. He walks with a limp, and quickly became utterly besotted. We shall call him the “Bull.”

Well, now I arrive at my point. My lady has never been fond of the Milk Cow. This, you know. She has now entered into an arrangement whereby she and the Bull intend to tell the Coq some invaluable information. Information which might be detrimental to the Milk Cow. You most likely find this too ludicrous to believe, especially if you remember the Bull as he used to be, years ago. But you must believe this: things have very much changed since your departure. The lady has a strong influence, stronger than you might have imagined possible.

I am at a loss as to what I should do—I would have brought this to you sooner, but I was frightened and unsure how to do so. But the situation is now too dire to sit silent with the news any longer, and I seek your counsel.

I shall end my letter here with one request: please help me. Tell me—what can be done?

—CB

As soon as the words had been scrawled on the parchment, Clara felt a lightening of the burden that she had carried alone for
so long. She folded the letter neatly and tucked it into an envelope. She’d give it to Mrs. Quigley to mail with her other letters to her nephew.

The sun now peeked out over the eastern hill, casting slanted rays of orange and pink onto the river below. It would be a clear, hot day. Clara relished a few more minutes of peace—the cool of the dewy earth beneath her, the soft breeze that pulled wisps of hair loose from her bun, the delicate warble of a chickadee on some nearby bough. Her mind returned involuntarily to Cal—what was he doing at this moment? Was he, too, awake to witness this perfect sunrise?

“Claaaara!”
A shrill cry arose from the farmhouse, silencing the nearby chickadee and interrupting her pleasant daydream. The maid turned her gaze, frustrated to be interrupted from her reverie. Peggy’s summons persisted.
“Claaara!”

Clara rose from the grass. “Yes, my lady, I’m coming!” she called out as she picked up her pace.

“Clara, where have you been? I’ve been scouring the house for you.” Peggy stood outside on the front porch in nothing but her light summer shift, fixing her hands on her hips as Clara approached.

“I’m sorry, miss, I was just taking a walk.” Clara stood far enough away that, should her mistress be moved by another urge to strike her, she’d be a safe distance from her hand.

“What are you, a field hand? Look at your feet, covered in mud.”

“I’m sorry, my lady.” Clara bit hard on her lower lip, subduing the desire to answer back.

“Come in. Eddy is awake and we have a crisis.” Peggy turned and walked through the doorway, letting it close in her maid’s face before Clara had reached the threshold.

“A crisis, miss? What sort?”

Peggy wheeled around, catching Clara off guard so that she was forced to stop midstride, her face just inches from her mistress’s glower.

“My favorite brooch is missing, Clara. The ruby I wore when Benny first called on me.”

Clara frowned, confused.

“Someone must have stolen it,” Peggy said. That was a serious accusation, a charge that could cost someone their position in the household. But it was preposterous; Clara was confident that none of the servants would have taken anything from Peggy.

“Miss Peggy, are you certain that you’ve finished unpacking all of your jewelry? It could still be in one of the trunks.”

“You were supposed to unpack everything,” Peggy spat. “That’s why, if anyone would know where it is, it’s you.”

Was Peggy accusing
her
of taking the ruby?

“I want you to solve this mystery, Clara. Find out who stole my brooch.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clara curtsied, saddened that a morning which had begun so beautifully would turn into such a rotten day.

“Now, Clara, go change your dirty dress. We have luncheon with our new neighbor, a Mr. Joshua Smith, this afternoon, and my husband, for reasons entirely incomprehensible to me, wishes you to bring Little Eddy.”

Clara made to leave, but the way her mistress still looked at her caused her to remain rooted in her place. Peggy’s eyes burned Clara with their intensity, as if she were trying to sort out some riddle about her maid. “I’m not sure what you have done, Clara, but you seem to have made yourself a special favorite of my husband’s.” And now Peggy’s tone became disarming—a calm, syrupy voice that seemed to mask a hidden fury beneath the words: “Be careful, Clara, or you might make me jealous.”

C
ALEB’S REPLY
came quickly.

Clara,

I read your letter with great alarm. Not much time to respond at the present, but had to write to impress upon you the great urgency: you must do everything you can to protect the Milk Cow. That is from where all our future hopes come. More later.

