The Charm School

by Susan Wiggs

  Her first instinct was to flee. Not this time, she told herself. She straightened her shoulders, summoning her determination and rallying her courage. “I’m afraid you have no choice.”

  He tossed the letter toward a bin beside the desk. It swirled around the rim, then went in. “If I have to use my dying breath to do it, I’ll prove to you that you’re not cut out for life at sea, Isadora Peabody.” He went to the door and held it open with mock gallantry. “Take that thought to bed with you tonight.”

  Isadora took no pride in her methods of persuasion, and Captain Calhoun’s reaction wasn’t all she had wished for, but indeed she had won.

  Standing in the parlor as she awaited her visitors, she closed her eyes and pictured the ship that would soon be her home for the next six months. Tall masts, sails as light and billowy as the very clouds, a sleek hull cutting a foamy white wake…it was a cosmos unto itself, a world of its own.

  The Silver Swan. The very name evoked images of exotic wonder. She imagined herself swept into a strange and fabulous world, leaving behind this place where she had never fit in.

  “You certainly look pleased with yourself, Isadora,” her mother said, gliding into the summer parlor. “Dare I hope you’re actually looking forward to having company?”

  Isadora opened her eyes, the images in her mind vanishing like dust before a chill wind. “I suppose I am, Mother.”

  Sophia Cabot Peabody flickered her fan before her face. “That’s a welcome change. Perhaps I can also count on you to attend Mrs. Fuller’s reading party.”

  “No, Mother. After my dissertation at the last gathering, I doubt I’ll be welcome there again.”

  As a social activity, reading parties were all the rage. The erudite of Louisberg Square and Beacon Hill gathered to exchange ideas, cultivate friendships and sometimes even romance.

  “Do you wonder?” Sophia asked, her voice tinged with equal measures of affection and exasperation. “You cannot truly think that Dr. Channing actually meant for you to argue with his theory about the nature of human emotion.”

  “How could I not? How absurd to claim women are so helplessly governed by their hearts that their heads empty right into them. His lectures are supposed to spark discussion.”

  “But you’re not supposed to prove him wrong.”

  “If he is, why not prove it?” Isadora countered. “The inventor of a theory should be able to defend it. Dr. Channing was simply put out because he could not answer my challenges.”

  “Put out is stating it mildly.” Sophia straightened a fold of Isadora’s black dress. “I suppose the fault is mine for letting you live all those years in Salem. Your great aunt failed to instill in you the most fundamental lessons. Yes, a woman might be much smarter than a man. But if she dares to show it, she becomes a pariah.”

  Isadora squeezed her mother’s hand. “Then I am destined to be a pariah. I have no judgment for this sort of thing. How was I to know he wasn’t looking for a challenge?”

  Sophia smiled wryly. “No man is, my dear. No man.” Her smile widened as she looked past Isadora. “Not even your father,” she murmured, crossing the room to her husband.

  Isadora watched her parents fondly, yet aware of the distance that had always lain between them. She could see the mutual respect they had for one another, could feel the affection they shared, yet she had no clue about the nature of their love. Was there passion? She couldn’t tell. To the outside observer, they were two excessively handsome people, gifted in commerce and conversation, certain of their place in the world. But passion? Did they know of such a thing? Did they care?

  Thankful tapped discreetly on the parlor door. “Your guests have arrived.”

  Isadora’s mouth went dry. This was it, then. The moment she had been waiting for and dreading. She needed her parents’ blessing on this venture.

  “How delightful,” Sophia said, completely ignorant of the true purpose of the meeting. She had assumed it to be merely a social call. “Do show them in.”

  Like a dazzle of sunshine, Lily Raines Calhoun flowed into the room. “Mr. and Mrs. Peabody. Miss Peabody. How kind of you to receive us on such short notice.”

  Ryan entered behind her, looking even more appealing than he had the day before. He wore a well-tailored suit of clothes, though his waistcoat and cravat startled the eye. The cravat was a blinding royal blue, the waistcoat busy with a print of yellow banana fruit and exotic flowers.

  He moved with a rolling gait, the unmistakable aspect of a man of the sea. From the corner of her eye, Isadora could see her father studying Ryan Calhoun, assessing him.

