The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (45 page)

“Here, here, we are a sorry lot.” Mrs. Quigley placed her hands determinedly on the kitchen table. “I’ve got some good news that might cheer us a bit.”

“Oh?” Mr. Quigley looked to his wife while Clara took a sip of tea.

“I’ve heard from my dear nephew, Caleb, and it seems that he’s had some good luck as of late.”

Clara’s heart lurched.

“Has he now? So what news from our favorite soldier?” Hannah asked.

“Seems our young lad has been promoted to corporal.”

“Well done, Caleb.” Mr. Quigley beamed. Clara smiled into her teacup, feeling her spirits lift at the thought of Cal.

“And there’s another piece of news,” Mrs. Quigley continued.
Was Clara imagining it, or had the woman’s tone shifted? Did the old woman now sound a bit hesitant?

“What else?” Hannah asked, refilling Clara’s tea.

Mrs. Quigley paused a moment, her brow creased. When at last she spoke, her eyes landed on Clara. “Seems he’s met a lady.”

The news struck Clara like a blow, a blow worse than that from which Arnold had spared her. Mrs. Quigley still looked at Clara, and she was certain that the housekeeper studied her reaction. Clara swallowed hard, throwing her shoulders back.

“Oh?” Her voice was feeble, her effort at composure a failure. Now it was not only Mrs. Quigley, but both other servants who turned toward her as well.

“He’s visited the home of a certain friend, a fellow named John Williamson. Seems as though Caleb met one of John’s cousins there, a young lady named Sarah Williamson.”

Clara’s mouth was drier than if it had been stuffed with cotton.

“Is it serious?” Hannah asked.

“From the sound of it, yes. Serious enough for Cal to write me to tell me about her, which is a first. He’s never spoken to me of a girl. Not even back when he had such a fancy for . . .” Mrs. Quigley looked up at Clara but let her words trail off, unfinished. “Clara dear, are you all right?” Mrs. Quigley put a hand on her shoulder.

Clara nodded, grasping for words. But none would come.

“Your cheeks are white as snow.”

“If you’ll excuse me, ma’am. I had better go and check on Little Eddy.” Clara pushed herself away from the table, her legs feeling as if they might quake beneath her. She didn’t walk toward the stairs, as she had said she would, but instead pushed her way through the door and into the yard. She just barely made it out into the blinding sunlight before her resolve gave way, and fresh sobs burst forth from her tightening chest like a flood overrunning a dam.

T
HE ONE
benefit of her alleged beating was that Clara was excused from her duties at that evening’s dinner, as Peggy expected her to be in bed recovering. Clara accepted this reprieve willingly, wandering through the fields until well past sundown. At last her tears stopped, but her mind continued to race. The space within her, the space that had pulsed with joy and hope whenever she had thought of Cal, had been scorched. Replaced now by a leaden feeling of despair. Cal had a sweetheart. Cal now looked at another the way he had once looked at her. Those hazel eyes, once so full of longing, of earnest affection, now rested on another girl. A girl who would surely not be so foolish as to squander his love, as Clara had done. So, that was why Cal had written her so little of late. He was writing another girl, a girl who now occupied his attention and his thoughts.

It was dark when Clara wandered back into the home, having skipped the servants’ supper. She did not speak to the others when she entered the kitchen, but rather she muttered something about feeling ill as she lowered herself onto her straw pallet, backside to them all. Though it was a warm evening, Clara pulled the blanket around her body and curled up, into a cocoon from which she wished she’d never have to stir. Hannah, sweet Hannah, was a small comfort as she rustled about the kitchen, replacing the dishes after the evening meal had been cleared. But the person she longed for, the only person whose face Clara wished to see, was Cal.

The next morning, Clara dressed and found the Arnolds in the dining room at breakfast, careful to move slowly as if her back were tender.

“Oh, good morning, Clara! How did you sleep?” Peggy looked up from her breakfast when the maid entered, in a rare acknowledgment
of her servant’s presence. She fed her baby a small bite of scrambled egg. “You stayed abed so late that I was forced to fetch Little Eddy myself.”

“Not well, my lady,” Clara answered, finding even the act of speaking to be exhausting.

“All these servants do is complain,” Peggy muttered. “Well, Clara, Little Eddy’s just finished eating. Why don’t you take him so that my husband and I may speak with our guest here, Major Franks?” Peggy pointed to her dining companion on her left. Franks nodded politely at Clara.

“Yes, my lady.” Clara took the baby and exited the dining room.

“So, Franks, you were telling us about your inspection of the defenses at West Point.” Peggy resumed the conversation, and when Clara heard the topic she paused, just on the other side of the door.

“Are they in good condition?” Arnold asked.

Franks’s nasally voice traveled to where Clara stood, just out of sight. “I am sorry to say, General Arnold, that after having completed a thorough investigation of the works there, I must report that the defenses at West Point are deplorably weak.”

“How horrid!” Peggy said, with what sounded less like horror than delight.

“Yes, it’s quite regrettable. The commander before you did not keep things up well.”

