He wished she’d find another ship to make her escape on.
She pushed her glasses down her nose and lifted her gaze to the sky. “I love the autumn constellations,” she said. “Is it the cold, do you think, that gives them such clarity?”
“Perhaps. Why do you wear the spectacles if you’re always having to peer over them in order to see?” Ryan asked, impertinent and not caring that he was.
“My mother feared my eyes had gone weak from too much reading, so she insisted on the spectacles. To be honest, I think I see better without them.”
He bit his tongue to avoid saying something insulting about her mother. “So we’re off with the tide,” he said, changing the subject.
“I thought they’d never finish loading the cargo. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much ice.”
“White gold. Our success depends on getting it quickly to harbor in Rio. If the consignees are happy and I negotiate a nice cargo for home, the entire voyage should make Mr. Easterbrook happy.”
“I’m curious.” She turned to face him. The glow from the binnacle lamps flickered over her rounded cheeks, the lenses of her spectacles. “You are so very ambitious, so very set on earning a fortune at this.”
“Surely that doesn’t offend your Yankee sensibilities,” he said. This voyage, for Ryan, had many more complicated reasons, but he was quite clear on what he would do with the earnings.
“Heavens, no. But you must admit it’s unusual for a Southern gentleman to become a Yankee skipper.”
He was disgruntled at the way she had commandeered a place on the ship, yet curious all the same. “May I say something quite personal?”
“Can I stop you?”
“No.”
“Then go on.”
“Miss Peabody, I think we’re both the black sheep of our families. I because I refuse to build my fortune on the backs of slaves, and you because you…” Damn. He’d talked himself into a corner now.
“Because I’m the plain spinster in a family of beautiful and popular socialites,” she finished for him. “You are quite correct, Captain Calhoun.” She started to walk away.
He caught her arm. “Do not put words in my mouth. That’s not what I meant.”
She stared at his hand on her arm for so long that he felt awkward and released her. “I see. Then what, pray, did you mean?”
“Simply that…Oh, hell. Are you always this sensitive?”
“Yes. It is one of my great failings.” She looked toward the bow. They could see the silhouettes of Journey and Fayette there, shadows against the lights along the shore. They stood with their heads bent close, deep in conversation.
“They’re speaking of home,” Ryan explained. “Fayette can tell him things…no one else can possibly know.”
“Why would he want to hear news of the place where he was in bondage?” she asked.
Ryan hesitated, then decided there was no harm in telling her. “Because he left a part of himself behind.”
“What do you mean?”
“His wife and children. They belong to our neighbors, the Beaumonts.”
Her gasp ended on a quiet, heartfelt sob. “Dear lord,” she said. “Then freedom for him is exile.”
“It was a hard choice to make.” Ryan remembered how he’d lain awake night after night, agonizing as the day of his departure for Harvard drew closer. “If I freed him, he would never be able to see his family again. But if he remained a slave, he’d live as half a man, bound to me for all his days, and his children after him.”
Miss Isadora Dudley Peabody burst into tears.
Discomfited, Ryan groped in his pocket and found a clean handkerchief. “I take it you have strong feelings on the issue of slavery?”
“That’s precisely it. I thought I did, but until this moment I never quite grasped what it means. You did the right thing.” She blew her nose audibly, then rushed the handkerchief in her fist. “I’ll launder it for you,” she promised.
He almost smiled, but stopped himself. He didn’t need anyone’s approval, let alone the admiration of this prissy Boston woman. They were worlds apart; it was simply the circumscribed closeness of shipboard life that gave the illusion of intimacy.
“I had best retire,” Isadora said. “I know I shan’t sleep a wink, but I promised myself I would try.”
She started toward the companion ladder. Her feet, enclosed in the flimsy little boots with high, wobbling heels, moved uncertainly over the deck. The shoes, he decided, would have to go. So would the Beacon Hill matron costume. The voluminous black-and-gray skirts and petticoats, the rigid shell of the corset, all the trappings of propriety had no place on a working ship. Her damned hair alone was a problem, too, since she insisted in scraping it all up into a knot on her head and then letting those curls trail down in the front. So the hair, too, he decided. She’d have to change that along with the dress and the shoes.
He smiled at the image. Getting the very proper Miss Peabody to slap about on deck like a barefoot sailor would prove a challenge indeed.
Ryan had always enjoyed a challenge.
Eight
You know how often we have longed for a sea voyage, as the fulfillment of all our dreams of poetry and romance, the realization of our highest conceptions of free, joyous existence…. Let me assure you, my dears…that going to sea is not at all the thing that we have taken it to be.
—Harriet Beecher Stowe,
Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands
Isadora dreamed of a pack of wolves snapping at her from all sides, chewing the heels off her shoes, ripping her petticoats to shreds. Rudely stirred from sleep by a piercing whistle, she lay in her bunk at dawn and knew the wolves in her dream were actually misgivings.
She inhaled air so damp it seemed to drench her lungs. Her back ached from lying huddled in a cramped space in the dark. Last night’s turkey and claret sat ill in her stomach, and when she rose to avail herself of the chamberpot—that in itself a disgusting operation she endured only by scrunching her eyes shut tight and refusing to think of it—she smacked her head on a beam so hard she saw stars.
Sitting on the edge of the bunk, she rubbed her head and peered out the woefully tiny portal. Indeed, they had left their berth in the harbor and were now at anchor; they’d be headed out to sea any moment.
The night before, she’d managed to struggle out of her corset and had slept in her chemise. She eyed the garment—a Corset Amazone that her mother had ordered specially from Freebodys—with loathing. The great fallacy of the corset was that it did not sheer off fullness; it merely displaced it to uncomfortable locales. Captain Calhoun had not been far wrong in calling it an iron maiden, after a medieval torture device.
Resigned, she stood up to don the corset. A sharp pain shot up her leg, stealing her breath. She sank back to the bunk, holding out her left ankle. It resembled a great sausage, swollen and discolored. Gingerly she touched the bruise, wincing at the pain. She must have injured herself when she fell off the ladder—directly onto Captain Calhoun.
This is not a pleasure cruise. His sarcastic words, uttered the night before, still rang in her ears.
Dear lord, had she ever actually thought she belonged on this voyage?
People had told Isadora all her life that she was foolish. Now,