“Oh,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly. “You’re up.”
She said nothing. He probably thought she was stunned speechless by the brilliance of his observation.
“Charming,” his mother said, coming into the room with Rose at her side. Two servants arrived to pour the coffee and lay out platters of sweet bread and sliced fruit.
Ryan grunted rudely.
Isadora could scarcely believe this was the same man as the dashing gaucho who had romanced her last night. He added several spoonfuls of sugar to his caffe com leche. She preferred hers bitter. He dug into the chunks of fresh fruit and brioches; she picked at hers. The heat and humidity of the tropics had reduced her appetite dramatically. The one happy effect of the climate was that she hadn’t been bothered by her persistent grippe and sneezing in many weeks.
As they ate, Lily kept glancing anxiously at the door. Each time a servant walked in, she froze, then relaxed.
“She’s not coming back, Mother,” Ryan said with quiet assurance.
“Did Fayette go somewhere?” Isadora asked.
Lily pressed her lips together as if keeping in a sob. Rose nodded gravely. “Last night she ran off with Edison Carneros.”
Lily’s chin quivered, but she looked directly at Isadora as she said, “I thought it was a prank, but I fear Fayette claimed her freedom last night.”
“They probably went to settle at one of the quilombos, where fugitives go,” Rose explained. “They’re rough settlements, but that’s generally where runaways hide.”
“It’s not the end of the world as you know it, Mama.” Ryan sipped his coffee, then with more compassion, added, “He’ll be good to her.”
“She’s my maid. She’s always been my maid. Whatever shall I do?”
“You’ll manage, Mama. You always do.”
“I’m worried about Fayette. She has no idea what life is like.”
“She was a slave, Mama. And you were a slave owner. That was what life was like for her. By running off with Edison, she freed you both. Don’t you understand that?”
Lily’s face paled to chalk white. “How dare you?”
“Somebody in this family had better dare. You’ve managed to wander through life without even saying the word slave. Without even thinking it. Servants, you call them. Maids. Field hands. Laundresses. But they were slaves. Property. Chattel. You owned them, body and soul.”
“Ryan, what’s happened to you? When did you become so harsh?”
“What’s harsh, Mother, is the lash of a slave owner’s whip.”
Tears filled her eyes. “My maid has never felt the touch of a whip. I love Fayette.”
“Then let her go, Mama. That’s the only way to love her.”
The tears overflowed then, coursing down her cheeks as her shoulders shook. “I’m so frightened. Everything’s changing so fast.”
“Some changes are long past due.” Ryan found a handkerchief and Lily dried her cheeks with meticulous care.
Isadora blinked, astonished and elated. “I know you shall miss her, Lily. We all will. But it’s for the best.”
Lily took a nervous sip of her coffee. “A noble thought, but naive. Fayette was better off with me. She claimed to love Edison, but love can’t fill an empty belly, nor keep the world at bay. The quilombos are horrid places. One of the housemaids told me that a runaway is in danger from the police, as well as from other fugitives.”
“Can the slave patrols arrest her?” Isadora asked anxiously. The Fugitive Slave Law, that legislative abomination, had been in force in Boston for several months now. The law had created terror among the city’s African people, free or not. Tension tore apart families, made neighbors distrust neighbors. She wondered if Brazil had a similar law.
“There is no extradition to the United States,” Ryan said, leaning back laconically in his chair.
“But she could be forced into service here.” Lily’s voice rang hollow with baffled hurt. “She is in more peril as a free woman than she ever was as my servant.” She pushed back from the table, clearly too agitated to sit still. “There’s an epidemic of yellow fever in the city. What if she falls ill? Or starves? Or is harmed by criminals? What if—”
“You can help by setting her free. Legally. I’ll see that the papers are drawn up for you,” Ryan said. “That way, she won’t be considered a fugitive. Fayette is not a child. And she’s not yours. She was never yours. Her will is hers and hers alone. So if she chooses to go off with Carneros, your only choice is to allow it.” He rose from the table and gently kissed her on the cheek. “She knew the risks, and she chose freedom.”
He went to the door. “I have to go to the city to see about her manumission papers.” He bowed, the gallant gesture at odds with his unkempt appearance. “Ladies.”
Isadora stared after him. He was the strangest man, rude as a longshoreman even as he helped free a slave woman. Capricious, that’s what he was. He had probably already forgotten last night’s embrace. How many times did the lesson have to be hammered into her? It was only a kiss, she told herself. She was far too old to romanticize a mere kiss, and far too proud to admit that it might mean more to her than it had to Ryan Calhoun.
She knew her heart shone in her eyes, knew Lily was watching her curiously, but she couldn’t help herself. Last night had meant nothing to Ryan. He probably didn’t remember it at all. Didn’t remember dancing with her, holding her, kissing her until she saw stars.
She couldn’t blame him, not really. What man alive would admit to kissing the spinster of Beacon Hill?
Ryan hoped his display of nonchalance had been convincing. He’d awakened the morning after the masquerade with a throbbing headache and a profound feeling of thwarted desire.
Thoughts of Isadora Peabody plagued him during the trek to the harbor and nagged at him when he was supposed to be concentrating on bribing an official for a carta de alforria for Fayette. He delivered the letter of liberty to Edison Carneros, who thanked him with tears in his eyes.
But once he returned to business, Ryan’s thoughts wandered to Isadora again, when he should have been formulating the correct tonnage for ballast. He snapped at the men, made errors in his figuring and broke a half dozen pen nibs.
Journey shooed him off to his quarters, where he took the ship’s cat in his lap, scowled out the stern windows at the jangadas plying to and fro and thought about Isadora some more.
He had no doubt he could rouse her ardor; she’d certainly responded eagerly enough. But it was a false emotion, one based on physical need. Ryan had no right to steal her heart.
He supposed he could make her forget all about Chad Easterbrook, given the time and temperament for seducing an inhibited woman. But Ryan occupied a precarious position, balanced uncertainly between unimaginable success and devastating failure. He had picked the worst possible time to pursue the daughter of Boston’s most prominent family.
He should go on pretending the kiss had never happened.
But God. She kissed like an angel.
It was true, painfully true, and he had the experience to know the difference. Isadora’s kiss brought back all the wonder and yearning and innocence and hope of youth. Her kiss reminded him of why the kiss was invented.
Yet he had learned to do without love in the past. His father had taught him that. Ryan decided to do what he had always done when his heart threatened to steer him toward a course of disaster. He’d throw himself into his work, spend