by Susan Wiggs
Too soon, they reached the city dock and he helped her out. The solid ground seemed to list beneath her feet and she leaned against him, catching his scent of wind and sea. He supported her with one arm while signaling to the Easterbrook coach with its crested bridled horses. The doors were painted with the familiar company emblem—the silver swan on a field of blue.
“Have fun at the ball tonight, princess,” he told her with a wink. “You do know how to have fun, don’t you?”
She smiled, feeling a blush steal up to her cheeks. “I do now. You’ll come to the reception later, won’t you?”
“Later.” He touched her beneath the chin. The bustle of workmen, fishermen, distillers and laborers at the harbor faded into the background. She didn’t care who saw them, didn’t care what they thought. “I promise.”
“Ryan?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Why—after that day at the waterfall—why did you keep your distance from me? Why couldn’t we be…close, as we were today?”
He laughed, yet his mirth held dark tones of irony. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“You really don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
He bent slightly and kissed her. “Isadora. I fell in love with you that day.”
For several moments she was too stunned to speak. The raucous cries of seagulls pounded like thunder in her ears. “Don’t tease me. It’s cruel.”
“I’m not teasing.” He regarded her steadily, and deep in his eyes she saw an abiding affection that she wanted to close into her heart and keep forever.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What would have been the point?” He kissed her again, then he turned and walked her to the buggy, handing her up to the coachman. “Make your way carefully,” he instructed.
“She is precious cargo.”
And that was how she left him. Standing on the wharf, a quickening wind plucking at his hair and shirt, his hand at his waist and hip cocked to one side. She had the horrid, irrational notion that she would never see him again, even though he’d promised he would come to the reception.
A scream built in her chest, but she couldn’t let it out, for if she did, everything inside her would follow and she would be empty, with nothing, not even memories, to help her survive.
Twenty-Four
Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whispered me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak,
Lisped to me the low and delicious word death.
—Walt Whitman,
Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking
“Here we are, miss.” The driver opened the door of the coach and set down a battered wooden step stool. “And I hope you have a fine evening.”
Isadora thanked him absently but made no move to exit the vehicle. She stared at the ornate entranceway of the Easterbrook mansion. Marble steps, flanked by tall urns, led up to double doors that had been flung wide to accommodate the press of people who flowed into the foyer. Gaslight glowed in the early evening, creating a soft warmth that surrounded the elegant crowd.
Dancers swirled past the tall bowed windows in a bouquet of color and music. She wondered if she would see her family at the party. Arabella would be married now.
Getting married used to be the beginning and end of all Isadora’s dreams. But now she was not so certain. Now she realized that the key to happiness had less to do with setting up housekeeping with an appropriate spouse and more, far more, to do with finding someone who gave one confidence and peace and passion, gifts so rich she had no words for them.
“Miss?” the coachman prompted. He cleared his throat and held out his leather-gloved hand.
“Yes,” she murmured, allowing him to help her down. A brisk wind, heavy with rain, gusted along Beacon Street, blowing her feather-light skirts. She walked slowly up the stairs to the door, suddenly conscious that she looked nothing like the other guests. She wore a vivid-colored gown cut in a style that Boston would hardly recognize; her hair was a mass of loose curls rather than the customary Psyche knot with its streamers; days in the sun and wind had ruined the snowy pallor the other ladies strove for.
Isadora smiled. She had never fit in before and she was accustomed to this feeling. Yet unlike before, she didn’t wish to be invisible. She wanted everyone to see her, wanted to do honor to the gifts Ryan and the crew had given her.
With her head held high and her smile fixed in place, she stepped into the foyer and greeted her hosts.
“Mr. and Mrs. Easterbrook, it’s so good to see you again.” She felt the frank heat of dozens of stares fixed upon her. The former Isadora would have melted into a puddle of nerves to find herself the object of such avid attention. But the present Isadora merely smiled wider as she dipped into a polite and graceful curtsy.
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?
