by Susan Wiggs
Lily caught Isadora’s eye. “I believe Ryan was nine years old at the time.”
“He and that Journey. Always trouble.” Fayette shook her head mournfully and began filling a drawer under the bunk.
Lily smiled wistfully. “He was always a willful boy.”
“You spoiled him, and no mistake,” Fayette muttered.
“I suppose I did. His father paid him so little attention. I was Jared’s second wife,” she explained to Isadora. “With his first, he had Hunter, and Ryan seemed almost an afterthought. Jared wore me as an ornament on his arm, but he hadn’t the first idea what to do with a boy like Ryan.” She bit her lip. “Oh, dear. I mustn’t speak ill of the dead.”
Fayette chuckled. “Sweetie, that ain’t nothing we ain’t all thought of.” She glanced up at Isadora. “Beware the man who values you for your pretty face.”
“It’s not a worry that plagues me,” Isadora said wryly, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “And surely love grew with familiarity.”
“You are so very young, my dear,” said Lily. “As young as I was when I was raising Ryan. He grew up wild and free, and I fear I indulged his every whim, trying to make up for his father. Ryan was attractive, impulsive and charismatic, and he knew how to get what he wanted—from everyone but his father.”
“There’s always been a hole in that boy’s life,” Fayette said. “But it ain’t your place to patch it up. Let him find his own way, Miz Lily.”
Isadora felt a prickle of discomfort. People in her family never spoke of such intimate matters, particularly not with the servants.
“I think I shall go out on deck,” she said. “I don’t want to miss a thing.” She left the cabin and returned to deck, finding a spot beside an aft companion ladder where she seemed to be out of the way.
Captain Calhoun was in his stateroom with a shipping agent. She could hear them speaking, but couldn’t make out their words. She contented herself with watching the work go on, exchanging a word or two with the crewmen as they passed. She couldn’t believe how swiftly the hours had gone by as she made the acquaintance of the men who would be her only company for months on end.
Oddly, she didn’t feel as ill at ease with the sailors as she did in social situations on dry land. For the first time, Isadora started to believe that she might actually achieve something on this voyage. What it was, she couldn’t be certain, but she dared to hope that when Chad Easterbrook found out how well she had discharged her duties aboard the Silver Swan, he’d be very proud indeed.
Then, as if her fervent hope had conjured him, Chad Easterbrook boarded the ship along with his father.
Isadora bustled forward to greet them, nearly tripping over her hem in her haste.
“Mr. Easterbrook!” she said to Abel. And then to Chad: “Mr. Easterbrook!”
“How about that, they have the same name,” Ryan Calhoun observed, coming out of his stateroom. He still wore his shore clothes, and rather grand ones at that—kelly green breeches and a yellow silk waistcoat. He also still wore his insolent expression, his clear-eyed gaze promising a rough time for the clerk he didn’t want.
Isadora turned away from him, fixing a welcoming smile on her face for the newcomers. Together, Chad and Abel made a dazzling pair. Abel’s shock of white hair contrasted sharply with Chad’s dark Byronian curls, and they both wore long, caped coats of charcoal wool.
Like the hero of her favorite novel, Chad strode across the deck, his flinty gaze held aloft as he surveyed the final preparations. Sadly, the unfortunate movement of a yardarm tackle spoiled the effect. The large length of wood swung out on its way up the mast, catching him in the midsection—or perhaps lower.
Making a terrible oof sound, he doubled over, clutching his father’s shoulder.
“Have to watch your step on deck, son,” Abel said with gruff concern. “One eye for the ship, and one for yourself.”
Isadora came up short, almost quivering to stay the impulse of reaching for Chad, of actually touching him. “Oh, Mr. Easterbrook,” she said. “Are you all right?”
He straightened up and nodded, his nostrils pinching as he inhaled deeply. “Quite…quite,” he said with a decided lack of conviction.
She caught Ryan studying her with a discomfiting keenness. “Perhaps,” he drawled, “you should go ashore and visit your tender mercies upon him.”
She sniffed. “I’m needed here. I’ll not shirk my duties.”
