The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (47 page)

He reined in the horse, coming to a halt a few feet before her. “Hello, Clara Bell.” His face looked the same, only thinner. His skin had the glow of summer, darkened by long days spent outdoors. His light brown hair had grown longer but he still tied it loosely behind his head in the familiar fashion. A lone piece of straw dangled out of the side of his mouth, just as she remembered.

Clara stood before him, short of breath. “Is it really you?”

“It depends. Who do you think it is?” Cal cracked a grin, and everything about his face felt overwhelmingly familiar. A sensation of unadulterated happiness washed over Clara.

“I think I see Caleb Little,” she answered, blinking against the sunlight as she stared up at him on the horse.

Cal doffed his tricornered hat to her. “It is I, Miss Bell. At your service.”

“But Caleb Little wore stable clothes, and this man before me looks like a finely uniformed soldier.”

“And the Clara Bell I left behind wore homespun and had a harried look on her face as she struggled to pour her lady’s Champagne. But here is a young woman who looks as though she could be the lady of the house.”

Clara nodded, reminding herself not to be bashful. Even if he looked at her as he used to, he no longer cared for her as he used to. Better not to think of him as anything more than a friend, she warned herself. “I guess we’ve both changed.”

“Aye.” He nodded.

And then a thought struck her. “Cal, did your aunt know you’d be arriving here today?”

“She did.”

“That explains it,” Clara said, reflecting on the uncustomary dismissal from her chores. But didn’t the old woman know that the chance for Cal and Clara had passed?

Cal dismounted from his horse and Clara caught a whiff of his scent—a heady, familiar medley of horse, hay, and peppermint. She was struck by how strong her body’s memory of him was.

“Hello, Clara Bell.” He looked at her, his body just inches from hers. He still smiled with his hazel eyes, that lopsided grin just as she remembered it.

“Hello, Cal.”

“It’s been a while.”

“Indeed it has.” She swallowed hard. “It’s good to see you.”

“You as well, Clara Bell.” He paused, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. Then, matter-of-factly, he spoke: “It’s business that brings me here.”

Clara nodded, even as her heart faltered. Of course it was business.
Remember what you heard about that girl, Sarah Williamson, she reminded herself. Don’t forget that Cal is nothing more than your friend.

Standing up straight, her voice clear, she looked up at him. “Nevertheless, everyone will be pleased to see you. Shall we tie up your horse so you can go inside to your aunt and uncle?”

“No.” Cal shrugged his shoulders, looking down at the river. “I have an errand to see to first.”

Clara nodded. “All right then.”

And then, turning back to her, he asked, “Would you like to come with me?”

Her heart leapt, and she suppressed the smile that pulled at her lips. “Where to?” Clara asked, but she knew her answer would be yes.

“Just several miles up the post road. Old Buckwheat here knows the way.” Cal rested a hand on the horse, a strong chestnut mare.

“Several miles away? But, I have work.” She looked at the house with regret. “Mrs. Quigley—your aunt—might need me.” But then she remembered the order: not to return until supper. Yes, Mrs. Quigley had most certainly hoped this would happen. “But then again . . .” Clara turned back toward Cal. “I’ve just been given my first afternoon off. I’d love to join you.”

“Good.” Caleb smiled at her, and she was struck by how close their bodies were. “Let’s go.”

“But, Cal, I don’t think I can ask Miss Peggy for a horse. She would never let me borrow one.”

“That’s fine. Old Buckwheat will take us.”

“Both of us?” Clara frowned, looking at the saddle on the horse.

“I promise, I’ll hold on to you.”

Clara hesitated.

“What is it?”

“I’ve only ever ridden sidesaddle.”

Cal leaned close and grinned at her, his hazel eyes lighting up with mischief. It was not fair that he was so handsome, she thought to herself. “The war has made adventurers of us both.”

“I shall not know what I’m doing.”

“You won’t fall off, I promise.”

She protested a moment longer, more for propriety’s sake, before she allowed him to help her onto the horse.

“See, that wasn’t so difficult now, was it?” Cal directed her feet into the two stirrups.

“This saddle feels just big enough for me.” Clara settled into the leather seat, looking down at him from astride the horse. “I’m not sure how you’re planning on fitting both of us up here.”

