Elizabeth viewed the city with a perverse fascination, as if she were afforded a glance at her own past life in London and Plymouth, the elegant and pampered life of an expensive whore. That was the life she escaped by coming to America as the ersatz bride of Joseph Tinling, but prostitution, she discovered, was only a little more horrific than the hell that Tinling put her through before he died.
Now that was over, done with.
But being in the narrow, crowded streets of a city, even a small one such as Boston, made all those memories and their concomitant emotions stir again, and she was able to step back and observe them, as if they were happening to someone else.
“Let us go back to the inn, Billy. I’m tired,” she said.
“Very well, my dear.”
Billy reversed direction, and with Elizabeth on his arm he led the way back. The sun was setting and the streets were in the shadows of the buildings that hemmed them in and the crowds of people had diminished by half. It was nearly dark by the time they returned to their room and Billy opened a bottle of wine he had brought with him from the Bloody Revenge.
“This was for celebration, but perhaps we will use it to ease the strains of a long day, what say you? We can get another tomorrow, when we shall no doubt have something to celebrate.”
“No doubt.” Elizabeth took the proffered glass, gratefully, drained the wine and handed it back. Even as Billy was refilling it she wondered if they might send down to the kitchen for another bottle.
An hour later they did just that, and soon Elizabeth felt the sharp edge of her disappointment and frustration dull, felt a warm optimism creep in around the edges, and though she told herself it was only the drink, she was happy to find that she did not care.
It was warm in their room, but a cool, gentle breeze was wafting in from the open window, carrying with it the tangy smell of the waterfront, and the occasional sound of a wagon rolling by or the muted conversation of men passing below on the street. The two candles that lit the room danced in the moving air, giving a dreamy quality to the place.
It was not at all the thing, of course, sitting in a room-a bedroom- with Billy Bird, drinking, laughing. She was a married woman. She wanted Thomas, she missed him. She wanted comfort, strong arms around her. Billy was not Thomas, not by miles, but he was handsome and charming.
And then a knock on the door, a rapping, soft, hesitant, and they both jumped. Billy cursed softly and Elizabeth wondered if he was angry with himself for being caught unawares or angry with the person knocking for having destroyed the jovial mood that just might have lured her into his bed.
Both, no doubt, though it was no sure thing that she would have treated him to her favors, nor was Billy caught entirely unawares. He snatched up the loaded pistol he had set on the small table by the window, eased the hammer back, and gestured for Elizabeth to move out of the possible line of fire.
He stepped over to the door just as the person on the other side knocked again, a bit harder. He put his hand on the iron latch and pulled it up and swung the door open, the pistol at his side, hidden but ready.
Standing in the hall, framed by the door, was a black woman, a familiar face, but it took Elizabeth a moment to place her.
“Sally?” It was the Reverend Wait Dunmore’s charwoman.
“That right…Mrs. Marlowe?”
“Yes, yes. Please, come in,” Elizabeth said. She could not imagine being more surprised to see anyone. She had not given Sally another thought since leaving the Middle Street Church.
Sally stepped timorously into the room. Billy closed the door behind her and then, with that flamboyant egalitarianism of his, lifted the bottle they had been consuming and held it up for Sally’s inspection and asked, “Wine, with you?”
Sally looked at the bottle, looked at Billy, and she seemed to be wondering if he was serious or if he was mocking her or if he was insane. After a moment’s scrutiny she apparently decided that he was at least serious, if not a bit insane, and she nodded her head. “That would be nice, Mr. Marlowe. Thank you.”
Mr. Marlowe? It took Elizabeth ’s wine-soaked brain a moment to recall that Billy had introduced himself to Dunmore as Thomas Marlowe, another of his irritating verbal pokes in the ribs.
Billy poured a glass, handed it to Sally, gestured for her to sit. He topped off Elizabeth ’s glass and his own. “Whatever brings you here?” he asked, once Sally was settled.
“I…,” she began, nervous and not a little frightened. “I couldn’t help but overhear… you was asking about Frederick…”
“That’s right. Frederick and I were boyhood friends, dear friends, but I have not heard from him in many a year and I was interested in finding what he was about.”
Sally sipped her wine, regarded Billy Bird over the rim of her glass. When she was done she spoke, and her voice carried more confidence this time. “My family been the property of the Dunmore family for three generations. I been with the Dunmores since I was born. My memory’s a lot better than the old Reverend, and I don’t remember no Thomas Marlowe, neither.”
A pause, and not a comfortable one, and then Billy said, “Is that why you’re here? Has old Dunmore sent you to poke around, try and find some secret reason for my asking about Frederick?”
“No. The Reverend don’t know I’m here. He thinks I’m abed and I reckon it’ll go hard on me if he find out I ain’t.”
Silence again, and Elizabeth considered whether she believed her. Yes, yes, she did. She did not think Sally was lying. And apparently Billy did not either, because he did not snatch the glass from her hands and kick her out. Rather, he said, “Very well. Why are you here, then?”
Sally took another sip of her wine. “You was asking about Frederick, and it didn’t take no scholar to figure you know he done something and you was trying to find out what that was. Why you wants to know?”
Billy met Elizabeth ’s eye and he raised his eyebrows and she took that to mean he considered the telling to be her decision.
“My husband and I are from Virginia,” Elizabeth began, then looking at Billy, added, “My real husband. This man is a friend.”
Sally registered no reaction to this utterly improper situation, so Elizabeth continued. “My husband freed the slaves on his plantation and has allowed them to remain and work for wages. Frederick Dun-more, who now lives in Williamsburg, has been persecuting our freed Negroes, has forced them to flee into the woods for their safety.
“I came to Boston in hopes of finding some secret from Dunmore ’s past that I could threaten him with revealing, to dissuade him from his heartless campaign against our people. It is a craven plan, and base. I am aware of that and I do not care. I am absolutely at my wit’s end.”
Sally was nodding and staring thoughtfully into the flame of the nearest candle. “ Virginia, so that’s where he end up. The rumor was he gone to London, but now he back…”
Billy Bird said, “There, we have been truthful with you. Will you tell us what you know of Frederick Dunmore?”
Sally looked up, as if startled from her thoughts. “I’ll tell you. I’se the only one will tell you. It’s so shameful you won’t find no white person will talk about it, and Frederick being the son of that pious old Reverend Dunmore. You keep on asking around, you’ll find yourselves run out of town on a rail.”
Sally paused, collected her thoughts, began again. “ Frederick left Boston five years back, left near everything, save his money. He was a merchant. One of the most successful in the city. Rich as a king, and after only fifteen years or so in business, starting with the little money the old Reverend give him.”
“He left all that behind? His business?” Elizabeth asked.
“Left right before the sheriff was going to arrest him.” She paused again. “They accused him of killing an old woman, an old slave woman, named Isabelle. In a rage. Killed her with his bare hands. Strangled her.” She swallowed hard, clenched her fists. “She was my great-grandmother, and he killed her.”
Elizabeth sat motionless, watched the emotion tearing Sally apart, even after half a decade. It was incredible, this crime she was describing, it seemed too much to believe, even for a bastard like Frederick Dunmore.
“But why would he do that?” Elizabeth asked softly. “Why would Frederick Dunmore murder your great- grandmother?”
Sally looked up, and now the tears were running down her cheeks. “It was on account of what folks were saying. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the thought of it, and I reckoned he blamed her.”
