she’d shared with Royce, good as they had been in comparison to prison fare, could not come close to this stew. The chunks of beef were juicy, butter-soft. Potatoes, onions, carrots, and peas complemented the meat, and the champagne teased her palate.
Go slow, go slow…
Yet she had to eat, to drink—the cannonball she’d wisely left mostly untouched at the Nest of Feathers—and it had always been thus. Sometimes to her chagrin—the plum pie for example—but more often to her satisfaction, Selena indulged her appetites. She saw the wisdom in the ancient country air: “…there be no drinkin’ in the grave.”
Nor anything else.
“So what will you do with me,” she heard herself asking, filled to satiety and bold with the wine, “after you’ve taken your debt?”
Beaumain wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked at her with amused appraisal.
“You’re certainly welcome to remain aboard. We sail for the Caribbean in the morning.”
Haiti. Of course. And Royce was planning to sail to the Caribbean soon as well.
But he would now—she reasoned—be making his way to the Selena in Newport. He would probably expect her, if she could, to join him there.
“I had really planned to go to Newport,” she said lightly. “Perhaps you could take me there?”
“You don’t know how you’ll feel about that at dawn, now, do you?”
He had the male look in his eyes now, powerfully.
“Tell me more about this Chamorro whom you mentioned earlier,” she said, buying time.
Once again, the man’s mere name stirred Beaumain. Selena saw clearly in his eyes what she’d sensed at the tavern: something vulnerable, haunted, and ruined. It was startlingly out of character, given his bearing and charm. But it was there.
“Yes…” he said slowly, his concupiscence for the moment ebbing. “Well, Vicomte Chamorro was, in every way, our lord and master. But I was something of a renegade from the time I was a boy. By young manhood, no risk was too great. I set fire to the priest’s house when he refused to bury my penniless grandmother.I stole freely from the gardens and orchards of Chamorro’s château. I lied about the size of my fishing catch, saved the money, and began to make plans of my own.
“And I was never caught. I was never caught But once, in my absence, Chamorro and his men came to our house. They accused my father—who knew nothing about what I’d done—of falsifying the catch. He denied it and begged for mercy, but they cut off his ears and his nose, and came hunting for me.
“But, learning of this, I gathered friends of mine from Côtes du Nord who felt as I did, and commandeered one of Chamorro’s sloops. He has a great fleet of ships; he is a merchant prince. Using this small ship, we surprised one of his merchantmen just as it was entering the channel, took the ship, then took and sold everything aboard. It was the foundation of my fortune.”
Selena felt pleased at the way he had ended his story, but Jean Beaumain seemed gloomy. Perhaps the maiming of his father—she recalled the impunity with which Oakley had threatened to slit her face—was a wound that could never be erased. That burden would explain , she thought then, his haunted look in repose .
“I can never return to France,” he said. “Not that I care. Chamorro is alive and powerful, and my father is dead. I will settle with Chamorro in due course…but for now I am sometimes a privateer, sometimes an outright pirate, and occasionally—as on this trip to America—I am a legitimate shipper of ivory and spices and furs.”
He still seemed downcast. Selena arose from the table and walked about the cabin, wandering over to the map table.
“What are all these red flags for?” she asked.
He looked up. “Those are the locations at which Chamorro has been sighted.”
Selena looked at the flags again. Morocco. Zanzibar. Cape Hatteras. Cape Horn. New Zealand. Nippon. And she began to realize that the big, usually good-humored
Go slow, go slow…
Yet she had to eat, to drink—the cannonball she’d wisely left mostly untouched at the Nest of Feathers—and it had always been thus. Sometimes to her chagrin—the plum pie for example—but more often to her satisfaction, Selena indulged her appetites. She saw the wisdom in the ancient country air: “…there be no drinkin’ in the grave.”
Nor anything else.
“So what will you do with me,” she heard herself asking, filled to satiety and bold with the wine, “after you’ve taken your debt?”
Beaumain wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked at her with amused appraisal.
“You’re certainly welcome to remain aboard. We sail for the Caribbean in the morning.”
Haiti. Of course. And Royce was planning to sail to the Caribbean soon as well.
But he would now—she reasoned—be making his way to the Selena in Newport. He would probably expect her, if she could, to join him there.
“I had really planned to go to Newport,” she said lightly. “Perhaps you could take me there?”
“You don’t know how you’ll feel about that at dawn, now, do you?”
He had the male look in his eyes now, powerfully.
“Tell me more about this Chamorro whom you mentioned earlier,” she said, buying time.
Once again, the man’s mere name stirred Beaumain. Selena saw clearly in his eyes what she’d sensed at the tavern: something vulnerable, haunted, and ruined. It was startlingly out of character, given his bearing and charm. But it was there.
“Yes…” he said slowly, his concupiscence for the moment ebbing. “Well, Vicomte Chamorro was, in every way, our lord and master. But I was something of a renegade from the time I was a boy. By young manhood, no risk was too great. I set fire to the priest’s house when he refused to bury my penniless grandmother.I stole freely from the gardens and orchards of Chamorro’s château. I lied about the size of my fishing catch, saved the money, and began to make plans of my own.
“And I was never caught. I was never caught But once, in my absence, Chamorro and his men came to our house. They accused my father—who knew nothing about what I’d done—of falsifying the catch. He denied it and begged for mercy, but they cut off his ears and his nose, and came hunting for me.
“But, learning of this, I gathered friends of mine from Côtes du Nord who felt as I did, and commandeered one of Chamorro’s sloops. He has a great fleet of ships; he is a merchant prince. Using this small ship, we surprised one of his merchantmen just as it was entering the channel, took the ship, then took and sold everything aboard. It was the foundation of my fortune.”
Selena felt pleased at the way he had ended his story, but Jean Beaumain seemed gloomy. Perhaps the maiming of his father—she recalled the impunity with which Oakley had threatened to slit her face—was a wound that could never be erased. That burden would explain , she thought then, his haunted look in repose .
“I can never return to France,” he said. “Not that I care. Chamorro is alive and powerful, and my father is dead. I will settle with Chamorro in due course…but for now I am sometimes a privateer, sometimes an outright pirate, and occasionally—as on this trip to America—I am a legitimate shipper of ivory and spices and furs.”
He still seemed downcast. Selena arose from the table and walked about the cabin, wandering over to the map table.
“What are all these red flags for?” she asked.
He looked up. “Those are the locations at which Chamorro has been sighted.”
Selena looked at the flags again. Morocco. Zanzibar. Cape Hatteras. Cape Horn. New Zealand. Nippon. And she began to realize that the big, usually good-humored
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