  “Here is my son, Ryan,” Lily said, her graceful hand drawing him forward. He bent first over Sophia’s fingers, then Isadora’s. She thanked heaven for the black moleskin fingerless mitts she wore, for there was something searingly intimate about the gesture, and at least the fabric protected her from direct contact with his lips.

  When Captain Calhoun looked up at her, his face was full of cruel-edged mockery. Isadora forced herself to hold her gaze steady. He was not going to make this easy for her. Very well. She would endure him.

  She felt a familiar tickle at the back of her nose. Taking out a handkerchief with the lightning speed of a cavalier drawing a rapier, she stopped the sneeze in time.

  Lily smiled at her. “Bless you, my dear.”

  She said “Mah dee-ah” in the nicest way. As if she actually meant it. Isadora sensed she’d find an ally in Lily Calhoun.

  Once they were all settled on the burgundy-striped chaise, the settee and the wing chairs before the hearth, Thankful served strong coffee laced with cream, and tea cakes heavy with honey and hazelnuts.

  “And what is the name of your place in Virginia again?” Sophia asked sweetly.

  Isadora held herself very still and secretly bit her tongue. Her mother knew more about the Calhoun family than Lily herself, no doubt. A number of not-so-discreet inquiries had informed her about the lavish plantation on Mockjack Bay, Virginia. Once it was established that the Calhoun family possessed only slightly less social status than the Lord Above, Sophia decided they were the right sort of people.

  “Our place is called Albion. When my husband died, his elder son Hunter inherited it. Hunter is my stepson, and Ryan’s half brother.”

  Isadora watched Ryan’s face carefully. A half brother. Did the two get along? Probably not, she decided, recalling Lily’s anecdote about Ryan disgracing himself by choosing Harvard over Virginia tradition.

  He winked at her. Winked.

  Heavens be, what was he up to now?

  She pursed her lips and stared straight ahead, fighting a blush. Her mother and sisters were famous wits in conversation, but Isadora had never acquired the knack. She had no idea what to say to a man who winked at her. When she spoke her mind, she was considered offensive. When she echoed someone else’s opinion, she was denounced as boring. So whenever possible, she held her tongue and let her mind wander.

  She knew she shouldn’t succumb to fantasy, but the murmurs of conversation lulled her, and before she knew it, she was a Southern belle at a place called Albion, where the sun always shone and the workers sang glad praises to the sky and the air was filled with birdsong and the scent of magnolias. Dressed in tulle flounces from a Paris couturier, she waited on the verandah while her favorite suitor galloped up on a white horse.

  “Hello, Chad,” she would greet him demurely…except the man on the horse wasn’t Chad. He had flame-colored hair, a crooked grin, a provocative wink and…heavens be. What was Ryan Calhoun doing in the middle of her fantasy?

  “…wouldn’t you say so, Isadora?” her mother was asking.

  Jolted out of her reverie, Isadora nodded vigorously, having no idea what she was agreeing to. “Indeed I would, Mother.”

  Ryan scowled at her.

  “That is,” she hastened to add, “except that I also wouldn’t.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes. What a hen-wit he must think her. She said, “And what do you think,
Mr. Calhoun?”

  “I think that sea voyages are dangerously unhealthy, particularly for a lady of delicate constitution,” he said. “If I may be permitted to agree with my hostess,” he added gallantly, inclining his head toward Sophia.

  Isadora sent him a dagger glare. Didn’t he remember what Mr. Easterbrook’s letter said? Either he took Isadora along, or his position would be downgraded from skipper to second mate.

  “I have been touring the Continent for years,” Lily said. “I’ve sailed from Gibraltar to Athens and suffered absolutely no ill health at all other than the usual mal de mer. Mr. and Mrs. Peabody, I was so hoping you would permit Isadora to go.”

  Grateful for the support, Isadora perched on the edge of her seat. “You have always said that travel enhances a person’s character, Papa,” she reminded her father.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve seen my dear sister,” Lily said.

