The Traitor's Wife

by Allison Pataki

Genres: Biographical; Historical Christian; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

A riveting historical novel about Peggy Shippen Arnold, the cunning wife of Benedict Arnold and mastermind behind America's most infamous act of treason...

Everyone knows Benedict Arnold-the Revolutionary War general who betrayed America and fled to the British-as history's most notorious turncoat. Many know Arnold's co-conspirator, Major John André, who was apprehended with Arnold's documents in his boots and hanged at the orders of General George Washington. But few know of the integral third character in the plot: a charming young woman who not only contributed to the betrayal but orchestrated it.

Socialite Peggy Shippen is half Benedict Arnold's age when she seduces the war hero during his stint as Military Commander of Philadelphia. Blinded by his young bride's beauty and wit, Arnold does not realize that she harbors a secret: loyalty to the British. Nor does he know that she hides a past romance with the handsome British spy John André. Peggy watches as her husband, crippled from battle wounds and in debt from years of service to the colonies, grows ever more disillusioned with his hero, Washington, and the American cause. Together with her former love and her disaffected husband, Peggy hatches the plot to deliver West Point to the British and, in exchange, win fame and fortune for herself and Arnold.

Told from the perspective of Peggy's maid, whose faith in the new nation inspires her to intervene in her mistress's affairs even when it could cost her everything, The Traitor's Wife brings these infamous figures to life, illuminating the sordid details and the love triangle that nearly destroyed the American fight for freedom.

Release date: February 11, 2014

Publisher: Howard Books

Print pages: 496

Sample

The Traitor’s Wife

CHAPTER ONE

“Never Anger Miss Peggy”

May, 1778

Philadelphia, PA

CLARA KNOCKED on the front door once, twice. She checked the address scrolled on the worn piece of parchment again. Her grandmother’s familiar handwriting directed Clara to arrive at the Shippen mansion on the corner of Fourth and Walnut Streets, deep in the district that housed the city’s wealthiest residents.

A crack of a coachman’s whip drew Clara’s attention away from the Shippens’ door, and she gazed over her shoulder toward the street—a noisy thoroughfare of horse hooves, carriage wheels, and the deafening drum of marching British soldiers. A servant leaned out of a window several houses down and emptied a series of chamber pots onto the cobblestone street before disappearing once more into the home. The closeness of the noise and stink was unlike anything Clara had ever experienced on the farm.

The Shippen mansion, like its adjacent structures, was composed of red brick and built with an orderly symmetry: the sort of architectural purposefulness she’d heard about since George Washington and Thomas Jefferson had built their homes in this style. The tight row of brick society homes lining Fourth Street resembled one another but for the shutter shades; some houses had green shutters, some light blue, some dark blue, some white. The Shippens had elected to paint their shutters black.

The Shippen mansion sat back from the street, flanked in front by a small patch of grass and two cherry trees in the full bloom of late spring. The entryway, a wide wooden door, stood above three short steps and below a triangular pediment. A top row of arched dormer windows poked out from the sloping roof, with two rows of shuttered panes below. The windows—built not only for allowing in light, but also for their decorative appeal—testified to their owner’s wealth; a passerby on the street might be so lucky as to catch a glimpse of the famous Judge Edward Shippen studying his books, or spy one of his beautiful daughters as she flitted through the vast parlor on her way to receive a gentleman caller.

This must be the right home. Clara knocked at the imposing front entrance again. The door opened, and Clara was greeted by the lined face of a woman past her youth.

“Good afternoon.” The woman had soft features framed by a graying bun, which peeked out around the edges of a clean, white-linen mobcap. She greeted Clara with an appraising smile.

“Is it Clara Bell, come at last?” The aged woman opened the door wider to reveal a fine appearance—an indigo petticoat made of linen to accommodate the warmer weather, draped by a clean linen apron. On top she wore faded gray stays over a crisply pressed white blouse. A fichu was tied around her neck to ensure the modesty required for service in such a fine home. She rolled back her cuffed sleeves and waved Clara inside.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Clara entered through the open door, clutching her tarpaulin sack as she stepped over the threshold. The woman closed the front door behind her, shutting out the noise and stink of the street and allowing Clara to ease into the airy interior of the home. Its soundless tranquility was a welcome relief after the hustle of Fourth Street.

