The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (50 page)

“Yes, ma’am.” Clara nodded, grabbing the wine and ale from the counter.

Peggy turned on her heels, Clara following behind with the carafe of wine. “Benny”—Peggy waved the letter wildly as she entered
the dining room—“look what I have: a letter from John Anderson!”

“Is that so?”

“I told you we’d hear from him—surely there’s an excuse. Read it now.” Peggy handed the parcel to him. Arnold tore it open and read aloud to his wife.

My Dear Sir and Lady,

You have no doubt heard by now that my ship was fired upon just south of our meeting spot.

My apologies for any concern or inconvenience this may have caused. Please be assured that I was thwarted not for a lack of will, but due to the unforeseen circumstances.

May I suggest the evening of September 22, around midnight when it turns over to the 23rd, for our next meeting? Same spot.

Neither our interests nor our offers have changed.

Your humble servant,

Anderson

“Well,” Peggy said, self-satisfied, as she spread cheese on a piece of bread. “Didn’t I say so?” She grinned. “I quite like him calling us ‘Sir’ and ‘Lady.’ ”

Arnold studied the letter. “Well, no, Mr. Anderson. We had
not
heard that you were fired upon.”

Peggy snatched the letter from her husband’s hands and perused the message herself. “Well, Benny, everything looks to be in order. Thank God! The thought of returning to that tiny cottage in Philadelphia.” Peggy shuddered. Just then, Clara heard footsteps.

“Someone’s coming.” Peggy pulled the letter onto her lap and out of sight as the door to the dining room opened.

“Franks!” Arnold rose, greeting his aide cordially as he entered the sunny room.

“General Arnold, Mrs. Arnold, good morning.” The aide removed his cap and bowed to them.

“You always have a knack for showing up at breakfast time, my good man,” Arnold roared. “I do not think it’s coincidental. Please, join us.” Arnold offered a chair to Franks. “Coffee?”

“If you please.” The aide nodded, sitting down between them at the table. Clara poured him his coffee the way he always took it, black.

“We’ve just received news this morning from General Washington himself.” Franks served himself a thick piece of smoked trout.

“Indeed? And how is the old giant?” Arnold rapped the table as if delighted to hear it.

“Very well, from the sound of it. He sends his regards to you, of course, Major General.” Franks beamed with pride at being able to deliver such flattery to his superior. “General Washington plans to come here in a few weeks’ time. Around the morning of the twenty-fourth. He’s asked if he might stay with you while he visits West Point.”

Peggy dropped her fork, causing it to clamor to the floor. Franks looked at her. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Mrs. Arnold.”

“No, no.” Peggy reached down for her dropped silverware. When she came back up to the table, her face was a mask of composure. “No, you haven’t at all, Major Franks. It’s just that, well, I’m so delighted that the general wishes to stay with us.”

“It’s an honor indeed.” Franks concurred, taking a satisfied slurp of his black coffee. “He intends to inspect West Point. So, General Arnold, you and I have our work cut out for us the next few weeks.”

“We most certainly do,” Peggy agreed.

Franks threw a quizzical glance in her direction before turning back to his plate. He did not notice that the Arnolds seemed to have lost their appetites, but Clara did. When he’d finished his meat and was serving himself seconds, Franks spoke.

“So, have you heard the big news this morning, General?” Franks wiped his mouth with the tablecloth. “A British warship by the name of the HMS
Vulture
was fired on overnight. Down around Tarrytown. They’re not sure what it was doing venturing so close to our lines.”

“Ah, yes, I did hear that.” Arnold nodded, his face taking on a countenance of deep concern. “Damn redcoats, trying to test our mettle?”

“Appears so,” Franks answered. “Who gave you the account? I wonder if it was similar to what I heard.” Franks turned to his boss.

“Oh, I just heard from a source. I’ve got spies all through these woods working for us. I can’t reveal their names. You understand, Franks.” Arnold winked conspiratorially.

“Of course,” the aide answered obsequiously.

“Good man.” Arnold smiled at his attendant.

“Seems the
Vulture
slipped back behind British lines unscathed in the early morning,” Franks continued. “Probably some of Clinton’s men up from New York City.”

“Aye, the sneaky lobsterbacks,” Arnold agreed. “No matter. We’ll get them next time, won’t we, Franks?”

“We certainly will, sir,” Franks agreed. “What a ghastly name for a ship carrying a bunch of redcoats, nay? The
Vulture
. I get chills just thinking about it.”

They ate on in silence. Clara noticed that her mistress was merely moving the food around on her plate.

Franks broke the silence. “General Arnold, there’s one more
thing. I am hesitant to raise the issue with you, but I do feel that you should know what is being said by some of the men.”

Arnold ceased cutting his meat and looked at his aide. Clara’s back stiffened, and she was certain that Peggy and Arnold felt panic.

“You’d like to hear what some people are claiming, would you not?” Franks asked again.

“Of course.” Arnold lowered his silverware to the plate, his face ashen.

“It’s some . . . complaint . . . that a number of the men around here are making about you.” Franks looked down at his plate. Peggy reached for her husband’s hand.

“What is it, Franks?” Arnold’s voice was hoarse, quiet, as he took his wife’s hand in his.

“They say that you—” Franks paused.

“Yes? Tell me, Franks.”

“Well, they say that you . . .” Again the aide lost his resolve to make the accusation.

“Out with it, man!” Arnold roared. Peggy gasped, putting her hand over her heart.

