“No, sir, we are just arrived,” said Billy, too quick to be caught up in that snare. The minister gave directions to which Billy listened attentively, and then they bade him good day and left.
They made their way up Cornhill Street, across Dock Square to Anne Street and then down to Cross Street, Billy stepping with the authority of one who knows his way perfectly well, his request for directions notwithstanding.
“It is odd, is it not, that Dunmore ’s father should be a minister here? A Congregationalist minister?” Elizabeth observed.
“Why is that odd?”
“Well, Dunmore is no Congregationalist, nothing of the sort. Hell, he practically owns Burton Parish Church, or its minister, in any event.”
“Frederick Dunmore seems to have shed everything of his former life, so why not his church as well? He is an opportunist, from what I can see, and he gives not a tinker’s cuss for God or the Devil. But he is sensible to the fact that a Congregationalist would not go far in Virginia society. I suspect that his church attendance is entirely for social reasons. Not at all like your precious husband”-he grinned at her- “whose piety is above reproach.”
“Above your reproach, in any event.”
At the corner of Cross and Middle Street they found the Middle Street Church, just as they had been told they would. It too was empty, but with the tall doors open, beckoning the faithful.
“Hold a minute.” Elizabeth grabbed Billy’s arm and stopped him in his bold rush for the stairs. “I must catch my breath.”
She stood on the cobbled square and looked up at the church. It was not just the exertion of the walk that was making her light-headed. Frederick Dunmore had been haunting her night and day for more than five weeks now, had sent her into flight to the woods, to Billy Bird’s ship, and now to Boston. There was something unworldly about this, standing in this strange town, ready to confront Dunmore ’s past, ready to weed out that thing that she might at last use to destroy him.
Perhaps. Or perhaps this would all prove to be folly, a great waste of time. Perhaps the people of Marlowe House would have to live forever in the woods, form some renegade community out there in the wilderness, or join up with a tribe of Indians or come back to Williamsburg and be sold again as chattel.
I shall not find out standing here, she told herself. She took a deep breath, but that did not ameliorate the twisting in her stomach, the spinning in her head. She was never so grateful to have Billy Bird by her side as she was then. It was his very insouciance, his absolute disregard for anything that others might take seriously, that made him so good at games such as this.
“Onward, then,” she said, and together they stepped up the granite stairs and into the church.
Middle Street Church did not differ in any significant way from the first church they had visited, just a bit bigger. Once again Billy’s shoes echoed in the cavernous space, but this time there was no one to be seen.
They walked slowly down the center aisle, stepping softly, not speaking, taken with the reverence that came naturally from being in a house of God, especially the strict, Old Testament God of the Puritans.
They were almost to the altar when a black woman appeared from a side door, a bucket of soapy water in her hand. Her dress was like that of any of the working-class women of the city: cotton mobcap, wool petticoat skirt, muslin apron. She looked to be in her thirties, perhaps a bit older. A slave or a free servant, there was no way to know.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Good day, ma’am.” Billy bowed, just as he might have bowed to the governor’s wife. “We would like to inquire of Mr. Wait Dunmore.”
“Mmm-hmm. What business you got with Reverend Dunmore?”
“We are here on a matter that concerns his son.”
That seemed to spark some interest, and the woman said, “You wait here, I’ll see if the Reverend can receive you.” She put the bucket down and disappeared through the door. A minute later she was back, beckoning them to follow.
She led them down a narrow hall at the end of which was a room, an office, with a desk and a couple of ladder-backed chairs, a big Bible on a stand, and several blanket chests, one of which was open, revealing itself to be crammed with papers-records of parishioners born, married, died.
Behind the desk was Reverend Dunmore. He was seventy if a day, but had about him that robust quality that comes with a life of hard work and prayer and no hint of debauch, a face whose natural resting position was a scowl, as if the man was too ornery to die or even grow weak with age.
He was scratching away with a quill and did not even look up as Elizabeth and Billy and the black woman stood patiently, and the black woman, at least, seemed to accept this as ordinary. At last he put the quill back in its stand, elaborately sanded the ink, tapped the sand off the paper, swept it away, and when that was completed looked up.
“Yes?”
“Reverend, these is the people come to see you,” the woman said.
“Thank you, Sally,” said Dunmore, and Sally curtsied, turned, and left.
Dunmore scrutinized them, as Elizabeth in turn scrutinized him. This was Frederick Dunmore’s father all right, there was no mistaking it. The son was more filled out, his face rounder, more fleshy, but around the eyes and the mouth, and the unpleasant expression, there was no denying the resemblance.
“Reverend Dunmore, how very good it is to see you again!” Billy gushed, and gave a great sweeping bow, thrusting his hat up with stiff arm into the air. “My word, sir, it has been an age at least!”
Dunmore scowled and Elizabeth stared at Billy and wondered if he was making this up as he went along.
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure, sir,” said Dunmore.
“Oh, forgive me, Reverend, but of course you would never recall me. I was a child, nine years old, when last we met. Thomas Marlowe? I was a childhood friend of your son’s. My family returned to England when I was nine, and I am only now coming back to Boston.”
“I am sorry, sir, but I do not recall you. If you wish to see Roger, I am certain his memory will prove more reliable than mine. He might be found in his offices near the foot of Clark ’s Wharf.”
“Roger…?”
“Roger Dunmore, my son. To whom you claim this childhood friendship.”
“Oh, Roger, of course! But no, sir, forgive me but you mistake it! It was Frederick with whom I was playmates. Your son Frederick. Is he, too, still in Boston?”
This brought something close to the reaction that Elizabeth had hoped for. The Reverend’s ever-present scowl grew deeper, his white eyebrows came closer together.
“No, he is not… Sally! That will do!” Elizabeth turned in time to see that Sally had developed an interest in cleaning the wainscoting just outside the open door of the office. On Dunmore ’s bark she snatched up the bucket and hurried away down the narrow hall.
“No,” Reverend Wait Dunmore said again. “He does not live in Massachusetts.”
“Oh. I am sorry indeed to miss him. I so hoped to introduce him to my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Marlowe.”
At that Elizabeth curtsied, but Dunmore just fixed them both with his unfeeling stare.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Marlowe, sir. Thomas Marlowe. Son of Joseph and Rebecca Marlowe, late of Salem Street?”
Dunmore shook his head.
“Perhaps you can tell me, sir, is Frederick well? He was always so… high-spirited. I hope he has found his way in the world, and not lost sight of Godliness.”
Dunmore stared, scowled, said nothing.
“I have feared for him, you know, all these years. So many times I took pen in hand to write, as if the Lord were telling me that Frederick was in need of what little guidance I could offer, but each time…”
“ Frederick makes his own peace with God.”
“I am pleased to hear that. But how could he not, having such a pious upbringing. Might I inquire if it was business that drew him away from Boston? Has he gone to seek his fortune elsewhere, or perhaps to spread the true word?”