The Traitor's Wife: A Novel (32 page)

“I hate to think of you making the journey all the way to New Jersey by yourself, and with your leg bothering you as it has been recently.” Peggy wrapped a heavy wool cloak over her husband’s thick shoulders, her arms lingering around him in a loose embrace. “Oh, Benny, to think of you standing trial before that tobacco planter Washington. How dare they presume to judge you, after all that you’ve done in this war?”

“There, there, my darling.” Arnold leaned toward his wife and stroked her cheek with his rough hand. “You are not to worry about me. My record speaks for itself, and Washington will see to it that I’m cleared.”

“But a court-martial sounds so terrifying.”

“I’ve faced worse.” Arnold shrugged, the bluster in his voice perhaps more for his wife’s sake than his own.

“I hate to think of you having to defend your honor against Joseph Reed.”

“A panel of military men will surely not side with Reed over
me.
No, the men will not betray me. They love me.”

“At least
they
do, Benny.” Peggy sighed.

“And you do.” Arnold took his wife’s chin in his hand. “May I rest assured of that?”

“Of course, Benny.” Peggy jerked her chin free, all seriousness. “But do see about the money they owe you.”

“Excuse me, General and Mrs. Arnold.” Clara edged forward, carrying the hamper her master had asked her to prepare. “The provisions we’ve prepared for your journey, General Arnold. Some cold ham and chicken, and some apples with bread and cheese.”

“Thank you, Clara.” Arnold nodded at the maid. “Run that out to Franks and have him set it in the carriage. He’ll have to make room amid all the jugs of ale he’s loaded up, I’m sure,” Arnold quipped, forcing out a laugh.

When Clara had delivered the hamper and scurried back through the front door, Arnold turned toward the maid. “Clara,” he said, as she kicked the snow loose from the bottom of her boots. “You be sure to take good care of Mrs. Arnold while I’m away, you hear?”

“Aye, sir.” Clara nodded, lowering her eyes.

“It’s no small solace to me, knowing that you are here with her.”

“Clara always takes good care of me.” Peggy stepped in front of her maid and took her husband’s chin in her forefinger and thumb. “I just wish I could take care of
you
. I would make the journey to New Jersey with you.”

“Not in this cold, and not in this condition.” Arnold placed his hand lovingly over Peggy’s swelling belly. “I can’t wait to meet our little one.”

“He’s strong.” Peggy smiled. “I feel him moving every day.”

“You think it’s a ‘he’?” Arnold arched his eyebrows, his hand resting on her belly.

“I do. I think you’ll have a son,” Peggy said, putting her hand on top of his. They stood silently a moment, and the scene almost looked like a moment of tender familial intimacy.

Peggy broke the silence. “You shall have a son soon. All the more reason why you must insist that Congress settles your debt and reimburses you for the small fortune they owe us.”

Arnold exhaled a long, slow breath, and Clara noticed just how tired he looked, and he was not even on the grueling road yet.

“It’s getting late. It’s best I depart. The sooner I’m off, the sooner I may put all of these filthy accusations behind me and get back to the service of my country.” Arnold rested heavily on his cane.

“They don’t deserve you, Benedict Arnold.” Peggy sighed as she looked into her husband’s face. “Not after they’ve treated you like this.” They held each other for a long time, and when they separated, Peggy had tears in her eyes. Barley the dog looked equally forlorn, especially when his master ordered him to stay in the parlor and not follow him to the door.

“My darling wife, I can’t leave you when you’re upset like this.” Arnold hovered at the doorway, his brow creased in worry.

“No, no. You must go. Go now so you’ll be back in time for Christmas. It will be cause to celebrate indeed if you come back with your name cleared and your purse full with the money they owe you.”

Arnold looked down at his wife, his posture stooping. “Even just to have my name cleared would be a victory, isn’t that right, Peg?”

Peggy thought about this. “We need the money, Benny.” Peggy
clung to his cloak, pulling his hand onto her belly. “So we can finally move. Do it for our son.”

“I understand. I’ll do what I can.” With his head low, Benedict Arnold walked through the door, out into the blustery winter wind and the waiting court-martial.

