At this, my father’s patience came to an end, and he delivered a stiff, cold defense. “I will remind you, General Lafayette, it was not my decision to send you here. I have been against it from the start.”
Lafayette tilted his head in apparent confusion. “Oui, oui. But of course.” He waved a hand. “That is what I am saying, my dear Général Schuyler. I have read your reports. I have seen what you have been forced to endure. I wish to take into my confidence you and General Arnold. Men loyal to Washington. Men I can trust.”
I was so surprised at Lafayette’s words that I nearly spilled what remained in my cup. My father appeared equally surprised and unsure how to react.
“In coming here,” Lafayette explained, “I go very slowly, sometimes pierced by rain, sometimes covered with snow, and not thinking many handsome thoughts about the projected incursion into Canada. I think now this is a scheme to have me out of the way.”
Papa took a moment to recover.
Benedict Arnold was quicker. “A scheme?”
“This plan is too stupid to be anything else,” the marquis insisted. “I have seen such machinations in a royal court. It is an unmistakable pattern, no?” When no one answered, Lafayette went on, “It is a plot against Washington or to replace him. You cannot strike a powerful man until you first remove his allies. This is why his rivals must discredit you, Schuyler. And it is why they send me to perish on some icy ledge.”
Even with all the plotting against Papa, I was loath to believe anything so diabolical could have been envisioned. But Lafayette was a nobleman from the most sophisticated court in the world, and possibly wiser in the ways of backstabbing politics than any of us.
So I believed him when he said, “Without Washington, there is nobody who could keep the army and the revolution for six months. We must give him a victory to bring back to the Board of War. If not in Canada, then somewhere else.”
Papa agreed, renewing his invitation to dinner where a plan could be devised with the other officers. Lafayette accepted this invitation, but cautioned against speaking too freely, even with the others in his entourage, explaining why he’d taken us into the privacy of the tent in the first place. “I wish for the happiness and liberty of this country, but now I fear that she could be lost by her own sons. My friends, I fear a traitor amongst us.”
*
You know Monroe to be a man of honor, a sensible man, and a soldier.
—LIEUTENANT COLONEL ALEXANDER HAMILTON TO LIEUTENANT COLONEL JOHN LAURENS
We’d endured British officers in our house, but now we made ready to welcome the French.
“I worried Mama wouldn’t leave us time to dress,” Peggy complained, throwing herself down upon the damasked canopied bed we shared.
For our mother had not been warned to expect guests—much less a French general and twenty officers. If my father had a blind spot, it was his assumption that my mother was always ready to graciously entertain at a moment’s notice. Even when noticeably pregnant, as she was now. Papa had, unwittingly, thrown her into a frenzy of preparation. With keys jingling at her hip, she marched from kitchen to larder to washhouse and back again, issuing orders to the servants and to us until the very last moment.
While I hurried to dress, Peggy propped herself up on her elbows to ask, “Are any of these French officers handsome, Betsy? Because if not, I’ll wear my old flowered frock and leave my best brocaded gown for a better occasion.”
“Wear the brocade.” Then, a little guiltily, I added, “And please sit next to Benedict Arnold tonight.”
Peggy groaned. “Why can’t you? I’d rather sit near someone who isn’t twice my age.”
I dared not meet her eyes, especially as I scarcely acknowledged to myself that I wished to sit beside Major Monroe. Slipping into dainty blue heels with bright rose ribbons, I confessed, “I told Arnold that you asked after him.”
“I only asked after his recovery,” Peggy grumbled, rising from the bed so that Jenny could brush her curls up into a tall coiffure.
“Well, don’t say anything to him about his slow recovery or his leg,” I told her, because Peggy was the sort who needed to be told such things. Sometimes more than once. “Arnold is very sensitive.”
Peggy merely shrugged in answer.
Fastening the blue paste earbobs, I was reminded again of my older sister. “We’ve still had no letter from Angelica in Boston . . .”
Sighing, Peggy nodded. “I suppose someday we’ll become accustomed to not having word from her.”