Finally, Franks spoke. “They say that your eating habits are not what they should be.”

Arnold and Peggy looked at each other, erupting in relieved laughter. “Is that all?” Arnold pounded the table with his fist. “My eating habits! That is what they are complaining about?”

“Well, yes.” Franks looked on uneasily, apparently unsure of the comedy of his statement. “You see, your men are starving. And they hear that you and your”—he looked at Peggy—“family . . . are eating meat and potatoes and butter at every meal.” The aide looked guiltily at the breakfast spread from which he had just partaken.

“They say that you should not be keeping an entire milk cow
for yourself. That the milk cow is intended to provide milk and cheese for the men over at the fort.”

Clara tripped at the name. Milk Cow. Her code word with Caleb for George Washington. But then she calmed herself, believing that Franks merely meant the cow in the stable from where the Arnolds got their milk, butter, and cheese.

“It wouldn’t be the Continental Army without some form of slander flying against my name.” Arnold sloshed his coffee around in his cup. “What else do they say, Franks?”

“Well, it’s quite serious, sir,” Franks answered. “They say that your habits are causing some of the soldiers to go without.”

“What do they expect me to do?”

Again Franks looked at the full table before them. “They say that a true officer should be eating salt cod and root vegetables at every meal. Like they are. Like . . . er, like General Washington does.”

Arnold took his napkin out of his collar and slammed it on the table, causing his startled aide to jump back from the table. “Do they demand that General Washington and the others surrender the use of their legs, as I have? Or their personal fortunes?”

The aide offered no response to this.

“I am the general here, Franks, lest you forget. A rank which I have earned with my blood and my fortune. And if my wife wants fresh milk and cheese, she will have it.”

“Thank you, Benny.” Peggy glowered at Franks as she bit into her buttered bread.

“Do you understand?” Arnold leaned toward Franks, bellowing. “Do you understand?”

“I do, sir.” The aide blanched.

“You may go now, Major Franks.” The aide did not need to be
told twice. Franks hopped up from the table, leaving his plate full, and crossed the room in two strides.

Once the door had shut behind Franks, the two conspirators sat alone in silence. Peggy eyed her husband, waiting for him to speak. He did not, but simply turned his attention back to finishing off the last of his beef and ale. Peggy sipped her wine and Clara retreated farther into the corner of the room.

Finally, Arnold broke the silence. “Some nerve that man has, coming here and eating from my table.”

“While insulting how your acquire the very same food you feed him.” Peggy shook her head, sipping her wine.

“But did you hear what he said before that?” Arnold arched his brows. “It appears, my dear, that we may have just reeled in the biggest fish of them all.” Arnold turned to his wife, his cheeks flushed and rosy.

Peggy turned to him, as if ready to burst. “Benny, you heard him. Washington wants to come
here
!”

“At last fate seems to smile upon us.” Arnold stroked his gray whiskers.

“Benny.” Peggy rose from her chair and moved to her husband’s lap. “There will be no denying us a title when we deliver Washington!”

Arnold thought this over, eventually nodding. “You are quite right.”

“André had asked us if our conditions had changed.” Peggy gasped. “They have.”

“Yes, I would say they have.” Arnold gnawed on his lower lip, his face fixed with determination.

“Imagine us, turning over the leader of the Continental Army.” Peggy’s calm, cool tone caused the flesh on Clara’s neck to prickle.

Arnold wrapped his arms tighter around his wife’s waist, his eyes ablaze. “More milk in your coffee, Lady Arnold?”

Peggy looked back into her husband’s eyes, her expression gloating. He
would
give her the life she had always longed for, after all. “Please, my Lord Benedict. Let’s put that milk cow to work—otherwise, what would your men gossip about?”

“Oh, I think we’ll give them something to gossip about soon enough, Peg.”

Peggy giggled as her husband filled her cup to the brim, allowing it to spill over onto the white tablecloth.

C
LARA WAS
frantic. Still, she managed to work all day without her mistress noticing her distraction. When at last she had the kitchen to herself that evening, she wrote Cal.

Cal,

Much news to report. The meeting did not occur. The “coq” did not show, and you’ve likely deduced by now that his was the vessel spotted last night.

It’s been rescheduled—down the river, just north of the line on the 22nd. Coq will come by water and they will rendezvous at the home of Joshua Hett Smith.

I will try my best to find an excuse to be included on this excursion, so that I may inform you of all the details. If I deem it safe, I will leave a note for you at the home.

Cal, can you take action with this news? If not, I fear that the milk cow might be in danger.

Clara Bell

C
LARA SENT
the letter the next day, handing it to Franks on his way out of the house without the Arnolds seeing. “If you could post this on my behalf.” Clara leaned in, an exaggerated look of supplication on her face. “Please, Major Franks, it’s for a gent.” Clara lowered her eyes and a well-timed blush made the obsequious aide certain that the pretty maid’s very happiness rested in his hands.

“I’d be happy to help you, Miss Bell. You can rest assured of my discretion.”

All of that long, anxious week, she waited, seeking out the mail each morning, but no reply came. Meanwhile, it was perhaps her imagination, but Clara felt a gnawing suspicion that Miss Peggy was watching her even closer than usual. Her hawkish eyes seemed to keep Clara under their surveillance at all times. Did she suspect Clara? Would Clara be able to snatch away Cal’s letter before Miss Peggy knew of its existence? But the week progressed, and still no letter came.