by Susan Wiggs
She knew it was graceful. Mr. Izard had drilled her on the skill for weeks. Thanks to the unlikely kindness of a band of rough sailors, she now knew how to dance and comport herself like a queen if she chose to.
Abel and his wife exchanged a swift glance. “And you, too, my dear. Welcome to our home. Please, come in and meet ev—”
“Pardon me,” said a deep and familiar voice. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
Isadora stood very still, savoring the sound of a voice she used to live for. She turned to see Chad Easterbrook bowing, reaching for her hand. And she laughed, because she realized he truly didn’t know who she was.
“On the contrary,” she said, her laughter gaining even more attention from dancers and passersby. “We have indeed been introduced. Fie on you, sir.”
“Then dance with me,” Chad said, giving her a look that all but devoured her, “and allow me a chance to recover my memory.”
Amazing, she thought as he led her out to the dance floor and joined a lively reel done in two lines. Were people truly that deceived by looks? The most dramatic changes had occurred within. Yet they shone from without.
More inquisitive stares followed her through the reel. For the first time in her life, Isadora knew what it felt like to be the object of male admiration. Foster Candy tried to whisper a compliment to her as they faced each other across the lines of the reel. His younger brother nearly tripped over his feet because he was looking at Isadora rather than watching where he was going. Chad almost came to blows with Foster as they debated which one of them deserved the privilege of fetching her a cup of punch.
She also experienced, for the first time, the envy of females. Lydia Haven looked daggers at her, and other young ladies had a furious conference about her behind their fans.
This, Isadora discovered, was far less pleasurable. She didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. She simply wanted to enjoy herself in company, something she’d never been able to do.
Until Ryan showed her how.
Ryan.
She cast a glance at the door. Where was he, anyway? She missed him. She was still in shock over their last conversation.
I fell in love with you that day.
The words sang in her ears, drowning out the music until she danced strictly by rote, a puppet unaware of the actual steps. He’d fallen in love with her. Ryan. Her exasperating, glorious, wild, dangerous, troubled, exuberant, unconventional sea captain.
She couldn’t wait to see him.
“We’d best wait till the storm passes,” Ryan said, facing the ugly low brow of storm clouds moving in from the northeast. He and Journey stood on the deck of the schooner Izard had managed to commission. Its owner clearly had more greed than pride in his ship. The double-masted vessel, though sleek for fast oceangoing, suffered from rot and had a decided list to the starboard side.
“I don’t think we should wait,” Journey said, handing him a long brass spyglass. “Have a look at that skiff.”
“The revenue man,” Ryan said.
“They’re heading straight for the Swan.”
He might be correct, Ryan reasoned, judging by the set of the jib. But there were a lot of boats in the harbor.
“The crew will stall them. Hold them off if it comes to that.”
“That Easterbrook character got a look at Celeste,” Journey said, his voice low and taut with anxiety. “Damn it, Ryan. Did we come this far just to get caught?”
“The weather’s ugly.” Ryan’s gut churned with indecision. “No one but a fool would weigh anchor in this.”
“A fool or a fugitive,” Journey replied.
The skiff drew closer to the Swan and Ryan had another look. What he saw through the crosshairs of the round brass eye made up his mind for him. “They’re carrying armed police.”
He and Journey shared a look that needed no words. They had no choice. They had to leave.
“Are Dee and the girls all right below?”
“Yeah.”
They didn’t even pause to weigh anchor; they cut the cables and ran. While the schooner pitched up and over the growing storm swells and the wind howled through the rigging, Ryan thought of Isadora. He had promised to go to the party. He had broken the first promise he’d ever made her. Surely that was proof she was better off without him.
What was she doing now? Was she smiling her dazzling smile, holding court before a group of adoring swains?
He liked to think he had a hand in making her dreams come true.
And had he been wrong to tell her he loved her? He didn’t know. But he was glad he’d told the truth. It might be the only honest thing he could ever give her.