“Well, Clara Bell, we’ve been awaiting your arrival all day.” The older woman smiled, taking Clara’s sack from her arms. “Was it a tiring journey from the country?”

“It was fine, ma’am,” Clara answered, even as she was certain her haggard features betrayed her fatigue.

“You took a post carriage?”

“Aye, ma’am.”

“That must have cost you a small fortune.”

“I’m grateful to have the employment, ma’am.” Clara managed a timid smile, finding words evasive in the grand hallway in which she’d suddenly found herself. She felt as though she’d awoken into this buffed and varnished grandeur without a clear recollection of the circumstances that had brought her to Philadelphia. Clara blinked, remembering. The abandoned farmhouse. Oma dying. In her last moments, her old grandmother penning a letter to a friend from years ago. Oma urging Clara to leave the Hartley farm, as the Hartleys themselves had done, fleeing the approach of the British and the Iroquois.

“I am Mrs. Quigley, housekeeper for the Shippens.”

“Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Quigley.”

“Yes, well . . .” The housekeeper’s reply faded to a sigh as she surveyed Clara’s appearance. Clara stood still, feeling her cheeks grow warm; her warm-weather petticoat of linen was creased and dusty from the trip, but it was the only one she possessed of its kind. She’d only rotate it out of her wardrobe when the weather changed and the crisp autumn air required her wool petticoat. Unlike this housekeeper, Clara’s clothes were not bought in a store, but were homespun, sewed by Oma. Clara wore her petticoat and stays in the cotton ticking pattern, off-white fabric with blue stripes. Her apron, once white, had been laundered so many times that it now bore a yellowish tint.

“Follow me, Clara.” Mrs. Quigley turned and crossed the room in several brisk strides. Clara followed, hurrying to take in the surroundings as she kept apace. The Shippens’ front hall was well lit by a wall of broad, clean windows. The focal point at the center of the hall was the expansive staircase, which drew the eyes up in a languid arc until it reached the second floor. Removed from the entrance was a maple fireplace. A fire crackled even on this warm spring afternoon, filling the front hall with its welcoming aroma, which mingled with the distinct scents of furniture polish and ladies’ perfume.

“Quite a bit grander here than it was at the farmhouse, I imagine.” Mrs. Quigley turned just in time to catch Clara, eyes rapt, examining a feather-light shawl of creamy robin’s egg blue. It was store-bought and fine, its border embroidered with yellow silken flowers, its colors as bright as a springtime morning. It had been left, haphazardly discarded over the back of an upholstered armchair, as if its owner could be reckless with an item so fine.

“Miss Peggy’s shawl. We better put it back in her closet where it belongs or we’ll never hear the end of it.” Mrs. Quigley scooped up the expensive item. “All right, then, follow me, child.” Clara trailed the housekeeper through an open doorway into an ample drawing room. The Shippens’ furniture seemed designed to impress the eyes with ornate decoration as much as to entice the body into its plush comfort. The chairs of the drawing room were carved out of smooth mahogany, their slender curves varnished to a glossy sheen. Clara’s legs suddenly felt leaden with fatigue; how she longed to sink for just one moment into one of these chairs.

“You look like you’ve never been inside a drawing room before, girl,” Mrs. Quigley remarked, fluffing a silk pillow on a nearby settee.

“Not one like this, ma’am, I haven’t.” Clara’s eyes roved hungrily over every detail of the quiet room, the only sound issuing from an encased clock, taller than Clara herself, that occupied a far corner. Oil paintings in bronze frames adorned the walls. A soft splash of May sunlight streamed in through the windows, mingling with the dancing shadows cast by the fresh white candles in their sconces. How fine they must be, the people who frequent these spaces, Clara thought. At night, when the sunlight vanished and only candlelight remained, how easy it must be for them to slip into a corner and whisper a piece of gossip or listen to a verse of an admirer’s poetry.

“Enough of your daydreaming. What do you think, girl?”

“It’s . . . it’s lovely here,” Clara stammered, looking around with ill-disguised awe.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Course, you’ll hear every day how the money’s gone and the furniture is growing outdated, but I think it’s just fine.” Mrs. Quigley smiled, the skin around her serious eyes creasing into a soft, worn pattern. “Well, Clara, you’ve had a long trip from the countryside; let’s have you come in and catch your breath.” Mrs. Quigley led Clara through the drawing room past a smaller, smartly decorated parlor with salmon-colored walls, shelves of books, and a silk sofa across from a card table.

