by Susan Wiggs
“Go with God,” Carneros said softly, addressing all the ladies but not taking his eyes off Fayette. “Until we meet again—farewell.”
The coach lurched, then started up the dusty road.
“Really, Fayette,” Lily said in a scolding voice that failed to mask her indulgence. “We’re not an hour in port and you’re flirting already. What am I to do with you?”
“Don’t know, ma’am,” Fayette said vaguely, leaning against a corner awning pole with a distant look on her face. “I surely don’t know.” She sighed sweetly and lifted one hand in farewell. Carneros returned the gesture, but Ryan had already turned away.
Isadora directed her attention to the scenery. She spied the mercado in the distance, pinwheels of color and sound, bright sunshades stretched over mounds of melons and pineapples and fruits she had never seen before. They passed busy bodegas and a church with an airy song coming from the choir, and a flock of nuns moving down the street. Black-skinned servants and laundresses with baskets balanced on their heads passed in droves up and down the road.
“There’s too much of it,” she said. “It’s so hard to take it all in.”
“You have three glorious weeks here before setting sail again,” Lily said. “You should make it a point to see a new sight each day. That’s something we learned while touring the Continent, isn’t it, Fayette? Something new each and every day. Fayette? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“No, ma’am,” the maid said dreamily.
When the road wound around a hill they came to a cluster of houses. The dwellings, set into the side of the hill, were pink-and-white confections of dusty pastel plaster. On all of the verges, seemingly in every rock and crevice, something grew: fuschia, bougainvillea, crimson and white poinsettia.
The coach went on into a thick forest, but it was like no forest Isadora had ever seen. The trees grew immeasurably tall; they had thick glistening leaves and some blossomed with mysterious huge yellow-tongued flowers. Lush ferns carpeted the floor. Birds, the same green and yellow as the foliage, swooped here and there, and somewhere close by, a secret spring trickled.
She leaned back against the seat and trembled, simply trembled, for she felt as if she had landed in the middle of a dream, and she was terrified of waking up.
Yet when the coach ground to a halt on the crushed seashell drive of a vast pink villa, she dared to believe it was real.
The driver gave a whistle. A herd of houseboys swarmed over the carriage, helping them out and chattering away in a charming patois as they liberated the luggage. Isadora was delighted and challenged by the language. How different it was from her textbook Portuguese. The rapid, colorful slang barely gave the nod to the formal mother tongue.
She caught the eye of one of the boys and smiled pleasantly, greeting him in her best Portuguese.
He and his friends giggled uncontrollably.
Lily asked, “What did you say to them?”
“I hope I said it’s a pleasure to be here, but the way they’re giggling, I can’t be certain.” She found the boys enchanting. She could not be certain of their race. They were not black in the way Journey and the Doctor were, but neither were they Anglo. Their faces and bare legs were the color of the caffe com leche the port authorities had served at the landing.
She found it interesting that their race was indeterminate—and that it did not seem to matter in the least.
A high-pitched squeal issued from a colonnaded walkway leading from the main house. Lily became alert like a hound on the scent. She whirled around and answered the squeal with one of her own.
“Rose! Oh, my darling Rose!”
The two women fell into each other’s arms with such heartfelt emotion that Isadora and Fayette held hands and gulped back tears as they watched.
The two sisters made an entrancing pair. Lily was as pale and delicate as her namesake, and Rose was as bold and vibrant as hers. She wore an extraordinary garment—a tiered skirt that showed her shapely ankles and bare feet. Her blouse was cut low in the neck. Isadora could tell for certain that Rose wore no corsets and petticoats under the loose, light costume.
When Lily made the introductions, Rose embraced both Fayette and Isadora in turn. “Welcome to my home,” she declared. A touch of Virginia still accented her words, but her speech also had the rhythmic cadences of Brazil. She laughed at their stares and plucked playfully at Lily’s multilayered skirts. “We dress for the weather at Villa do Cielo, and so must you. Were it not for the hot-blooded nature of our menfolk, we would probably go about in the nude.”
