Chapter 6
ELIZABETH TINLING sat at her dressing table and regarded Lucy’s reflection in the mirror. She was a lovely girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, skin the color of hot chocolate with cream, soft brown curly hair tumbling out from under her mobcap and falling over her shoulders. Even if that pig Joseph Tinling had not actually bedded her, Elizabeth was in no doubt that he had thought about it. Had probably tried.
Lucy was one of only three servants Elizabeth had taken with her from the Tinling House. The only one she truly loved, genuinely trusted. A kindred spirit, more than Lucy or anyone would ever know. She would never part with Lucy.
The young slave was standing in the doorway to the bedchamber. Elizabeth’s eyes moved from the face in the mirror to the white card in Lucy’s hand. She had heard the knock on the door, the muted conversation belowstairs.
“Gentleman here to see you, ma’am,” Lucy said.
A gentleman caller. Just the day before, a gentleman caller would have meant Matthew Wilkenson and his unwanted courting, if such it could be called. But Matthew Wilkenson would not be calling on anyone today, save his maker, and for the sake of his immortal soul Elizabeth hoped he was less obnoxious in that interview than he had been with her.
It could be George Wilkenson. She was expecting him. She had no doubt that he would come calling at some point, and wish to discuss with her just what had taken place.
Elizabeth swivelled around and reached out her hand, and Lucy handed her the card. Printed in a bold copperplate was the name Mr. Thomas Marlowe, Esq. No more.
That was the other caller she had expected.
She stared at the name for a moment, considered having Lucy tell him that she was out for the day or too faint to receive callers or abed with vapors or some such thing that effects highborn ladies. Instead she sighed.
“Very well. Show Mr. Marlowe into the sitting room and tell him that I shall be down directly.” She could not put this off forever.
She had been thinking about Marlowe all that morning, which was hardly a surprise. He was now the chief topic of conversation in Williamsburg, and to her annoyance her name was now linked with his. Marlowe the enigma.
Killing Matthew Wilkenson had been a wild and reckless act. It would bring down on his head all of the vengeance of the Wilkenson family, and that could be considerable, given their wealth and standing in Virginia society.
And she would feel it as well, for he had ostensibly killed the little git to defend her honor.
There were only two possibilities. The first, the most likely, was that Marlowe was too stupid to understand the implications of what he had done, too foolish to consider the consequences. That thought made her furious. Had he, through his own idiocy, brought her even more trouble?
The other possibility was that he entirely understood what he had done and did not care. She did not know Marlowe well, but from what she had seen there was a reckless quality about him that one did not often see among highborn men. Had he not freed all of his slaves? That was sheer madness, but he had done it, and now the old Tinling place was one of the most successful plantations in the tidewater, the only one where they did not live in constant fear of a slave revolt. If he did understand what he had done and was not afraid of the consequences, then he was a fool or a very bold man indeed.
There was one thing, however, of which she was quite certain: Marlowe would expect something from her. Men did not risk their lives in a duel strictly for honor, no matter what the world liked to believe. Just as Matthew Wilkenson had expected payment for his discretion, so Marlowe would want payment for his chivalry, and Elizabeth knew in what coin he would wish to be paid. She was tired of it. She was angry.
She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror, smoothing out her dress and adjusting her long blond hair so that it fell just so across her shoulders. It was time to go and see what kind of a man this Thomas Marlowe was, a hero or a fool. It was time to find out what he would demand of her.
Marlowe fiddled with the hilt of his sword as he listened for any sounds from abovestairs. He was nervous, an emotion to which he was not accustomed, and it was making him irritable. He was nervous because he had no notion of what kind of a reception he might get from Elizabeth Tinling. If indeed he was received at all, which was far from certain.
By killing Matthew Wilkenson in defense of her honor he had involved her in what might become a protracted feud, quite against her will. She might be grateful for his defending her thus, or she might be furious with him for involving her and making the two of them the chief subject of all the gossipers of Williamsburg.
