The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (20 page)

“Perhaps we should try to meet him?” Clara prodded tentatively.

“Oh, what for?” Peggy threw another petulant glance toward Arnold. He stood in conversation with Christianne Amile, who had managed to jostle her way back to his side. “Look at Christianne—never managed to get any attention from the British gentlemen, now in a swoon over that American. That just goes to show how inferior their tastes are. I’m surprised they don’t all think Blanche Reed is a beauty.”

Peggy stood alone, with no suitors and no company but Clara, drinking several more glasses of Champagne in quick succession. Clara knew Peggy clung to her haughtiness as the last line of defense against utter despair. Finally, eager to clear the sour and unattractive smirk from her lady’s face, Clara proposed a new tack.
“Well then, let’s at least pay our respects to the French ambassador,” Clara suggested.

“Oh fine,
him
I will talk to,” Peggy agreed, draining the remnants of a final glass. “He has at least spent some time in a royal court.” Clara did not respond with the thought that then crossed her mind: that Miss Peggy had not spent any more time in a royal court than the rest of the colonials at the party.

“Maybe we can ask him why his king would be so foolish as to side with the rebels.” Peggy giggled, her tongue made reckless by Champagne and bitterness. “Fine,” she sighed, her head tilting to one side. “Let us go pay our respects.” She took Clara’s hand and began weaving her way through the thick crowd.

There was much shoving and elbowing, as people waiting in a line did not appreciate Peggy cutting in front of them.

“Watch out, Miss Shippen.”

“Excuse me, Miss Shippen.”

Irritated guests felt less need to pay homage to this woman now, her status so visibly diminished since the departure of her British admirers.

“This is ridiculous,” Peggy snapped. “I don’t wait in line to meet people.”

“Behave, Peg.” Betsy had appeared beside them in the crowd. She looked away from her sister toward the center of the crowd. “Major André is not the
l’homme d’honneur
in Philadelphia anymore. Benedict Arnold is. From the looks of it, Christianne Amile is his favorite. So the gentlemen will be lining up to dance with
her
now.” Betsy watched her sister, the hint of a gloating smile spreading across her features.

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Peggy answered, fixing her gaze on Arnold as the fog of Champagne seemed to lift from her eyes. Clara noticed a look of determination cross her mistress’s face,
which she hadn’t seen in weeks. She was not certain to what purpose Peggy had set her mind, but, whatever it was, she knew Peggy would have it.

A
S THE
evening grew dark and the hall dimmed into the amber glow of candlelight, the crowds thinned. Guests—glutted on Champagne and rich desserts—sought comfort on the plush couches or departed for more private conversations in a dark study or on a shady garden path. Now only the host remained in the front hall, along with a small cluster of admirers. Around Benedict Arnold stood an aide-de-camp in the Continental uniform, the French ambassador, and Christianne Amile, who still looked on with the same smitten expression.

“You see the way Christianne looks on like a hopeless puppy? The French ambassador must be so underwhelmed by our society here in the colonies. Perhaps I should give him a little excitement.” Peggy had at last inched herself close to their host, and she now fidgeted with her hair.

“Hold this, Clara.” Peggy stuffed her fan and her empty glass into her maid’s hand and then glided the remaining distance across the room so that she stood before the major general.

“Ah.” Benedict Arnold turned from Christianne when he saw Peggy approach, smiling politely as he had with all his guests. “And who do we have here?”

“Major General Arnold, it is an honor to meet you, sir.” Peggy extended her tiny hand toward her host for a kiss, as she curtsied low. “I’m Margaret Shippen, but you may call me Peggy.”

“I know who you are, Miss Shippen.” General Arnold took Peggy’s outstretched hand and held it to his lips, staring down at her in
her curtsy. “My whole regiment knows who you are.” Christianne looked on as well, the smile slipping from her features.

Peggy locked her eyes on Arnold, flashing her coquettish grin. “Am I that famous, General?” Peggy rose slowly from her curtsy, cocking her head to the side. It was like observing a flower blooming before her very eyes—Clara was as awestruck as the rest of the captive crowd as Peggy surged back to life under the heady glow of male flattery.

“Infamous, I daresay.” Arnold raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh,” Peggy gasped, bringing her hand to her cheek in a gesture of exaggerated modesty. “Infamy is not a good thing, I fear.”

“They say that you had an army of British men at your feet.” Arnold eyed Peggy up and down, as if to size up the woman behind the tales he’d been told.

“And they say that you had an army of British men on
their
feet, running in the opposite direction of Saratoga,” Peggy rejoined.

Arnold and his aide erupted in delighted laughter. While Peggy’s figure seemed to blossom, growing more irresistible under the attention, Clara noticed Christianne Amile’s posture experiencing the opposite effect—the poor girl appeared to be sagging beside the distracted Arnold like a wilting flower.

“Her wit is as quick as they say it is,” Arnold said to the ambassador and the other gentleman beside him, a dapper, dark-eyed attendant with white powder in his hair. “Miss Shippen, allow me to introduce you to my companion: His Excellency, the French ambassador, le Comte Conrad Alexandre Gérard.”

“Ah,
l’homme d’honneur
, the guest of honor.” Peggy curtsied, bowing her head as she offered her hand to the ambassador for a kiss. “
Votre Excellence,
Your Excellency.” She was delighted, Clara could see, to be playing the coquette once again.

“
Enchanté.
” The count flashed a toothy smile at Peggy. “Zee
honneur
is all mine. And I see zat you speak French, mademoiselle.”

