by Susan Wiggs
Isadora had forgotten the name of the particular punch she used. Either a roundhouse or a sidewinder; at one time Gerald Craven had taught her the terms. But she did recall, with satisfying swiftness, the precise use of the punch. Her arm, still muscular from her travails on the ship, came around with great force, her fist smashing into Chad Easterbrook’s face.
He lost his grip on her, arms paddling the air before he staggered against the rim of the fountain.
She placed her hands on his shoulders and heaved him in.
Hands on hips, she looked down at the cursing, sputtering ruin of her childhood god. “Oh, Chad, you’re all wet. And your pretty costume is stained with moss. Whatever are people going to say?”
Twenty-Six
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat.
They took some money, and plenty of honey
Wrapped up in a five-pound note…
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
—Edward Lear
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
Isadora hurried across the ballroom, hoping she could leave unobtrusively. As she edged toward the entranceway of the ballroom and paused beneath the carved federal walnut arch, memories flooded her. Less than a year ago, another Isadora had stood at this very spot, trying to slip out of a party she wasn’t enjoying.
She had wished to escape that night, as well. But what she had wanted to do was escape her own life.
Now, although the scene was eerily the same, she knew she was here to live that life. The gilt cherub mirror hung in the foyer. The graceful Boston fern flourished in a pot with four legs. She had destroyed it the last time. As if the mishap had never happened, it had been replaced.
One step, then another. Invisible. She was invisible; she could fly like a bird, slither like a snake. Though once awkward, she was now lithe and graceful, fleet of foot, causing no more stir than a breeze as she disappeared into nothingness, into freedom—
She barely noticed a commotion at the door. She heard a scraping sound and turned in time to see more guests arriving. A masked and snarling pirate burst into the house.
“Ye powers,” she whispered, jolted by the look of him. Her preoccupation with Ryan had made him a phantom in her heart. She was losing her mind, surely.
The pirate had tangled the end of his tattered scarf around one of the legs of the fern pot. Laughing heartily, the pirate gave the scarf a tug.
Time seemed to slow, and Isadora saw the whole sequence as if through a wall of water. The scarf went taut, upending the large plant. The alabaster pot shattered against the marble floor.
The abrupt movement and the explosion of noise caused everyone to freeze for precisely three seconds. Then the masked pirate faced the onlookers and said, “Oops.”
Dear God, that was no phantom. He was real.
The band of growling pirates surged into the foyer, pretending to menace people with rusty sabers and antique pistols, but for Isadora, the world stayed frozen.
She saw nothing but the tall man in the tattered red scarf. Heard nothing but the echo of familiar laughter.
Ryan.
Her heart spoke his name when her mouth was too astonished to make a sound.
Ryan.
Alive, he was alive, a vibrant and laughing contradiction to the grim reports of his death.
Sheer joy made her knees nearly buckle. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying her best to keep in the sobs while the tears flowed down her face. Vaguely, she became aware of her family gathering around, watching her with concern as the masked and jubilant pirates made their merry way through the crowd. She recognized Chips’s bald head, Timothy Datty’s slender darting form and Izard and the Doctor and Gerald and Luigi and even the surly Click, all of them shrieking with glee as they committed robbery. The guests, thinking it was entertainment, gave up their belongings without a murmur.
She noticed all this through a blur of tears, noticed it even though she didn’t take her eyes off Ryan. He threw back his head and released a piratical stream of full-throated laughter, and then, as the other guests joined in the spirit of the “attack,” he came toward her.
More swiftly than the wind itself, he crossed the foyer and swept her up into his strong arms so that her feet left the floor. “Avast there, wench! Did you think you could escape me?” Angling a path through the crowd, he carried her out into the night, where a fresh wind, salted by the sea, skirled up from Boston harbor.
He stopped walking and kissed her, a rough open-mouthed kiss that filled her with the taste of him, and at last he was real to her, no dream, no ghost come back from the dead, but Ryan…her Ryan.
Still clinging to his neck, she slid down so that her feet touched the ground. “I thought…we all thought…you’d died in the storm. What of Journey and Delilah and the children?”
“They’re working on an apple farm in Canada. We had to stage the accident at sea in order to throw off our pursuers.”
“Why did you let me think you were dead?” she whispered. “Why did you let me grieve?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, love. I came as soon as I could.”
She shut her eyes and pressed herself against him, savoring the miracle of his return. God, his smell—the wind and the sea and just…just Ryan.
“I have something to tell you,” she whispered.
“Oh, Christ. The scurvy barnacle did it, didn’t he? Chad Easterbrook asked you to marry him.”
“As a matter of fact, he did, but—”
“Damn it. Damn it. I knew I’d be too late. I’ll challenge the scum to a duel, blow his empty head off—”
“Ryan. I said he asked me. I didn’t say what my reply was.”
He stared at her, a cautious joy lighting his face. “You mean…?”
She felt the wind cool the wetness of tears on her cheeks. “How could I consider him, when I’ll always hold you in my heart? I thought I’d find everything I needed to know in books, but I learned love from you, Ryan. I love you.”
When he kissed her again, she was certain she could taste his joy, could see it in his eyes when he lifted his mouth from hers and said, “So what was it you wanted to tell me?”
She took his hand and covered it with her own, bringing it down to cup her stomach. “Remember when you said if I found myself with child, you’d make it right?”
He swallowed hard, and his voice held a rough catch of emotion. Like the dawning sun, his face lit with knowing. “I remember. I…promised.”
“Then I think you’re going to have to make good on that promise.”
He froze in a moment of complete incredulity. Then, throwing back his head, he let loose with a shout of triumph and swept her up into his arms once again. “Say your prayers, wench,” he said in his mock-pirate snarl, his broad strides hastening along the brick walkway. “You’re mine now, all mine!”
And as he carried her down to the harbor, she buried her head against his shoulder, laughing and weeping with all the fullness of her love. “Ah, Ryan. Didn’t you know? I always have been.”
Afterword
Dear Reader:
Although it was unusual for a well-born young lady to be so active in both commerce and in a political cause, it was certainly not unheard of in Boston. The 1850s in particular were a period of unprecedented social consciousness, and I like to think Ryan and Isadora personify the devotion and faith it takes to commit fully to a cause—no matter what the risk.
Often when I finish a book, I’m eager to move on to the next story. But in this case I was haunted by Ryan’s brother, Hunter Calhoun, so much so that he has taken on a life of his own and has become the main character in my next book, The Horsemaster’s Daughter.
Hunter’s situation, I
regret to say, has gone from bad to worse. Devastated by loss and driven to the brink of bankruptcy, this Virginia gentleman struggles to create a better, safer world for his children. His fortunes rest with a very special Irish thoroughbred, but his prospects are dashed when the stallion arrives from Ireland a crazed beast, hopelessly traumatized by the sea voyage. Everyone advises Hunter to shoot the poor creature. In desperation, he turns to the strange, fey and secretive Eliza Flyte, who lives alone on a storm-battered barrier island, where she was raised in isolation by her learned father.
She is drawn to Hunter out of compassion for a damaged horse, but finds herself swept into the heart of his broken family. Gentling the horse becomes the least of her tasks as she learns her true purpose—to bring light into the darkness of Hunter’s life, to restore the love of his troubled children and to take her place in a world that once shunned her.
ISBN: 978-1-4592-4792-5
THE CHARM SCHOOL
Copyright © 1999 by Susan Wiggs.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.
www.MIRABooks.com
