The cook had, for whatever reason, decided to take her under his wing. With considerably better manners than she expected from a seaman, he introduced her to her shipmates.
Ralph Izard served as chief mate, which put him in charge of just about everything. As he rushed past, he had no time to talk, but he smiled cordially enough. She noted a certain sad resignation in his eyes.
William Click, the second mate, spoke with a Cockney accent and wore a short-handled quirt in a hip holster at his side. Chips, the carpenter, was tall and skinny; Luigi Conti, the Italian sail maker, was tiny, with merry eyes and a huge black mustache. Gerald Craven, the jibboom man with tattoed arms and a gold hoop earring, gave her a curt greeting, then hastened off to help Timothy haul down a tangle in the rigging.
Isadora brought her carpetbag to her assigned quarters. Here, she would spend her last night in Boston, and in the morning they would sail with the tide.
According to the Doctor, the Silver Swan was an unusual vessel. Sloop-rigged in order to carry less sail and thus a smaller crew, she had been built for a sea captain who insisted on traveling with his wife and four children. That accounted for the grandeur of the captain’s stateroom and for the snugness of the two side staterooms, which had once housed the children. Lily Calhoun and her maid would occupy one of the rooms, Isadora the other.
She found a single bunk, too short to accommodate her height, a single portal to let in the daylight and a single washstand with a lavatory and chamber pot. The cabin had the austere air of a monk’s cell, and she found that she rather liked the feel of it.
Lily and Fayette greeted her cheerily when they arrived. She accompanied them to their cabin, which was larger, with two boxlike bunks and a sitting area below the portal.
“Are you terribly excited?” Lily asked, helping her maid with a stubborn latch on a case.
“I hardly slept a wink all night.”
“It’s a little frightening, isn’t it?” Lily asked.
“It’s a lot frightening,” Fayette said, casting a suspicious glance at the door. “Only time I ever went somewhere with Mr. Ryan in charge was a day of fishing. We ended up in the middle of Mockjack Bay in a skiff, and he didn’t have no idea how to get back. No idea at all.”
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