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