“Books for the judge, cards for the ladies. That’s how they’ll spend their evenings. Course, Miss Peggy won’t be contented with either activity—she wants to be out dancing every night.” Mrs. Quigley kept a brisk pace as she crossed the room. Once through the parlor, a doorway allowed entry into a separate wing, which could be closed off from the front of the house. The two women proceeded now down this long, narrow passageway. No light shone here except for that which pierced the small windows of the rooms on either side of the corridor, and there was no ornamentation on the clean white walls. Clara stole quick glances into the rooms as she followed the housekeeper. Some rooms appeared occupied, others abandoned. This wing, she realized, housed the Shippen family’s servants.

Clara peeked into the empty rooms she passed—most held just bedframes and unused chamber pots, but they looked comfortable and of a good size. “Mrs. Quigley, if you please, why are all of these rooms empty?”

Mrs. Quigley sighed, jingling a set of brass keys as she led Clara farther down the hall. The old woman appeared unsure how to answer the question. “Just a few years back we were at full capacity, with two servants in each of these rooms. But we’ve had to let so many folks go, most of the rooms are empty now.”

“On account of the war?” Clara asked.

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” Mrs. Quigley glanced back over her shoulder at Clara, studying her for a moment before answering in a hushed tone. “You’ll have heard that Judge Shippen has refused to take a side—either Tory or Rebel.”

Clara nodded. The Shippens were one of the city’s most prominent families. The news had traveled as far as Hartley Farm when Doctor William Shippen, the judge’s brother, had come out strongly for the colonials. That’s when his brother, Clara’s new employer, had cut all business dealings to avoid appearing partial to either army.

Mrs. Quigley continued in a muted tone. “Without much coming in, we run a lean operation now that the war is on.”

Clara wondered why it was that they were bringing her into the household under these circumstances. Mrs. Quigley must have guessed at her thoughts.

“But Mistress Peggy fought hard to fill your post; she insisted to her father that we had need for a lady’s maid in the household. What with me, well, I’m busy enough running the home that I barely have time to tend to the missus, let alone her two daughters.”

“What are they like?” Clara asked.

“The Shippen ladies?”

“Aye,” Clara nodded.

Mrs Quigley considered the question. “You shall see for yourself, soon enough.” The old woman halted at the end of the corridor. “Here we are, Clara. After you.”

Clara hesitated, standing still.

“Your bedroom, child,” the housekeeper said. “Go on.”

Clara passed the housekeeper, her eyes lowered. Her bedroom? It would be the first room she’d ever had to herself. At the farm, she’d always slept on a straw pallet beside the kitchen fire, Oma’s snoring frame curled up beside her. But here she had a bedframe. And a door that could shut, offering an entirely new privilege: privacy.

Of course, when compared to the front of the Shippen house—with tables serving no purpose other than to host card games, and silver bowls serving no purpose other than to hold flowers—these quarters were dull. But Clara could barely contain a giggle over the thought of having her own room.

“Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. Will it suit you?” Mrs. Quigley fidgeted with her brass keys, apparently in a rush to get to her next chore.

“Suit me? Why, a room to myself . . .” Clara looked around her new domain. There was a single straw mattress on a rusted iron frame. A simple dresser of dark walnut stood against the opposite wall, and a thin desk and stool occupied the corner. The window, small but bright, faced out the back of the house. Clara crossed the room and peeked out the window. She spied the formal garden, done in the Continental style with tightly clipped shrubs, pruned rose bushes, and a tidy carpet of green lawn. Beyond that was a small orchard, its trees appearing to hold the first signs of apples. Cherry blossoms bloomed in the May warmth, forming neat columns of shady pathways. The manicured grass, so unlike the wild fields of the farm, was intersected by meandering pebbled walkways, where her ladies must tread when receiving finely dressed visitors. Birdsong pierced the blue sky, as did the aroma of fresh-petaled flowers. It was an Eden in the midst of the colonies’ busiest city.