He looked up at the sound of light footfalls on the stairs, but it was only Lucy returning from presenting his card. He braced himself for some excuse; she was out or abed with vapors or some nonsense.
“Mrs. Tinling says will you please wait and she’ll be down directly.”
Lucy led Marlowe into the sitting room. “Pray, sir,” she asked, “how does King James do?”
“Very well, Lucy. As well as ever.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, sir. Might I trouble you, sir, to give him my regards?”
“I should be delighted.”
Lucy curtsied and gave Marlowe her charming smile and then left him alone. He looked around the room, trying to distract himself.
It was a comfortable little house, built of wood, clapboard style, and situated on the wide Duke of Gloucester Street, just a few blocks from where the new capital building was rising from the turned earth. Plastered walls freshly painted in a light blue, furniture simple but elegant and well made. All of it was new; Elizabeth had taken nothing from the Tinling House when she left.
Marlowe had paid a good price for the old Tinling home, but he did not know what percentage of that money had gone to Elizabeth. It must have been a fair amount, for her new home was not inexpensive, particularly not when one considered the stable and the coach she maintained. He imagined that for the sake of appearances she had no choice but to continue to live in the manner she had previously enjoyed.
He stared out of the window to the street beyond. The celebrations were over and the revelers had gone back to being blacksmiths and coopers and farmers. But the town was still crowded with the activity of Publick Times, the courts and assemblies in session.
He could hear the sounds of the work taking place on the new capitol building. Soon Nicholson would begin construction of a governor’s palace as well, and Williamsburg would begin to look like a proper capital city for the most prosperous colony in English America. But at present there were just a few shops and houses lining the broad street, the beginnings of the capital at one end and the College of William and Mary at the other.
He could not distract himself for long, and his thoughts wandered back to his most immediate problems.
That morning at breakfast Bickerstaff had observed, “There’s much talk abroad about the duel. As best as I can tell, public opinion seems quite split as to your being a great man or a murderer. I suppose such opinions turn on whether or not the speaker owes money to the Wilkensons.”
It occurred to Marlowe that in the two years that he had lived in that country he had never heard of a man being killed in a duel. He had seen noble wounds, the odd arm hung in a sling, but never a one of them killed. He wondered, with not a little consternation, if he had committed some grave social blunder.
Well, he thought, if I have, there is nothing for it now. He hoped that Elizabeth would be as sanguine.
“Good morning, Mr. Marlowe.”
Her voice nearly made him jump. He had not heard her come down the stairs.
He turned and faced her. She stood in a shaft of sunlight coming in through the window, her yellow hair almost white where a few wisps hung loose under her mobcap and shining like gold as it spilled down the front of her dress, framing the flawless skin of her face and long neck. He was taken again by her beauty, and he found it a bit disconcerting. But not half as disconcerting as the look on her
face.
Her fine, full lips were pressed together, and they were not smiling. There was a hint of a wrinkle on her forehead as she knitted her eyebrows ever so slightly. Her eyes, the color of the sky on a clear autumn day, flashed in the light.
“Ah, good morning to you, Mrs. Tinling,” Marlowe said, bowing awkwardly. He straightened, and met her eyes. The silence in the room was oppressive. This was not going as Marlowe had hoped.
“What do you want, Mr. Marlowe?”
“Want?” Marlowe felt embarrassed and a bit angry all at once. “I want…merely to pay you a visit. A social call.”
There was silence again, a long silence. “Indeed?” Elizabeth said at last. “You suppose that I owe you that much at least, after defending my honor?”
“Owe? You owe me nothing.”
Now he saw from which quarter the wind was blowing. She thought he was here to demand favor for services rendered, here to take up where the dead Wilkenson git had left off. Well, if he had wanted her thus he would have taken her, and Wilkenson be damned. The old Marlowe would have, in any event.
