The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (25 page)

“Please don’t drink too much wine, Benny.”

“Why not?” Arnold asked, his face wounded.

“Because you’ll fall asleep in the middle of our picnic,” Peggy answered, handing the wine bottle to Clara. “Put that back in the hamper.”

“Can’t I take a nap beside you?” Arnold asked, frowning as the maid tucked the wine out of sight.

“No, that’s not fun for me,” Peggy answered, her tone flat. Arnold put his glass down, picking at a piece of bread. They ate in silence for several minutes before Arnold spoke again.

“I suppose I’m nervous because . . . well, because there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” Arnold looked at the river, at the dog, everywhere but at Peggy. Clara took several steps away from their picnic blanket, a swell of discomfort rising within her as she sensed the serious nature of the conversation.

“Miss Shippen, I think it’s apparent that I feel a great . . . affection . . . for you. A feeling which, I confess, sometimes I allow myself to indulge in. In my daydreams, sometimes I allow myself to wonder—could a woman of your beauty, your spirit, your kindness, ever feel this way in return for me?”

Peggy looked him squarely in the face, blinking as she answered, matter-of-factly. “Yes.”

Arnold was stunned and lost the words with which he had intended to continue. “I . . . I . . . I beg your pardon?”

“Benedict Arnold, I could be in love with you, yes.” Peggy swatted a fly, her curls bouncing under her bonnet as she ducked her head. “Of course I could be in love with you. But I’m not. At least, not yet.”

His face did not clearly spell his emotions—was he hopeful? Discouraged? Clara could not tell, most likely because he himself did not know what to make of Peggy’s stony declaration. “These things take time, I realize that. It only makes me appreciate you more, Peg, that you are allowing your feelings to progress in a modest and natural way. It speaks of a genuine attachment, not some passing fancy.”

“Well, it’s not just that I want to take things slowly,” Peggy answered, her tone dry. She was usually all affection and playfulness with Arnold; right now, Clara noted, she seemed crisper than the autumn air. “There’s something else.”

“What is it, my love?” He leaned toward her, his face heavy with yearning. “Please just tell me what it is, and I will do it. If you require me to run to the moon to prove my love, it is not a task too large.”

Peggy arched her eyebrows. “You will not be
running
anywhere, Benny, we both know that.”

Arnold stiffened his posture. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do to prove my devotion. And win yours in return.”

Peggy looked dreamily out over the river. Her reticence only seemed to further agitate her suitor.

“Well? What is it? In what way am I deficient?” Arnold asked. The skin where his whiskers sprouted from his cheeks flushed a deep red. “I am sure that, whatever it is, a remedy exists.”

Peggy glanced back to meet Arnold’s eye. “I so love to dance. I can’t imagine myself marrying someone who couldn’t dance with me.”

Clara felt that the slightest breeze could have knocked her flat on her back. Arnold had just finished professing his ardent devotion to Peggy, and she had answered him by telling him that she loved to
dance
?

Clara wished that Cal had been there to witness the scene, for she felt certain that he would never believe her. Here was a man who had spent the past six months courting her mistress—feeding her, spoiling her with gifts, giving her whatever she desired—and Peggy was sitting opposite him, finding fault with the fact that he had been crippled while serving his country?

Clara was tempted to stare, open-mouthed, just as Arnold was doing, but she concealed her amazement, pretending instead to be distracted with throwing a stick for Barley.

“Benny, it’s one thing that you’re so much older than me; that fact we cannot change. But to think that you might not be able to keep up with me, not for a lack of energy, but because of your
condition
.” Peggy jerked her chin down toward Arnold’s left leg, which was extended on the blanket. “I suppose I have always maintained hope, ever since I met you, that perhaps you could grow stronger, and heal. Reteach yourself to walk, my love, and then I would reconsider your offer.”

