movements of the colony’s ruling class. A good deal of surreptitious attention was being paid to the governor, who was leading Marlowe out of the ballroom, a development that piqued her curiosity as well.
Marlowe had been only two years in the colony, but in that short time he had managed to insinuate himself into Virginian society in a way that could only be accomplished through good looks, an affable nature, and a great deal of money, all of which he possessed. He was well liked and well respected.
Elizabeth kept her distance, ignored his obvious interest in her. Elizabeth understood people, had observed the species in all its plumage, understood there was something not quite right about Thomas Marlowe.
She stole a glance to her left. Matthew Wilkenson was making his way toward her, boldly now, his generally haughty and disdainful expression exaggerated by drink, his gait unsteady. If Thomas Marlowe was climbing the colony’s social precipice, then the Wilkenson clan stood on its summit, looking down. Matthew Wilkenson was the younger of the two Wilkenson boys, but the one who had inherited the old man’s force of personality, the heir apparent to the Wilkenson fortune.
That, along with the Wilkensons’ close ties to the Tinlings, and Matthew’s insufferable arrogance, had apparently given him the idea that Elizabeth should, by rights, be his. He was becoming less subtle on that point.
She turned and looked at the place where Marlowe had been standing, still hoping for some respite from Matthew Wilkenson, but Marlowe and the Governor had disappeared through the far door.
Thomas Marlowe. She had met him almost two years ago, just after his arrival in the colony. A very bad time in her life. Joseph Tinling had died just a few months before, and she was trying to weather all of the rumors that swirled around about that event.
The house and its contents were not hers, of course. They became the property of William Tinling, Joseph’s eldest son, a son by his first marriage, who lived back home in England.
For long months she had fretted over the decision he would make concerning her future.
William had lived in Virginia for some time and was a particular friend of Matthew Wilkenson’s. He might have decided to return and take over the plantation. He could have left her penniless if he so chose.
It was a warm day in early spring, the last year of the last century, when the Tinlings’ factor, who served as their agent in the colony, arrived with a curt letter from the elder Tinling. The note instructed him to sell the plantation and give Elizabeth one quarter of the proceeds and inform her that doing so would dissolve all ties between herself and the family. The
Tinlings wanted no more to do with Virginia, and no more to do with Elizabeth.
And along with the note, the factor brought a potential buyer.
“My name is Thomas Marlowe,” he said, giving a practiced bow, “and my associate is Francis Bickerstaff. We give you condolences on your grief, ma’am, and shall respect your privacy.”
“You are new to the colony, sir?” He had a look about him that she had not seen in a long time. He was handsome, to be sure, and cultured and genteel, but he was not a fop. There was something wild behind that facade, like a tiger that has been trained to the house but remains nonetheless a dangerous animal.
“We are new to the colony, yes, ma’am. Mr. Bickerstaff and myself have spent these past four years or so in travel and are looking now to establish ourselves.”
“Well, sir, if it is your wont to respect privacy, and to have your own respected, I would suggest that you have come to the wrong land. But forgive me, I am still in some shock over my husband’s death and I do not wish to dissuade you from purchasing this fine plantation. Do look around, and perhaps you and Mr. Bickerstaff will join us for dinner?”
Elizabeth spent the next two hours supervising the packing of her clothes and personal belongings. The rest of it-the furniture, the horses, the slaves, even the portraits on the wall-she would sell with the house and never think on them again.
At last Marlowe and Bickerstaff and the factor returned from their tour of the plantation, talking, excited, their fine shoes covered in mud. As Elizabeth seated them around the dinner table she asked, “Tell me, sir, what did you think of this place?”
“Magnificent ma’am, just what we had hoped for,” said Marlowe.
“These Virginia plantations are much lauded in England,” Bickerstaff said, “and I find the land is all that it is said to be,
though to be sure the houses do not in any way compare with those great homes in England.”
“They do not, sir,” said Elizabeth, and it was true. The most palatial dwelling in Virginia would be considered but a modest country home in England. “This is still a wild land, for all of the pretensions you will find.”
They passed the time agreeably, Marlowe animated and amusing, Bickerstaff quiet, pedantic. An odd pair. With gentle prodding Elizabeth was able to establish that Marlowe was from Kent, though he was circumspect about his family, which further engaged her curiosity. Said he had commanded a privateer for many years during the last war, had spent a good deal of his time abroad.
That might explain why his accent was not quite right, she thought. And perhaps why the man himself was so…curious. Not in any objectionable sense. There was nothing about him-his looks, his manners-that was objectionable. There was just something out of line. A man to be approached with caution, or not at all.
When the last of the dishes were cleared away, Marlowe clasped his hands in a self-conscious manner, the first such gesture Elizabeth had seen from him, and said, “I do not wish to be rude, but perhaps we should talk about the sale of the plantation.”
“You are not rude at all, sir, it is a subject dear to me,” said Elizabeth.
“Then perhaps I can make an offer to you, ma’am. Sir?” Marlowe nodded to the factor. “Would, perhaps, five thousand pounds be a fair price?”
Five thousand pounds of tobacco, the coin of the realm in the tidewater. Elizabeth considered that offer. It was fair. Not exorbitant, not even generous, but fair, and she wished to be rid of the place quickly. But, like most people in Virginia, she had little specie, little hard money, and it was money that she needed now, not tobacco that would take this Marlowe half a year to grow.
“Well…,” said the factor, not overly impressed with the offer. “We are opening ourselves up to some risk, sir. Crop failure, a drop in the price of tobacco on the market. With that in mind, perhaps it would be better-”
“Perhaps you would consider this, sir,” Elizabeth jumped in. Her interests were different from the factor’s, quite different. The factor would hold out for the best price, however long it took, while she wished to get at least some hard money and get it quickly. “Might it be possible to make up a part of that in specie, and the rest when the crop is in? I know that that is a great deal to ask, but our circumstances force this condition on me.”
The factor scowled at her, but she ignored him, tried to ignore the confusion on Marlowe’s face. He glanced over at Bickerstaff, but the older man looked equally confused.
“I am at a loss, ma’am,” he said at last. “I have no land now, no crop…”
“Of course not,” Elizabeth said, growing irritated. “I assumed that the five thousand pounds of tobacco you offer would come from your first crop after purchasing this plantation. I have no objection to that, but for my immediate concerns-”
“Tobacco?” Marlowe interrupted. “Did you think my offer was five thousand pounds of tobacco?”
“Well, certainly,” said the factor. “Tobacco is the unit of currency in this colony. What else is there?”
“My offer was five thousand pounds sterling, sir. Gold and silver, if that is acceptable.”
It was only with the greatest effort that the factor did not spit his tea all over the table, and even Elizabeth had difficulty in controlling her reaction. Five thousand pounds in gold and silver? It was unheard of in the cash-strapped colony. It was an exorbitant price for the plantation.
“Yes, that would be acceptable,” said the factor, recovering quickly. “Will you send to your bank in England?”
“There is no need, sir. I have the funds here.”
She stared at Marlowe. He had with him five thousand pounds in gold and silver? She would not consider asking how
he happened to have five thousand pounds in specie. And she would treat him cautiously. Very cautiously indeed.
But perhaps, she thought, staring at the door through which he and the governor had disappeared, it is time to relax that caution a bit.
The rumors about Marlowe’s past ran through the colony: He was the third son of the Duke of Northumberland,