The sense of wonder glowing inside Isadora grew stronger each time she thought of Ryan’s declaration. She became anxious for him to arrive. But he didn’t. Instead, more guests showed up, the current dance ended, and in the heartbeat lull after the smattering of applause, she looked for Ryan again.
“I hope you’ll allow me to call on you,” Chad Easterbrook said, coming to stand beside her, a proprietary hand at her waist.
It should be, Isadora thought, a dream come true to hear all of this. Hadn’t she wished for years that Chad would notice her, would want to be with her? Yet now she regarded his storybook-prince face, his perfect clothes, and she realized that he had been an illusion, as unreal as an illustration in a children’s book. She hadn’t loved Chad; she’d loved the idea of Chad. He’d stood for those things she’d lacked—good looks, poise, social popularity. Yet now that she possessed those qualities, she realized they weren’t at all the panacea she’d thought them to be.
“You’d not object, then?” Chad said anxiously, not at all attuned to her mood. “If I were to call on you?”
“Why would I object?” she murmured distractedly. She couldn’t keep from looking at the door. A howl of wind rattled the glass panes in the sidelights. Lightning flashed, filling the foyer with an angry blue glow.
A few minutes later, more guests arrived, but Ryan wasn’t among them. Still, Isadora was happy to see the newcomers. She stood beside Chad, smiling as they approached.
A woman’s voice said, “Dora? Dear lord, it’s Isadora!” and pandemonium broke loose.
“Is…Isadora?” Chad’s jaw dropped.
Isadora turned to embrace her sister Arabella, who had been so voluble in her surprise. “Oh, Belle, it’s so good to see you,” she said, hugging her, feeling their skirts whisper together, then standing back as Arabella held her at arm’s length and stared incredulously.
“I don’t believe my eyes,” Arabella said, her face shining with wonder. “Look at you, Dora. You’re absolutely gorgeous!”
Isadora laughed, knowing it wasn’t so, not in the way Arabella meant but touched nonetheless that her sister had marked the change. Within seconds, while everyone around them buzzed with the news, her other sister and brothers came to greet her, followed by their parents. Chad stood back, silent, flabbergasted, as everyone spoke at once.
“When did you return?” “What on earth did you do to your hair?” “Where are your spectacles?” “Is this the style in Rio de Janeiro?” “Can you show me that new dance step?”
Isadora tried to answer as many questions as she could, aware of a growing audience at the fringes of the family group. “I have ever so much to tell you,” she said. “I feel as if I’ve been gone for years rather than months.”
Her parents beamed with pride. “We’re pleased to have you home. We’ve missed you,” her mother said.
And Isadora understood that at last, at long last, she had done something to please her mother. She should have felt satisfied, but instead she was merely puzzled. Why was it so easy to win approval when she looked nice and danced well?
Despite her pleasure at being with her family, she couldn’t keep from darting nervous glances at the front door.
“Are you expecting someone?” her brother Bronson asked.
“Captain Calhoun,” she said. “I thought
he would have arrived by now. This voyage has been such a triumph for him—”
“Didn’t you know?” Abel asked, stepping forward, his brow creased. “He won’t be calling on us. His chief mate sent word—Calhoun had to send his regrets.”
By morning, Isadora Dudley Peabody had become the toast of Boston. At one time, the lauded distinction would have meant the world to her. But now she realized how shallow it was to want something that depended on the opinions and standards of others and had nothing to do with her alone.
Early in the morning she sat up in bed, goggle-eyed and slightly disoriented. She blinked, looking around, taking in the thick flocked wallpaper and the Heppelwhite desk in the corner, the highboy and the French doors with their velvet draperies. Belatedly she recognized her own bedroom in her father’s house.
Home. She was home again.
And she felt like the stranger she had always been in this house.
She remembered the party last night, dancing until her feet ached and her throat was raw from talking and laughing, and knew that this was the way popular girls awakened every morning after a party. Pretty and popular. The things she had always wanted to be. At least, until Ryan had shown her that such qualities didn’t matter.
