by Susan Wiggs
Their laughter had a nervous edge, but Quentin managed to turn the attention from Journey to Isadora. She sat like a statue, her face pale, her eyes cast down. The liveliness that had animated her moments ago had vanished.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Quentin asked with a gamin chuckle, “Or is it true? Is my sister actually to be found in conversation with a gentleman rather than with her nose in a book?”
The others laughed. Isadora managed a tight, uncomfortable smile.
“Oh, do stop,” Arabella protested prettily, shaking a white lace fan. “Can’t you see you’re embarrassing poor Izzie?”
Isadora responded by sneezing violently into her handkerchief.
“Bless you,” Chad Easterbrook murmured automatically.
She sent him a tremulous smile, shy and curiously sweet. Judging by Chad’s expression, he had no appreciation of what was immediately apparent to anyone with half a brain—the poor girl was quite thoroughly in love with him.
“How was your croquet match?” she asked softly, her voice wavering a little.
“Oh, capital,” Chad said. Offhandedly he added, “Though you were missed, of course.”
“Yes, indeed.” Lydia Haven brushed out a flounce in her white dress. “You certainly were. It is always so amusing to have you around, Izzie.”
“Thank you. But…as I was compelled to inform Chad, I’m unwell. I’m…ah…” She sneezed again, pressing the rumpled handkerchief to her reddened nose.
“What can be keeping the refreshments?” Bronson wondered aloud. “I asked for lemonade to be served out here. I’ll go inquire.”
The women gathered in the gazebo, and the men wandered away, Foster and Robert lighting their pipes. They fell into conversation, none of it terribly interesting. Ryan realized he’d had a better time discussing navigation with Isadora. He listened with only one ear to the men’s talk. Until Foster addressed him directly.
“I’m told—though, of course, I have no experience of this—that as soon as a gentleman leaves the college, he finds himself in quite a calamity.”
Ryan lifted one eyebrow. “I’ve done all right.”
“But isn’t it true that all your tailors and gaming friends, so generous to Harvard men, are apt to call in their markers?” Foster persisted, his eyes narrowing with slyness. “Perhaps not. Perhaps they sent their dun notes to your dear mama.”
Ryan flexed his fist and took a step toward him. Journey planted himself in his path. “Easy, Skipper,” he said quietly. “Remember why we came here. Remember what’s important.”
Ryan took a deep breath. He had to stay focused on the business venture.
He ignored the talk until Isadora’s name came up.
“There’s a family joke, you know,” said Quentin in a low voice, “that our parents had to tie a codfish cake around Izzie’s neck to get the cat to play with her.”
Foster Candy made a choked sound of amusement. “There, old stick, I daresay I’d charge a steeper price than a fish cake!”
“Lemonade,” Bronson called, helping the butler wheel a wooden cart across the lawn.
The refreshments arrived and the talk started up again, but the drink tasted bitter to Ryan. As he stood back and watched the laughing, white-clad croquet party and Isadora sitting like a black crow on her stool, he wished he had never come here.
“She lives in hell,” he muttered to Journey.
“There are many kinds of hell. Some worse than others.”
Ryan knew Journey was thinking of his family, still in bondage in Virginia, their only hope of freedom resting with the fortunes of the Silver Swan. Yet Isadora Peabody suffered in her own way; that was apparent enough. While Southern families institutionalized their inhumanity, claiming a moral right to keep slaves and justifying it in the oddest of fashions, this proper Yankee society had its own subtle brand of torture.
It was a calculated cruelty, razor sharp, aimed at the most vulnerable. Miss Isadora had no defenses against the biting cleverness of her croquet-playing, lemonade-drinking peers. Timid socially, yet gifted with a fierce intellect, she was regarded as an aberration. Different and not to be trusted.
She was regarded as “poor Izzie.” But already Ryan realized she was “not-so-dumb Dora.”
Chad Easterbrook, vast in his mental absence, clearly had no notion that she worshiped him. Perhaps, then, it was the perfect match, Ryan mused cynically, leaning against a pergola and watching as Isadora sneezed yet again, and Chad blessed her and she gazed up at him as if he’d offered her the moon on a platter. He was capable of only selfish thought, and she suffered from an excess of thoughtfulness. Between the two of them they made a whole person. Possibly even an interesting person.
