The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (44 page)

“You are too kind, sir.” Clara wished her cheeks would stop burning.

“Not kind, just honest. I’ve always been an honest man. Even though it gets me into trouble.” Arnold took another sip of his tea. Clara looked at him, finding it hard to understand how this sensitive, kindhearted man was the same person who fawned all over Peggy, even to the point of betrayal when she asked it of him.

“Clara, tell me something. Do you like being here?”

“Oh, very much,” Clara answered, aware that in order to be polite, she had to also fib to her master. Which would be worse, she wondered, rudeness or falsehood?

“Please, Clara, sit down. You’re making me nervous. I should be standing in a lady’s presence but you’ll excuse me.” Arnold gestured to his left leg.

“Of course, sir.” Clara smiled, sitting opposite Arnold. Never before had someone in his ranks called her a lady.

“Always so obedient.” Arnold looked at her, his earnest expression rendering Clara slightly uneasy. “Never do I face an argument from Clara Bell.”

She lowered her eyes.

“You like the countryside?” he asked.

“Oh, I love it.” Clara looked up, beaming, and he smiled back at her.

“I can see that.”

“Even more than the city, sir.”

“I feel the same way.” Arnold looked at her intently. “But I married a city girl. Do you like serving my wife?”

“Of course.”

“Are you being honest?” He raised his eyebrows.

“I am grateful every day.” Clara offered a half-truth, for she was indeed grateful to have a home and employment.

“Good.” Arnold nodded.

“Is the tea satisfactory, sir?” Clara asked.

“Yes, of course.” He looked once more around the room, eyeing the hearth. “It’s a nice kitchen. Peggy told me I would like the rustic look of it.”

That was odd, Clara thought to herself, that Peggy had urged her husband to come into the kitchen. Peggy never encouraged Arnold to mingle with the servants, and she herself had not ever been in the kitchen, as far as Clara knew. Arnold’s gaze roved over the hearth to the corner and rested on the two straw pallets, Clara’s and Hannah’s.

“Clara?” Arnold’s voice was suddenly alert, with an edge about it.

“Yes, sir.” Clara looked at him. “More tea?”

“No.” He shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the corner. “Clara, is that your bed? That straw pallet in the corner?”

Clara offered a perfunctory “Yes, sir,” still looking at Arnold and wondering why he suddenly appeared so serious.

“Clara, why is my wife’s ruby brooch on your bed?” He looked at his maid, his stare now rendering Clara very ill at ease.

“Pardon?” Clara turned her head to follow his eyes with her own. There, on top of the straw mattress from which she’d risen this morning, gleamed the brooch with the brilliant, red jewel. Her heart galloped as she looked back to Arnold.

“Sir, I have no idea. I haven’t seen that brooch since it went missing, honestly. I have no idea how it came to be there on the mattress.”

“Benny, oh, there you are!” Peggy bounded through the door. “I’ve been looking for you. I had hoped you would like to take a stroll with me and Little Eddy down to the river. That is, if you’ve had quite enough time alone with Clara.” Peggy looked from her husband to the maid.

“Oh, no.” Clara felt a panic swelling in her chest. She turned back to Arnold. “Sir, I have not seen that jewel since it went missing,” Clara repeated, hoping he would sense the truth of her account.

“What is going on?” Peggy was the image of innocent confusion. “What jewel?” But she somehow knew to look straight to the straw mattress, where her eyes landed on her ruby. “My brooch!” Peggy exclaimed. “Oh, my beloved ruby!” She ran to the pallet, picking up the ruby. “Oh, Benny, I’m so happy! Look!” She flitted toward him, showing him the jewel.

Then her tone changed. “Clara.” She looked at her maid with exaggerated suspicion. “Clara, why was my favorite piece of jewelry on your sleeping pad?”

Clara, mystified, knew not how to answer, but Peggy did not care.

“Why, you little thief!” Peggy raised her arm, charging the maid, but was stopped by her husband before she could land a blow.

“Peggy, no.” Arnold stayed his wife’s flailing arms. “Peggy, please, show some composure!”

