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 Williams-burg.
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