Isadora stifled a gasp. Yet lightning did not strike simply because a woman mentioned something earthy. She decided she liked Rose very much indeed.
As Rose led the way under the blossom-draped colonnade, she looked up and saw that each flower was a perfect orchid.
Isadora knew she was going to enjoy Rio.
Thirteen
Be good and you will be lonesome.
—Mark Twain,
Following the Equator
Hot, sweet and languid—those were the dominant impressions Ryan had of Rio. After concluding his preliminary business with Ferraro’s agent, he arranged for the cargo to be discharged. Luigi, who spoke his native tongue with the team of Italian stevedores, had matters well in hand.
Before hiring a rig to convey him to his aunt’s in Tijuca, Ryan stood at the loud, busy waterfront and felt himself slowly fill up with a splendid feeling so rare that at first he couldn’t identify it. But it had a name—pride.
Pride that he had done something of consequence, and done it so well that even strangers on the wharves had learned who he was. Captain Calhoun, who carried a tiny crew and too much sail. Captain Calhoun, who had won a bonus for coming in days before his due date.
The wharf rats learned his identity as quickly as the shipping agents and local merchants. “I have the finest diamonds for sale,” hissed a smiling young man with oily hair and restless hands. “Come and see my selection.”
Ryan cheerfully declined the suspicious offer, only to find the oily merchant replaced by a soft-hipped whore. “You have been long time at sea,” she purred, running her tongue around her lips in a gesture that should be outlawed. “I make you happy, happy today.”
“Card game?” another man asked. “Faro or dice?”
Ryan grinned from ear to ear. He hadn’t even gotten paid yet.
And then, because a sudden hollowness opened up inside him, he held out his arm to the whore and asked, “What’s your name, sugar-pie?”
In the end, he realized he’d never even heard it. All he remembered was the ripeness of her, the intoxicating musk, the way her soft body opened to him, the way he sank into her. Yet the act had a disturbingly mechanical nature. He pleasured her, yes, but in a curiously detached fashion. And, in a curiously detached fashion, he found his own pleasure as well, and paid her handsomely for the encounter.
Late that afternoon, he emerged from the brothel with a head muzzy from drink, a body sated by sex and a jumble of confusing thoughts and misgivings. He had been offered contraband riches, sex, gambling, strong drink. At one time such things had been all he desired in life and he would have happily accepted. Yet now such pleasures held only faint allure for him. Instead, he went out to look at the teeming market and terraced hills and pastel palaces of Rio, and one thought tugged at him: none of this meant anything unless he had someone to share it with.
Someone who looked at the world with wide-eyed wonder. Someone who drank in new sights and sounds with a passion belied by her sober mien. Someone who took a new experience and clasped it to her breast like a precious treasure.
“The coach is ready,” Journey said, coming toward Ryan. “What the matter?” He peered at him. “You look sick.”
“Maybe. In my mind,” Ryan said, and he walked toward the carriage.
His Aunt Rose made an embarrassing fuss over him, exclaiming at his height, his handsomeness, the clarity of his cerulean eyes, the glossi
ness of his auburn hair.
Lily looked on, indulging her for a few moments before saying, “He’s my son, Rose dear. Not a show horse.”
“You should see me when I’m sober,” he said, swaying a little.
“Of course.” Rose hugged him. She smelled pleasantly of coffee and flowers. He hoped it masked his own less pleasant scent of liquor and cheap perfume. “Forgive me, Ryan. I wasn’t blessed with children of my own, so I must do all my mothering when I can.”
“And you do it with a natural grace,” he assured her, smiling despite a pounding headache. “Where is Isadora?”
Lily and Rose exchanged a knowing glance. Ryan cursed himself for letting his eagerness show.
Isadora came down the carved cypress stairwell, uncertainty evident in her stiff posture. “I—I apologize for keeping everyone waiting—”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Rose interrupted. “We keep no schedules at Villa do Cielo.”
