"Don't worry, sir," Scott-Owen smiled a small smile, "the navy's paying." He looked down. "Handsome, don't you think? And we've enough of 'em to post in the high street of every British town in the colonies!"
Glen read:
Selena fell back on the ancient excuse of a headache. Which worked. She danced no more, and Esther Pimenta fussed over her, and sat her down on one of the chairs that lined the room, and a cold drink was found, and a series of most solicitous gentlemen came to voice their sympathy. Mr Midshipman Povey was one of them, offering my heart in a handkerchief if she'd only fly off with him to Elysium. He was very young and very charming, but she wished him dead, because he was here to hang Flint, and Flint was her only way back to Silver…
So she wanted to be out and gone. She wanted to be back aboard Walrus and warning Flint. She didn't know what'd brought the navy down on him — bad luck? Betrayal? Cunning? But she had to warn him… or did she? Perhaps this was the way out? Perhaps she could be free? But she was supposed to be his wife. What did that mean? Would they hang her for it? Or would they pity her? Would they send her on her way with their blessing and a guinea from the poor box? And in any case, could there ever be another life for her… somewhere, anywhere… with John Silver? If he could get off the island or she could get back on it? Flint was the only man who knew how to find the island, and he wanted to kill Silver! Her head spun. She didn't know. She'd have run straight out of the door, but she was laced into a gown worth a fortune, and she'd surely be seen and followed.
So she sat where she was, and it helped her excuses that she really did look ill. She cowered in her chair, till even Esther Pimenta got fed up with her, and deserted her to make the most of the evening. It was very late when finally the Pimentas left with Mrs Garland: the two ladies riding the short distance to Pimenta's house in sedan chairs.
The gentleman in green watched all this, and came to a conclusion.
At Pimenta's house, the servants took over. Selena was extracted from her gown and put to bed in the pretty bedroom that was hers when she stayed with the Pimentas. Esther Pimenta wanted badly to talk over the evening, but found her little protégée to be wooden, distant and cold. So she gave up, and was in her dressing room in the middle of being extracted from her own gown when there was a heavy knocking at the front door.
She listened. The front door was opened by Thomas the butler. There were voices. Thomas came upstairs. He went into her husband's dressing room. More feet on the stairs. More voices. Raised voices! Then feet came upstairs fast, and Meshod himself burst into her dressing room with the fear of God on his face.
"Esther!" he said, then caught sight of her maid. "You! Get out!" he said, bundling the girl outside. "Esther, what's Mrs Garland's name?"
"Why?"
"Never mind why — what's her damn name?"
Esther Pimenta gaped. Meshod never used strong language.
"What's her bloody name? Her given name?"
"Selena."
"God help us! God help us all!"
Pimenta clapped a hand to his brow and walked up and down the little room while his wife looked on in horror. She'd never seen her clever, devious husband in fear. Then he breathed deep, opened his eyes and stopped pacing. He came close and spoke softly.
"Listen," he said, "there are things you don't know."
"What things?"
"Her husband's not Garland… he's Flint!"
"Flint?" she said, standing up and clutching at him. "The pirate?"
"Yes. The one the navy's chasing."
"And you let his wife into the house!"
"I didn't know the damned navy was coming!"
"You should have known!"
"Shut up! There's big money — Charley Neal said it's hundreds of thousands."
"What money?"
"Never mind. I'd hoped to get her out tomorrow, quietly…"
"Mr Pimenta!" a loud voice from downstairs. "You must bring the girl, sir! You must bring her now!"
Pimenta shrugged, a helpless gesture, and put a finger to his lips.
"Leave this to me," he said.
He went out on to the landing, to Selena's bedroom, and knocked. She opened the door. She'd heard the noise. She was dressed; dressed in the green gown that she'd worn when first she came to the house. It didn't fit. It didn't suit her. Not like the yellow silk. Pimenta couldn't help but notice.
"Mrs Garland," he said, "there are gentlemen downstairs…"
"Bring her down, sir!" came a loud voice. "Down this instant, I say!"
"Say nothing of your husband!" said Pimenta. "All our lives depend on it!"
She nodded and they went downstairs to the hall, where Thomas was standing with a lighted candelabrum, and two gentlemen who were looking up at her. One was a commoner: a big, heavy man, with thick boots and a greatcoat and a staff of office. He was nothing, but the other was young and arrogant, obviously commanding wealth and power. He was powdered, and wore a swirling cloak. Beneath the cloak was embroidered silk: a coat, vest and breeches, en suite and all in green.
Selena, however, saw only his face. She recognised him and nearly fainted. She stumbled and Pimenta caught her and put an arm around her.
"Mrs Garland," he said, "these gentlemen are Constable Granger — " the big man nodded curtly "- and Mr Archibald Delacroix."
Selena flinched again, and Pimenta patted her hand and tried to make all normal.
"Never fear, my dear," he said. "Mr Delacroix is a good friend and a frequent visitor to this house." He looked at Delacroix. "Isn't that so, sir?" But Delacroix gave him only the briefest nod. He wasn't here to see Pimenta.
He pointed at Selena and stepped forward, grim-faced.
"You're the one!" he said. "I've been watching you all evening. I wasn't quite sure at first, for you've changed. But I'm sure now. You're Selena, the slave that murdered my father!"
Selena groaned. She shook her head. It wasn't true. She'd not murdered anyone. Her own mother had taken her to the master's "special house" where he raped the slave girls that took his fancy. She'd left her there, and told her to be good, for the sake of her family. And Selena had tried, but the master was a sweating oaf who'd had too much food and drink… and had choked on his own vomit on the floor at her feet. And so she'd run away. That was the truth, but who'd believe it? No white man, that was for sure! And never the master's son. Not when his face was flushed with revenge.
"Oh yes!" he said, staring at Selena, "you're the one." Then he frowned mightily as the delight of capture faded and darker thoughts erupted.
"Have you any idea what disturbance you brought upon my estates?" he said. "That a slave should kill the master and escape? D'you realise what ideas that plants in the minds of the rest?" He licked his lips as wild pictures formed in his mind. "An example must be made of you. You shall be stripped naked before them all, and the hide flogged off you. The hangman shan't get a touch of you till I've done that."
"Sir!" said Granger. "Leave this to the law. If she's a runaway, she'll be returned to you as your property. But if she's done murder, then there must be due process of law."
"Don't tell me the law," said Delacroix nastily. "I can buy you, and the law, and all the lawyers in Charlestown. You just mind your tongue and don't get in the way of your betters!"
"Well," said Constable Granger, less certain now, "she's still got to be arrested."
"Pah!" said Delacroix. "Come here!" And he stretched out his hand for Selena. She dodged and he missed. He lunged again, caught her, and — stung to anger — SMACK! He struck her back-handed across the face.