The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (58 page)

“Please, Mrs. Arnold, you have gone mad!” Washington spoke firmly, but to no avail. After several minutes of struggling against
the strength of the three men, Peggy gave up, surrendering into an unresponsive, sobbing heap.

“I am ruined,” she whimpered. Washington patted her head in a paternal gesture as she cried into his broad chest. Had the men not been propping her up, she would have fallen backward on the floor, but instead she fell into Hamilton’s arms.

“Oh.” Peggy’s body shook under the exertion of one final sob before her eyes shut.

“Good gracious.” Hamilton looked down at Peggy. “Is . . . is she dead?” Hamilton turned to Washington, his mouth agape.

“No, fainted,” Washington answered, removing his coat to cover Peggy’s torn dress. “Hamilton, take Mrs. Arnold upstairs and put her in bed. You, miss”—Washington looked directly at Clara—“will you please sit with Mrs. Arnold until she wakes? When she does, tell me immediately. The rest of you men, outside with me, now. We will discuss our plans for Arnold.”

Hamilton scooped Peggy up and climbed the stairs with Clara following behind. “Please, direct my way,” Hamilton called back to Clara, who pointed him toward the Arnolds’ bedroom. As Hamilton reached the top of the stairs, Peggy’s head fell back. For just an instant, Peggy’s eyes opened, and Clara would have sworn that her mistress flashed a devilish glance at her maid. But before Clara could be certain, Peggy’s eyes were shut again.

Hamilton entered the bedchamber and eased his hostess onto the bed. Peggy awoke almost as soon as she was deposited there, and immediately resumed her protestations. She saw Hamilton and Clara hovering over her bedside and looked at them, her eyes narrowed. “Stay back, you demons,” Peggy shrieked, peeling Washington’s coat off her as if it bore a contagious plague in its threads. Hurling it at Hamilton, she continued her tirade: “They
are going to kill me and my son.” Peggy kicked off the bedsheet that Hamilton had placed over her. “I will not let you kill my son,” she hissed.

“Please, Mrs. Arnold . . .” Hamilton looked helplessly at Clara, who had no answer for him.

“Do not come any closer to me, you murderer!” Peggy fumed, her eyes listless as she glanced around the room.

“No one seeks to do you any harm, Mrs. Arnold.” Alexander stood a ways back from the bed. “Please, it is I, Alexander Hamilton. And—” Hamilton turned to Clara.

“And Clara,” the maid answered.

“I won’t speak to either of you,” Peggy cried. “I want to speak to Washington!”

Hamilton sighed. “Better go get him,” Hamilton turned to Clara. The maid nodded and descended the stairs. As she walked, she heard Hamilton endeavoring unsuccessfully to calm his hysterical hostess.

Clara found Washington outside, encircled by his men as he delivered orders.

“General Washington, sir.” Clara hovered on the porch. “Mrs. Arnold is awake, and is requesting you.”

“Take me to her.” Washington told his men to await his further instructions and followed Clara back up to the bedroom.

“Here he comes. I can hear him now. Listen.” Hamilton was still at Peggy’s bedside, attempting to mollify her.

Washington followed Clara. “Mrs. Arnold.” He paused in her doorway. Peggy, seeing Washington’s frame upon her threshold, let out a wail and devolved into fresh hysterics.

“No! That is not Washington! That is the man who is going to help them murder my child,” Peggy screamed, kicking her legs furiously in the bed.

“You’d better go, sir.” Hamilton rushed at Washington, ushering him out of the room. “She is possessed of a fury!”

“We mustn’t let her harm herself.” Washington stared at Peggy with a look of genuine pity. “She is clearly a victim in all of this, more distressed than even we are.”

“Of course, sir,” Hamilton agreed. Lowering his voice, he addressed his commander. “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, how do you know that Arnold has betrayed us?”