Behind the garden stood a rectangular stable, where Clara spied a young man sitting between the large doors. Clara watched this figure as he plucked out a simple melody on a handmade guitar, as if entertaining himself while awaiting the arrival of some riders. Suddenly aware that he was being surveyed, the stableboy paused his singing, looking up in time to catch Clara’s gaze. She ducked her head back behind the window, blushing.

“Oh, so you’ve seen Caleb.” Mrs. Quigley was beside her at the window, swinging it open to allow in the fresh spring air.

“Who is he, ma’am?”

“The resident troublemaker.” Mrs. Quigley smirked, wiping the dust from the windowsill.

Clara glanced back outside and noticed that the young man named Caleb was no longer sitting at his post. She inhaled, taking in the heady scent of fresh flowers. “Mrs. Quigley, have you grown accustomed to all of this?”

“Aye, it’s a beautiful old home, all right, but don’t let it seduce you. There’s plenty to be seen in this house that ain’t so beautiful.” Mrs. Quigley’s eyebrows arced a moment before her face softened. “Clara, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, especially after I’ve only just met you, but you look just like your grandmother did. Course, when she was a lot younger.”

Clara lowered her eyes, her focus blurring at the mention of her Oma.

Mrs. Quigley continued. “She was a dear friend of mine, and I was happy to have the opportunity to help her.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I know you’ll miss her.”

“Indeed.” Clara’s eyes stung with the threat of tears, but she did not wish to weep before her new employer. Still, it seemed strange, illogical, to refer to her grandmother as someone from her past.

“When she wrote, asking me to find a post for you in the Shippen household, I was eager to help. Anything to make her final rest a bit easier.” Mrs. Quigley sighed, and Clara bit her lip, hesitant to respond in case her voice cracked.

“But enough of that business. Where were we? You think you shall be comfortable here?”

“Very.” Clara straightened her posture, grateful to change topics.

“Good.” Mrs. Quigley slapped the mattress once, producing a cloud of dust. “You’ll get one fresh candle a week, and not more, so mind you how you use your nighttime lighting. Quills and ink you’ll have to request on a need-by-need basis.”

Clara thought about this: she had no one to write.

“Judge Shippen tries to be generous, but there’s only so much he can manage, especially with trying to keep Betsy and Peggy in the latest fashions.” Clara could tell from the housekeeper’s terse manner that this was a topic she’d discussed before.

“Now, Clara, I suppose you’ll want to change before you meet Mistresses Peggy and Betsy?”

“Change?” Clara looked for the second time with disapproving eyes over her own appearance. “Oh, ma’am, I’ve got just the one other petticoat in my sack, a wool one.”

“One other petticoat? Did they not give you clothing on that farm?” Mrs. Quigley was a kind woman, but she could barely conceal her dismay.

“Only what Oma and I had time to sew. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry, child.” Mrs. Quigley sighed. “I’ll talk to my husband. He’s the judge’s valet and the foreman of the servants. We’ll see what we can arrange. Perhaps we can advance you a little bit of your wages to get you some fresh clothes. You’re a lady’s maid to the Shippens now, and we will want you to look the part. Now,”—the housekeeper paused, girding herself with a long, slow inhale—“let’s go meet the Misses Shippens.”

Clara followed Mrs. Quigley up the staircase that connected the servants’ quarters to the second floor. “This is our passage, so that we can travel up and down without disturbing the family.” Mrs. Quigley’s breath grew uneven as she climbed upward. Clara noticed a short, round woman with orange hair descending the staircase toward them, weighed down by an armful of linens.

“Oh, hello, Brigitte, you’ve changed the beds?”

“Aye, Mrs. Quigley.”

Mrs. Quigley paused, looking at the woman. “Clara, this is Brigitte, the chambermaid. Brigitte, meet Clara, the new maid to Miss Peggy and Miss Betsy.”

“Nice to meet you, Brigitte.” Clara curtsied to the older woman.

Brigitte nodded a wordless greeting in their general direction before continuing past them down the stairs.

“We’ll have time for introductions to the rest of the servants later. For now, it’s important that you meet your ladies.” Mrs. Quigley’s voice grew quieter as Clara followed her farther up the steep, narrow flight of stairs. “The ladies should be back from riding any moment, so first we’ll return this shawl to Miss Peggy’s bedchamber. We’ll meet Miss Peggy first, and you must try to make a good impression. You’ll see very quickly that Miss Peggy is the favorite of the judge.”