But he was a gentleman now, and would not have her in such a manner. He would not have her at all, if she was not interested in giving her affections freely, and he would not look a fool, sniffing around where he was not wanted.
“I see how it is with you, ma’am,” he said. “I will leave you now. Good day.”
Thomas took a step toward the door, actually more of a stomp, so angry was he that Elizabeth had misconstrued his motives in calling on her, his motives in fighting Wilkenson.
“Wait, Mr. Marlowe,” she said, and her tone was more contrite, but not by much. “Won’t you sit?”
Marlowe paused and looked at her again, and then without a word he sat in the chair she indicated.
“Forgive me, sir. I am much put out by the events of the past days. I would never wish to see bloodshed on my account.”
“There was nothing for it, ma’am. That Wilkenson pup’s abuse could not be suffered. I should be less than a man if I let it pass. And lest you think that I called him out just to curry your favor, let me remind you that he insulted me as well.”
“I don’t know if you appreciate the trouble that you might have caused. For you and me.”
“I hope none are so foolish as to give you any more trouble. It pleases me to think that the example I made of Matthew Wilkenson should be enough to discourage that. As for me, I am unconcerned. I have seen trouble, ma’am, much worse than any that the Wilkensons or their ilk can create, and I shall serve out to them double what they give to me.”
They were quiet again, but there was none of the animosity that attended their earlier silence. Elizabeth regarded Marlowe, sizing him up, he imagined, getting the measure of his sincerity, his bravery, and his foolhardiness.
“You know, Mr. Marlowe, I do believe you will. Would you care for some tea, or chocolate, perhaps?”
They spent the next hour in enjoyable and relaxed conversation, talking about nothing in particular, and most certainly not talking about the death of Matthew Wilkenson and the possible repercussions for both of them. At last, and with some great reluctance, Marlowe said, “Forgive me, ma’am, but I must away. As unfashionable as it might be, I have some work I must do today.”
“I understand from others, sir, that you will be commanding the guardship.”
“That’s true, in faith. Governor Nicholson has asked me to take command until a replacement is sent out from home. I should think it will be six months or so.”
“That horrid Captain Allair has resigned?”
“No. The governor has seen fit to replace him. I shall have to go out to the Plymouth Prize today and see if he will relinquish his command.”
“And if he will not?”
“Then I shall show him how it is in his best interest to do so.”
“The way you showed Matthew Wilkenson that it was in his best interest to behave himself?” Elizabeth gave a half-smile, slightly wicked and conspiratorial.
“Perhaps. Let us hope that Captain Allair is a better student than Wilkenson was.” Marlowe smiled as well. He felt something pass between them, some understanding.
“Do I take it that you were a naval officer before coming to this colony?”
Hardly, Marlowe thought, but he said, “Not a naval officer, ma’am. I was captain of a privateer in the last war.”
“Oh, indeed.” Elizabeth did not sound entirely convinced, and for a moment Marlowe was thrown off balance. She would toss him aside with disdain if she thought he was not of the most gentle birth. How could she do otherwise? The widow of Joseph Tinling, one of the great aristocrats of the tidewater. He would not have married any woman who was not of the finest pedigree.
“You are a brave man, Captain Marlowe,” Elizabeth continued, “putting yourself in the way of those pirates that cruise the bay. I have heard the most horrible stories about them. But I shall not keep you from your duty, though I fear for your safety. I know how you men are about duty.” She stood, and Marlowe stood as well.
“I thank you, ma’am, though I’m sure I shall be in no great danger.”
“One more thing, Mr. Marlowe. Or, let me say, Captain Marlowe.” She hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “I thank you, sir, for defending my honor as you did. I am much in your debt.”
Marlowe took a step closer to her. “You are not in my debt, not at all. I did only what a gentleman should do.”
“Still, Captain, I am grateful.” She looked down, then met his eyes once more. “I am not accustomed to having my honor defended thus. And I think perhaps the world is a better place for having one less Wilkenson in it.”