She got up and washed at the washstand and cleaned her teeth. Opening the parcel from the Silver Swan, she discovered more of the elegantly cut dresses Lily had given her, and she put one on, limiting herself to a single petticoat. She was trying to put some order to her hair when a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she called.
Thankful, the maid, came bustling in with a tray. “Here’s your tea, miss, and a whole bunch of cards and letters.”
“Thank you. Set them on the side table.” Isadora smiled distractedly. She kept thinking about the night before, the night all her dreams should have come true but had not.
Thankful lingered in the doorway, eyeing Isadora with ill-concealed curiosity and…something else. Admiration. Yes, the maid who had laughed at her, made sport of her in backstairs whispers, was suddenly fascinated with her transformation.
“That will be all for now, Thankful.” Isadora poured herself a cup of tea and sipped it as she looked through the cards and notes. Invitations. A huge pile of them. Dancing parties, soirées, reading parties, intellectual debates, picnics, gaming nights, drives to the country. Every sort of social event she had ever dreamed of. Everything she had yearned for now lay before her on a silver platter.
The trouble was, she didn’t want this kind of life anymore.
The realization washed over her, and she dropped the letters. Dear God. She’d spent years wanting something that didn’t even matter.
Last night’s celebration had seemed empty and meaningless without Ryan. The former insecure Isadora emerged briefly, wondering if he regretted his blurted declaration of love and was now avoiding her.
No. The new Isadora remembered the look in his eyes when he said it, and she trusted that look. Against all odds, the most exciting man in the world loved her. She should have guessed it long before. She should have seen it slowly happening, should have seen through his teasing. He had told her he loved her in countless ways, perhaps beginning with the singular act of cruelly throwing her spectacles overboard.
She’d been too thickheaded to realize what his actions meant. “Stupid,” she said under her breath. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Everything she wanted had been within her grasp—aboard the Swan. In Ryan Calhoun’s arms. But she had been so fixated on coming back to Beacon Hill, on conquering Chad Easterbrook and impressing those who had made fun of her, that she had been blind to what really mattered.
Ryan mattered. Ryan, and the way she was with him. The way she loved him.
“Ye powers,” she said, yanking on a shawl, jamming on a hat. “I do love him.”
Terror and joy rushed through her as she raced down the stairs, nearly overturning the tray in the foyer that was fast filling up with a new batch of invitations. “I’m going out, Mother,” she called, tugging open the front door without waiting for an answer.
She must have been a peculiar sight, racing down the wet brick streets of Beacon Hill toward the waterfront, her hat trailing down her back on its ribbons and her skirt hiked almost to her knees. Nursemaids pushing prams stopped to stare. Gardeners straightened from their tasks, and inquisitive faces peeked out of coach windows.
Isadora didn’t care; she barely noticed. It was only a short distance along the rainwashed streets, yet she had never covered it on foot. She was amazed to find that it took her only minutes to reach the waterfront. The one thought in her mind was Ryan. She had to find him, tell him…what?
That she loved him?
What would have been the point? he’d asked her only the day before. Did he mean there was no point because he didn’t think she could love him? Or because there was another reason they should not be in love?
No matter. She knew now, knew with a certainty that mocked her for not recognizing it sooner. Why hadn’t she understood, when he’d held her, kissed her, made love to her, that it was love she was feeling?
Because life had taught her to mistrust her own feelings, to obey convention and rules. Ryan had taught her otherwise. Nearly laughing or weeping with the knowledge, she barely noticed when it began to drizzle again. Through the thickening cold mist, she spied the familiar topgallant of the Swan and hurried toward it.
Harbor pilots had brought the bark into its berth and stevedores swarmed over the wharves and decks, discharging cargo. Isadora spotted Timothy Datty and waved at him, cupping her hands around her mouth. “I need to see Captain Calhoun,” she called.
