The Guardship

Chapter 9

GEORGE WILKENSON stood in the shadow of Mrs. Sullivan’s ordinary, half hidden around the edge of the building, trying to look as if he were not hiding. But in fact he was. He was keeping a close eye on Elizabeth Tinling as she and Lucy wound their way through the Market Day booths on the far side of Duke of Gloucester Street.

It was a perfect spring day, with random white clouds sailing across the blue sky and a cooling breeze blowing off the bay, blowing away the heat and the stink and the flies. The weather seemed to affect everyone who had business in Williamsburg. The joviality, smiles, laughter, and general bonhomie all served to make Wilkenson that much more miserable.

He had been shadowing them for the past hour, since they left the house and walked down the crowded street to do their marketing. This type of skulking was not at all to his liking. He was, after all, one of the most powerful men in the colony, the one who ran the vast Wilkenson holdings of ships and tobacco and slaves. Their increasingly lucrative import business as well: cloth, silver, furniture, firearms, and sundry equipment from England that were so much in demand.

Their father might have favored his bold and ostentatious younger brother, but George knew that it was he, the quiet, methodical one, the man of thought rather than action, who was responsible for turning the small Wilkenson fortune into the still-expanding Wilkenson empire.

He was waiting for the chance to speak with Elizabeth alone, but Lucy was still following her like a puppy.

He let his eyes wander over the young slave.

Lovely. Light brown skin that spoke of some illicit liaison between master and slave somewhere in her forgotten family history. A pleasure to look at, and George could well imagine that old Tinling had not been able to keep his hands off of her, even with a wife like Elizabeth.

It was common knowledge that Lucy was in love with King James, Tinling’s surly, vicious, rebellious field hand. Marlowe’s majordomo. George knew about those Africans and their insatiable carnal desires. His mind wandered to images of James having his way with Lucy, her firm brown body writhing under him, head thrown back, screaming, heels dug into the sharply defined muscles in the small of his back, his powerful hands gripping her waist.

He shook himself from his reverie, which was only serving to titillate and distract him, and concentrated on his quarry. He watched Elizabeth step around a pie cart, then turn to Lucy and say something that he could not hear. Lucy nodded and walked away, off on some errand, and Elizabeth was alone.

Wilkenson stepped out of the shadow of the ordinary and hurried across the street, shouldering past the crowds, men and women out strolling in their fine clothes, laborers in the aprons of their trade, ragged slaves sent to town on their masters’ business.

He approached, considered what he would say and how he would say it.

Here again, he thought, is the difference between Matthew and myself.

Matthew had been bold and stupid, blundering into a fight that he should have known he could not win. George, on the other hand, was more cunning. Like a cannon fired from a great distance, he would kill Marlowe before he even saw it

coming. The bastard would be dead before he heard the shot. Wished that his father could see the advantage of his ways over Matthew’s.

He sidled up beside Elizabeth, fell in with her step. “Good morning, Mrs. Tinling.” He tried to sound like a man in control.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilkenson,” Elizabeth said without looking at him. “Are you quite done hankering around after me, lurking in the shadows like some pickpocket?” She turned to him and smiled.

Wilkenson scowled, said nothing. Her beauty always made him a bit unsteady, and her sharp tongue could bowl him over. He was always awed and jealous of Matthew’s ability to approach her. He had secretly felt, after her husband’s death, that she should have been his, but he never had the courage to act.

“Now see here, Mrs. Tinling, we have a few things that we must discuss,” Wilkenson managed at last. He pictured in his mind the great estate that he controlled, the hundred and fifty slaves who lived and died by his command, and that gave him a renewed confidence.

He waited for Elizabeth to speak, but she did not, so he continued. “As you are no doubt aware, that villain Marlowe killed my brother. Killed him for your sake, in fact.”

“I do not know why Mr. Marlowe killed your brother, sir. I suggest you ask him.”

“The ‘why’ really does matter. He did, and now he must pay.”

“He killed your brother in a duel. If he cheated in some manner, then it was your duty, as Matthew’s second, to prevent it.”

Wilkenson stared into her blue eyes. It was pure nonsense to suggest Marlowe had done anything illegal or immoral. He had known it from the start, knew that Elizabeth did as well. He had already decided that he would not argue the point.

“Regardless,” Wilkenson said, “he must pay.”

“Why do you not simply call Marlowe out and kill him in a fair fight? As he did to your brother. It is what any man would do.” She put just the slightest emphasis on the word “man.”

“I have in mind something far more painful than a bullet. I wish to see Marlowe disgraced before he dies. You are going to help see that happens.”

“And if I refuse?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes flashing, her face set in a hateful scowl. She looked more beautiful than ever. Wilkenson felt himself becoming aroused, despite himself.

“I think you know that I can make things most uncomfortable for you in this colony.”

