by Susan Wiggs
Isadora tried not to appear interested in the young woman in a threadbare dress. Isadora was glad for the darkness and the veil, because she felt a glorious smile coming on. Celeste was the name of Journey’s younger daughter.
Setting down her cup, she stepped into the child’s path and leaned down. “Celeste,” she said gently, “Your mama’s calling you.” She held out her gloved hand. “Come. I’ll take you to her.”
The child fell as still as a pillar of salt, her eyes big. Isadora cursed herself for not realizing that a stranger with a veiled face was as frightening as a ghost. Celeste sucked in a deep breath and formed her mouth into an O, preparing to let loose with a scream.
Isadora saw her plan falling to pieces. The child’s hysteria would draw Mr. Beaumont’s attention, and all would be lost.
But before Celeste screamed, Delilah arrived, grabbing her hand and yanking her away from Isadora. The child clung to her mother’s skirts, regarding Isadora with horror.
“Delilah,” Isadora whispered, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “Please, don’t run off. I have something for you.”
“I best be going, ma’am,” Delilah said, backing away. Her older child held fast to her hand. “It’s time to get my babies to sleep.”
It was all Isadora could do to keep from grabbing for her. She prayed no one would hear as she said, “I have something from Journey.”
A soft intake of breath was her only reaction. “Yes’m,” she said, very quietly.
A couple of the other women drew cautiously near. Isadora felt surrounded. Dear heaven, she was so close, yet how could she converse with Delilah now?
“Mistress needs to set a spell,” Delilah said calmly. “That’s all. Just needs to set a spell.”
She led her toward a mud-chinked cabin. To Isadora’s relief, the others stepped out of their way.
She sat on a crooked bench outside the cabin. Through the open door, she detected a faint glow from a rude stove with a teapot steaming atop it. The bed was a plank, the pillow a stick of wood, the bedding a coarse blanket.
Out on the road, the men were still busy whistling and hawing at the horse and trying to heave up the mired coach, but she knew she only had moments. She pulled something from her glove and pressed it into Delilah’s hand.
“From Journey,” she whispered. It was the love knot, fashioned from a lock of Delilah’s hair, on a leather strap.
Delilah’s rough, slender fingers closed around the amulet. “Lord be praised,” she said, so faintly that her children clutched at her.
“He’s worn it around his neck ever since the day he left you,” Isadora said. “We haven’t much time. If you wish to leave this place tonight, I and the men with me will help.”
Delilah’s white-rimmed eyes shone in the flickering light with terror and hope. And—God be praised—trust. The love-knot from Journey had convinced her. “Yes’m.”
As quickly as she could, Isadora explained the plan. “There is no time to think this over,” she cautioned. “But the risks are clear. You don’t have to go.”
“I know the risks,” Delilah said.
Isadora heard the conviction in her words. Delilah knew what was at stake better than Isadora ever would. In spite of her suffering, Delilah had the soft, womanly knowledge of her own humanity. She had birthed two babies and loved a man who was only half alive without her. Choosing between a lifetime of servitude and the threat of capture and punishment could not be easy for a woman with two tiny children. But Delilah had obviously made her decision. “I sorrowed a thousand nights for that man,” she said. “I’m through with sorrowing.”
“Then you know what to do.” Isadora stood, already moving away, not wanting to betray a particular interest in Delilah. She fanned herself vigorously and hoped Mr. Izard would notice, for that was the signal to move on to the next step.
The tense moments drew out unbearably. With a great rocking motion and a squishing of mud, with a chorus of male grunts and “heave-hos,” the carriage finally lurched up out of the mud. The horse, exhausted, gave a whinny and hung its head.
Isadora could hear the beating of her own heart in her ears, could feel the pulse of fear in her throat. She tried not to break into a cold sweat when she saw a quick flare of fire on the roof of one of the cabins. A woman screeched, and people ran toward the well. Luigi had touched a torch to the roof, creating mass confusion.