Except that it was clear to Ryan that they were not a couple. Lydia Haven commandeered the young man’s attention with all the determination of a battle chief leading a charge. He was hers, following her across the lawn like a trained spaniel and leaving Isadora to snuffle ungraciously into her handkerchief.
“We should go,” Ryan said. “Miss Peabody,” he continued, taking her hand and bowing, lifting it to his lips. “Your offer was more than kind, and for that I thank you. Good day.”
“But we haven’t—you can’t—”
Feeling terrible, he left her stammering. He heard one of the other young women sigh. He and Journey found their own way out and Ryan was relieved to leave the stifling atmosphere of the Peabody mansion behind.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Journey asked.
“Don’t you dare suggest it,” Ryan said, adding in his best Boston accent, “old chap.”
“But she speaks six languages—”
“No.”
“She’s miserable here—”
“No.”
“She’s a hell of a lot more interesting than the ladies you brought aboard last ni—”
“Damn it,” Ryan almost shouted, “no.”
Isadora refused to take no for an answer. So what if Ryan Calhoun turned out to be as shallow and mocking as Quentin and his friends? He had something she wanted—a way out of Boston. And she was determined to get it.
As she waited in the brick-fronted Merchants’ Exchange offices of Abel Easterbrook, she allowed herself a brief, satisfying moment of gloating. Though he didn’t know it, Captain Calhoun himself had given her the key to obtaining the post.
“Ahoy, Miss Isadora!” Abel opened the door to his inner chamber and greeted her with a bewhiskered smile. “Welcome aboard.”
“I shan’t keep you long, sir, for I know you’re busy.” She seated herself in the chair he held for her. Lithographs of ships and lighthouses graced the bradded-leather walls of the office and stacks of ledger books filled the shelves. She folded her gloved hands, inhaling the scent of ink and tobacco and paper—the scent of commerce.
“You have a marvelous office,” she said, shaking her head briefly when Abel offered her a cup of sherry.
“It’s been in the family for three generations,” he said. “One day it’ll all be Chad’s.”
A thrill shot down her spine. If Abel agreed to her plan, she could finally win Chad’s esteem. By the time Chad took over the company, Isadora intended to be indispensable to the enterprise. With her knowledge of the business, she would be a great asset to Chad. Perhaps a great enough asset to be his wi—
She cut the thought short. One step at a time, she told herself. “Have you had a chance to consider my proposal, sir?”
He tamped his pipe on a tray. “I have, Miss Isadora. Your credentials are copper-bottomed, unimpeachable. However, what you ask is impossible. I cannot allow you to sign on as a member of the crew of the Silver Swan.”
She kept her chin steady despite the urge to crumple in defeat. “May I ask why?”
“It’s not a woman’s place—”
“Ah, but it is.” She relaxed, pleased that she had prepared herself for this argument. “The Fairacre has not only a woman bo’sun, but the cook is a female as well.”
/> “The cook is the skipper’s wife,” he argued.
“She wasn’t when she signed on,” Isadora replied.
“I rest my case. I can’t let you be bound away with a shipload of jack-tars. God forbid you should come back married to one of them.”
She smiled at the irony. “Believe me, Mr. Easterbrook, there is no chance of any sort of…entanglement.” She thought of the ripe, laughing woman Ryan Calhoun had held in his lap the night she’d met him. If that sort was his preference, he wouldn’t look twice at Isadora. “And did you know,” she continued, “that the Pandora has three women aboard—and that she grossed a hundred thousand last year?”
“All right, I’ll concede that some crews include females. But Calhoun’s a loose cannon. You saw him the other night—he’ll give you the devil to pay and no pitch hot.”
“That is precisely why you need me. I alone know how important the Rio voyage is to you. I can be your eyes and ears on that ship, Mr. Easterbrook. I can make regular reports about Captain Calhoun’s behavior and the way he conducts his affairs.”