“We shall have to rectify that situation, shan’t we?” Arnold answered.

“Yes, and quite soon, sir. Especially now that we hear that General Washington is planning an offensive to take back New York City before the coming of winter.”

“Yes, yes,” Arnold said excitedly.

“We would not want anything to go wrong for General Washington,” Peggy said.

“Precisely so, Mrs. Arnold. We would never want to do anything to diminish General Washington’s chance of success.” The aide finished his eggs and coffee, a placid smile on his face as he thanked the Arnolds for the generous meal.

C
LARA, MEANWHILE,
felt frantic. There was only one other person who knew about the plot, but could she write Cal? Could she stand to speak to him, even now that she knew about his attachment to another girl? And did he even care to hear from her? But he had said he remained a faithful friend. Surely writing to him was better than taking no action. Still, her hands trembled as she penned her letter that night.

Caleb,

How can I intervene in this plot? Believe me, it gives me terrible pain to watch things unfolding and to be forced to sit back and not breathe a word to anyone.

It’s all done so secretly, and with their belief that I know nothing, I see no way I can involve myself in their affairs. I have my place as a servant and they could easily throw me out, were I to overstep my place.

You would not believe how sad we are here. Mistress has been a fury lately. I have been warned that if I take one more step out of line, I shall be dismissed from the household.

It sounds as if things go very well for you. Your aunt has told us your happy news.

—CB

“F
INALLY!
” P
EGGY
ran into her bedroom, hopping on the feather mattress with a letter in her hand. Clara dared not look up from the floor, where she sat scrubbing the wooden planks.

“
BENNY
!” Peggy’s call was answered by the familiar sound of her husband’s limping stride as he climbed the steps.

“What is it, Peg?” Arnold lumbered into the bedroom.

“Oh, just a letter. From a certain . . . John Anderson!” Peggy waved the paper. “Fetch the wine from my table, Benny, this calls for a celebratory drink!”

“What does he say?” Arnold crossed the room quickly, carafe of wine in hand, and joined his wife on the bed. Clara must have been invisible on the floor, because Peggy did not ask her to leave before she blurted out the contents of the message she’d just read.

“It’s settled,” Peggy said, a grin pulling up the corners of her lips.

“Settled?” Arnold took a slurp of wine straight from the carafe before handing it to his wife.

“Settled.” Peggy took a satisfied swig.

“What will we get?”

“Clinton has agreed to our conditions,” Peggy answered.

“All of them?” Arnold asked, incredulous.

Peggy nodded slowly. “The British will pay twenty thousand pounds upon completion of the transaction. You, my husband, shall get a general’s commission in the British Army in exchange for arranging the surrender of West Point to the British under General Henry Clinton.”

Clara nearly overturned the bucket of sudsy water.

“Benny.” Peggy reached for his thick, rough hand. “Benny, we did it!”

“Peggy.” Arnold looked at his wife, bringing the wine to his lips but lowering the carafe without taking a sip.

“Yes, Benny? Why do you look at me like that?”

“Peggy, it’s settled.”

“It’s settled!” She hugged him close and he kissed her. Clara rose to leave the room.

“But, Peg.” Arnold pulled away. “I don’t know. It feels . . .”

“What?” Peggy’s voice was irritated. “It feels
what
, Benedict?”

“It feels wrong, somehow.”

“We are not backing out now, Benedict Arnold.”

Her husband turned away from Peggy’s stare, stroking his whiskers.

“Benedict, we’ve gone too far down this path to lose our resolve now. Here, take some more wine, it will give you courage.”

“Courage? Courage, you say? I’ve faced death itself on the battlefield. I’ve watched as a surgeon carved a bullet from my knee.” Arnold turned to his wife, stung. “I don’t need courage, Peggy.”

“I know that, I know.” Peggy ran her fingers through his graying hair in an effort to assuage him.

“It is a loss of honor that I worry about,” Arnold fumed, shrugging off her attentions.

“It is not
you
who has surrendered honor, Benny.” Peggy scooted her body closer and tugged on her husband so that he lay beside her on the bed. “Benny,” she cooed, her tone more intoxicating than the wine they had nearly finished. “We must follow this through. We must do it—for our sons.”

“Sons?” Arnold turned toward her, confused. “What do you mean? We only have one son.”

“So, let’s set about fixing that right now.” Peggy sighed, kissing her husband’s whiskered cheek. “And then, after we make our second son, we will figure out just how we plan to turn West Point
over to Clinton.” The two of them embraced now, Arnold surrendering to Peggy’s seductive caresses.

“Do you love me, Benny?” Peggy asked, whispering into his ear.

“Oh, Peg, I love you,” Arnold simpered, running his rough hands through her curls. “Anything you ask for, I’ll do it.”

“Shhh.” Peggy kept kissing him, removing his coat before taking on the buttons of his cotton shirt.

Clara tiptoed across the creaky floor and shut the door quietly, even though she was certain that neither one of them had even noticed she was still in the room.