“You’ll have to make room, because I can’t keep up with Buckwheat when he runs.” Cal hoisted himself up, positioning himself into the saddle snugly behind her. He threaded his arms around her waist and grabbed the reins. Again, his nearness overwhelmed her, and Clara was grateful that he could not see the rosy flush that colored her cheeks.

“You want to hold the reins, or shall I?” he whispered into her ear, and a shiver ran along her neck.

“I can,” she answered, affecting a cool tone that did not at all reflect her inward state.

“I knew you’d say that.” He clucked and Buckwheat started at a trot.

“Oh my,” Clara exclaimed, startled. Her weight shifted back toward him as she struggled to regain her balance.

“It’s not Miss Peggy’s coach, but I hope you’ll manage,” Caleb teased. “Hold on tight, Clara Bell.” Cal dug his boots into the
horse’s broad sides and Buckwheat picked up his pace—pulling them forward at an ever-increasing pace.

“Cal!” Clara squealed in delight. “This is too fast—slow us down!”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He wrapped his arms even tighter around her waist and she surrendered to the rhythmic forward movement of the horse. Effortlessly, their bodies slipped into a perfect harmony, rising and falling with each thunderous step of the hooves. The saddle suddenly felt like it was made for the two of them. She couldn’t help but smile as she felt the wind whipping her hair; she saw the world gliding by beneath them as they galloped north.

“We’re flying faster than the birds!” Clara lifted her arms and let out a laugh.

“I think old Buckwheat’s got even more in him. What do you say, Clara Bell?” Cal shouted over the rush of the wind, spurring the horse faster.

Then they were weightless, and each time Clara let loose a peal of excitement, it only prompted Cal to answer her with a laugh of his own.

“Did I say we were going several miles? I meant we’re going to Canada,” Caleb shouted over the whir of the wind in their faces.

“That’s fine with me,” Clara answered him. She could have ridden like this for hours, days even.

After a journey that felt too short, Caleb slowed the horse. “Whoa, Buck.” He calmed the animal, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on the surface of its backside. “Easy, boy.”

Clara looked around. They had stopped in a small meadow dotted with wildflowers on the bank of the Hudson. The hill sloped gently to their right, the river’s languid waters flowed to their left. She looked around her and saw no other sign of human life anywhere,
just the birds that flitted about in the grass and a family of deer that grazed on the distant hill, unconcerned by the sudden intrusion.

“Where are we, Cal? This is beautiful,” Clara exclaimed, giving him her hand as he helped her down from the horse.

“Well, we’re at my home,” Cal answered matter-of-factly.

“Pardon?” Clara was certain he was teasing her as he always did.

“This is Little Farm,” he answered her and, for once, there was no humor in his face. “Or at least, it will be. Do you approve?”

Clara gazed back over the land, the soft slope of green that met the wide river, astonished anew by how beautiful this piece of earth was.

“This is your home, Cal?” Surely he was teasing her—how could a penniless orphan become owner of such a farm?

“Will be. When the war’s over. Colonel Israel Putnam is giving out tracts of land to all of us who have served. The new country will need people to farm the land. I picked this one because I liked the view of the river.” Caleb walked forward lazily toward the water. “What do you think?”

“It’s . . . it’s lovely.” Clara fell into stride beside him.

“I was planning to build the house right over there”—he pointed to the crest of the gently sloping meadow—“about halfway between the river and the tree line, so the house would be bright and give a great view of sunset.”

She closed her eyes, imagining the new cottage on the hilltop, Cal tying up his horse outside of it at suppertime. That lucky girl, Sarah Williamson, greeting him on the porch.

Clara closed her eyes and forced the image from her mind. She had had her chance with him, years ago. She’d squandered it, and so her present unhappiness was her own fault. She wouldn’t be like Peggy, blaming others for her own misfortunes. She wouldn’t hate a girl she’d never met, simply because that girl had been wise enough
to accept Cal’s love when it was offered. Regaining her composure, she asked, “And you’ll work the fields?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Hopefully with the help of a few sons some day.”

Clara lowered her eyes, wishing her heart would slow its pace. Once more, she willed herself not to hate Sarah Williamson. Not to envy her life because it was a life with Cal.

