Jacob Wilkenson paused for a moment in his tirade, catching his breath. The two men were in the library in the big Wilkenson plantation house, the finest library in the colony. Walls lined with massive oak shelves supporting the hundreds of books that the old man had purchased over the years. Which George, alone of all the Wilkenson clan, had actually read.
Above the books and circling the room, portraits of Wilkensons dating back to those who had fought against Cromwell and his Puritans, and lost, and a few even earlier than that. They seemed to George to be glaring down on their two living descendants, waiting with scant patience for them to do something to avenge the great wrong done their family.
Jacob, whose thoughts were no doubt running along the same lines, was standing by the massive fireplace that made up a majority of one wall of the room. He picked up a poker from
the rack by the fireplace and jabbed at the burning logs within the brick confine. Then the rage swept over him again.
“God damn his black soul to hell!” he screamed, turning and flinging the poker across the room. It smashed into the etched glass front of a cabinet containing the family’s Restoration chinaware, shattering the glass and the plates within.
George Wilkenson flinched at the sound of the destruction, but his father seemed not to notice. George had seen the old man in fits before, but he had never seen anything like this. He would have expected mourning, sorrow, weeping at the death of his son. But Jacob had done none of that. He had only raged.
“If you didn’t have the courage to kill him, why in God’s name did you not have the whore’s son arrested for murder?” Jacob Wilkenson turned on his son. “Arrest him, have him strung up in public. I want you to send word to Sheriff Witsen. It ain’t too late, your lethargy aside.”
George Wilkenson held his father’s eyes. He was growing weary of this. “Matthew was called out, Father. It was an affair of honor.” He felt a profound grief at his brother’s death. Unlike the old man. But he knew that Matthew could be a hot-head. He hated Marlowe for what he had done, but he could not see the crime in it.
“Honor? What does that son of a bitch Marlowe know of honor? Tell Witsen to arrest him. I own that bastard’s soul, he’ll do as I say.”
“I have no doubt that he’ll do as you say, but no jury will convict Marlowe of murder, and then we’ll look the fools for having tried to attack him thus.”
Jacob Wilkenson glared at his son, white eyebrows coming together across his freckled and wrinkled forehead. “You’ve got no spine, boy.”
“Perhaps not, but at least I have retained my wits.” The logical thing, of course, was for George to call Marlowe out to avenge his brother’s death. The very thought made him sick to his stomach. He imagined himself on that wet grass, his own blood running out from under his lifeless body. He prayed that his father would not suggest it.
“Your brother was the one with spine, and you’re the one with wits,” Jacob spat. “Are you telling me that the governor won’t back us up against this bastard Marlowe? The Wilkensons are the first family of Virginia. Are you saying that Nicholson would stand behind this upstart?”
“This upstart seems to have the governor’s ear, and his confidence. He is doing Nicholson a great turn with the guardship, and Nicholson will be in his debt.”
“What do you mean, ‘with the guardship’?”
“Nicholson has stripped Allair of command and has asked Marlowe to take over the ship.”
At that Jacob Wilkenson stopped his pacing and his arm-waving. Stared at George as if his son had told him the colony was sinking into the sea.
“Apparently, Marlowe was some kind of privateer captain in the last war,” George continued. “In any event, he has accepted the governor’s offer. Had you not heard?”
“Marlowe…is taking command of the guardship?”
“As I understand it. And I reckon if he does anything at all well, then he shall have his way with the governor.”
The elder Wilkenson was silent for a long moment. George shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Then the old man turned and stared into the fire.
“This will not do,” he said at last. “This will not do at all. That little bastard will not murder my son and then become some kind of hero in this colony. Never!” He turned and faced his remaining son. “You
“Well, Father, what I can do-”
“Oh, don’t shit yourself, I’m not suggesting you call Marlowe out. If he could kill Matthew, then he sure as hell could kill you, and that would do me precious little good. I want Marlowe disgraced, arrested, hung like the goddamned cur he is.”
“But how-”
“Do it! Think of something!” Jacob Wilkenson roared, flipping over a small table as his rage overcame him once more. A porcelain vase shattered on the hearth. “You’re the one with the wits, pray, do not forget!”
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
