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