“I shall remember that, Miss Peabody.”
The laconic promise in his eyes created an odd havoc in her. Flustered, she hoped the brim of her fanned silk bonnet concealed her blush. Dipping a brief, formal curtsy, she said, “How pleasant to have this chance to say farewell,” measuring each word and taking care to address the elder Easterbrook as well as the younger.
“We wish you fair winds and a safe voyage,” Abel said, his kindly face crinkling with good humor. He nudged Chad with his elbow. “Don’t we, son?”
“We do indeed.” Debonair as a fairy-tale prince, Chad bowed from the waist. “Safe winds and a fair voyage.”
Isadora savored the gentle warmth he inspired in her. “I shall write a letter daily, telling you of all my adventures.” She caught a merry, conspiratorial look from Abel; they had agreed that each letter would contain a private report on the conduct of the skipper and crew. She took an awkward step back, praying no yardarm would sweep her away. “I know you and Captain Calhoun have business to discuss, so if you’ll excuse me…” She took another step back. Kiss me goodbye, her heart begged him. Kiss me goodbye.
But of course, the mad fantasy had no place on a deck aswarm with sailors. She lifted her gloved hand and offered a lame wave. And then it happened. Chad looked at her, and he smiled a smile that promised so much more than a kiss…. Someday, please God, someday.
Awash with pleasure, she hurried away, getting her foot tangled in the hem of her dress, then almost stumbling. But she didn’t. She caught herself and stood leaning against the pinrail, thinking of Chad and how perhaps this voyage would transform her in his eyes.
Father and son finished their conference with Ryan and returned to the wharves. She watched them until they were mere specks in the distance, one light head, one dark, finally blending in with the crowd.
“And now,” said a voice behind her, “one question remains.”
Startled, Isadora turned, knocking her glasses askew with the abrupt motion.
The chief mate shouted orders, and the second mate repeated them. A rush of running feet pounded the decks.
“And what remains, Captain Calhoun?” Self-conscious, she straightened the spectacles.
“To assure myself that you aren’t having second thoughts.” He stepped toward her, took her hand and gave a gallant, mocking bow that made her insides churn with nervousness. A light breeze lifted the fringe of hair that showed beneath his cap, and the afternoon sunlight put a sparkle in his eyes.
She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why would I be having second thoughts?”
He stared straight into her eyes, and she had the strangest feeling that he could see inside her to the matters that whirled through her mind. “Most women do,” he said.
Seven
I must go
Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the
young
Star captains glow.
—Herman James Elroy Flecker,
The Dying Patriot
“You know what’s curious?” Ryan asked, standing back from the captain’s table and watching Journey expertly pour the claret.
“Your taste in neck cloths?” Journey ventured, looking askance at the hibiscus-and-lime paisley cravat Ryan had donned for supper.
Ryan ignored him. “When I was in school, I could no more remember a Latin declension than the table of the elements. Yet on this ship I can keep every fact and figure as keenly in my mind as if God himself whispered them into my ear. Why do you suppose that is?”
“Maybe because Latin declensio
ns don’t help you deal with dishonest stevedores.”
Ryan vividly recalled the endless hours of stumbling through lessons at Albion. “Why can’t I learn something simply for learning’s sake?”
“You’re starting to sound like your daddy.”
A chill slid through him. It was true. He recalled all those humiliating times he’d stood before Jared Calhoun, squirming inside while his father quizzed him mercilessly about Horace and the gospel and the price of tobacco in Richmond.
If you constantly have your head in the stars, his father used to demand, how are you going to keep your feet firmly on the ground?
“There’s no need, if I go to sea,” Ryan murmured.
“What’s that?”
Ryan shook his head. “Nothing. You know, I keep the stars up here, too.” He touched his temple. “Ever since we were lads, I’ve been able to read the stars as easily as most boys read their scripture.”
Journey put a cut glass stopper in the crystal decanter. The Silver Swan’s previous skipper had been a man of excellent taste and terrible business practices. When Abel Easterbrook discovered the extent of his cheating, he’d had the man hauled off in chains, leaving behind a salon full of his ill-gotten gains. Ryan had inherited comfortable quarters indeed.