Cal still looked out over the land. “A place of my own. Not too bad for an orphaned stableboy, eh?” Cal sighed, lowering himself down onto the grass. Clara sat down beside him, and they looked out at the river in silence. A gust of wind stirred up the surface of the water, causing it to ripple like shards of glass.

“That’s what this new country—this thing called America—is all about, Clara. It’s a nation of people standing up and taking their own destinies in their hands. Saying, ‘I can live my life better than some king can tell me how.’ ”

Clara thought about this. Caleb had always believed in the country—in America, in George Washington, in freedom. His was a patriotism that did not rise and fall with his own political fortunes; it was not a venture through which to gain fame or glory.

“You can do the same, Clara.” Caleb nudged her. “You don’t need to waste your life with Peggy Shippen. Aren’t there things you want?”

I want to live here, with you
, she thought, tortured by how immediately these words came to her. Their faces were close now, his honey-colored eyes just inches from her own. She longed to reach out and touch him, to stroke his cheek with her finger; to share a moment of tenderness that matched the warm feelings she felt for him inside. She remembered back to the evenings when he’d lingered in the kitchen, late at night, stealing the only opportunities he could find to be alone with her. How, years ago, it had made her
uncomfortable. How young, how stupidly innocent she had been.

“Well?” He raised his eyebrows, his hazel eyes catching the light of the sun as he looked at her with genuine interest. He was the only person she knew who never made her feel as if she were invisible. The first person who’d ever even suggested that she ought to think about herself. Even Oma, who had clearly loved her and dedicated her years to giving Clara a life—a home, work, food—had always just told her to work hard and be a good servant. And she had been, she had served Peggy obediently every day.

She had to answer, so she did it with a half-truth. “I suppose I’d want to be my own master. To have my own family, my own home.” Clara looked around. And then, she could not bite her tongue any longer. “I’m certain Sarah Williamson and you will be very happy here.”

Now it was Cal’s turn to be tongue-tied. “Sarah Williamson?” He repeated the name, confused.

“Yes.” Clara nodded. “Your aunt told us about your new sweetheart.” She tried to sound light. “We’re all very happy for you, Cal. Even if you have yet to tell me.”

There, she had done it. He knew that she knew. And she would be all right with it. They would be friends, just as they had always been. Perhaps some day she might even be able to be friends with this Sarah. Perhaps.

“Clara.” Cal’s voice was thoughtful. “Clara, you are mistaken. Sarah Williamson is not my sweetheart.”

Her mind careened, and she was grateful to be sitting. “But your aunt told us. She is your friend’s cousin, isn’t she?”

“She is. And a very nice girl. For a while I thought that, perhaps, there was something there. . . .” His voice trailed off. Clara could not calm her frantic heart, or ignore the hope that had been kindled like a tiny flame within her.

Now Cal looked at her intently, those hazel eyes holding her in a steady gaze. “Clara, I don’t love Sarah Williamson.”

“Why not?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Cal laughed, a short sigh of a laugh. And then he raised his eyebrows. “Because she is not you.”

Clara was so delirious with joy that she suspected she might break out into laughter and tears at the same time. Did this mean Cal still loved
her
? But how could she have gotten so lucky as to have been given a second chance?

“Clara.” Cal’s voice was soft now. “Surely you must know . . .”

What she did know was that, if given this second chance, she would not squander it. “Cal, I love you.” She had not expected to feel so light, so free, after finally saying those words. But then, she’d not expected to have the chance to say them, either. She laughed at herself, before continuing. “I’ve loved you for years. I only just realized it, when I thought I had lost you forever. Cal, please know—”

But before she finished her thought, his lips were on hers, silencing her excuses. Forgiving her for how long she had taken to see what was obvious. There, in the golden light of the midday sun, with the fields and the river as their only witnesses, Cal kissed her. It was only the second time in her nineteen years that she’d ever been kissed, and she felt shy at first. But as his lips touched hers, his hand moved to take hers in his, she softened into his touch. And now she kissed him with a fervor that made up for all the nights she’d imagined being kissed by Cal. It was even better than she had thought possible. It was the truth, what she was meant to be doing. Why had she waited so long to allow him to kiss her?