Meanwhile, Isadora walked quickly toward the coach, forgotten now in the excitement over the fire. Beside her, Delilah kept to the shadows, a child on each hip. No one seemed to notice as they went behind the coach. “Under the blankets, just there,” Isadora whispered.
Shushing one of the girls, who had started to whimper, Delilah complied. Isadora prayed the darkness and shouts and confusion had covered the maneuver. She waited patiently as the flames were doused. It didn’t take long, for the fire had no time to spread.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she called, “are things always this exciting around here?”
“Happily, no. I much prefer the genteel excitement of a visitor like yourself.” He bent gallantly over her hand, but when he straightened up, he looked at the clarence and frowned. “Isn’t that an Albion coach?”
“Oh, heavenly days, I wouldn’t say so. I hired it in Fairfield,” Isadora said breezily. “The driver and footman as well.” As Hugh took a step toward the rig, she moved in front of him. “And now I really must be going. But thank you ever so kindly. You have no idea how much you’ve given me tonight.”
She curtsied, and he bowed dramatically. “Miss Swann, you are a bright star in an otherwise dreary evening.”
“And you, sir, are a gentleman beyond compare. Come along, Mr. Calhoun,” she said to Ryan. Dear heaven, she sounded exactly like Lily. She prayed she had Lily’s dignity as she went to the coach and allowed Luigi to hand her up.
She dared not let herself worry about what Ryan thought of this charade. Gathering her skirts with great care, she seated herself as he got in behind her. Then the rig plunged into darkness, away from Bonterre forever.
Or so she hoped.
Weighing anchor in the dead of night was not the smartest thing Ryan had ever done as skipper, but thanks to Isadora’s maneuver, he had no choice. He should be furious, but he couldn’t get the grin off his face. He couldn’t stop thinking about Journey’s reunion with his family.
It had been pure magic. A moment he would savor for the rest of his days. Abandoning the carriage a mile from Bonterre, Ralph and Luigi had conducted their passengers to an inlet where Chips awaited in a bumboat. Rowing with all their might, they’d reached the Swan at moonrise. Delilah and the children, who had huddled in terrified silence the entire time, had spied Journey pacing the decks.
Ryan would never forget the look on Dee’s face when she recognized her husband by the light of a binnacle lamp. She had looked up from her seat in the boat, and Journey had looked down from the ship’s deck. Like a supplicant in church, she had lifted her gaze aloft, tightening her arms around her little girls and staring at Journey while the tears poured down her cheeks.
Isadora had wept unabashedly into her sleeve when Journey met Delilah at the boarding ladder. He’d held his girls in his arms and then, with a cry of joy so powerful it sounded like pain, he fell to his knees in gratitude, wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist. He pressed his cheek to her stomach and sobbed. Every sailor aboard, men who had been hardened by the sea and inured to emotion, began to weep, Ryan included. Even William Click rubbed at his eyes and honked into his bandanna.
Now, hours later, they had set sail in the dark, hoping to avoid the shoals Ryan knew like the back of his hand. The moon had begun to set, and its light created a silver stream on the glassy surface of the water. At the mouth of Chesapeake Bay, a fair wind filled the sails.
Ryan turned back to view Virginia. The dark hills rose to the starry sky, a dazzling display of beauty in crystal-studded black velvet.
Virginia. It was a place in his heart. And there
it would stay. He could never return now.
He felt…strange. This was a moment of triumph, to be sure. For years he’d awaited this reunion. On some level his life had been moving toward this moment since the day he’d left his father’s house in disgrace. This was the culmination of everything he’d wanted, everything he’d worked for, everything he believed in. His heart should be full.
Yet something was missing. Something more. Something he needed in order to feel complete.
The burgeoning wind whispered a name through his mind. He felt a chill, a rising of the hairs on the back of his neck. Not now, he admonished himself. Especially not now. They were a ship of fugitives now, a band of outlaws. He was in no position to offer a future to anyone.
His goal was clear-cut. He had to get Isadora to Boston, leave her safe in the bosom of her family and convey Journey to Canada. That must be his focus, his purpose. Anything more was asking for trouble.
