The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle: The Charm School. Сьюзен Виггс
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the men bellowed, clinking mugs.
Ryan aimed a crooked grin at his companion, who had begun squirming suggestively in his lap. “Sugar-pie, my legs are going numb.”
She screeched with laughter. “I hope that don’t affect the rest of you.”
“We’ll see when we get to the stateroom.”
Her hips ground down on him. “Who needs the stateroom?”
He had a fleeting thought of privacy, but the rum—and the whore’s sly fingers—coaxed a dark, desire-filled laugh from him. With slow, teasing movements he plunged his hand beneath her skirts. He found the stolen flask but passed it right over in pursuit of richer treasures.
No doubt the puritanical Mr. Easterbrook would be appalled to see such revelry on his ship, but Ryan banished the last of his scruples. No proper Bostonian would show up now. Anyone who strayed to the docks at this time of night deserved what he saw.
“I feel quite wicked being out so late,” Isadora confessed to Lily Raines Calhoun. She leaned back against the burgundy leather seat of the hooded clarence. Her father, who always demanded the best, had had the carriage fitted with a curved glass, like a show window, in the front. Lily and Isadora sat side by side on the rear seat, watching the city through the glass.
A waning moon cast the State House dome in pale gray; misty orbs of gaslight glowed along State Street, and shadows haunted side streets and Merchants’ Row.
“Your driver looked a mite startled when we told him we wanted to go to the harbor,” Lily remarked. “I do hope this won’t cause trouble with your family.”
“Believe me, Mrs. Calhoun, since the age of fourteen, I’ve done nothing but cause trouble for my family.”
Lily turned, the light on her face flickering from pale to gold in the swinging glow of the carriage lantern. “Whatever can you mean?”
Isadora toyed idly with the strings of her lace cap. “Until I was fourteen, I lived with a maiden aunt in Salem. I only saw my family once in a great while.” She thought back to the long, dreamy years with Aunt Button when nothing mattered more than spending a few hours reading a wonderful book. “It was an arrangement that suited all of us very well indeed. But when my great aunt died, I had to return to the house on Beacon Hill. I’m afraid I’ve been a trial to them ever since.”
“I can’t imagine you a trial,” Lily said.
“Yes, you can,” Isadora replied with gentle censure. “You’re too kind to say so. A plain spinster, awkward in conversation, clumsy on the dance floor—I’m a trial, especially to the Peabodys.”
“We all have our own unique gifts. It is incumbent upon the larger society to discover them.”
“And if they do not?”
Lily Calhoun turned on the seat so that she was facing Isadora. The shifting lamplight glazed her face with fire. Very deliberately, with her dainty gloved hands, she reached out and removed Isadora’s small rectangularlensed spectacles, letting them dangle from the black silk ribbon around her neck.
“Why 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