T
HAT AFTERNOON,
Clara showed Joseph Stansbury into the small parlor, where Peggy sat disconsolately before the fire.

“Is that Peggy Shippen buried under that pile of quilts?” Stansbury marched into the room, his heeled shoes clicking on the wooden floor, causing the loose boards to groan.

“Stansbury.” Peggy’s face brightened as she said his name. “Just what the doctor ordered to lift my spirits. Oh, don’t you look fine! Of course, you always look fine. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear the same suit twice.”

“Business is good, madame.” Stansbury doffed his plumed cap and sat down opposite Peggy. He eyed her appearance, taking in her plain calico dress barely visible under a mound of tattered quilts Mrs. Shippen had given them. The British merchant withheld his ordinary compliments to Peggy’s appearance, Clara noticed.

“You called me Peggy Shippen just now. It’s Peggy
Arnold,
don’t forget.”

“Oh! Apologies, old habits persist, Madame Arnold.” The merchant winked.

“You know my Benny left this afternoon for his trial in New Jersey?” Peggy held her hands before the fire to warm them.

“Good gracious, what a charade.” Stansbury smoothed a loose wisp of his powdered hair, tucking it neatly back into place.

“Shall I have Clara bring us tea?” Peggy offered.

“Tea? Are you the same Peggy Shippen—sorry, Peggy
Arnold
—I used to know? Let us have wine.” Stansbury chuckled, and snapped his fingers for the maid.

“Wonderful idea,” Peggy agreed, calling for her maid. “Clara, bring us some wine.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clara curtsied.

“Oh Stan, if I had known you were coming I would have cleaned myself up. I look a fright.” Peggy brushed her hair off her face. “I just never have any reason to dress, or put on rouge, or style my hair. No one invites me anywhere, at least not while these charges are pending. I heard Meg Chew hosted a soiree last weekend?”

Stansbury nodded, averting his eyes.

“She failed to invite me,” Peggy said, her tone sour. “Not that it matters. I’d be mortified to step foot out of doors in my condition anyway . . .” Peggy lifted the quilt to show her growing belly.

“Nonsense, Peggy, you have the glow of an expectant mother.”

“None of my old dresses fit me. I have to squeeze myself into this shapeless calico.”

“Well I think you look as radiant as you ever did at a ball.”

Peggy’s voice grew wistful. “Remember the balls? Oh, we went to some fun ones, didn’t we?” She leaned in and took her friend’s hand as Clara served them each a glass of wine.

“To you, my lady.” Stansbury held his glass high.

“To fun!” Peggy’s eyes twinkled.

“The two are one and the same.” Stansbury winked.

“I’m not so fun anymore, I’m afraid.” Peggy shook her head. “No one ever visits. Most days it’s just Benny and me in here. And Clara. And Lord knows, if Papa didn’t pay Clara’s wages, I wouldn’t
even be able to afford her.” Peggy took a sip of wine and smacked her lips, savoring the taste.

“It must be very trying for you, Peggy.” Stansbury shook his head. “A girl like you is meant to be dressed in silk, not calico.”

“Silk? Ha! I haven’t been allowed to buy anything on credit in six months.”

“I don’t know how you tolerate it, Peg.”

“Benny tries to stay optimistic. But with Reed besmirching his name to the papers every day—calling him a cheat, and a thief—my husband gets overcome.”

“I don’t blame him,” Stansbury replied, looking around the sparsely decorated interior of the small cottage. “It’s drafty in here, isn’t it?”

“I’m always freezing in here.” Peggy made a face. “I don’t know how I shall survive the winter. Will I die of the cold or the boredom first?”

“You and your husband should be in the Penn mansion.” Stansbury sipped his wine. “Hosting dinners and dances every night.”

“Or Mount Pleasant.” Peggy sighed. “But how could we? Not when Congress still owes my husband the thousands that he paid out of his own pocket back in ’seventy-five.”

“Such ill treatment from his so-called friends. No wonder he is overcome at times.” Stansbury tented his long, thin fingers before his face in thoughtful silence. “You weren’t made to live in a drafty cottage, Peggy Shippen. Too bad our country doesn’t have royalty—then you could just go to Court to pass the winter.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Peggy’s eyes glimmered at the mere thought of it.