  “Rose is the widow of a Brazilian planter. She lives in a magnificent villa high in the forested hills overlooking Guanabara Bay. I’ve promised her for years that I’d visit.” She lifted her cup to her lips and took and unhurried sip. “Isadora would be such an asset to the voyage. Ryan needs her expertise as a translator, but if she spoke not a word other than English, I would beg to have her along as my guest and my companion.”

  “Did I say I needed her?” Ryan asked with a laconic half grin. “I don’t recall that.”

  “Mother, I simply must go,” Isadora said in a rush, deciding not to dignify his insolent remark with a reply. “I know how deeply I would grieve were I deprived of my own dear sisters’ company.” She managed to say this with a sincere expression.

  “Mr. Peabody,” Sophia said, addressing her husband formally, “what say you?” She framed it as a question, though Isadora knew she had already made up her mind.

  “Well, most certainly I approve,” Papa assured her. “You know how I feel about broadening our daughters’ experiences.”

  “Does Miss Isadora need broadening?” Ryan Calhoun asked, the very picture of innocence. He stared at her, daring her to crumple before his insults. “Where?”

  “Perhaps I need to learn to pity those with feeble minds,” she snapped, surprised to feel anger rather than humiliation, and further surprised that the anger felt…rather good.

  “Sailing a ship is an unusual vocation for a Harvard man,” Mr. Peabody observed, ignoring the heated exchange. “Particularly for such a young man. Don’t most sailors spend years working their way up to skipper?”

  “Indeed they do, sir. I was fortunate to win my first command early.” He savored a sip of his coffee. “I grew up on Mockjack Bay, with a view straight out to the Atlantic. I’d sit for hours on the end of our dock, watching the ships come and go, stowing away on the short runs to neighboring farms.”

  “I couldn’t get him to do a blessed thing,” Lily said with fond exasperation. “He and Journey even built a lookout in the top of a tree by the water. After I discovered he’d been stowing away on the local barges, I decided to let him follow his heart. He learned seamanship from Captain Hastings himself of the frigate Carlota.”

  “When I discovered Mr. Easterbrook was looking for a skipper, I decided it was Providence itself drawing me back to the sea,” Ryan said. “None of my schooling could take that desire from me.”

  Isadora felt her anger melting into something else as she studied him. He looked so romantic in his colorful, finely cut clothes that fit his trim form so well. He had one arm draped over the back of a chair, a thick lock of hair adorning his brow. He might have been a poet, though he lacked the pallor and thinness of a man of letters. No, Ryan Calhoun was too vigorous and too vibrant to toil in private with paper and pen.

  A sea captain. Isadora realized that she was looking at a man who had become what he was born to be.

  What a gift that was. Few people ever achieved that.

  She refused even to contemplate what she was born to be. Maiden daughter, keeping her elderly parents company. When her beautiful nieces and nephews were old enough, she might serve as their tutor or chaperon.

  The very thought made her shudder.

  She lifted her chin. She was going on a sea voyage. Like it or not, Ryan Calhoun was going to save her from a fate of obscure mediocrity.

  But as he looked across the room at her, there was nothing but mocking laughter in his eyes as he said, “And as for your schooling, Miss Peabody, I pray you are prepared for its hard lessons.”

  Part Two

  The Bird of Passage

  “You don’t understand me,” said the duckling. “I think I’d better go out into the wide world.”

  “Do you think this is the whole world?” the mother duck asked. “Why, it extends on and on, clear across to the other side of the garden and right on into the parson’s field, though that is farther than I have ever been.”

  “Say there, comrade,” the wild geese said to the duckling, “you’re so ugly that we have taken a fancy to you. Come with us and be a bird of passage.”

  —Hans Christian Andersen,

  The Ugly Duckling (1843)

  Six

  I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep.

  —Herman James Elroy Flecker,

  The Old Ships

  Everything was in order, from the perfectly packed traveling box—specially designed to fit the carriages of Brazil—to the dove gray bonnet Thankful had tied with a precise bow beneath Isadora’s chin. The bootblacked surface of her traveling trunk shone in the morning sun. She had a detachable pocket inside her black silk pongee skirts filled with paper money as well as gold and silver coins in the common currency of the high seas, pounds sterling.