“I believe you are right, ma’am. And it is I who am grateful for the chance to perform some little service for you.”
He bid her good day and walked out to where he had left his horse hitched to a rail. He mounted, and from that vantage point, looked around the capital city of Williamsburg, which seemed to be rising from the green earth at the command of Governor Nicholson. It was lovely, just lovely.
The next thing he realized, he was home. So wrapped up was he in thoughts of Elizabeth Tinling that he could not recall one incident, not one moment of the five-mile ride back from her house.
Chapter 7
CAPTAIN ALLAIR, as it turned out, was not just reluctant to turn over the command of the Plymouth Prize, he was nearly rabid on the point. Had he been a dog, Marlowe would have shot him. As it was, he nearly did.
Thomas rode up to the big house to find Bickerstaff and King James waiting on the wide front porch. Next to them, a pile of equipment: muskets, pistols, his sea chest and Bickerstaff’s, various bundles that King James had apparently decided they could not do without.
Bickerstaff was calm and philosophical as ever, the slightly eccentric schoolmaster. But Marlowe had seen him in no-quarters combat, knew that he was unflinching and deadly in a fight. King James stood like a tree to the side and behind where Bickerstaff sat.
Seeing the two men filled Marlowe with optimism. Far more so than the sight of the company of Virginia militia loitering on the lawn.
There were about two dozen men in the company. As he rode up, the lieutenant, who was not above twenty years in age, called an order and the men shuffled to attention.
Marlowe pulled his horse to a stop where the company was drawn up, dismounted, and handed the reins to the waiting boy. He had requested the troops of Governor Nicholson for the purpose of taking the Plymouth Prize from Allair, there being an off chance that Allair’s crew would help him defend his command. And while Marlowe did not believe that that drunken fool could actually engender enough loyalty in his men that they would risk even the slightest injury for him, he reckoned it was a good job to be prepared. Hence the militia.
There was little about them that was uniform, including their uniforms. Their regimentals had started out red, but they were more of a pink hue now, save for the lieutenant, whose coat, either newer or of better
quality, was still a respectable color. Their waistcoats were either white, red, or blue, as were their breeches. Their ages ranged from seventeen to fifty years or more, and the same was true of their weapons.
In all they were not an inspiring sight, and it was only when Marlowe thought of the morose, despondent crew of the Plymouth Prize, against whom they would have to fight, if it came to that, that he felt his old confidence return.
“Lieutenant…?”
“Burnaby, sir. Lieutenant Burnaby, Virginia Militia.” The young lieutenant swept off his hat and gave a shallow bow.
“Lieutenant Burnaby, thank you for your promptness,” Marlowe said, extending his hand. “With any luck I shall dismiss you men by nightfall tomorrow.”
“Oh. Do you not think we shall have to fight?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Oh.” The lieutenant seemed disappointed.
“But I’m not saying it can’t happen. We could have a bloody day on our hands,” Marlowe added, and this seemed to brighten Burnaby up some. “Now, pray, give me a few moments to shift clothes and we’ll be off.”
He found that King James had laid his clothes out on his bed, as he had asked: the long blue broadcloth coat, the silk waistcoat, the canvas breeches, the tall leather boots. Garments from another lifetime, come back. Except that now they were clean and pressed and mended to perfection, and the boots were shined so bright they reflected back the light from the open window.
With relish he stripped off the clothes he had worn to call on Mrs. Tinling, starting first with the accursed wig, which he flung into the corner like a dead, longhaired white cat. Next the silk coat and waistcoat, which he unceremoniously dropped on the floor. He unbuckled his silly gold-hilted sword with the jewels mounted on the pommel and dropped that on the pile at his feet.
King James, who had accompanied Marlowe into his bedchamber, unbidden though he was, picked up the discarded clothing as fast as Marlowe could shed it.
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