“We used to live like royalty, didn’t we, Peg? Card games at Lord Rawdon’s, dinners and dances every night.”

“Oh, I think of those days very often, Stansbury. How I used to flit about on the arms of the British officers, sipping Champagne and eating oysters. Dancing until the sun came up.” Peggy stared into the fire, a feeble smile on her face. “And now look at me . . . I’m poor . . . and fat.”

“You are not fat.” Stansbury tittered. “You are expecting a child.”

“Remember what my waist was like? Now I would break a corset if I even tried to squeeze into one.” Peggy curled her lips into a pitiful pout. “You know what I do sometimes? When I’m so terribly bored and it’s been day after day of looking out the window at the cold? You know how I keep myself entertained, Stan?”

Stansbury finished his wine and summoned Clara. The maid refilled his cup. “How? Do tell.”

“I console myself with the fact that, somewhere in the world, there is still fun like the fun we used to have . . . I imagine what your trips to New York City must be like. I close my eyes and imagine myself there with you, dancing and flirting. Listening to the violins. Do you attend parties with the British officers?”

“I do. They are crawling all over New York, still as dapper as ever. It’s just like it used to be in Philadelphia. Remember that winter we had? When André and the men were here?”

“I could never forget it,” Peggy answered, her voice dripping with nostalgia. “New York must be so beautiful in the snow with all of those redcoats at Christmastime. I’d give up an entire year of this life just to have one night there.”

“It’s too bad I can’t smuggle you with me on my next business trip up there.” Stansbury smirked. “You are far too recognizable to make it across the enemy lines.”

“Not anymore.” Peggy heaved a sigh. “I bet André would not even know me in this state. But please, Stansbury, do tell me
what it’s like up there. Let me pretend I’m there, even just for a minute.”

“Well”—Stansbury thought—“General Clinton is in charge now. He is a great fan of entertainment. Much more so than Howe was. Clinton wants plays, and Masques, and music recitals constantly.”

“How marvelous.” Peggy imagined it.

“So it will be no surprise to hear that André has risen in the ranks and is a well-known favorite of Clinton’s.”

“No surprise at all.” Peggy nodded, wistful in her remembering. “André could charm the boots off the devil if he wanted to.” Peggy drained her wineglass, snapping her fingers to demand another refill. Clara poured her lady more wine and then chose a perch in the corner to take up a pile of Arnold’s clothes. It seemed all his pants and jackets, patched so many times before, needed new mending. The corner was cold, being far from the fireplace. Clara’s fingers felt brittle as she worked, but she knew her mistress would not want her too close when she had a visitor.

“And he’s charmed his general, that’s for sure,” Stansbury said. “He’s just recently been promoted, in fact.”

“Oh? And what is André’s new post?”

“Peggy.” Stansbury paused, his face suddenly serious. “John André is now the chief of British Intelligence.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, John André’s job is to recruit spies,” Stansbury said quietly.

“Spies?” Peggy’s eyes narrowed. “How very dangerous.”

“Indeed.” Stansbury nodded.

“How does he find them?” Peggy asked.

“He has . . . sources . . . on the colonial side.” The merchant
paused, allowing Peggy to take another sip of her wine. “You know Peggy, I’ve been thinking.”

“A dangerous pursuit. Why would you ever try such a thing?” Peggy giggled, hiccupping.

“No, I’m serious. You know how much I hate to see you suffering—in this tiny house, with no servants, no new clothing, no fun.”

“Please, Stansbury, don’t remind me. I’ll cry.”

“No, I simply mean to say that it’s not right. Not after everything your husband has done. A woman like you should be glistening in jewels rather than shivering in calico. To see Reed slandering you both the way he has—spying on you while you shop and alleging that Arnold burned entire villages in Canada, killing everyone in sight.”

“It’s preposterous, I know.” Peggy’s volume increased with each sip of wine. “We Arnolds have been robbed of our fortune in this war, and have been called all sorts of names. And
these
are the men whom our so-called . . . revolution . . . has made into heroes.”