A crack appeared in his reluctance. “Wouldn’t mind having a barnacle on the hull for this voyage,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t be right to send a lady like you. He might shame you.”
“His mother will be there as a passenger—”
“He’ll probably humiliate her, as well.”
“Sir, I assure you, Mrs. Calhoun and I can look after our own reputations. The one who needs looking after is Captain Calhoun.”
“This is headed for rocky shoals, I can feel it.”
“Not at all. It will be smooth sailing, and I intend to see to it for your sake. Use the man’s skill as a skipper, but don’t let him scuttle your reputation as a leader in commerce.”
Her words made great headway into the kindly old man’s pride. Feeling herself close to victory, she said, “Mr. Easterbrook, you have ever been a visionary, on the leading edge of modern business. Engaging my services is the next logical step.”
Five
First ponder, then dare.
—Helmuth von Moltke
(attributed)
“C-can I h-help you, ma’am?” a young boy asked Isadora.
She turned on the dock to look at him. “Is this the Silver Swan?” Isadora asked.
The lad—a wiry, nervous boy of perhaps fifteen—nodded jerkily. “Yes’m.” He snatched off his tarpaulin seaman’s cap. “Tim-Timothy Datty, at your service.”
“I am looking for Captain Calhoun.”
“H-he’s aboard, but—”
“Good. I was hoping he would be.” She headed toward the gangway, stepping around the dock where brawny-shouldered stevedores were discharging the cargo. She tried not to stare but couldn’t help herself.
In contrast to the fitted frock coats, silk hats and chicken-skin gloves of drawing-room gentlemen, the men of the wharf wore loose trousers, shirts and neckerchiefs fastened with slip-ties. Crude expressions, spoken in a variety of foreign accents, filled the air. She could not fathom the meaning of poodle faking but she felt certain she didn’t want to know.
“M-ma’am.” Timothy Datty trotted alongside her. “C-c-captain’s not—”
“You needn’t stop what you’re doing to accompany me,” she said. “I know the way.”
He pressed his mouth shut, waving his hands. There was something earnest and appealing about the boy. A pity about his stutter. Elocution lessons and special readings might help, but she didn’t suggest it for fear of embarrassing him. Besides, she was in a hurry to see Ryan Calhoun.
She wondered if he would be surprised to see her. With a shiver of anticipation, she remembered the way he’d taken his leave of her after their meeting. He had crossed the lawn, looking as masterful and dignified as a young prince, and bowed over her hand. Even Lydia Haven had dragged her attention away from Chad long enough to notice the gallant gesture.
Isadora held Ryan Calhoun’s boldness in quiet fascination. While she shrinkingly obeyed the rules of her parents and society, Mr. Calhoun flouted convention and took his own path. Perhaps his very lack of protocol would make him see the sense in her plan, then.
One of the stevedores struck up a bawdy song in Portuguese, the strong, operatic voice ringing across the waterfront. Women’s body parts sounded so much more poetic in Portuguese, Isadora observed, trying her best not to blush. She headed up to the main deck and then climbed to the…she consulted her memory as she progressed. The afterdeck—yes, that was it—reached by means of a gangway and companion ladder.
She had burned the gaslight late the night before, studying a tome of nautical terms. At their meeting in the garden, Captain Calhoun had nearly exhausted her supply of knowledge, and she had stocked up on more. A deceptive practice, yes, but Isadora was desperate.
She could hear young Timothy Datty shouting to her from the dock far below, but with the singing stevedore and the screech of lifting gear, she couldn’t hear him. And why was he jumping up and down and waving his arms?
The deserted main deck had been cleared of crates and barrels, though a few remnants of the revelry remained—stray chicken feathers, a broken bottle, a spent cigar. She tucked away her apprehension and made her way to the captain’s stateroom, finding the door slightly ajar. Within, she could hear a faint thumping sound.
Clearing her throat, she knocked at the door. “Captain Calhoun, are you there?”
“Al…almost…” His voice sounded ragged, and he let out a gasp and a moan.
He was ill! Dear heaven, he might be dying in there. She pushed the door open and marched inside. “I’m here, Captain. Do you need any help?”