—C

Clara sat alone at the long kitchen table, reading and rereading this brief letter. That was it? No advice? What was she supposed to do from her post as maid and baby nurse? Caleb asked too much of her. From his position on the battlefields he’d grown bold and accustomed to facing the enemy head-on; he’d forgotten that that was not how one would wage a war in Peggy Arnold’s home. Clara looked up when she heard the sound of a cane rapping the wooden floorboards.

“General Arnold.” She rose quickly as the unexpected visitor limped in.

“Hello, Clara.” Arnold smiled at the startled maid, looking around at the kitchen. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, thank you, sir.” Clara curtsied, still confused by his sudden appearance.

“Do I find you alone?”

“Yes, sir,” Clara answered, still standing.

“Where is everyone?”

The hour was late in the afternoon, and she’d already put her mistress and Little Eddy to bed for their naps. “Your son sleeps, sir.
Hannah and Mrs. Quigley are in the garden, and Mr. Quigley has gone to the stables.”

“I see.” Arnold hovered opposite her, neither of them speaking. Finally, he broke the silence. “Do you like it in this kitchen, Clara?” Arnold studied the thick wooden beams that ran across the low ceiling.

“Yes, sir, it’s very comfortable.”

“It appears that way.” He looked from the table to the hearth, but offered no further explanation for his visit. “Sometimes, at night, after my wife has gone to bed and I sit in the front of the house by the fire, alone, I imagine all of you in this kitchen together. I imagine it is quite merry in here.”

Clara lowered her eyes. “Not quite as merry as you imagine, sir.” At least, not since Cal had left and they’d all been separated. “We mostly retire to our beds early.”

“I loved the nights with my men.” Arnold’s voice took on a nostalgic tenor. “Peggy says I ought not to fraternize with the servants, but when we were encamped, I always befriended my men. The evenings were often the best times. Sitting around the fire, passing around the jug, and sharing stories from home.”

Clara nodded, sensing his loneliness. She, like him, knew that those scenes were unlikely ever to be repeated.

After a pause, Clara cleared her throat. “How can I help you, sir?”

He limped over to the table and lowered himself into a chair opposite Clara. “How about a cup of tea?” He smiled.

“Certainly.” Clara curtsied and crossed the room to the hearth, where she removed the warming kettle. Had Arnold merely come wandering into the kitchen seeking companionship from his stunned maid? Clara wondered.

“You’ve been getting letters?” Arnold looked at the paper from Caleb that Clara had left out on the table.

“Oh, yes.” Clara scooped up the paper, tucking it into her apron. Her heart lurched at the realization that she’d left it in plain sight, where he could have easily seen it, and possibly even guessed at its meaning.

But Arnold seemed not to have noticed its urgent content. “A sweetheart?” He lifted his eyebrows, causing a mortified Clara to flush a dark shade of crimson. “Now, now, no need to be bashful, Clara. We all fall victim to Cupid’s arrows at some point.” Arnold smiled amiably, taking the teacup from the maid.

“I certainly did,” he continued. “Why, Clara, you know better than anyone else how embarrassingly hard I fell.” Arnold pursed his lips, his expression turning serious.

“Yes, sir,” was all Clara answered.
Oh, how well she knew
.

“I just hope he deserves you, that’s all.” Arnold looked back at Clara, disarming her with the directness of his gaze. “Does he treat you well?”

“Well, sir,” Clara waffled, “he doesn’t treat me in any way.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s not my suitor. More like a friend.” Clara averted her eyes and replaced the kettle over the stove.

“And you feel for him only as a friend?” Arnold probed.

Clara’s silence seemed to be all the answer he needed.

“So then it is one-sided. You have feelings for him, which he does not return?”

“Sir, he doesn’t know I feel this way for him.” How was it that she was divulging her feelings this openly? She warned herself to bite her tongue.

“Then, you must tell him,” Arnold insisted.

“I can’t,” Clara answered sheepishly, in spite of herself.

“Why not, Clara?”

“Well, you see, sir. He once made it plain how he felt for me.
But it was so long ago, and so much has changed. I fear that he no longer thinks of me that way.”

Arnold considered this for a moment, weighing the dilemma with genuine thoughtfulness. “Well, Clara. I don’t know the lad so I can’t say for certain whether he still loves you or not. But I can say with absolute certainty that if he doesn’t, he’s a fool and he doesn’t deserve you.”