The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (54 page)

Smith shook his head, preparing to answer, but Arnold cut him off, turning to his wife.

“We best be off, my peach. We have an important visitor coming for breakfast tomorrow morning, and we must make sure that all is in order.”

Peggy turned her face toward her husband, and Arnold thought that her broad, inviting smile was for him. What he did not realize was that his wife’s eyes actually fell on the figure standing directly over his shoulder—the dark, handsome British officer whom she would look to once she made her grand reentry into the British ballroom.

IX.

I dig frantically, growing short of breath under the exertion.

The spade hits the dirt hard, slicing deeper into the soft earth with every strike. In front of me, the old oak tree still bears the scars of the switch, scars that my own skin would carry had Arnold not beaten it instead of me.

Now the oak tree will be the shelter of these crucial objects. Treasures which my lady will soon notice missing; will I be able to enact my plan before she does?

I glance over my shoulder to look once more at the house. It looks so calm from here. My lady is still sleeping, tossing fretfully in her troubled dreams. The men are in the house, busy with plans and impervious to the suspicion that the maid, an unnoticed little imp, could be playing such a crucial role in this battle.

I turn back to my digging. Time is running short and I must bury these items. Right here, in this hole, I will hide the evidence that comprises my sole chance at escape. What were the words I read in Oma’s Bible? “The truth shall set you free.”

The truth will be hidden in a hole in the ground beside the old oak tree. If revealed correctly, it will indeed set me free. And it could be the key to saving a nation.

CHAPTER NINE

“In Whom Can We Trust?”

September 25, 1780

West Point, New York

C
LARA ROSE
from bed. Sleep had eluded her the entire night. The sun hadn’t yet appeared, but already the morning was warm. The predawn peace of the kitchen and the sleeping home mocked the rush of feelings Clara wrestled with as she lifted her weary body from her straw pallet. General Washington was coming today, along with his entire party, which included the man from the West Indies who had become a favorite, Alexander Hamilton, and the French nobleman, the Marquis de Lafayette. That alone would have sufficed to fray Clara’s nerves; but then there was the Arnolds’ plot, ripe and ready to be enacted.

Clara dressed in the faint glow of the kitchen fire’s dying embers. How did one dress on a day like this? she wondered. Vanity felt absurd at such a time, when the world threatened to crumble around her. And besides, she knew perfectly well that no one would be looking at her when they had the option of staring at Mrs. Peggy Arnold.

Clara slid into a calico dress of white cotton with the pattern of
blue and green flowers, tucking her hair under a mobcap and wrapping a fichu around her shoulders. Mrs. Quigley entered the kitchen just as Clara was coaxing a fresh fire from the hearth.

“Clara.” The old housekeeper wore a disgruntled expression and had puffy eyes, and she too looked as if she had not enjoyed a good night’s rest.

“Good morning, Mrs. Quigley.” Clara replaced the fire poker and grabbed her apron from the hook.

“Not a good morning at all.” Mrs. Quigley scowled, looking into the fire. “What I wouldn’t give to have Hannah manning the kitchen on a day like this.”

Clara fixed tea for them as the old housekeeper took out a mixing bowl and began slicing a bowl of peaches Clara had picked the previous day. “Lord, this cobbler will never be ready in time,” the housekeeper lamented.

Clara placed a cup of tea in front of the housekeeper.

“Did you arrange the guest rooms upstairs?” Mrs. Quigley stopped her slicing momentarily and turned to Clara.

“Aye.” Clara nodded. “Swapped the bed linens for fresh sheets. General Washington will be in the guest room upstairs on the north side, the French gentleman on the south side.”

“That Markee bloke?”

“Yes, I believe he’s called the Marquis de Lafayette.”

“We’ll just call him sir,” Mrs. Quigley decided.

“Yes, of course.” Clara nodded, rolling her sleeves up to her elbows. “And then for Mr. Hamilton and the rest of the aides we’ll make beds on the sofa and the floor in the parlor.”