“She stole it, Benny, she stole my favorite brooch, and then she lied to me! And yet, you side with her?” If this was a performance, it was so convincingly played that Clara found even her own mind running in circles.

“Please, Peggy.” Arnold held on to his wife, trying to quell her temper. Just then Mrs. Quigley, Mr. Quigley, and Hannah entered the kitchen, responding to the commotion.

“I want her flogged for being a thief and a liar!”

The servants watched the scene, eyes widening with horror.

“I want her flogged!” Peggy continued to shriek, her cheeks red.

“General Arnold.” Mr. Quigley stepped forward. “I can vouch for Clara’s honesty.”

“As can I,” Mrs. Quigley added.

“She would never steal from you or Mrs. Arnold. This must be an unhappy coincidence.” Mr. Quigley looked at the stunned maid, who had stood mute throughout this entire episode.

“Nonsense, it’s right there. The proof is right there,” Peggy snapped.

“Peggy, please, calm down. You will make yourself ill.” Arnold looked at his wife beseechingly.

“What kind of man doesn’t punish a servant who steals from his wife?” Peggy harangued him. “Our Lord received forty lashes for far less. I want that lying maid flogged!”

“All right, all right. But please, Peggy, you must calm down. Mrs. Quigley”—Arnold turned to the housekeeper—“please take my wife to bed. Hannah, help her.”

He turned to Clara. “Clara, as the proof is right here in plain daylight for all to see—you were alone in the kitchen and the brooch visible on your bed—you will have to be punished. I am sorry.”

Clara began to weep. She had never been flogged, and certainly not over a false accusation. And after the beating—then what? Would she be relieved of her post?

“Please, General, I would never . . .” Clara struggled to form some protest, to reiterate her innocence.

“Clara, come with me.” Arnold was stern as he grabbed her arm and walked with her out the kitchen door. “Mr. Quigley, see to it that my wife is put in bed and that she stays there. That’s an order.” Arnold turned, escorting the maid out the door to the north side of the yard.

Arnold limped forward in silence, Clara running alongside him and begging, through her tears, to be pardoned. He paused under a thick oak tree. “Hush, Clara.” He reached up and with his knife, clipped a small branch from overhead. He began to carve it into a switch.

“General Arnold, please, spare me! I would never steal from you or your wife!”

“I know.” He looked at her, his eyes full of pity. He kept carving the switch.

“But . . .” Clara staggered. “I didn’t do it.”

“I know.”

“Then why must I be flogged?” She looked at the switch, watching as his knife sliced it into a tool to inflict punishment.

“Do you think it escaped me that my wife asked me to go into the kitchen, for no apparent reason, as the brooch was lying visible? And if you
were
guilty, why would you not have hurried to hide the evidence of your crime as soon as I entered the kitchen? Instead, you sat with me, perfectly calm and polite, pouring me tea and talking about your sweetheart.”

Clara stared at him, allowing her mouth to fall open. So then he knew she was telling the truth! “Then, sir, you believe me?”

“And, Clara Bell, if you
were
guilty, and my wife truly believed that you had stolen her favorite piece of jewelry, wouldn’t she have demanded that we dismiss you? Throw you out into the woods? Instead, she accuses you of stealing her brooch, one
worth your entire year’s wages, and all she demands is that you be flogged?”

“But, then, General”—Clara’s hopes lifted slightly at the realization that he knew her to be innocent, but her spirits sank lower when she noticed he was still fashioning the switch—“then why will you still beat me?”

“I don’t intend to beat you, Clara,” Arnold sighed, exasperated. “My wife has been put to bed in her bedchamber on the south side of the house. We are under a thick tree on the north side of the house. Completely concealed from her view.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Right now she’s in bed, listening for the sound of the switch landing on your back, and your subsequent cries of pain. Let’s just give her what she wants and we will all move forward.” Arnold replaced the knife into his pocket and raised his switch. “There will be no peace in the house until the punishment is doled out.”

“Please, no!” Clara screamed, bringing her hands protectively to her face.

“When I land this switch on the side of this oak tree, you will cry out as if it struck your backside. I will do it ten times. Do you understand?” Arnold looked at her, his face expressionless.

Understanding dawned on her. She could have collapsed in relief. “Yes,” Clara answered quietly.

