by Susan Wiggs
“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, barelegged 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 when 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.
She should not feel disturbed by the idea of being back. This was where she belonged. She should be looking forward to seeing her family again, to her room and her books, to the life she’d always lived.
Yet how could she possibly fit back into her former world? The idea of facing her family and Chad terrified her. The notion of returning to the place where life had been so cruel to her was unthinkable.
With a heavy heart, she opened her trunk and took out the familiar black bombazine gown. She donned a chemise and corset and petticoats, feeling her spirits compress with every layer.
Even the garments themselves seemed to droop mournfully. Formerly her favorite gown, the black dress now hung on her like a half-empty potato sack. Gone were the taut lines, the crisp pleats that used to adorn the outfit so handsomely.
Blowing out a huff of exasperation, she took up a hairbrush and tried to bring some semblance of order to her hair. Instead, she caught herself dreaming. Dreaming of the day Ryan had chopped off her hair, and she’d stormed at him, and then he’d touched her cheek and somehow made it all right.
Though she had no mirror, she could feel the sun-streaked curls going wild. Where were her combs? She hadn’t used them in ages.
Hearing a knock at the door, she said, “Come in,” barely lifting her head as Ryan stood in the doorway.
“Isadora.”
Ye powers. No one said her name like that, in that slow, intimate, Southern fashion.
“Yes?”
“You’re supposed to be dressing for a party, not a funeral.”
She brushed her hand at the thick black fabric of her skirt. “This is my best dress.”
“I wasn’t talking about the dress, sugar-pie, though now that you mention it, that frock’s a mite somber. I was talking about the expression on your face. You look as though someone’s died.”
She managed a thin smile. “I was thinking how simple life is on shipboard. We all know our roles. It would be so much easier if I could stay here.”
He chuckled. She tried to summon indignation, but somehow when Ryan laughed at her, she had the urge to join him. He held out his hand. “Isadora, come here.”
“I am here. This cabin is too small for me to be anywhere else.”
He laughed again and took her hand. “I mean here. I want to show you something.”
She stumbled after him, following him out into the companionway, up the narrow ladder and to the stern deck. He pulled her through the door to his cabin.
“If there is more paperwork to be done, I wish you would have told me earlier,” she said with some exasperation. “I haven’t my ledger book or—”
“Isadora.”
She nearly melted at the way he said her name. “Yes?”
“This is not about paperwork.”
“Then…what?” But she looked into his eyes and she knew. She knew, and her heart leaped while the breath caught in her throat.
“It’s about this,” he said and took her in his arms.
She felt a rush
like the wind moving over her, enveloping her, and she realized that she wanted this, had wanted it for so long that she could no longer remember what it was like not to want it. He kissed her, and all the familiar longed-for sensations washed over her, reminding her of that magical day in the rain forest when he had changed the color of her world.
Only this time was different, deeper, better, more meaningful, because they had not made themselves silly on hemp leaves. They knew exactly what they were doing.
“Ryan,” she whispered against his mouth.
“Forget it,” he said. “I’m not stopping this time.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you to stop.”
Triumph glinted in his eyes as he bent to kiss her again. And this time he didn’t stop at a kiss. His hands, those deft seaman’s hands, made short work of buttons and ties and stays, discarding her clothes on the floor. Though it was overcast and stormy outside, the stateroom glowed with soft light through the stern windows. And here she stood in nothing but her shift. She did not even have the excuse of inebriation to explain her lack of self-consciousness or moral indignation.
Yet it never occurred to her to find this objectionable. The first time she’d come aboard this ship she’d found Ryan with a woman, yet the memory didn’t bother her. Nothing bothered her.
She wanted to be with him, to cling to him as if to the final vestiges of the voyage that had ended. It seemed inconceivable that they would part, yet they had to. He offered her nothing but this moment in time, this intimate embrace, and she accepted them both gladly, knowing she could live for years on these memories.
He took her by the hand and brought her to the bunk, pressing her against the pillows and kissing her thoroughly, hard and crushingly as if to imprint his mark on her. Then he stood and through half-lidded eyes she watched him undress, admiring the sleek, long muscles in his legs and the breadth of his chest, the frank maleness that she knew a true lady would not stare at. She made a small, involuntary sound and lifted her arms to him, impatient for his touch. He plucked at the laces of her shift and drew it apart, baring her breasts and kissing them tenderly, slowly, drawing a cry of near-pain from her, then soothing her with slow touches that circled down, down to her center and stroked her until she felt such a fierce rise of ecstasy she was certain she’d scream and alert the crew. He lifted himself, moved his hips so that they touched, and smiled down at her.