“Ryan?”
At the sound of her soft voice, he nearly let go of the wheel. “It’s late,” he said gruffly. “You should be sleeping.”
“How can I sleep after what we did?” She moved with a spritely gait, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. She drew energy from the very air around her. How different she was from the pasty-faced, disapproving schoolmarm who had come aboard so long ago. Now she wore plain clothes, her hair unbound, her bare foot pressed casually against the rail. She looked so incredibly alluring to him that he nearly groaned aloud.
“What a fine day this was,” she said.
He grew irritated at the elation in her voice. “You turned us all into criminals.”
“Don’t sound so disapproving. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“I wanted Journey and Delilah together again, yes,” he admitted. “But I was hoping to do it without turning pirate.”
“Slavery is criminal.”
“Not in the eyes of the law.” Ryan felt the shock of an ugly truth. This day was not his. This victory was not his. She had taken both from him. Deep down, he felt outdone by her.
Part Four
The Swan
Then, quite suddenly, he lifted his wings. They swept through the air much more strongly than before, and their powerful strokes carried him far. Before he quite knew what was happening, he found himself in a great garden where apple trees bloomed. The lilacs filled the air with sweet scent and hung in clusters from long, green branches that bent over a winding stream. Oh, but it was lovely here in the freshness of spring!
But what did he see there, mirrored in the clear stream? He beheld his own image, and it was no longer the reflection of a clumsy, dirty, gray bird, ugly and offensive.
He himself was a swan!
—Hans Christian Andersen,
The Ugly Duckling (1843)
Twenty-Three
And this is good old Boston,
The home of the bean and the cod,
Where the Lowells talk to the Cabots
And the Cabots talk only to God.
—John Collins Bossidy,
Toast, at the Holy Cross Alumni Dinner
Boston, April 1852
A sleek harbor launch slid away from the Swan, its inhabitants jubilant, their animated chatter carrying across the harbor waters. Ryan stood at the rail and watched it go. He had sent Izard and Click ashore with instructions to report their arrival to the harbor authorities. They also had secret instructions to commission a stout Dutch-built schooner for a swift, clandestine trip to Canada. The transaction would beggar Ryan despite the lucrative voyage, but he didn’t care. His goal was to get Journey and his family safe away, to a place they could live free.
Within moments, another launch arrived. Apprised of the arrival of the bark, Abel Easterbrook had sent his factor and clerk out for a preliminary report. Ryan squinted into the cloud-darkened distance, recognizing with an unpleasant jolt that a third man was with the company officials. Chad Easterbrook.
Ryan glanced about to see where Isadora had gone. She was nowhere to be seen; she was probably in her berth, organizing her belongings for her homecoming. He wondered what she would do when she saw Chad. Was he still the object of her naive, dogged devotion? Would she regret her wild interlude on the Swan?
Everyone had orders to keep Delilah and the children out of sight. The Fugitive Slave Law was in full force; they wouldn’t be taking any foolish chances. By now, Beaumont would have notified the authorities and furnished a detailed description of Journey’s wife and children.
With a lordly air, Abel’s son boarded and came strolling across the deck. Predictably, he nearly stumbled on a coil of rope. Recovering his composure, he said, “Welcome home, Captain Calhoun. We didn’t expect you so soon. Do you have the affidavits for the cargo?”
“Everything’s in order.” Ryan presented the transactions he’d made in Rio. Seeing Isadora’s painstakingly neat figures, he felt a stab of tenderness and gratitude. She had been an asset to the enterprise, something he never would have predicted when they’d set sail.
Chad glanced at some of the papers. Clearly he didn’t comprehend all the figures, but the factor adjusted his spectacles and gave a low whistle. “Well-done, Skipper,” he said. “Well-done, indeed.”
Almost grudgingly, Chad held out a handwritten message on heavy card stock. “There’s a dancing party at the house tonight. My father wishes for you to attend.”
Ryan grinned, taking the invitation. “I mustn’t disappoint him, then.”
