His heart was pounding, his palms wet. He felt his fingertips tingling with excitement. He waited.
And nothing happened.
The excitement and the heightened awareness began to dissipate as he waited, waited for some sound from within. He looked up at the clock. Five minutes past nine. God damn you, he thought, scream. What are you about, you silly bitch?
He waited. Ten minutes past nine. It seemed as if he had been standing there for an hour. This would never do. He renewed the grip on his pistol and stepped over to the door. Perhaps something had gone wrong. Perhaps that bastard Marlowe had gagged her.
He twisted the handle, slowly pushed the door open. The light from the sitting room spilled into the hall, illuminating the foyer, the far end of the hall still in darkness. Wilkenson took a hesitant step forward. He stopped and listened. Felt the sweat trickle down the side of his face. He took another step, and then another. Nothing. No sound, no muffled cry, no indication of a struggle. Had she betrayed him after all?
“Don’t move! Who the hell are you?” The voice came from behind him, loud and sharp, like a master sergeant’s, and Wilkenson felt his whole body jolt in surprise. It was only by a miracle that he did not discharge his pistol. He spun around, found himself looking into the barrel of a musket. At the far end was an old black man, dressed like a house servant, save for the bare calves and feet.
The black man squinted his eyes and cocked his head to one side. “You Mr. Wilkenson, ain’t you? The Wilkenson that Mr. Marlowe didn’t kill?”
Wilkenson straightened and glanced around. Took stock of the situation now that his shock had subsided. There were two more men behind the old man with the gun, both black. There were no white men, just the slaves. He felt the smallest sense of relief.
“I said, ain’t you Mr. Wilkenson?” the old one repeated. He had an arrogant tone to his voice. Not a hint of subservience. Wilkenson would not tolerate that, not from a nigger.
“I am Mr. Wilkenson. Now, put down that gun, boy.”
“Don’t you ‘boy’ me, I’s the one with the gun. Boy.”
“How dare you? No slave will point a gun at me and-”
“We ain’t slaves. We free men. And you sneaking around our home with a pistol and we wants to know why.”
“Ah…” Wilkenson stammered. This situation was unlike anything he had encountered. He would not tolerate such abuse from slaves, or former slaves, or whatever they were. But there were three of them, and if they would not obey him, then what could he do? “I…ah…heard a noise.”
The old man looked back at the other two, and they just shook their heads. Shrugged. Wilkenson could see that they were younger and looked as strong as horses. What little calm he had found now deserted him.
“We didn’t hear no noise.”
“Well, I did, so you will just have to take my word for it. Now, if you have this situation in hand, then I shall leave you to…” He took a step toward the door, but the round hole on the musket barrel followed him, blocked his way.
“Hold up, there. You come sneakin’ in here at night, with a pistol in your hand, after Mr. Marlowe done killed your brother, some fool story about hearin’ a noise, like you was just passin’ by, and you think we’s going to let you go? No, sir. I think we best call the sheriff.”
“Sheriff! Now, you look here, boy, I’ve had all of this nonsense as I can take. You stand aside and-”
“Go sit in the sitting room, Mr. Wilkenson, while I send William to get the sheriff, and we’ll straighten this out.”
“How dare you!”
“Mr. Wilkenson, if you don’t sit, we going to have to tie you up.”
Wilkenson looked from one dark, expressionless face to another. It was the last word in humiliation, being caught here and held at gunpoint by these niggers.
No, that was not true. The last word in humiliation would be for them to tie him up and let the sheriff find him that way. And they would do it, he could see that, and there was no one there to stop them. What would he do? Appeal to Marlowe?
He felt his stomach convulse with panic, felt the sweat on his palms and forehead. Wouldn’t they summon Marlowe? Would Marlowe find him, pistol in hand, held at gunpoint by the house servants? It was too horrible to consider. Would Marlowe charge him with attempted murder? His carefully conceived plan could turn into a nightmare beyond belief.
As if in a dream, he let the old man take the pistol from him. He stepped into the sitting room and sat on the edge of the settee. The old man with the gun sat as well, facing him from across the room, the round eye of the musket staring at him.
The next hour and a half was the worst in all of George Wilkenson’s thirty-seven years. He sat unmoving, red-faced, as a servant, a nigger, stared at him, held him prisoner while another stood in the doorway, arms folded, staring at him as well.
It was utterly humiliating, and all the while his stomach churned with dread, waiting, knowing that any minute Marlowe would walk through the door, led by some other servant, who would point and say, “There he is, Mr. Marlowe,” and Marlowe would start and say “Wilkenson, what the devil? This is mighty irregular.”
He clamped his teeth together and took comfort in the one thought that could provide him with comfort-the thought of what he would do to Marlowe, and what he would do to that bitch.
Sheriff Witsen came at last, breathing hard, his round face red and lathered in sweat, his stockings falling down. He had clearly dressed in a hurry. If he had not, then Wilkenson would have crushed him like a bug.
“Mr. Wilkenson, what have they done?” he huffed.
“Nothing. It was all a mistake,” Wilkenson said, and said nothing more. With the sheriff there, the servants could hold him no longer. He did not meet Witsen’s eyes, or the black men’s, as he stormed out of the house, more frightened than ever that Marlowe would make an appearance.
George Wilkenson had never been more humiliated in his life. Not while being flogged as a boy by his father and his tutor, not after puking at his brother’s death and shrinking from Marlowe’s threats, not from Jacob Wilkenson’s insinuations of his inadequacy. Never. Had never understood the concept of blind rage. Until now.
And he swore that Marlowe would pay for that humiliation. He would pay. Not just for what he himself had done. For what they all had done.
Elizabeth Tinling stood behind the big oak, unquestionably hiding, and watched George Wilkenson and Sheriff Witsen, illuminated by the lights from the house, as they stepped across the porch and down onto the lawn. Wilkenson was practically running. The sheriff, one of Wilkenson’s foremost lickspittles, was racing to catch up with him, though Wilkenson seemed to be ignoring him.
She put her hand over her mouth. She could not let herself laugh out loud. Her note telling Wilkenson not to come, which he would find upon returning to his home, along with her protests that she had not gone to Marlowe’s that night, would create enough doubt in his mind that she might not get the full brunt of his wrath. But if he discovered her hiding behind the tree, she would be undone.
She shook her head as she watched him swing himself up in his saddle and thunder blindly past. She wondered what perverse aspect of her personality drove her to play such tricks, even when she knew that she would pay for them later.
But it was more than that, and she knew it. It was war now, war between Marlowe and the Wilkensons, and she could not hope to be a neutral party. She had to choose sides, and she had chosen the side that she thought was the stronger. The decision had not been arrived at lightly.
She had immediately dismissed any hope of Wilkenson tearing up the note of hand. He would never do that, not when he realized the power he wielded over her as long as he held it.