“There now, don’t you look a sight.” Journey came into the stateroom. “What is that color you’re wearing today—mango?”
Ryan plucked at his silken cravat, admiring the peach-blush shade of it. “One of my favorite colors.”
“Goes well with the lime green sash.”
Ryan ignored the wry censure in his voice. His steward favored somber colors and a dignified manner, but that didn’t suit Ryan. “There’s a reason for this,” he said.
“Yes. Horrible personal taste, for one.”
“So you say. But picture Ferraro’s cold storage plant. Hundreds of workers swarming about, dozens of skippers with ice to sell. Who will they remember next season—a black-clad downeast Puritan, or the dashing Captain Calhoun?”
Journey turned his hands palms-out and took a step back. “Never mind, then. Commerce before taste, always.”
“Captain!” Timothy rapped smartly at the door. “P-pilot’s here!”
Ryan strode out to the main deck. The harbor pilot had come over in a launch and boarded. Dark-skinned, a battered hat clutched beneath his arm, he was staring drop-jawed at Lily, who had come out with Fayette and Isadora to observe the arrival.
“I guess he found something prettier than you,” Journey said.
Lily wore a dress of lavender and lace, complete with a wide-brimmed picnic bonnet and a ruffle-edged parasol. Ryan had seen flower arrangements less elaborate than his mother.
Fayette stood dutifully behind her mistress, though the maid’s wide-eyed gaze devoured the busy harbor with tall ships moving in and out, pilot boats and launches scooting to and fro.
And then there was Isadora, already shrinking into herself, he observed with annoyance. Now that they were about to go ashore, she was reverting to the gawky, timid creature he’d met in Boston. She kept her shoulders hunched and her eyes cast down, though she darted an occasional glance toward Sugar Loaf, the massive upended rock that marked the harbor. She had trussed herself up in an ugly brown dress he hadn’t seen south of the tenth parallel and her hair, which had begun to look somewhat better than squirrel fur, had disappeared into an odd black-and-brown bonnet.
At least, Ryan mused, landfall had not leached the healthy color from her face and she hadn’t coughed or sneezed in weeks.
With a gracious smile, he strode toward the pilot. “Senhor, welcome aboard the Swan.”
“Oh, my,” Lily murmured, admiring his shore togs with a proud maternal head-to-toe glance. “My baby boy is too handsome for words, isn’t he, Isadora?”
Isadora gave him a quick look, then ducked her head. “As you say, there are no words.”
At that moment, the shoreline forts fired a salute. Ryan raised his arms to acknowledge the courtesy.
The pilot tore his gaze from Lily long enough to offer Ryan a bow and a gap-toothed smile. Ryan gestured at the wharves. “How much to bring us in to a berth?”
“Forty pound sterling, senhor. In now, and later out.”
Ryan clutched at his heart. “Did you hear that, Mr. Izard? Just when I thought we’d make landfall without incident, I’m attacked by a pirate.”
“Senhor, I do not understand. I offer a service at a fair price—”
“Fifteen pounds sterling and not a farthing more,” Ryan said.
The man sent a wounded look heavenward and released a long string of Portuguese lamentation.
Ryan waited patiently for his counteroffer, but instead, Isadora cleared her throat. “Captain Calhoun, the poor man said he has five daughters, and his mother-in-law has come to die in his house. I really do think the proper thing to do is to meet his price.”
The Brazilian clearly saw Isadora as the weak spot, and addressed his next prayerful stream of speech to her.
She listened, enraptured. “He says a lesser pilot would risk grounding a ship of this size,” she warned. “Forty pounds is nothing compared to the many thousands you stand to lose if you allow a lesser pilot to run you aground. He’s absolutely right. He—”
“Twenty, and that’s my final offer,” Ryan snapped.
“Thirty,” the man countered.
“Done,” Ryan declared before Isadora could intervene again.
The Brazilian’s face lit up with a brilliant smile, and he hurried off to work.
Ryan whirled on Isadora, lowering his voice to a furious mutter. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I am your translator.”
“Then translate. Don’t advise me on what to pay.”
“But five daughters and a dying mother-in-law? The ten extra pounds would mean the world to the poor man.”
“Poor, hah. The old salt’s a bachelor who lives on his boat. The extra money goes to keep him in women, cigars, and curaçao.”
“How do you know that?” she demanded.
“It’s my business to know that. Now, the next time there’s any translating to be done, you give it to me word for word—without any of your back-slack.”
He stalked away, feeling strangely invigorated by the spat. That was the odd thing about knowing Isadora. Sparring with her was far more fun than polite conversation with a dozen other misses.
Lily hired a coach to take them up into the hills where her sister lived. While Fayette oversaw the masses of traveling trunks, Lily wafted a fan in front of her face. The smells of roasting coffee and burning sugar cane filled the air.
In preparation for landing, Isadora had read a traveler’s guide and studied the engravings to learn the lay of the land. But no travelogue or sketch could have prepared her for Rio. She stood in a thrall of amazement, observing the busy, glittering paradise: a mountain called Corcovado, shaped like a man bending over and draped in emerald silk. The Sugar Loaf rock, massive and gleaming like pure marble in the hot sun. Botafogo, a sparkling diamond necklace that collared the turquoise bay. Overlooking all this splendor was a dazzling white edifice she recognized as Laranjeras Palace.
Dear Lord Almighty, Isadora thought. I have died and ascended to paradise. She almost believed the fanciful thought, except for the rivulets of sweat that trickled unbearably down her back and between her breasts.
“Ah, here’s our coach,” Lily exclaimed. “I cannot believe I’m nearly there. I can hardly bear the anticipation.”
Isadora studied the coach with a twinge of suspicion. All but buried beneath a pyramid of luggage, the conveyance looked as if it might collapse at any moment. “Do you think we’ll be safe in that?” she asked.
“Of course. It’s the way all people of fashion travel. Have you got everything you need?”
“Yes, but I should stay here,” Isadora protested. “Captain Calhoun might need help translating—”
“Not today,” Ryan said, striding along the waterfront. He retained his seaman’s rolling gate, though he wore beautifully cut shore togs—tight black trousers and a full, blousy white shirt, with a tangerine-colored waistcoat.
He was with a dark, slender man of indeterminate race—he had the close-curled hair of an African, yet his skin was rich cinnamon in tone.
“Edison Carneros, at your service,” he said, his bow like that of a matador before a cheering crowd. When he straightened, he looked directly at Fayette.
Isadora felt the heat sizzle between them. That was the only way she could explain it. The moment their gazes connected, the two experienced