For once, Benedict Arnold seemed to see Peggy Shippen’s behavior for what it was, and not through the glossy sheen of love and admiration by which he’d been dazzled. The look on his face shifted, Clara saw. The hopeful and besotted suitor now appeared as a tired old man, stunned and offended.

“I think the picnic is over,” Arnold answered. And from the silent tension that hung in the carriage throughout the ride back to the Shippen home, Clara deduced that her mistress had finally found the boundary of male indulgence.

V.

I hear General Washington and his party arrive at the front.

“Anyone else fancy a bite to eat?” When Washington speaks to his officers and attendants, it is all casual camaraderie. Yet it is visible in their expressions, their movements, their attentiveness—they revere him as a god among men. As he crosses from the horse post to the house, his party moves with him like a school of fish guided in perfect unison.

George Washington is as the newspapers say he is: “always the tallest man in his company.” He removes his tricornered hat, yet still he must bend as he passes through the doorway so as to avoid grazing the crown of his head.

“Mrs. Arnold will be right down,” I say, with a quick curtsy. To my shock, he stares me broadly in the face as he replies: “Thank you, young lady.” He has a deep voice and an open, friendly manner about him that soften the impact made by his imposing figure and his formal military regalia. He is dressed in a uniform coat of a deep navy blue with gold buttons and cuffs. Epaulets of gold satin and fringe rest atop his broad shoulders, enhancing their already wide appearance. Under the military jacket is a snugly tailored vest of white and breeches of nankeen. A light blue sash crosses from his right shoulder to the left side of his waist, and a neckerchief conceals his thick neck. Leather riding boots with spurs climb over thick calves until they reach his knees. He seems to take up half of the space in the drawing room as he looks around approvingly.

We all hear the footsteps at the same time and turn to see my lady descending the stairs.

“General Washington!” Her voice is sweetened with the tones of pure delight, as if seeing him is the high point of her year. My lady’s attire is unusually casual, but he does not know this—he probably credits the abnormally warm September weather. She wears a cool dress of white linen with lace detailing at the sleeves and collar. A sash of light blue, stitched with pink and yellow flowers, ties snugly around her waist, showcasing her famous figure. Her blond hair is not piled high on her head, but in a loose chignon bun that rests on the nape of her neck. She looks early-morning fresh, unblemished, excruciatingly beautiful. You’d never know that inside she teems with anxiety and anger.

“It is the legendary Mrs. Arnold.” Washington and his men bow deeply upon her entrance. She extends her hand for a kiss from the general.

“I must confess, my lady, my men were worried about being late this morning only because they didn’t want to keep the charming Mrs. Arnold waiting.”

She laughs, and for the first time I see that her gestures are labored, forced. But Washington suspects nothing; for even now, Mrs. Arnold still shines brighter than most women.

“I think they are all half in love with you.” Washington offers the compliment with a gallant smile.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not true.” She clutches her side, takes a moment to collect herself, and then walks toward the dining room. They follow her.

When she speaks again, her voice is cool, calm. “General Washington, Excellency, I must make apologies for my husband. Major General Arnold is not here this morning because he is preparing a grand reception for you over at West Point.”

“Is that right? It’s very kind, but surely not necessary. His presence at breakfast would have been all the reception I needed.”

“Yes, well.” She tries to smile, but her frailty is obvious. At this point, General Washington takes note.

“My lady, are you well?”

“Oh.” She manages a smile. “With the little one consuming all of my energy . . . I’m afraid I’m left with very little with which to entertain. It’s nothing—simply what ails all new mothers. I’m quite all right, thank you.” She ushers them toward the dining room table, which is spread with two loaves of bread, slices of ham, bowls of fresh cream, sliced peaches, a pot of tea, and a pitcher of ale.

They sit at the table, with Washington at one end and my lady at the other. Their chatter is boisterous and merry, with all of them vying for their hostess’s attention. Washington likes to laugh loudly and often, and his aide Alexander Hamilton appears well-practiced in soliciting his general’s merriment.