Built into the wall of the cabin, invisible behind a false panel and snug against the hull itself, was the purser’s till, a safekeep of steel with a combination lock. Other than Abel himself, only Ryan knew the combination. When he sold the cargo in Rio, he’d receive payment in pounds sterling. It would all go into the till, never to be opened until Abel did the honors once they returned.
“I remember,” Journey said, “when we were lads we’d climb to our lookout on a clear night and navigate our way to the Spanish main.”
Ryan smiled, picturing the two of them lying side by side on the rough wooden planks of their tree house, hands clasped behind their heads, gazes turned to heaven. The breeze had stirred the poplar leaves, but to the boys’ ears it was the shush of the great deep Atlantic rushing past the hull of their ship. Their destination was a place he and Journey had conjured up from their imaginations. They had built it on their own boyish dreams, endowing the perfect island with everything a boy could want: gumdrop trees, geysers that spewed sarsaparilla, crystal clear freshwater pools for swimming. A pond in which the fish leaped for joy, grabbing right onto the end of their fishing poles. No chores, no schoolroom, no lessons, no stern tutor or disapproving papa, no mammy with a hickory rod.
“Did we ever actually reach that place?” Ryan checked the buttons of his cuffs. “I don’t remember.”
Journey set down the salt cellars, a thoughtful, distant expression on his face. “We’re still looking, Skipper. We’re still looking.”
A light knock sounded at the door, and in came his mother, attended by Fayette, her maid. He greeted the ladies with the Southern gallantry that had been bred into his very bones: a courtly bow, a charming smile, a sweep of his arm toward the table.
Then he spied Miss Isadora Peabody standing uncertainly in the companionway. A twinge of exasperation nagged at him. If she felt awkward, it was her own doing. She had used her influence with Abel to muscle her way aboard this ship. Ryan had resolved to use his position as skipper to make her regret it.
“You’re a crew member,” he said. “You’d best eat in the galley with the men.” He started to close the door.
“Oh, Ryan, for heaven’s sake,” his mother said, grabbing the door before it slammed. “Miss Peabody is my companion. I won’t hear of her eating hard tack and ale in the galley.”
“Truly,” Miss Peabody murmured, “if the captain orders me to go elsewhere, then I must obey.”
“But I’m the mother,” Lily said smugly. She elbowed Ryan aside. “Come in, and we shall celebrate our last night before departure.”
Isadora didn’t look at Ryan as she edged into the stateroom. He couldn’t quite bring himself to banish her. The painfully arranged hair, the trussed-up style of her black dress, the way she squinted behind her spectacles caused him to feel an unaccustomed tug of…of what? Annoyance, yes, and something perhaps akin to pity.
He tried to figure out why his mind kept clinging to thoughts of her. He’d always been a man who attracted pretty women, and Miss Peabody was not pretty. He enjoyed the charm of female company, yet she was not charming. He liked the inanity of lighthearted conversation, yet she was neither inane nor lighthearted.
So why did she plague him?
Perhaps it was the secrets she guarded within the hazel-and-gold depths of her eyes. In spite of himself, he wanted to know what thoughts hovered there, what ideas. What hopes and dreams.
Of course, he didn’t want to hear about her misguided passion for Chad Easterbrook, but other things about her—who she was and what she wanted, what she loved and hated, what surprised her, what delighted her, what angered her.
Immediately he pulled back. The only reason he wanted to discover her inner being was so that he could control her, keep her in line and keep her out of his affairs.
He treated her with a perfect parody of courtesy. “Our first night aboard the Swan,” he declared. “We must drink a toast.”
“I don’t drink strong spirits.” Her voice was quick and nervous.
“Then I assure you, we’ll only serve weak ones,” Ryan said. A warning look from his mother stopped him from going on.
“Have you any Cochituate water?” she inquired.
“No, I don’t have any Co-kit-tuate water,” he said, unable to resist mimicking her prissy accent. “This is a sea voyage, not a temperance crusade.”