“Does the judge have just the two girls?” Clara asked.

“The judge and Mrs. Shippen had four children. Miss Elizabeth—they call her Betsy—is the eldest. She’s to be married soon, which will be a tremendous relief for his Judgeship. Betsy is followed by Miss Margaret—Peggy they call her. And then two boys, both of whom died.” Mrs. Quigley sighed. “Such sweet boys, such a shame to lose them so young.”

Clara nodded her silent reply.

“So now it’s just Miss Betsy and Miss Peggy. As far as I was told, you are to wait on both Miss Betsy and Miss Peggy, but we’ll see how they do about sharing. Miss Betsy does not seem to need her own maid, especially since she and Mrs. Shippen are so preoccupied these days with the coming wedding.” The housekeeper cocked her head. “Once Miss Betsy marries Mr. Burd, it’ll be just Miss Peggy in the house. She shall probably be the one who demands most of your time and attention.”

“Are they close, the Misses Shippens?” Clara paused atop the stairs.

“Well . . .” Mrs. Quigley weighed her next words. “They are very different. I don’t think I’ve ever had a cross word from Miss Betsy. Miss Peggy . . .” The housekeeper looked down at her young mistress’s light blue shawl, musing on its unseen owner. When she continued, her tone was barely a whisper. “I’m sure you’ve read about Miss Peggy—in the society pages?”

“No, ma’am. We servants didn’t get much chance to read the society pages at Hartley Farm,” Clara answered.

“Miss Peggy is”—the old woman paused—“quite pretty. A favorite of the young British officers in Philadelphia. Smart. And . . . strong-willed.”

Clara tried to imagine her new mistress sitting in the formal drawing room downstairs, holding forth amidst a group of admiring officers, but she suddenly found it hard to conjure the image; none of the girls at the Hartley farm had inhabited the same world as Peggy Shippen.

“It’s best you don’t ever keep Miss Peggy waiting. And under no circumstances should you ever argue with her. Try not to arouse her temper.” Mrs. Quigley eyed Clara in the dark stairwell with—what was it—pity? “Of course, you’ll learn all this for yourself, in time. That is, if you last.”

And with those final words, Mrs. Quigley pushed open the door to move from the servants’ stairwell into the second-floor corridor. Here, even in daylight, the candles on the walls were lit, producing a pale, amber light that danced off the framed oil paintings. How was it possible, Clara wondered, to own this many paintings? Clara scanned the quiet hall, covered by finely stitched red carpet, no doubt bought from a London carpet maker. She tried to step softly, but the wood of the floor creaked below her boots and made her feel as graceful as an ox. This hall, the quiet inner realm of the Shippen family, felt like a private space in which she had no business treading. Did Miss Peggy realize how lovely her home was? Clara wondered. Or was this corridor just another hallway to her?

Mrs. Quigley led Clara past an open doorway that peeked into a grand bedroom, its windows as tall as the ceiling, its bedframe draped in ivory-colored curtains. Clara glanced in but did not pause until they reached the next doorway.

“Miss Peggy’s suite.” The housekeeper hovered on the threshold, looking once more over Clara’s humble appearance. “Are you ready?”

“Aye.” Clara nodded, but all this pomp had succeeded in thoroughly wracking her nerves. When they stepped in, Clara gasped, her gaze flying upward to the high ceiling. Opposite her, floor-to-ceiling French windows offered a view over the same gardens Clara had just admired. From somewhere below, horses clipped by, the sound of hooves on the cobblestones reaching them in an even serenade. Miss Peggy’s four-poster bed soared high off the ground, and looked like it could easily fit four people under its creamy silk canopy. On top of the bed, in addition to a heap of satin-covered feather pillows, there were several silk dresses, any one of them costing more than Clara’s monthly wages. They lay in wrinkled and unceremonious disarray, cast aside after a past revelry now complete, like leftover dishes at a formal feast forgotten once the guests move on to dessert.

“How about some fresh air, what do you say?” Mrs. Quigley crossed the room with her authoritative stride, pulling roughly at the French windows, as if she felt no need to tiptoe through this space. “Well, don’t just stand there like a sack of flour, Clara. Help me open these windows.” Mrs. Quigley looked at her new hire with a mixture of bemusement and frustration.