“House of the sky,” Isadora softly translated. “What an enchanting image.”
“Now that we’re all together,” said Rose, “let us go in to supper.” She led the way across the arched foyer. Lily linked arms with her, and Ryan was confronted with the prospect of partnering Isadora.
He found the notion absurdly appealing.
He cocked out his elbow. “Shall we go?”
She sent him that startled, I-can’t-believe-you’re-being-nice-to-me look that gratified him even as it broke his heart. Had no one ever shown this poor woman a bit of courtesy?
She wrinkled her nose and pruned her lips in disapproval. “Captain Calhoun, what sort of business were you conducting?”
He didn’t feel ashamed, exactly. Sheepish, perhaps. “I took care of a…personal affair as well.”
“So I gather.”
“It was a long voyage, Isadora. It’s not natural for a man to…do without.”
“I’m certain I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“I’m trying to explain myself so you can include it in your report to Easterbrook.”
“Why, how dare—” She stopped as his mother and Aunt Rose came into view.
He pressed his arm against her until she took it. “Thank you, Captain,” she murmured.
“Now that we’re ashore, you should call me Ryan.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
He gestured at his mother and aunt who crossed the patio ahead of them. “The other ladies do.”
“Your ladies of the night, I presume,” she said tartly.
“That would be ‘ladies of the afternoon,”’ he explained. “And for the record, there was only one. You are keeping score, are you not?”
She made a strange wheezing sound, but couldn’t seem to get a word out.
“I meant my mother and aunt,” he said, taking pity on her. “They call me by my given name.”
“They’re related to you.”
He winked at Isadora. “That can be arranged.”
Her gaze darted away. “You shouldn’t tease.”
Maybe I wasn’t. The idea was too absurd and too startling to voice aloud, yet the instant it occurred to him, it sent down roots that reached deep inside to a tender place in his heart. It was the oddest notion that had ever occurred to him. Isadora Peabody? The prim, bashful Yankee who dreamed of Chad Easterbrook?
Ryan had clearly been too long at sea.
Isadora had no appetite for supper, though the meal was both delicious and exotic. There was avocado seasoned with vinegar, yams and beefsteak and two kinds of wine, melon and guava and lemony ice shaved from the large block Ryan had brought his aunt as a gift.
Yet for all the bounty, Isadora could only pick at her food. She felt jumpy and out of sorts, and she wasn’t sure why. Eagerness, she decided, studying the ochre walls of the dining room, the arched doorway and windows with their carved wooden screens. That, and a decided enchantment with this strange new place, with the fragrance of orchids and tamarind trees and the strains of soft guitar music that came from the servants’ wing.
And disillusionment with Ryan. The moment he’d reached shore, he’d gone looking for a woman, which he had made a point of explaining to her without apology.
“There’s so much to see,” Lily declared. “And in such a short time.”
“It doesn’t have to be short,” Rose said. “You could stay with me.”
“Here?”
“Of course. What is there at Albion for you?”
Lily took a sip of her wine. “Albion is my home. It’s where I raised my son and buried my husband. My stepson has two children I barely know. I spent too long on the Continent. I can’t stay away forever.”
Ryan eyed her keenly. “Father’s dead and I’ll never live at Albion again, Mama. I think Aunt Rose has a fine idea. Let Hunter have Albion. He never needed us anyway.”
Hunter. Isadora tried to picture the stepbrother—older, of course. Dissolute, with a big red nose from drinking all those mint juleps on the porch while his slaves worked themselves to death in the fields.
“What are his children like?” Rose asked.
“I hardly know—they were both in leading strings when I left. The boy’s name is Theodore and his sister is Belinda. Hunter’s wife—her name is Lacey—didn’t welcome my attention.” A wistful expression softened Lily’s face. “I would have liked to be a grandmama.” The expression vanished as she drilled Ryan with a stare. “Perhaps one day someone of my own flesh and blood will oblige me.”
