James Nelson - The Guardship

“Very well, sir. This one dance,” she said through clenched teeth. She held up her arm for him to take.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Marlowe asked Bickerstaff once he and the governor had returned to the ballroom.

“No.”

“Oh, but I think you are.”

Bickerstaff sniffed by way of reply. “Your meeting with the governor? It went well?” he asked. He sounded as if he could not care less, but Marlowe knew that he was consumed with curiosity.

“Very well. He has-Is that Matthew Wilkenson with whom Mrs. Tinling is dancing?”

“Yes, I believe it is. Now, what has the governor done?”

“He has relieved Allair of his command and asked me to take charge of the Plymouth Prize . I had always supposed there was some kind of animosity between Mrs. Tinling and that young Wilkenson git. Sure she cannot be taken with him?”

“The governor has given you command of the guardship?” Bickerstaff said. His voice incredulous, more so than Marlowe had ever heard. “Relieved a king’s officer? Is this over the affair with the silver?”

“That and other things,” said Marlowe, his eyes never leaving the dancers. “You’ll own that Allair is hardly fit for command of a king’s ship. Is this the first dance they’ve danced?”

“Yes. Nor did Mrs. Tinling seem overly anxious to dance this one, you will no doubt be relieved to know. So are you to have a commission as an officer? A naval captain?”

“Insofar as it is within the governor’s power to issue one, yes. It will be temporary, perhaps, but yes, I shall be a commissioned officer.”

At this Bickerstaff actually smiled. “Now, this is something of an irony, is it not?”

“I quite fail to see why.”

“But tell me, it seems a great coincidence that Nicholson’s silver should end up on your table, and a week later the governor is invited to dine. Are you entirely certain it was an accident?”

Marlowe pulled his gaze from the dance floor, met Bickerstaff’s eye. Bickerstaff could at times be quite irritating, with his exaggerated sense of nobility. “It was an accident, be assured,” he said, leaving it to Bickerstaff to believe that or not.

He turned back to the dance floor. Elizabeth was smiling, though the expression did not look entirely genuine. “Son of a bitch.”

“So when do you take command?” Bickerstaff did not press the point about the silver.

“As soon as is convenient.” The music stopped, Wilkenson bowed to Elizabeth and Elizabeth in turn curtsied, and then Wilkenson took her arm and led her off the floor. “Son of a bitch,” Marlowe muttered again, and then to Bickerstaff said, “There is one small problem.”

“What might that be?”

“Allair is apparently unwilling to give over the ship.”

“And what will you do?”

“We, sir, we. We shall convince him of the desirability of doing so.”

Marlowe’s attention was now entirely given to the people across the room. Wilkenson had led Elizabeth over to a knot of his friends, all cut from the same cloth as himself. Well-bred, rich dandies. Families that numbered their time in Virginia by generations.

Marlowe hated the arrogance of that crowd, the disdain they had for all who were not of their class. It was greatly at odds with his own craving for acceptance among the colony’s elite. He tried his best not to think on it.

But he could not ignore it now. Wilkenson still had a hold of Elizabeth’s arm, and though their movements were subtle and people kept blocking his view, it appeared to Marlowe as if he was holding her despite her desire to be released. She seemed to be tugging, just slightly, against his grasp. Wilkenson and his friends were laughing at some unheard joke. Elizabeth was smiling as well, at whatever had been said. Marlowe was certain that the smile was forced.

“Marlowe,” Bickerstaff said softly. “Perhaps we should leave now. I fear the oxtripe I ate is not sitting well with me.”

“Bear up a moment more, sir. I would first like to have a word with some friends of mine.” Marlowe left him there and made his way across the room. He could see words pass be

tween the people as they saw him approach, giggles and glances in his direction. He was afraid that his cheeks were turning red.

“Sir,” he said to Matthew Wilkenson when he arrived at the far end of the ballroom, “you seem to be enjoying some joke, all of you, and I would fain know what amuses you so.”

“It is a private joke we are enjoying.” Wilkenson looked not at Marlowe but at his companions, who were still giggling like idiots. He was half drunk, smiling his stupid, arrogant smile, his eyes never fully meeting Marlowe’s but shifting between him and his tribe.

“And I would know what you are laughing at,” Marlowe said. “And you, ma’am,” he turned to Elizabeth, “does this gentleman amuse you, or would you wish me to remove his hand from your arm?”

“Pray, sir, it is none of your affair.” Elizabeth’s voice had a desperate, humiliated tone.

“Yes,” said Wilkenson, “it is none of your affair.”

“If a lady is suffering an insult, sir, then it is most certainly my affair.”

“Oh, you are indeed a noble one.” Laughter spewed through Wilkenson’s closed lips as if he could not contain himself. “It seems there are many pretensions of nobility tonight.” He looked quickly at Marlowe, then back at his friends. They were averting their eyes, as if Marlowe was something shameful.

“I would ask you to explain yourself, sir,” Marlowe said. “But first to take your hand from the lady’s arm.”

“Please, Mr. Marlowe, I am quite well,” said Elizabeth. She did not sound well at all.

“I shall attend to my affairs, sir,” said Wilkenson, “and I suggest you do the same. Begone, you upstart crow.” He turned and grinned at his friends, looking for them to share his delight. But they were nervous now, and rewarded him with no more than half-smiles and muted chuckles.

“I said take your hand from the lady’s arm.”

Marlowe grabbed Wilkenson’s hand in a crushing grip and removed it from Elizabeth’s arm, as easy as taking a toy from a baby’s fist.

Wilkenson managed at last to jerk his hand from Marlowe’s grasp. “You lay a hand on me, you bastard?”

“I shall lay a boot on your arse, sir, if you do not apologize to the lady.”

“Marlowe, please,” Elizabeth implored, but it was beyond that now.

Wilkenson was red in the face, lips pressed tight together. He glanced at his friends for support, but they would not meet his eyes, and that seemed to make him angrier still. “You dare to touch me? Do you think you can impress us with your bloody money and your lies of noble birth. I can well guess at the truth about you, sir, easier than you think, and I am not afraid to tell others.”

“If you wish to discuss affairs between you and me, then we may do so, but I will not tolerate your insulting a lady.”

“Well, this is rich,” he said, his voice loud enough to make others turn and listen. “A scoundrel and a liar, an upstart with pretensions of gentle birth, coming to the aid of another one of that ilk, and a slut to boot.”

There was an unnatural quiet around them, as if they were not a part of the ball taking place in the rest of the room.

“For the sake of harmony in this colony I might be willing to suffer insult to myself,” said Marlowe, “but I cannot tolerate such words spoken about a lady. I must demand satisfaction.”

This brought Wilkenson up short, at least for a second. How could the silly bastard have expected anything less? Marlowe wondered. Wilkenson had been too long allowed to do as he wished, his behavior beyond challenge.

“Oh, for the love of God!” Elizabeth glared at Wilkenson and then Marlowe and then stamped off.