“Not precisely from heaven, y’r honour, but—”
“But—yes, Michael! Have done with but-ing, and come to the real matter.”
“Well, sir, they’ve come from Virginia.”
Dyck Calhoun slowly got to his feet, his face paling, his body stiffening. From Virginia! Who should be come from Virginia, save she to whom he had just been writing?
“Who has come from Virginia?” He knew, but he wanted it said.
“Sure, you knew a vessel came from America last night. Well, in her was one that was called the Queen of Ireland long ago.”
“Queen of Ireland—well, what then?” Dyck’s voice was tuneless, his manner rigid, his eyes burning. “Well, she—Miss Sheila Llyn and her mother are going to the Salem Plantation, down by the Essex Valley Mountain. It is her plantation now. It belonged to her uncle, Bryan Llyn. He got it in payment of a debt. He’s dead now, and all his lands and wealth have come to her. Her mother, Mrs. Llyn, is with her, and they start to-morrow or the next day for Salem. There’ll be different doings at Salem henceforward, y’r honour. She’s not the woman to see slaves treated as the manager at Salem treated ‘em.”
Dyck Calhoun made an impatient gesture at this last remark.
“Yes, yes, Michael. Where are they now?”
“They’re at Charlotte Bedford’s lodgings in Spanish Town. The governor waited on them this morning. The governor sent them flowers and—”