Ryan laughed. “I know I performed a small miracle in getting us here so fast, but even I would have trouble having a baby.”
Rose burst out laughing. Her sister merely shook her head. “Whatever shall I do with the boy?”
Isadora took a very small bite of melon, chewed it carefully and swallowed. She prayed they would not see the hot blush that stained her cheeks.
“We’ve embarrassed our guest with all this bawdy talk,” Rose said. “Shame on us.”
“No, really—”
“Nonsense, my dear. Let us move on to politer topics.” She folded her unfashionably sunbrowned arms on the table. “You are a most intelligent young lady. Lily was telling me you’ve a gift for languages.”
Isadora shook her head. “If the conversation I heard at the wharves today was any indication, I am no expert.”
“She’s being modest,” Ryan said. “She’s the best interpreter I’ve ever heard.”
She blinked. After her performance with the harbor pilot, she hadn’t expected praise.
“Is that so?” Rose asked, lifting a dark eyebrow.
“It is,” he said, upending his wine goblet.
Isadora felt a soft shock of pleasure. Praise from Ryan Calhoun should not feel so good, but Lord help her, it did. She knew pride was a vanity, yet his compliment warmed her like the wine she was drinking.
“You have,” Rose observed, “a most remarkable smile.”
Isadora immediately pressed her mouth into a flat line. Ryan had probably given her a compliment because he felt guilty about his behavior.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Rose commented. “But that smile—it quite transforms you. And the cut of your hair is quite…revolutionary. I simply adore it. Perhaps I shall get mine cut short, too.”
Isadora had no idea what to say. Lily rescued her by turning the subject back to Albion and people they knew years before. Isadora sampled her lemon ice and listened, enjoying the stories of these lovely strangers while barefooted servants waited on them.
A low churring sound came through the arched windows, startling her. Noting her widened eyes, Rose said, “That noise you’re hearing is a taramin—a nocturnal monkey. He’s a pet of sorts. Shy, but he’ll come around for a taste of fruit or honey from the kitchen.”
“I’d love to see him.”
“Ryan, show Isadora out to the patio,” Rose said.
“No, really,” Isadora began, quickly changing her mind. Rose’s suggestion bore a nightmarish resemblance to the we
ll-meaning matchmakers of Boston, forever trying to pair her up with mortified young men. “It’s not nec—”
“I don’t mind.” Ryan pushed his chair from the table. She searched his face to see if he wore the look of those doomed suitors.
“You can stop in the kitchen for a pail of food,” Rose suggested. “The monkey is sure to be prowling about the garden.”
Torches illuminated the stone-paved area which formed the heart of the villa. Low arches flanked the patio, and one side had no wall but a wrought iron fence and a huge, unusual tree with a twisted trunk that resembled straining sinew and branches that grew almost horizontally out from it.
The scent of flowers weighted the night air, the odor so thick and exotic that Isadora felt woozy simply breathing it. She stopped in front of the burbling fountain in the center of the patio and stood very still, inhaling deeply, feeling the essence of the night pour through her, bringing parts of her to life that had been sleeping since before she could remember, sleeping so soundly that until this moment she didn’t know they existed.
“Are you ill?” Ryan asked, breaking in on her ecstatic reveries.
She opened her eyes. “No. Why do you ask?”
“You looked a little…peaked,” he said. “A little dizzy.”
“If I’m dizzy it’s not due to illness,” she said, flushing. “It’s because this place is so wonderful—the smells and sounds and the very feel of the air—it makes me…tingle,” she explained, then flushed again. “For want of a better word.”
“Tingle,” he repeated, an amused quirk lifting the side of his mouth.
“What I mean is that this environment gives me a sense of vitality I’ve not felt before. Does it have that effect on you, Captain Calhoun?”
He studied her with a frank and probing scrutiny that made her uncomfortable. And without moving his gaze from her, he said, “I do believe I feel that tingling effect, Isadora.”
“Now you’re teasing me,” she said, but the night was too perfect to feel angry about it.
