The Charm School. Сьюзен Виггс
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then, my dear Miss Peabody,” she said in her lazy, lovely drawl, “they aren’t seeing you at all.”
It was something so like Aunt Button would have said that Isadora felt a sudden lump in her throat.
“They are the Peabodys of Beacon Hill.” Isadora used her haughtiest accent, coaxing a smile from Lily. “They see the world as they think it should be seen.”
“Perhaps you’re in the wrong world, then.”
“It’s the only one I know, Mrs. Calhoun.” Isadora turned a rueful smile out the window. A newcomer—and a Southerner at that—couldn’t understand. In families like the Peabodys’, nothing changed, ever. It was the sacred mission of each generation of Peabodys to carry on exactly as their parents had before them, and so on until the end of time.
Misfits like Isadora were culled from the herd. Put off somewhere until weariness and middle age rendered them harmless. In old age, they could actually become useful as Aunt Button had. They could watch over the misfits of succeeding generations.
There had to be something else, Isadora often thought. But what? She yearned to fly away free, to escape. But what she wished to escape was her own life, and that was the one thing she couldn’t get away from.
She wanted to slap herself for even thinking in such bleak terms. Willfully she pulled her mind away from depressing thoughts and turned back to her companion.
Lily Calhoun stared straight ahead, her front teeth worrying her lower lip. “I’d best warn you about Ryan,” she said. “He’s the black sheep of his family, though I’ve never cared for that term.”
Isadora’s interest was piqued. Perhaps she and this Ryan Calhoun had something in common. “Is he a constant trial?”
“A trial? My dear, he could charm a pearl from an oyster.”
Isadora’s interest waned. She had nothing in common with a charming person.
“I had hoped that coming north would instill in him a sense of responsibility. Instead, the first thing he did upon leaving Virginia was to set his manservant free.”
“He had a slave?” Distaste coiled in Isadora’s belly.
Lily nodded. “He and Journey were like brothers.”
“And he freed his ‘brother.’”
“He did indeed.”
“Bravo,” Isadora said decisively.
“Abolitionist?” Lily asked.
“I am.”
“Now we know what topics of conversation we must avoid if we’re to be friends.” Lily paused, then added, “It’s strange being here in the company of Yankees. Most of you regard me as a half-educated Southern slavemistress.”
“I doubt that. Beacon Hill’s best families have made their fortunes milling cotton grown by slave labor. It’s considered gauche to bring the topic up—though that’s never stopped me from opposing it.”
The clarence lurched around the corner to India Street. Like reaching fingers, the darkened wharves projected out into Town Cove and Boston Harbor. The masts and spars of clipper ships, brigs, sloops and schooners rose against the night sky.
“Oh, my.” Lily gazed out at the dazzle of anchor lamps on black water. “It’s finally real to me. My Ryan really did run away to sea.”
“Mr. Easterbrook was most pleased with the job he did.” Isadora felt the urge to defend Ryan Calhoun, a man who’d had the courage to free a slave. “He made a voyage in record time. I understand the next run is to Rio.”
To Isadora, Rio de Janeiro was more than a place on a map. She and Aunt Button used to read stories of distant places. Rio had been a particular favorite, famous for its exotic carnivals. They had stayed up late, imagining the hot smell of roasting coffee and the sound of Latin tenors and samba music. When Aunt Button was too ill to see anymore, Isadora would sit and read aloud to her for hours. One of the last books they’d read together took place in Rio.
As they neared the berths of Easterbrook Wharf, Isadora reached for the speaking tube to alert the driver. She looked forward to meeting this man who pleased Abel Easterbrook and earned a fortune, this man who freed slaves. A black sheep who had succeeded so soundly in his chosen profession would be an inspiration to her.
Perhaps he was in his aft stateroom, resting after the fruitful voyage. Or perhaps he sat at the checkered counting table, doling out sailors’ bills to the common seamen. Perhaps—
The sound of shattering glass caused the horses to shy. While the driver subdued them, Isadora leaned over the running board and looked out.
The Silver Swan ran more than its anchor lamps. Bright Japanese lanterns swayed from her spars, halyards and outriggers, illuminating the decks. Every once in a while, someone set off a fireblossom that soared skyward with a whistle, then made a starburst of yellow sulfur light.
When the coach rolled to a halt, Isadora didn’t wait for the driver to open the door. She descended on her own, lurching a little when she landed.
Lily held back for the driver, then alighted like a butterfly on a flower. The tinny sound of pipes and the thud of a drum issued from the high decks of the bark.
“Carriage ho!” someone shouted, then loosed a braying laugh.
“Where away?” yelled another voice.
“Fine on the starboard quarter!” A shadowed shape came to the rail. Isadora tugged self-consciously at the knotted strings of her cap and patted her lacquered sausage curls.
“More ladies! More ladies!” shouted a rum-roughened voice. “Welcome aboard!”
More ladies?
Isadora straightened her shoulders and offered her arm to Lily. “I suppose we should board, then.”
Lily pressed her mouth into a flat line, and Isadora wondered what could be passing through her mind. The prodigal husband was supposed to humble himself and come home. Not force the wife to come to him.
“Come spare us a favor, loveys,” yelled the rum voice. “We just swallowed anchor after three seasons at sea!”
Lily paused. “I would suggest that you go back to the carriage. This will not be pleasant.”
“Nonsense. It was my idea to bring you here. If you’re going, I’m going.” Isadora took Lily firmly by the arm. They went aboard via the slanting gangplank, steadying themselves with the rope rails. The music’s tempo grew stronger; so did the laughter—and the syrupy stench of rum.
Isadora frowned in confusion. Mr. Easterbrook had implied that Ryan Calhoun was a skilled and disciplined skipper. Surely he would not allow—
“Oh, dear Lord above.” Lily stopped on the midships deck. Her grip on Isadora’s arm tightened.
The whole deck resembled a Hogarth painting—the lowest of the low, engaged in the lowest of pursuits. The screeching whistle was piped by a sailor with a mustache. A Negro man with a skin drum and another with a mouth harp accompanied him.
Isadora fumbled with her spectacles. Even in her imagination she could not have conjured up such a scene: jack-tars in loose trousers and striped shirts dancing with bare-legged women who kissed them in public. Chickens running willy-nilly around the deck. A huge bald man with a ring of gold gleaming in one ear stood drinking directly from an unbunged barrel, upended and balanced upon his bare shoulder.
She brought her shocked gaze in a full circle around the brightly lit deck, and at the last she found herself gaping at an extraordinary man. Like a king on a throne, he sat upon a big armless chair. Backlit by burning torches, the laughing man appeared almost inhumanly handsome with a long fall of fiery red hair flowing over his broad shoulders and framing his chiseled face. He wore a garish green waistcoat that left too much of his