I
T WAS
a humiliating charade—General Arnold beating a tree as Clara cried out in contrived pain. When it was over, Clara and Arnold turned, wordlessly, and walked back to the house. Arnold entered
through the front door, Clara through the back. She found the Quigleys and Hannah in the kitchen.

“Clara.” Mrs. Quigley ran to her. “Clara, my poor dear.”

“Come here, love.” Hannah rose from the table, her face twisted in empathy. “Clara, we heard the whole thing. What a brute.”

“I’m fine.” Clara slumped into a chair. “Can I have some tea?”

“Clara.” Mrs. Quigley’s eyebrows angled toward each other. “Aren’t you hurt?”

“Let me see the wounds on your back. We need to put ointment on them right away. I’ve got some dandelion milk.” Hannah fussed over her shirt.

“He didn’t do it.” Clara swatted the old cook’s hands away.

“He didn’t?” Mr. Quigley asked.

“But we heard it,” Mrs. Quigley argued.

“No.” Clara shook her head. “He hit the oak tree each time.”

“Oh, thank heavens.” Hannah crossed herself, as all three of them stooped in relief.

“So there is someone left in this house with a sense of decency.” Mr. Quigley pounded the table with an angry fist.

“Why does she hate me so much?” Clara asked miserably, weeping as she took a fresh mug of peppermint tea from Hannah.

“She doesn’t hate you, dear.” Mrs. Quigley rubbed her back in a soothing gesture.

“She does,” Clara moaned.

“She’s threatened by you. She wants to make sure you stay in your place,” Mr. Quigley answered.

“But how could I ever threaten her?” Clara demanded.

Mrs. Quigley thought about it, answering after a few moments. “Well, I suppose there are a couple reasons. Her husband is fond of you, firstly.”

“He’s fond of all of us. He’s a kind man,” Clara argued, but she couldn’t help but notice the meaningful look that passed between the Quigleys and the cook.

“Her son prefers you to her,” Mrs. Quigley continued.

“Her son cries out in terror every time he goes from your arms to hers,” Hannah interjected.

“That’s my fault?” Clara demanded defensively. “It’s my fault that she has no interest in her child and he in turn fears her?”

“Of course not,” Hannah answered.

“I don’t understand,” Clara continued. “She too used to be so fond of me, bringing me everywhere, confiding in me, giving me that fine gown for Christmas years ago.”

“Yes, well, she’s changed, there’s no doubt about that.” Mrs. Quigley nodded.

“Clara,” Mr. Quigley said, pausing momentarily before he explained his thoughts. “Many things in Peggy’s life have not turned out the way she had hoped they would.”

Clara thought this over and knew it to be true. But still, it did not explain things. “Why does she blame me for that?” Hadn’t everyone in that kitchen tasted bitter disappointment in their lives, as well?

“She doesn’t blame you,” Mr. Quigley explained. “But she takes it out on you, that much is apparent. You seem to occupy a unique role for her—she’s reliant on you, and yet you are the one she punishes when she is dissatisfied with something.”

“Why me?” Clara asked.

“Who else can she take it out on?” Mrs. Quigley answered. “Her family is gone. Her son is but a wee lad. And she can’t alienate her husband—she needs to keep him charmed or he’ll stop doing what she orders him to do. Apart from her family, you are the closest person to her on this earth.”

Clara considered this, finding it odd to think that she, Clara Bell, played an important role in Miss Peggy’s life: that Miss Peggy needed her and depended on her. All Clara had ever thought about before was the central role that Miss Peggy played in
her
life.

“My dear Clara.” Hannah put a soothing hand on her. “I suppose the true test of character comes when facing life’s harshest blows and disappointments. When things don’t turn out how you had hoped they would, do you grow bitter? Spiteful? Blame others and spread your misery? Or do you keep your head high and walk with grace, meeting the struggles which God has placed in your path?”

Clara looked at Hannah, the kind, elderly cook, separated from her home and her sister, going about her work for a selfish mistress and never complaining: quite exactly the image of the suffering servant. Clara did not need help deciding which path the cook had taken. Or which path her mistress had taken.