“How terrible, asking these men to sleep on the floor.” Mrs. Quigley sighed, shaking her head. “I suppose we could give the Hamilton gentleman the nursery and you could bring Little Eddy in here with you.”

“Ma’am, they’ve slept on much worse, including the frozen ground of Valley Forge. I’d guess that a soft sofa under a wooden roof will be a welcome luxury.”

“Fine.” Mrs. Quigley nodded. “So the beds are set. You’ll have to bring them each a pitcher of water, but you can do that later. And I’ll have my husband make sure to stack the fireplaces with fresh logs. Though it’s so warm I can’t imagine they’ll want a fire.”

“Right,” Clara agreed politely.

“And they’ll all want fresh candles, and probably fresh paper and ink to write letters.”

“I’ll see to that.” Clara made a mental note to pull these items from the storeroom.

Mrs. Quigley ran through her plans aloud. “My husband will handle their horses when they arrive.”

“And General Arnold and Mrs. Arnold will be on hand to greet them. We will have breakfast ready for them,” Clara concluded.
But who will be on hand to stop the treason?

Mrs. Quigley’s brow furrowed. “Lord help me, this meal will never be ready. And we need to help the missus dress, and feed Little Eddy.”

“There now, Mrs. Quigley. I will help with the mistress and Little Eddy. Everything will be well.”

But Clara was lying and she was certain her face said so. Everything was very far from well. These small worries like breakfast and clean bed linens would prove moot if the Arnolds had their way. Had Caleb even received her message about André’s visit? If so, it was strange that he had not answered. Were men waiting down the river to apprehend Major André? The man was, at that very moment, somewhere in No Man’s Land bearing the top-secret documents that General Arnold had given him. Each second that
passed, the spy was closer to General Clinton and the British. In his possession, André had the means to capture not only West Point but also the three thousand colonial men currently stationed there. Also in André’s possession was the knowledge that Washington, and his entire military party, were bearing down on the Arnolds’ home, and that the commander of the entire army would be sleeping tonight within easy striking distance of British gunships and regiments that would soon be marching north to reclaim this stretch of the Hudson. Clara saw all of these pieces moving together and had no idea how they could possibly end in anything short of calamity.

“Clara, have you gone deaf?”

Clara snapped back to the present moment: the hot kitchen, the disgruntled housekeeper.

“I said your lady will want some of these peaches. Might want to take them up to Miss Peggy in bed.”

Clara stared at the bowl of ripe fruit. “Ah, yes. Of course.”

“Clara, you’ll give yourself the brow of a woman with twice your years if you keep fretting so.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Just a daydream,” Clara responded, taking the small bowl from Mrs. Quigley.

“No time for a daydream on a day such as this. Now see if you can dress her as quickly as possible—we’ll want her to be ready to greet them when they arrive.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Clara said. Walking up the stairs, she could not shake the feeling that her entire life, and the world around them, was about to crumble. She leaned against the wall of the narrow, dark stairway to steady herself. One thing and one thing only was for certain—today was the last day before everything changed; it was how that change would look that remained to be seen.

Clara knocked on the bedroom door, pressing her ear to the wood to listen for a stirring within. “Mrs. Arnold?”

“Come in,” came a chirp from the other side of the door. Clara turned the knob and entered to find Peggy, fresh-faced and smiling, sitting upright in bed. Her room was warm with morning sunlight, but she still rested beneath the white bed linens.

“Good morning, Clara.” Peggy tugged on her muslin nightcap and shook her head gaily, allowing her blond curls to come cascading around her rosy cheeks. “What a glorious day, nay?” Peggy looked out the window.

Clara entered the bedchamber.

“You brought me peaches?” Peggy eyed the fruit.

“I did, my lady.”

Peggy yawned. “Is Little Eddy up yet?” She took the outstretched bowl of fruit in her hands.

“Not yet, ma’am.” Clara pulled open the drapes and let the sunshine steep into the bedroom.