“Miss Peggy has been riding all afternoon with her sister, Miss Betsy, and Miss Betsy’s suitor, Mr. Edward Burd.”

“Does Miss Betsy sleep in here too?” Clara looked at the oversized maple bed, thinking that perhaps there were two who occupied the space.

“Share a room? Ha! You think the Shippen girls would ever share a bedroom?”

“It’s certainly big enough for two.”

“This house itself isn’t big enough for those two at times. They’d last one day before Miss Peggy shredded her sister like a wildcat. No, Miss Betsy is in the bedroom next door, the one we just passed.”

“Oh. What a grand room to have all to one’s self,” Clara said. Back at the Hartley farm, five people would have lived in this space. “Are all the rooms in the house this big?”

“You think her room is something, you should see her wardrobe.” The housekeeper pointed toward the corner of the room, where an imposing structure of varnished pine stood. Mrs. Quigley walked toward the armoire, folding the blue silk scarf neatly and tucking it into a drawer. “Course she frets and complains that they are all outdated dresses, but I think they look very fine. With the war, it’s a wonder she gets new dresses at all.”

In the distance across the garden, figures moved toward the stable. Clara watched from the window and saw the same young man—Mrs. Quigley had called him Caleb—whom she’d noticed earlier. He’d put his guitar away and was leading a broad-chested horse of a rich chestnut hue by the bridle. Clara’s heart leapt; did this mean her new mistresses had returned home from their ride?

“Come away from the window, child, and listen to me,” Mrs. Quigley snapped, her pose suddenly rigid. “After a day of riding, the ladies will want to change out of their riding habits. Best you help Miss Peggy first, just so that there’s no unpleasantness. Miss Betsy has no problem dressing herself. The misses have got a social event to attend tonight, so Miss Peggy will select one of her fancier gowns. She’ll probably complain to you that she has nothing new to wear. That girl never lets her poor father forget that she wants new clothing.”

Clara nodded, feeling her nerves tighten.

“And you’ll need to do her hair for dinner. Can you do hair?” Mrs. Quigley asked.

“I can. I did Mrs. Hartley’s hair sometimes.” Clara answered, relieved that she would be up to the job in at least one way.

“It’ll probably be a different fashion for Miss Peggy, but that’s all right, just do what she tells you.” Mrs. Quigley crossed her hands in front of her waist.

From downstairs, a door opened and shut. The front hall filled with the sound of female laughter. “I hear them, they are back. Quick, Clara, stand up straight.”

Clara felt a growing sense of discomfort as she tried to calm her unsteady nerves. It didn’t help that the old woman now appeared tense as well. How had she allowed herself to think she, Clara Bell, belonged in a house such as this one? She patted down her skirt and adjusted her cap.

“Don’t fidget, child. Just be still.” Mrs. Quigley’s snappy order did little to soothe Clara’s worry.

Footsteps ascended the grand spiraling staircase, the click of a lady’s heels on the wood. Then the heeled tapping grew muffled as Peggy paraded down the carpeted corridor. Clara’s eyes were fixed on the door, so that she saw it opening wider. Clara took a deep breath and put on the mask of a polite smile as a slight, trim figure appeared in the doorway. The young lady, who appeared to be the same age as Clara, fixed her clear blue eyes on the two figures by her bedside.

“Ah!” Peggy Shippen screeched, recoiling in the doorway. “Oh, Mrs. Quigley.” She said the name like a censure, clutching her bosom with a small, gloved hand. “You gave me such a fright.”

“Please, I beg your pardon, Mistress Peggy.” Mrs. Quigley nodded submissively, and Clara mimicked her. “We should have warned you we were in your bedroom.”

“Yes, indeed, I thought I had seen a ghost.” Peggy looked from the housekeeper to the unknown girl beside her. Clara longed to fidget, to make sure her hair was tucked neatly into her white mobcap, but then she remembered Mrs. Quigley’s instructions to be still. “And who is this with you?” Peggy crossed the room, tossing her horsewhip haphazardly onto the ground as she approached the two servants.

“Miss Peggy, this is Clara Bell. Our