Washington hunched over, beckoning Hamilton close. Leaning toward his aide, Washington whispered so that Peggy would not hear from the bed. “They’ve found a redcoat spy, a Major John Anderson, trying to cross over into British lines near Tarrytown. He was picked up by some colonial men. Anderson was carrying maps, troop lists, and top-secret information in his boot. Who could have possibly given him that?”

Hamilton stammered. “Arnold was planning to give him—this Anderson fellow—control of West Point?”

Washington’s face was heavy with grief. “What’s worse—this Anderson carried a pass signed by Arnold, granting him access back over into British lines. He was dressed in plain clothes, and he came damn close to slipping back out, but there was an informal patrol waiting for him. It was miraculous that these men happened to be out and had the wit to question Anderson.”

Clara’s heart leapt with joy. Caleb! He had received her messages after all.

“Benedict Arnold is not at West Point preparing a reception for us—Benedict Arnold is fleeing down the river to the British,” Washington said, his earlier good humor gone.

Hamilton’s eyes burned in anger as he understood the situation. “We must catch him.” The aide stood up straight. “We must ride south and catch him before he can reach safety, that traitor.”

“Lower your voice, Hamilton,” Washington placed a paternal arm on his aide’s shoulder. “We don’t want Mrs. Arnold to hear this. She already suffers enough. She need not know the full extent of her husband’s villainy.”

“That is right, sir,” Hamilton nodded. “We should shield her however we can. Lord knows she’s been through enough, and will go through even more if her spy of a husband is apprehended.”

“That is the matter at hand right now. We must apprehend Arnold,” Washington spoke with determination in his voice. “You and Lafayette, saddle up and ride south. Bring however many men you need to take Arnold down. I will go with the rest of the men across the river to ensure that West Point is prepared. If Arnold intends to lead the British up the river to attack West Point, we will be ready for him.”

T
HE
A
RNOLD
home had been transformed from the site of a cordial country breakfast party to a military headquarters, and the base for Washington’s defense of West Point. Having the colonial commander under the same roof was both a thrill and an unaccustomed comfort for Clara—no matter what happened now, she knew that Washington was in charge. The tyranny of Peggy Arnold had ceased. Nevertheless, Clara spent most of the following day with her mistress, sitting beside her bed as Washington had ordered. Peggy was still too distressed, she said, to rise from bed, and would see no visitors. Except Clara. So, Clara was forced to remain in the secluded bedroom.

From her post, Clara heard doors opening and horses running to and from the house. She longed to see what was occurring. Had Arnold been caught? And what was to happen to West Point?

When the sun had dropped from its perch high in the sky, Clara decided that it was safe to take a break from her bedside vigil. Mrs. Quigley would likely be preparing supper for the men, and Clara would go seek out some food for herself and Miss Peggy.

“Miss Peggy,” Clara whispered into the bedroom, its corners illuminated by the sun’s slanted rays, “I shall go see about supper.”

“What is the point?” Peggy asked, surprising Clara with the crystalline clarity of her voice. “Why eat? Why live? We’ve failed.”

“Plenty to live for, madame. Perhaps you’d like me to bring Little Eddy up to you?” Clara suggested.

“I can’t bear to see the child. Not when his father has abandoned us like this.” Peggy turned her head, closing her eyes against the orange sun shining sideways into her bedchamber.

“Very well. I’ll still go and see about that food, nevertheless.” Clara rose and quit the room.

She slipped past the officers in the parlor and pushed the front door ajar, stepping out into the dusky yard for her first gasp of fresh air all day. To her left, the river was a placid ribbon of slow-flowing silver, emblazoned by the sun sinking behind the mountains of West Point.

Barley, having heard Clara exit the farmhouse, ran to her from the direction of the post road, tail wagging. “Poor pup.” Clara leaned down and stroked the coarse fur behind the animal’s ears. “You keep watch for your master, Barley, but he will not return.” The dog lapped a slobbery kiss onto the top of her hand as she pet him. “What shall become of you, Barley pup?”