  Porters, stevedores, deckhands and passengers crowded the waterfront area, for at least nine ships would clear Boston harbor this day. Passersby paused to study the Peabody clan, and their expressions formed uncensored maps of their thoughts. They took in the silver dignity of the parents, the golden beauty of the brothers and sisters, then dismissed Isadora as a poor relation.

  She hardened herself against the stares. Soon she would be gone from here, gone to a place she could only imagine, a place she and Aunt Button had found in their cozy nights by the fire in Salem. Her only regret was that Chad had not come to say goodbye.

  Finally she saw it—the Silver Swan. The stately bark still held open its cargo hatches, taking on freight with rampant speed. The sight of the ship and the knowledge that the wind was in the right quarter for departure, filled her with excitement.

  She nearly burst with anticipation. There was no chance of that, however. Thankful had been merciless in lacing her corset. The busk pressed like a restraining hand against her breastbone. Isadora wondered how, on shipboard, she would dress herself in stays each day, but she didn’t dare voice her fears aloud. She didn’t want to do or say anything to give her family second thoughts about letting her go.

  Perhaps she would simply sleep in her stays.

  A boatswain’s whistle pierced the air. “I should go aboard,” she said.

  “Indeed.” Clearing his throat, her father turned to the porter who brought her things along in a large, creaky barrow. “You have everything you need—plenty of books—be certain you read the Emerson and send me your thoughts on it.”

  “Of course, Papa. On the ship’s manifest I am listed—to my shame—as an idler. So I expect I’ll have plenty of time for reading.”

  “Being an idler simply means you don’t take a turn standing watch,” Bronson said, taking her hand and squeezing it. “For that you can be grateful. The schedule sounds quite grueling for a common sailor.”

  “There is nothing common about our Izzie,” Quentin declared.

  “Behave yourself at Harvard, Quentin,” she said.

  “What, and ruin my reputation?”

  “Oh, Izzie.” Arabella hugged her. “And to think, when you return, I shall be a married lady!”

  “I’ll bring you a special wedding gift. Something terribly exot
ic, I should think. A live parrot? A mango tree?”

  Lucinda held the baby while her two toddlers clung to her skirts. “Dora, what an adventure. I never thought, of all of us, you would be the one to go sailing off to distant shores.”

  Finally Isadora found herself facing her mother, and a world of memories and emotions swirled through her. Her mother loved her, of that she had no doubt, yet she was haunted by the pervasive feeling that she was a disappointment to this proud, handsome woman. That nothing she could do would ever please her entirely.

  Except maybe disappear.

  “I’ll write, Mother,” she promised dutifully.

  “So shall I. And I want you to tell me everything that happens to you. Everything.” To Isadora’s astonishment, Sophia violated the dignity of the moment by bursting—oh so briefly—into sobs.

  Her father snapped to attention as though someone had shoved a sword into his back. Within seconds, all three men were thrusting handkerchiefs at Sophia. Within a few more seconds, she had dried her face and was fussing with the ribbons of Isadora’s bonnet. “I wish you’d agreed to take Thankful along,” she said, not even acknowledging her outburst. “Remember to wear your hooded burnouse and stay out of the sun and the wind. They are so deleterious to one’s health and countenance.”

  “Yes, Mother. Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, everyone.” In spite of her eagerness to go, Isadora held a thick grief in her throat as she dispensed hugs to all and accepted sloppy, adoring kisses from her small niece and nephew. Then she turned away.

  The stevedores paraded up and down gangways with barrels and crates in tow. Journey and some of the crewmen were present, shouting orders. She guessed that the man with the thin, mournful face and the whistle was Ralph Izard, the chief mate, and she recognized Timothy Datty, the boy who had tried so hard to stop her from humiliating herself.

  He would soon learn the futility of that.

  She turned to look at her family one last time, using a finger to inch her spectacles down so she could see over the blasted things. Gilded by a dazzle of morning light, the Peabody clan stood on the wharf as if posing for a portrait. Lucinda held the baby in her arms while the two elder children waved sweetly. Arabella and Sophia linked arms while the men formed a tall backdrop for the lace-clad ladies and children. Dear heaven, if there were a painter alive who could capture such magnificent beauty, he had not yet done so. And he should, really. It was truly the most perfect family ever.