He and Journey helped the ladies to their seats around the captain’s table. Once they were under way, formal meals like tonight’s supper would be rare, so Ryan intended to enjoy this one, Miss Peabody notwithstanding.
As Journey poured wine from the decanter, Fayette caught his eye. “I best get to the galley,” the maid said, fixing him with a censorious glare. “I don’t hold with no wine-drinking.”
Journey set his hands on his hips. “Girl, you’ve known me all my life. Don’t be looking at me like I got some disease.”
“Maybe you do, Journey-boy,” Fayette said in a tone Ryan recognized from his boyhood. “You all uppity now.”
The moment could have crackled with tension, but Journey laughed easily. “No, ma’am, I’m like any other man.”
“Hmph.” She made a fuss over spreading Lily’s napkin in her lap. “Uppity.”
“All men are, Fayette,” Lily said. “Every last one of them.”
Ryan knew, when news of Journey’s freedom had reached Albion, some of the field hands had threatened to revolt. The very idea that one of their own was now living as a free man had inflamed them. Lily, newly widowed and ready to set sail for England, had postponed her trip in order to quell the hot tempers and improve living conditions for the workers.
Isadora Peabody watched the exchange, her face draining to a pasty white. Lily laid her hand over Isadora’s. “You’ll have to excuse us, my dear. We’re family, every last one of us, and we shouldn’t be performing like this in front of company.”
“Oh, dear. I’m not company. I’m an ‘idler,”’ Miss Peabody declared.
For some reason, everyone laughed, and the tension eased as Fayette took Journey aside and the two of them went up on deck.
“He is your steward,” Lily said. “Do you think he should stay?”
“Let them go, Mama. There are things they can speak of only to one another.”
“They’ve not seen each other in a great while. What can she possibly tell him?”
He sighed, feeling Miss Peabody’s gaze on him. “Mama, I’ve always considered myself a blood brother to Journey, but I’ve never lived in that skin. Fayette has.” Ryan ached for the man who had been his only steady friend since they were boys. He ached for Delilah, the wife Journey missed so much that sometimes Ryan heard him weeping at night, fiercely, sobbing between his clenched tee
th. But when morning came, Journey always faced the day with ready strength, boldly committed to their enterprise.
If this present voyage went well, Journey would be reunited with Delilah and their children inside a year. It was the only thing that mattered in Ryan’s life.
The Doctor and Timothy Datty arrived with supper on a two-handled platter. The last meal before setting sail was always lavish—roasted turkey, warm fresh bread, leeks and carrots and a good red wine from the Languedoc. They spoke of the heading they would take out of Boston harbor; of Lily’s long tour of the Continent; of fabled Rio and of the aunt Ryan had never met. Or rather, Ryan and his mother spoke while Isadora listened with rapt attention. Aunt Rose had married a Brazilian coffee planter and lived in a lofty castle as grand as any storybook fortress. She and Lily had not seen one another in twenty years.
After supper, Lily excused herself to retire for the night. Ryan accompanied her and Isadora out into the companionway. Isadora hesitated in the low arched doorway and cast a glance through the hatchway where the night sky shone with silver stars.
Lily paused at the door to her cabin. “It’s early yet. Ryan, why don’t you take Miss Isadora on a turn around the deck?”
It was all he could do to keep from groaning aloud. “A turn on deck?” he echoed. “This is not a pleasure cruise.” And his feelings for his clerk were anything but pleasant.
Isadora blinked rapidly, eyeing the open sky. Then she said, “Um, I suppose…I—” She held her hands clasped tightly across her middle. “Captain Calhoun, I am in your service, and I know quite well that you are most certainly not obliged to squire me around.”
“And you are not obliged to accept my squiring.” He felt a twinge of exasperation. He caught a warning glance from his mother. “But there is no law on land or sea that outlaws an evening stroll.”
She looked outside again, her yearning palpable. The woman was as easy to read as an amateur card cheat. “No, there is not.”
Lily murmured a good-night and went to her quarters.
Resigned, he cocked his arm out at the elbow. “Shall we?”