Clara wondered the same for herself, for the Quigleys, for Little Eddy, for the whole household. How long would it be before Washington and his men departed? If they left having failed to apprehend Arnold, would they allow the traitor’s servants to make
their own ways? But Peggy would never allow it. Which was precisely why Clara had taken steps to secure her own future.

She thought about Cal, guarding the woods, waiting for André to come out, and her loneliness began to gnaw at her, aching from within. She longed for him so deeply that she began to imagine him before her: there he was, crossing the yard, his right hand removing his tricornered hat to reveal his wavy, honey-colored hair. In the other hand rested the bridle leading old Buckwheat, the two of them walking beside each other in a lazy saunter. A lone piece of straw hung from his lips, disrupting that casual, familiar smile. This imagined Cal was so solid, so real, that Clara felt certain that if she reached forward, she’d be able to run her fingers through that tussled mane of golden hair.

Surely her eyes deceived her, for she could not actually be seeing Cal. But then, he spoke.

“Clara Bell.”

She shook her head in disbelief, blinking. “Cal?”

“Aye.” He cocked his head, making an odd face at her. Beside him, Buckwheat whinnied. “You are as white as snow, Clara Bell. Are you ill?”

“Cal, I’m so happy to see you.” She collapsed into him, pulling him close to her in a hug. Neither of them spoke for several minutes as he lifted his arms and returned the embrace, wrapping her up in him. She breathed him in, breathed in his familiar Cal scent, his nearness, the thick strength of his arms. She could have cried, she was so overjoyed.

“How about a kiss for a poor soldier?” He put his forefinger under her chin and lifted her lips to his. She happily obliged.

When she reopened her eyes, she looked up into the familiar hazel of his own. “How is it possible that you are here, Cal?”

“Message.” Cal retrieved a sealed paper from a pocket in his
uniform. “From down the river for General Washington. You can imagine I was all too eager for the task when I heard a letter had to be delivered to this home.”

“What does it say? Have you any idea?” Clara walked beside him as he tied his horse to the front post. “Have they caught Arnold?”

“They didn’t say one way or the other. This note pertains to the prisoner, Mr. John André. Seems the British are already offering a huge sum to buy his freedom.”

“Washington will never accept,” Clara answered.

“And yet the letter had to be delivered anyway, did it not?” Cal grinned at her, and she felt overwhelmed. She leaned forward and stole another kiss.

“Cal, can you believe it? They stopped André.
You
stopped André.”

“No, Clara.” Cal shook his head. “
You
stopped André. You ought to feel very proud.”

She felt many things, too many to explain aloud. Too many to even understand just yet. Rather than try, she took a deep breath, her eyes still fixing on Cal. He was the one thing that felt safe, certain to her. And then she asked, “I wasn’t sure whether you got my message.”

“I did. But I didn’t want to write back. Too risky. Just in case Arnold or the missus had seen it first. I figured I’d find a chance to slip away and come see you in person, once everything was settled.”

“I’m glad you did,” Clara said, taking his hand in hers.

They stood opposite each other a moment, no words passing between them. Eventually, Cal sighed. “He really did it. Or tried to, at least.”

“
They
really did it,” Clara corrected Cal. “Only he ran, and she remains.”

Cal followed her eyes as Clara looked up at the house, toward the bedroom window that sat, darkening, with Miss Peggy on the other side of it. “I have to admit, I held out hope until the last that Arnold would change his mind.” Cal ran his fingers through his hair, tussling several waves loose. “He was a good man, once. A great man.”

Clara nodded but said nothing. She knew too well, had seen too close, to imagine that a change had been possible in the end.

“Clara?”

“Yes, Cal?”

“Are my aunt and uncle all right?”

Clara nodded. “They bear no guilt, Cal. They never even allowed me to tell them fully of the plot.” Clara paused. “They are remarkably strong, considering what they’ve weathered.”

“You all are.”

Clara shrugged her shoulders. “They’re inside. They will be happy to see you.”

“Aye.” Cal nodded. “Well, let me go in and deliver this to General Washington. But first, I need one more kiss.”