He had been stretched out on that very bed, his breeches down around his ankles, Lucy, half naked, her clothes torn, cowering in the corner, screaming, incoherent. Elizabeth and Sheriff Witsen, with whom she had been speaking belowstairs, had burst in to witness that depraved scene.
She shook her head and turned toward Caesar and met his dark, watery eyes, and an understanding passed between them.
“Here, let me take a look at Mr. Marlowe’s wardrobe,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. She stepped across the room and pulled the doors open. There were a dozen coats there, all lovely. She pulled out one made of red silk with gold
on the pockets and cuffs. It was the same coat that Marlowe had worn to the Governor’s Ball the night this had all begun.
She held it up to Caesar’s chest. “Goodness, this would look fine on you, Caesar.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. That’s a gentleman’s coat, that ain’t for me.”
“Well, let us just see. Pray, try it on.”
“Try it on? But, ma’am, that’s Mr. Marlowe’s coat! I got no business tryin’ on Mr. Marlowe clothes!”
“Oh, come along, now,” Elizabeth said, holding the sleeve up and practically shoving it over Caesar’s arm. “Remember. I am a particular friend of Mr. Marlowe’s, and I am here to help him.”
“I don’t see how this is helping him…” Caesar muttered as he struggled into the coat, which was in fact a good fit, if a bit big. He straightened and tugged the front in place, then ran his eyes along the garment, clearly not displeased with the way it looked.
“Very good, Caesar. Now…” Elizabeth looked around the room. In the dressing room adjoining the sleeping chamber she saw four wigs carefully placed on wooden heads, their long white curling locks hanging down past the edge of the table.
“There we are.” She fetched one of the wigs and made as if to put it on Caesar’s head, but the old man balked, shielding his head with his hands.
“Now what you doing? I ain’t gonna be seen wearing Mr. Marlowe’s wig! Bad enough I’s wearing his coat.”
“Now, come along, Caesar, you know I wouldn’t do anything to get you in trouble. This is all for Mr. Marlowe’s good.”
It took five minutes of her most persuasive arguing before Caesar grudgingly placed the wig on his head and followed her down the stairs. She paused outside of the sitting room that faced the lawn bordering the front of the house. It was dark now. The bright painted walls and the rugs and books and furniture were all turned shades of gray and black.
“You have some others here?”
“Yes, ma’am. William and Isaiah is in the back room.”
Caesar called for them, and they appeared in the hall. They were both field hands, big men in their twenties and strong as any man was likely to be. Isaiah carried a musket. It looked like a stick in his hand. Elizabeth noticed that their clothes were clean and newly made. Apparently they could now afford a suit for working and another for special occasions. Amazing.
“William, pray go and light the lamps in the sitting room,” Elizabeth said.
William, who along with Isaiah had been staring open-mouthed at Caesar, adorned as he was with Marlowe’s coat and wig, pulled his eyes away and said, “Yes, ma’am.” He fetched a candle and proceeded to light the lamps, making the room brighter and brighter with each one lit.
There were ghosts there as well.
It was in that room that he had first struck her, knocked her to the floor just by the settee, and in that one stroke had forced her to face all of the things she had suspected about him but had not allowed herself to believe, or even consider. All of the rooms there had their memories, all were stages upon which had been played the tragedy that was her relationship with Joseph Tinling.
William stepped back into the hall, and he and Isaiah retreated to the back room.
“Hold here a moment, Caesar,” Elizabeth said. She stepped over to the edge of the window, the curtains still pulled back. “Caesar, I want you to stand right here, but with your back to the window. Do you understand? Under no circumstances are you to turn and face out the window.”
“Yes, Mrs. Tinling.” There was a note of resignation in his voice now, as he gave in to the nonsensical wishes of this woman.
Elizabeth turned away from the window, and with her back to him she said, “Very well, Caesar, please take your place.” She turned and watched the old man move carefully across the room, and then, with his back turned, edge into the place where she had stood. She hoped that the move did not look too awkward.
She glanced up briefly at the window, but from the brightly lit room she could see nothing but darkness through the glass. But she knew that he would be there.
He might trust her. He might think that she would not dare betray him, after his threats and his promises, but he would not take her word alone. He would need more proof than her assurance before he burst into Marlowe’s house. He would want to see for himself that she was there and Marlowe was there. He would be watching. George Wilkenson liked to watch.
He stood half concealed behind the big oak that grew in the Tinlings’ yard. Marlowe’s yard, he thought, and the realization that the big house now belonged to that bastard Marlowe, and not his friend Joseph Tinling, was enough to spark his anger again.
George felt his horse tug nervously on the reins and said some soothing words. He was not hiding, he told himself. Hiding would have been too nefarious, too sneaky. He was just standing by the tree, sort of behind the tree, and looking at the dark house. He did not know who he was trying to fool with his feigned disinterest. There was no one around, and if there had been he would not have taken that place by the oak.
It was all but dark now. Wilkenson guessed that it was somewhere close to eight-thirty, and still the house was dark. He felt a growing concern.
It was not possible that the bitch had betrayed him. He could ruin her. By that time tomorrow he could see her disgraced and homeless. She could not be so stupid as to think that Marlowe could protect her from his wrath. No one in Virginia could protect her from the Wilkensons’ wrath.
And then he saw the flame of a candle move in the sitting room. A lamp was lit. Wilkenson could see a servant going around and lighting the others. So he is home, he thought. She had better be there with him.
At last the sitting room was brightly lit, and though he was over two hundred feet away Wilkenson could make out the
book-lined walls, the paintings, the furniture, just as it was when Joseph had been alive. For all his wealth, Marlowe did not seem to have much in the way of personal possessions.
Then Elizabeth was there, partially hidden by the curtain, her blond hair lit from behind by the lanterns. She was too far for him to see the details of her face, but he was certain it was she. Who else could it be? She looked out of the window and then turned; he had only a fleeting glance at her face, but it was enough. He smiled. Felt his former fears and doubts dissipate. He rested his hand on the butt of his pistol.
She crossed the room, and in her place stood Marlowe. Wilkenson recognized the red silk coat, the same as he had worn to the Governor’s Ball, and the long white wig with its tight ringlets. He stood with his back to the window, apparently engaged in conversation.
He watched them for some time, he did not know how long, and then Marlowe stepped from his view and Elizabeth followed. He pulled his watch from his pocket and squinted at the face. The light from the moon and the few stars was enough for him to read the time. Five minutes to nine. He replaced the watch, pulled his pistol from his belt, and checked the priming. Time to go.
He led his horse up to the front of the house, tied it to a hitching post. Felt his palm sweating under the wooden grip of the pistol. It occurred to him that it might look suspicious, having the gun already drawn, but he could not bring himself to tuck it away. I won’t go in until I hear a scream, and that will be reason enough to have a gun out, he thought.
He stepped slowly up onto the porch, glanced through the window into the sitting room. He could see the big clock on the mantel, and just as he looked at the hands he heard it chiming out nine o’clock, the sound of the bells muffled by the glass. He braced himself, ready to charge down the hall and into the drawing room. Arrest that villain Marlowe for trying to violate the poor widow Tinling.