Chad cleared his throat. “My father will send a coach. Will there be anything else?” he asked the factor.
“Not today. Tomorrow we’ll bring her to a berth and begin discharging cargo.”
Ryan kept a cordial smile in place as they prepared to leave. Best to get the windbag ashore as quickly as possible. As Chad put one foot on the ladder, the ship’s cat emerged from beneath an upended jolly boat and went strolling lazily down the deck. He looked at it, then widened his eyes in disbelief as three-year-old Celeste, giggling, scrambled up through a hatch to chase the cat.
Everyone froze except the plump, laughing child and the harried cat.
“An unauthorized passenger, Skipper?” Chad asked, narrowing his eyes at Ryan.
“No, indeed,” he lied smoothly. “You’ll find everything in order in the ship’s manifest. Knowing what a dedicated humanitarian your father is, we adopted an orphaned child.”
As casually as possible, the Doctor scooped up the little girl, crooning to her as he took her down to the galley.
“An orphan, you say?”
Ryan put his face very close to Chad’s. “Aye, sir. That’s exactly what I say.”
Chad departed. Ryan couldn’t tell whether or not he’d accepted the explanation. Judging by the rate his heart was clattering against his rib cage, the lie had been obvious. But the day was getting on, Chad would probably forget all about the incident and if the weather held, Ryan would sail for Canada at dawn. He let out a long breath, feeling his heartbeat slow to normal.
“Was that Mr. Easterbrook’s factor?” Isadora asked, coming up behind him.
“Yes. Chad was with them.”
“Heavens be, Chad?”
“The very one. Why didn’t you come out to greet him?”
She looked crestfallen. “I didn’t know he’d come. I was below, helping Delilah get the children’s things together.”
Ryan studied her, trying to read beyond the crestfallen look. Already she seemed different, growing as somber as the stormy weather coming in from the east. He missed the other Isadora, the one who threw herself into the voyage with a sense of adventure, the one who had emerged on deck, bare-legged and laughing, to reef sail or haul in line like the ablest of salts.
He handed her the invitation. “Abel is having a reception tonight. A dancing party, actually.”
He didn’t look at her, but could feel her staring. “Do you think I should go?” she asked.
It infuriated him that Chad had not thought to mention her by name whe
n issuing the invitation. “Of course. I’m certain your family will be there.”
“Then surely I should go,” she said. “You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“I’ll come later. I have to get Journey and Delilah situated.”
“It’s Canada for them, then?”
He nodded but didn’t elaborate further, didn’t want to burden her with the risky plan he knew he had to carry out.
“They can never come back,” she said quietly.
“Not unless slavery is abolished.”
“Until it’s abolished, you mean.”
“Things are getting worse, not better. Since Congress passed the Fugitive Slave Law, everyone suspects everyone else. It’s neighbor against neighbor these days.”
She touched his hand lightly, so lightly. “You’ll miss him, won’t you?”
Like I’d miss my right arm if I cut it off. But he didn’t say it aloud.
Thunder rumbled in from the east. The ominous bank of clouds rolled nearer. A storm. Just what he didn’t need.
“You’d best get ready for the Easterbrook reception. I’ll take you over myself in the launch.”
She hesitated, and he made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Damn, but she tugged at his heart, made him wish he could sweep her away, take her to some far-off place and make love to her, make a child with her and spend the rest of his life loving her.
“Ryan,” she said. “I wish—”
“Just go,” he said, his voice lashing out, making her flinch. “Go and get ready for the reception.”
“Yes, sir,” she snapped. “I shall do that.”
A clap of thunder punctuated her speech as she walked away from him. He forced himself to stay rooted, but his heart wouldn’t let her go. He needed her. God, just one more time. He needed her one more time.
Isadora crouched in the hip bath in the cramped cabin that had been her quarters for so many weeks. She fought back a crippling sense of apprehension. Home. She had come home to Boston.
She’d bathed with soap and fresh water. Now that they’d reached port, they didn’t have to conserve. She used copious amounts of silky clean water as her nervous thoughts churned.