“
Mais bien sûr.
But of course, Excellency. All the young ladies who hope to think of themselves as accomplished must speak French. We may not be as impressive as the ladies of your court in Versailles, but I do hope that we don’t disappoint you entirely.”

“But you do not disappoint in the slightest, mademoiselle.”

“Is Your Excellency enjoying himself tonight?” Peggy focused on the ambassador as if his response alone was all that interested her.

“Mademoiselle Shippen, I must admit I have been somewhat homesick for my mother country. But when I gaze on you, your beauty, well, I could be back at Versailles.”

“The ambassador is much too kind.” Peggy fixed her gaze on Arnold, flashing a beguiling smile. “We all know that the French court is the height of gentility. Nothing like our rough little assembly of colonial patriots. Nevertheless, I am happy to provide some small succor to an ally of our cause.”

Our cause?
Clara was stunned at hearing her mistress bandy such language. And poor Christianne, standing beside Arnold, was completely forgotten.

A pair of guests now approached to pay their respects one final time before taking their leave. Arnold bid them a quick farewell and then turned back, repositioning himself so that he stood closer to Peggy than the ambassador. “Now, Ambassador, with beauty such as this to protect, do you not agree that you must aid us in our fight,
monsieur
?” Benedict Arnold had locked his eyes on Peggy and now seemed unwilling to remove them. At this close distance, the vast difference in their age was glaring; to Clara it seemed that Arnold was twice Peggy’s age.

“Major General, I am overcome by your kindness.” Peggy
dropped her eyes to the floor demurely, leaning forward so that Arnold might steal a furtive look down the front of her gown.

“Miss Shippen, will you allow me to make one more introduction?” Arnold moved closer to her, so that the ambassador and Christianne Amile were now entirely removed from the conversation. Sensing their exclusion, the two of them splintered off into their own, less-than-easy dialogue.

“Please, sir,” Peggy said in her breathless manner, a performance Clara had only seen used on Major André.

“Miss Shippen, please meet my aide-de-camp, Major David Franks.”

“A pleasure, Major Franks.” Peggy extended her hand to the man beside Arnold.

“The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Shippen,” Major Franks stammered, clearly the latest in the line of men to fall enchanted before her that evening.

“I hope you’re taking good care of our national hero, Major Franks?” Peggy cocked her head. “He’s a special favorite of General Washington’s. We Philadelphians would not want anything to happen to him while he was here.”

“I . . . uh . . . well, I try, Miss . . . Miss . . .” Major Franks groped for her name.

“Shippen.” Peggy obliged him, and Arnold erupted in jocular laughter.

“Miss Shippen, you must go easy on Major Franks,” General Arnold interjected. “He’s a young man and therefore, I fear, ripe for heartbreak. I am older, more seasoned in the beguiling ways of the fairer sex. I am less at risk against your charms myself.”

“Well I’ve always loved a challenge.” Peggy flashed a dazzling smile as she inched closer to Arnold, lowering her voice so that it seemed as if she spoke only to him.

“Ah, the little lady says she is up for a challenge.” General Arnold looked down at Peggy as if he would gobble her up.

“I
am
up for the challenge,” Peggy replied with a lopsided grin, and then, leaning in so that just Arnold could hear her, she breathed the words in his ear. “The question is, General Arnold, are
you
up?”

T
HE MOOD
in the carriage on the way home was tense, and Betsy seemed to flinch each time the horses dragged them over a deep rut in the cobblestones.

Finally, Betsy looked across the carriage at her sister and broke the silence, demanding to know why she had waged such a full offensive of charm and attention on a man whom she had earlier declared her sworn enemy. Clara, utterly confounded by her mistress’s behavior, also could not understand what she’d just witnessed.

“I can’t figure out why you care who I flirt with, Bets, unless you’re worried I’m coming after Neddy.” Peggy spoke calmly, which further inflamed her sister’s irritation.

“You’d never,” Betsy gasped. “And besides, Neddy would never throw me over. Especially not for you.”

“Suit yourself,” Peggy said.

“He would not! You’re not his type. Neddy told me so himself.”

“I don’t care if I’m Neddy Burd’s type.” Peggy tittered, glancing out the carriage window.

“It was shameless, Peg, the way you fawned all over General Arnold like that,” Betsy continued. Through the coach opening, Clara saw Caleb laughing to himself—he was far enough removed that he found the Shippen girls endlessly entertaining.

“And that poor Christianne Amile . . . Such a nice girl, and
completely smitten by Arnold, and you waltz right in and elbow her into the corner,” Betsy continued. “I thought she was your friend.”

All Peggy offered by way of an answer was a giggle.

“And a man that old! He’s thirty-seven, Peg. You’re only eighteen. Father would never let him court you.”

“Does Father have a say in what I do?” Peggy asked, unfazed.

“But you would not want him to court you, would you?” Clara piped up, seeking clarification.

“Why ever not?” Peggy stared back at her maid, defiant.

“No, she’d never,” Betsy answered. “You would not, right, Margaret Shippen?”

Peggy looked derisively at her sister. “Are you
trying
to sound like Mother?”

“Peggy, I mean it. You are not actually interested in Benedict Arnold, are you?”

“Oh, you girls are such simpletons.” Peggy leaned her head back against the carriage and sighed. “Bets, I expect it from the farm girl”—she pointed at Clara—“but you?”

“Sometimes I really do not understand you, Margaret Shippen.” Betsy looked at her sister disapprovingly.