Elizabeth’s expression did not change. She just stared at him with a hateful look. Wilkenson imagined that she had expected the threat. He hoped that she would not call him on it, for then she would realize that it was a threat that he could not carry out.

When she did not respond, George continued. “Matthew kept no secrets from me. I know everything that William Tinling told him about you. We both know that it could ruin you in this colony. Pray, do not make me say it out loud.”

In fact, he hoped very much that she would not, for he did not really know what Matthew’s secret was. His brother had been a close friend of William Tinling, and William had told him something about his father’s young bride, but Matthew had kept it to himself and had taken it to the grave.

Elizabeth, apparently, did not know that. And judging from her expression, whatever the secret was, it was damning indeed.

“Very well,” she said at last. “What is it you want of me?”

“You have become close with Marlowe, I understand.”

“He called on me once. Is that ‘close’?”

“Nonetheless, he has an eye for you,” Wilkenson continued, “and we shall use that to our advantage. You will go to his house at some time that he is there and…seduce him into some illicit liaison. I shall arrive, prepared to issue a challenge, and when I do you shall scream that you are being violated, at which point I will burst in and catch him in flagrante delicto. We shall arrest him for rape and see him tried and convicted. You, of course, shall testify against him.”

Even as he said it Wilkenson realized how utterly craven a plan it was. But in order to see Marlowe hanged he had to catch him in a provable crime, and this was the easiest and most humiliating that he could manufacture.

Elizabeth shook her head, disgusted. “That is the most cowardly, pathetic thing that I have ever heard.”

“Perhaps. But you will do it nonetheless.” Wilkenson felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment. Maybe when this was all over he would show her what it was really like to be taken by force. Show her that he was not the timid little man she thought he was.

He shook those thoughts aside. “I will expect a note from you by week’s end indicating when you will be at Marlowe’s house and the exact moment that I am to arrive. If I do not receive word by then…”

“Pray, don’t say it.” Elizabeth’s tone was equal parts weariness and contempt. “You have been none too subtle with your threats already.”

“Then we understand each other?”

Elizabeth glared at him, her lips pressed together. “Yes, yes, whatever you wish. I have no choice, it seems, but to be part of your pathetic plan.”

“Quite true.” He had applied the stick, and she had moved in the right direction. Now he would show her the carrot. “Incidentally, that new home of yours is very nice. Very nice indeed. It could not be inexpensive.”

She looked hard at him, wary. “It is not, but it is within my means.”

“Unless, of course, the note of hand should be called in. Then I imagine you would exhaust your funds paying it off.”

“Perhaps. But the note is held by Mr. David Nelson, who is a man of honor, and who assures me he will not call it in.” She could see what was coming. Clever little slut, Wilkenson thought.

“Ah, but that is no longer the case, you see, because I purchased the note from Mr. Nelson, along with several others, and now it is mine to call in whenever I so choose. If I have your cooperation in this matter, I may well be persuaded to

tear up the note, and you will own your home, free and clear. If not, then I fear you shall be bankrupt paying it off, once I call it in.”

He let the words hang in the air. George Wilkenson knew a great deal about persuasion.

“If I…I shall have my house, free and clear, if I do this?”

“Indeed.”

“Very well, then. I shall do as you wish.” She seemed to deflate in resignation.

“Good. I shall bid you good day.” He gave her a curt bow, turned on his heel, and turned back again. “You will send a note, then, by week’s end?”

“Yes, yes. I said yes.”

“Good.” He turned again and strode away. He could feel his cheeks burning, and his neck and palms were covered with sweat.

Still, it was a good plan, because the crime would be perfectly believable. It would take no art to show that, after killing Matthew Wilkenson for her honor, Marlowe came to expect certain favors from Elizabeth, and when they were not forth-coming he tried to take them.

It was perfectly believable that George should go to Marlowe’s house to issue a challenge. His claiming that he was doing so would quiet those people who were asking abroad why George did not call Marlowe out, while at once assuring Marlowe’s death by hanging and saving George from having to fight the rogue. Perfect.

Nor would it be any great effort to get the others to do his bidding: Sheriff Witsen and the jury and even Governor Nicholson.

George was careful never to put the family into debt, not to their agent in London or to anyone in the tidewater. Owing money meant owing allegiance, and George Wilkenson would owe allegiance to no one.

Instead he accrued the allegiance of others through his generous lending of money to any who asked with the proper

humility, and he never demanded that it be repaid on any schedule.

But he understood, and his debtors understood, that the entire sum was always due in full upon demand, even if it meant the debtor’s ruination. In this way George Wilkenson exercised control over half of the population of Williamsburg.

He suddenly felt a desperate need for this all to be over, for Marlowe to be hanged and buried so that he could get on with his business.

I am not Achilles, he thought. No, I’m not the warrior. I am Odysseus, the clever one.

George Wilkenson took some comfort from that notion.