From a distance, Timothy’s posture seemed to change. Was it a trick of the light, or did his face pale, his shoulders hunch?
Then she saw it. A sodden black ribbon suspended from a yardarm.
Isadora forced herself to back up and stand under a canvas awning as she waited for Datty to come down the gangplank. She heard the drumming of rain on the awning, the mournful cry of a gull, the whinny of a drayman’s horse. Timothy stopped to hail a fisherman in oilskin slicks, spoke briefly to the man, then approached her.
She didn’t want to hear it, whatever awful thing he was about to say to her. She wanted to clap her hands over her ears, but that would be wrong, that would be cowardly, and if she had learned anything from Ryan it was courage.
She went toward Timothy, meeting him halfway between the awning and the ship. She stood in the rain, in the gray, dripping chill that surrounded the wharf, feeling each droplet on her face, feeling the water drip down her temples and not caring that she was getting drenched.
“Where is Captain Calhoun?” Her voice didn’t waver, didn’t betray the dread that had started inside her the moment she’d seen the black ribbon through the curtain of rain.
“There was t-trouble last night,” Timothy said, breathing fast with nervousness. “Please, Miss Isadora, come in out of the rain.”
“Say it, Timothy,” she said. “Quickly.”
She noticed, with a dull thud of hopelessness, that the other crewmen were slowly coming toward her, hats in their hands, gazes cast down.
“The harbor guard boarded us last night. Said they’d heard we had fugitive slaves, said w-we was to surrender them immediately.”
“Ryan would never surrender.” She caught a sob in her throat and held it off, determined to hear what had happened with a stoicism that did honor to Ryan’s bravery.
“We held off the guard as best we could,” Ralph Izard said. “There were words, but no one came to blows.” He cleared his throat. “There was nothing to find, anyway. The skipper and Journey, they’d already put Delilah and the little ones aboard the schooner.”
Isadora closed her eyes. “They put out to sea, didn’t they? They set sail right into the storm.”
“They didn’t have much choice. The guard gave chase—they had a skiff and a longboat—but only to the mouth of the harbor. Then they fell back.” Izard
squeezed his soggy hat in his hands. “The storm drove them back.”
“And the schooner?” Isadora asked.
Silence. It roared at her from a void.
Timothy’s shoulders shook with unrestrained sobs. The Doctor snuffled loudly, and William Click put his hand on the cook’s arm. Gerald, Luigi and Chips stood around, wringing their hands helplessly. Without their skipper they foundered like a rudderless ship.
Izard gestured at the fishermen, who were busy offloading their catch of codfish. “The crew of the Gail sighted them off George’s Bank and tried to give aid, but the swells were too big.”
“It wasn’t any kind of weather for sailing,” Chips said, his voice thin with horror.
“They saw the schooner go down,” Izard said as gently as he could.
Isadora heard a terrible roaring in her ears, more awful than the roar of the sea in a storm. “But surely—please God, surely—they escaped in launches.”
“No, miss.” His long, mournful face was gray with suffering. “There were no survivors.”
In the deepest part of her, something shattered. Something died.
Timothy reached for her hand but she didn’t take it. She was made of glass; the slightest touch would cause her to fly to pieces.
I should weep, she thought. I should start to weep now and never stop. But it wasn’t that simple. The magnitude of her loss was too immense for weeping.
An eerie calm settled over her as she turned away from the crew of the Swan.
“Where are they?” she asked. “Where are…the bodies?” The calm pressed upon her, smothering, choking her.
“Miss Isadora, they went down with the ship. There was no saving them in a storm like that. Please, miss, come to the galley. The Doctor will make some tea….”
She ignored the pleading voice, ignored the murmurs of sympathy, ignored everything but the cruel thunder of the ocean in her ears. Blood no longer ran in her veins. It was ice, pure ice, as cold as the ballast that had weighted the Silver Swan on its mythical voyage to paradise.