“That makes one Arnold man still in bed. My husband has been up since before dawn.” Peggy nibbled on a peach, sucking the juices that slid down her fingers. “Didn’t sleep a wink last night and rowed over this morning to examine West Point. He’s nervous because Washington arrives this morning.” Peggy spoke to her maid as if Clara were deaf, or dumb, and hadn’t been privy to the planning and scheming of the past year. Even the past few days! Of course Clara knew why Benedict Arnold was nervous, and it didn’t have to do with whether General Washington would be satisfied with the breakfast he was served at the Arnolds’ home.

Just then a low, distant sound—like a faint heartbeat—began to hum its way through the bedroom windows. Horse hooves. Clara crossed the room to look out the window, seeing a lone rider emerge from the post road.

“What is it?” Peggy asked her maid.

“There’s a rider approaching from the north,” Clara answered, watching the horse as it galloped across the Arnolds’ lawn. “The rider’s horse looks to be bearing the livery of General Washington.”

“Good gracious.” Peggy fluttered her eyelashes. “Are they here already?”

“No, ma’am. Looks like it’s just the one man,” Clara answered, still staring out the window as a dark-haired figure came into view. “Must be an advance member of the party.” She turned back to her mistress. “Mrs. Quigley is busy in the kitchen and Mr. Quigley is preparing the stables. I better go greet this visitor.” Clara grabbed the chamber pot and left her lady still in bed.

Clara studied the man through the window before opening the front door. He was young, Clara noted, with a deep skin tone and a pleasing face. His wavy hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. He stood on the porch, having tied his horse to the front post. Clara noted that the horse did in fact bear the Washington family crest of the griffin, indicating that this man outside the house enjoyed a close relationship with their commander in chief. She opened the door.

“Hello, miss.” The visitor bowed deeply, allowing Clara a moment to take in his appearance from up close. He wore a navy blue coat, white breeches, buckled boots and gold epaulettes on his shoulders. Slung across his chest was a musket. “I come with a verbal message from General George Washington for General and Mrs. Benedict Arnold.” The dark-haired man spoke with an accent altogether unfamiliar to Clara. It didn’t sound as if it originated in either Britain or the colonies.

“Please, come inside, Mr.—”

“The name’s Alexander Hamilton.” He smiled, his features
bright from the exertion of the ride. This was the man from the West Indies, Clara realized. The young colonel who had won General Washington’s respect after his fighting in New Jersey.

“Colonel Hamilton, it’s an honor to meet you.” Clara curtsied, her voice low.

“Are the Arnolds available for the message?” Hamilton arched his eyebrows.

“I’m afraid not at the moment, sir,” Clara answered. “Mrs. Arnold is still abed, and General Arnold has gone across the river on an errand to West Point.”

Hamilton cocked his head, looking out over the Arnolds’ expansive lawn. “I’ll give the message to you, then. The general sends word that he has been delayed this morning, as he has stopped to examine the fortifications at Mount Fishkill. He expects to be several hours late to breakfast. And here is where the message gets especially salacious . . .” Hamilton paused, his thin lips spreading into a smile. “His Excellency, General Washington, wishes me to tell you that his men send their special apologies to Mrs. Peggy Arnold. They are more upset at the prospect of distressing the lady than of being tardy. General Washington believes that the men are all half in love with her.”

Clara had to quell the urge to scowl as Colonel Hamilton smiled at her. She curtsied politely. “Thank you, sir. I shall deliver the message.” Hamilton nodded his thanks.

“Colonel Hamilton, may I invite you in for tea as you await the remainder of your party?”

“I thank you, but I am to ride back north to meet them.” Hamilton slid his hands back into their riding gloves and made to return to his horse. Taking the reins in his hand, he turned to Clara once more. She felt her heart lurch, her lips parted in a gasp. She had Hamilton alone; couldn’t she tell him all that she knew? Couldn’t
she spare Washington, and all of them, from their ill-fated trip to this home? But before she had the courage to deliver the words, Hamilton smiled and said: “I fear it will have to be several hours for me as well before I can lay eyes on the famous Mrs. Arnold.”