“I—oh, for Christ’s sake.” The crude words came from within a draped alcove.
“What the hell’s going on?” asked a female voice, also behind the drapes.
Isadora stopped in her tracks, frozen like a hunted rabbit. Heavens be, he was with a woman. In flagrante delicto. That must have been what Timothy had been trying to tell her. She willed herself to flee, willed her feet to turn toward the door, but she was too horrified to obey even common sense.
A hand, and then a head, appeared through the drapes. Isadora recognized the woman from the night of the party, the one with yellow hair and red lips and huge—
“I’m so sorry,” Isadora managed to whisper.
“Not half as sorry as me,” the woman said in a coarse voice. She exited from the bed, pushing her feet into a pair of slippers and tugging up her bodice as she clumped to the door. “Don’t summon me again unless you have time for me,” she called over her shoulder, then left in a huff.
Isadora knew she should follow, but horror held her rooted. She looked anywhere but at the bunk, trying to distract herself by cataloguing the details of her surroundings, but all appeared as a blur; she couldn’t concentrate.
“You are like a bad rash,” Ryan Calhoun said, coming out of the bed and jerking the curtain shut. “You won’t go away.” Grumbling peevishly, he pulled on a tall boot.
Isadora caught her breath. Seeing a gentleman with his shirt open at the throat, its tails loose over his trousers, his hair in tousled disarray, was a new experience to her. She even forgot to be insulted.
He yanked on the second boot and scowled at her. “Miss Peabody, I paid you the honor of a personal visit to tell you why I cannot bring you along on the voyage. So why are you here?”
“Because I need you,” she blurted, letting out her breath in a rush. Mortified, she cleared her throat, composing herself. “I mean, I was hoping you would see the sense in engaging my services as translator so that I wouldn’t have to prevail on Mr. Easterbrook.”
“You didn’t.”
“I’m afraid you left me no choice.” She took a folded letter from her reticule and handed it to him. “Your refusal compelled me to take matters into my own hands.”
Almost viciously, he broke the waxen seal on the letter. Angling the cream stock paper toward the light, he read it.
Trying not to fid
get, Isadora looked around the room. The cabin resembled a merchant’s office and parlor in miniature. A long table aft was curved slightly to echo the fantail shape of the stern. Benches flanked the table, and in the middle rested a tray of crystal decanters clad in silver filigree. There was also a small writing desk with an industrious array of cubbyholes, and a tiny door leading, she supposed, to the water closet. A squat sea chest with an intimidating-looking lock rested near the upholstered aft bench. The stern windows, of leaded bottle-bottom glass, glittered with the afternoon light.
The light, though weak, fell kindly over Ryan Calhoun, illuminating his negligent pose, his rumpled clothing and the frown that deepened with every word he read.
And even scowling, Isadora couldn’t help but notice, he was an uncommon man. Some might even say beautiful in the classical sense, the wave of reddish hair almost Grecian, the height of his cheekbones and brow unmistakably patrician. Judging by the tight fit of his trousers beneath the trailing broadcloth shirt, the lady he’d been entertaining had every right to be resentful of the interruption.
“So you brought pressure to bear on Abel,” said Ryan, catching her staring at him. “Charming.”
“I dislike the implication of that. I merely presented my point of view and he agreed.” She prayed silently that Ryan Calhoun would never learn that her offer included spying on him. “Mr. Easterbrook is a man of commerce—a very successful one, as you well know. He was more than happy to approve my position.”
“And what does his son think of this, Miss Peabody?” A harsh cruelty edged Ryan Calhoun’s voice. “What does Chad think, or does he think at all? I’m not quite certain he knows how.”
She swallowed, finding her throat suddenly parched. “It was Abel’s decision. I’m sure I have no idea what Chad thinks.”
“How can you bear to be away from the gallant Chad for so long? Have you thought about that?”
She flinched. No one was supposed to know about her secret adoration of Chad Easterbrook. No one. How had this rude, blunt man guessed?
Ryan crushed the letter in his fist. “I won’t have it.”