As I’m refreshing the men’s ale mugs, a messenger comes in. He wears the same ragged uniform as the man who delivered the fateful message to Arnold hours earlier, as well as the same harried, exhausted expression. My hands begin to tremble, rattling the pitcher of ale.

“Yes, come in,” my mistress says, her voice smooth like syrup, her face betraying not the slightest concern. “Marquis de Lafayette, more peaches?” She doesn’t look in the direction of the messenger as he hastily hands General Washington the letter. I pour the ale, trying to steady my hands.

“Where do you come from?” the general asks the messenger.

“North Castle, sir,” the messenger says. “On an urgent errand from Colonel Jameson, Your Excellency.”

“What is Jameson up to that can’t wait until I’ve finished tasting Mrs. Arnold’s delectable peaches?” Washington quips good-naturedly, but he opens the envelope.

It’s the general’s quick gasp that pulls all our eyes to him. The letter quavers like a wind-blown leaf in his hands, and over the letter appears his face, now drained of all color.

“He has betrayed us. Benedict Arnold has betrayed us.” Washington says it with quiet incredulity. “If not him, then in whom can we trust?” My eyes, like all those in the room, stare into the beautiful face of my mistress.

I see, as the men do, the panic, the bewilderment and despair of a woman who has just found out that her husband is a traitor. I see all that, but I also see something they do not; I see that the pain she shows is nothing more than a mask. A painfully beautiful mask.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Stuck in the Mud”

November 1778

Philadelphia, PA

I
’VE RUINED
everything
!” Peggy was inconsolable. “I took an incredible risk, saying what I said. I knew it was hazardous . . . that he might take it the wrong way. But I thought his affection for me was strong enough that it would sustain such a blow. Oh, it was so foolish.”

Peggy cried to Stansbury in the window seat of her home’s front hall, keeping her voice low so that her mother and sister, sitting in the parlor across from them, would not hear. The view onto the busy street only seemed to deepen Peggy’s melancholy, for none of the carriages that passed belonged to Arnold.

“It’s so unlike you, Peg, to make such a misstep.” Stansbury mirrored her quiet tones as he looked through the window at the cold drizzle. “And you were so close to attaining your prize.”

Peggy nodded.

“Why did you offend him like that?” Stansbury asked, taking a cup of tea from Clara. “Bring me some sugar,” he ordered the maid, without glancing in Clara’s direction.

“Because it’s the
truth
! I do want him to heal, to reteach himself how to walk. I don’t want to marry a cripple.” Peggy wiped her wet nose on the back of her palm.

Since the afternoon of their picnic, Arnold had not visited the Shippen home. He had sent no gifts, no letters, no invitations. At first, Peggy comforted herself with the idea that Arnold’s pride had been wounded, but his affections remained as they had been. Days passed, threading together to form weeks. Finally, when the weeks had stretched to a full month’s time, and Arnold’s carriage still had not appeared through the window of her bedroom, Peggy began to lose hope. It was now just under two months until her sister’s wedding, and Peggy was predicting—for the first time in her life—that she herself would end up unwed, an old maid.

That gray afternoon, a bundled and blanketed Judge Shippen sat in his armchair in the parlor, reading a thick book in determined silence. Beside him sat his wife. Mrs. Shippen and Betsy spent most of their free time stitching, working feverishly on the linens for Betsy’s trousseau that had to be ready for her Christmas wedding. On this chilly day, the only other visitor to appear at the Shippen door was Christianne Amile, who had come over to help Betsy sew. Having received a perfunctory greeting from a still-sulking Peggy, Christianne entered the parlor and took a seat beside Betsy in front of the fire. The afternoon was damp, and the two girls asked Clara to bring them warm cider to keep their fingers nimble as they sewed. The more Betsy and Christianne drank, the bolder they became, exchanging horror stories they’d heard from other women about their wedding nights.