The Charm School by Susan Wiggs

Ten

Woman stock is rising in the market.

—Lydia Maria Child, Letter (1856)

Ryan stared into the little mirror with fierce concentration as he drew a straight razor along the side of his jaw. The ship plunged into a trough, causing him to list to one side. He felt the subtle bite of the blade in his chin and swore.

But it was no less than he deserved, he decided. Isadora Peabody’s words still haunted him: Why does cruelty come so easily to you?

He’d wanted to deny it, but the truth was, thoughtlessness did seem to come naturally to him. It had ever been that way with Ryan and women. He was all too willing to partake of their physical charms, but the involvement always ended there. The minute he started to care about them in a deeper way, he made it his business to push them away with careless, cutting words.

Isadora, of course, was the first one he’d actually attacked.

“Have a towel, Skipper.” Journey tossed him one.

Ryan pressed it to his chin. “You’re my steward. You should be doing this.”

“I’m busy,” Journey said distractedly.

Ryan stopped the bleeding and lathered up again to finish shaving. “Did you take the morning readings?”

“I did. I’m reckoning our position now.” Journey gazed intently at the papers on the table in front of him. He had a gift for the logarithms of navigation, figuring in his head with lightning quickness. He gave the task his total attention, yet with his left hand, he fingered the small pouch he wore on a leather strap around his neck. The pendant lay against his heart. Toying with it was a habit, an unconscious tic. Delilah, the wife he’d left behind, had given him the pouch. Inside was a tiny love knot fashioned from a lock of her hair.

Ryan’s gut twisted with impatience and urgency. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t natural for a family to be separated like this. He recalled the morning he and Journey had left to go north. They had stopped at Bonterre, the neighboring plantation where Delilah lived.

Ryan had waited in the open carriage while Journey dropped to the ground near the slave quarters. An anguished smile had strained his face as Delilah came running out of one of the cabins, a toddler held against her hip and her thin cotton dress outlining the ripe shape of her pregnancy. Putting Ruthie down, she’d placed her arms around her husband’s neck, then risen on tiptoe to kiss him solemnly. And then she’d said something Ryan would never forget, something he wasn’t supposed to hear. But her words had been imprinted on his heart forever. “Honey,” Journey’s wife had said, “life don’t work right when you’re not around.”

Ryan swore at the pain from that memory. He finished shaving and wiped his face, then went out on deck, leaving Journey to his navigational figuring.

A balmy day greeted Ryan. With a sweep of his gaze he read the wind and the sea; this was his gift. Marble-hard swells rose beneath a brisk wind from the west. They would cover a good distance today.

“Morning, Captain.” Ralph Izard bent over the deck, securing a new winch, for Ryan had decided to add an extra lifeboat as a safety measure. Izard’s face, chapped and furred with the beginnings of a beard, crinkled as he smiled briefly. “A fair wind, eh?”

“So it seems, Mr. Izard.” He indicated the tall leather-bound journal under the chief mate’s arm. “Is everything in order?”

“Aye, though I think we took on too little ballast,” he replied. “And maybe too many victuals.”

Ryan ignored the comment about the ballast. It would only be a problem in the heaviest of seas, and even then, his skilled crew could navigate an ugly storm. He didn’t much like paying for ballast, preferring to stoke the hold with paying cargo. Happily, the huge blocks of Vermont ice fulfilled that function.

“I’ll pay what it takes for the victuals,” he said. A lot of skippers cut corners by laying in inferior food in skimpy quantities for their sailors. Ryan knew better than to test their loyalty by taxing their stomachs. “A well-fed sailor is a happy sailor.”

“As you say, Skipper. You’ll hear no back-slack from a crew that’s got its mouth stuffed with ladyfingers.” He winked, looking wise and world-weary at the same time.

Ryan moved on, though he thought about Ralph Izard for a moment. He liked the chief mate; Izard was his prime minister, boatswain, sailing-master and quartermaster all at once, and he excelled at what he did.

And he alone knew what no one else had guessed.

Ryan’s first record-breaking voyage had been a fluke.

It wasn’t his skill as a skipper that had brought the Swan to harbor so profitably, but a combination of good weather and blind beginner’s luck. Izard was well aware of this. He had never spoken of it, though the knowledge always hung between him and Ryan—unuttered yet undeniable.

He climbed the companion stair to the foredeck. A startling sight greeted him.

Isadora Peabody bent over a pair of deck chairs, tucking an olive-colored blanket around his mother and Fayette. The two women looked wasted and wan, still miserable with the sea sickness. Yet, finally, after Ryan had tried for days to coax them from their beds, they’d come on deck.

Isadora appeared different today. What was left of her hair was tied back carelessly with a ribbon, a few curls escaping to twine around her face. The sun, increasingly strong as they traveled farther and farther south, brought out a warm gold color in some of the strands. Her stiff brown dress appeared less cumbersome. Maybe she’d heeded his advice and left off a couple of those petticoats.

He knew he wouldn’t be asking her.

He stepped onto the deck, moving past the chicken coop. “Morning, ladies.”

Isadora straightened, her face hardening to a mask of indifference.

He scowled at her in annoyance. He wanted to ask her if she still wanted to be stuck to the windlass by her hair. God knew she deserved it.

“Hello, Ryan,” his mother said.

“Mama.” He bent and kissed Lily’s cheek. “It’s good to see you both out in the air.”

“Isadora convinced us. Since we couldn’t feel much worse, we agreed to sit on deck for a while.”

“I’ll see if your tea is ready,” Isadora said, moving past Ryan.

He caught a whiff of the soap she used—something clean and herbal—and he didn’t realize he was staring after her until his mother said, “So what exactly did you do to the poor girl?”

“What makes you think I did anything at all? Did she tell you—”

“She didn’t say a word, Ryan. I honestly don’t think she’s the sort of lady to tell tales out of school.”

Fayette chuckled knowingly. “Didn’t have to say a thing. But she shows up wearing parlor scuffs and her hair badly shorn, and we guessed you had something to do with it.”

Ryan sat on a coil of rope and took out the Turk’s head he was braiding, adding to the ornamental knot strand by strand. “She’s a babe in arms when it comes to sailing. Stumbled around on her high heels and got her hair caught in the apparatus.” He blew out his breath in exasperation. “We had...words.”

Lily shook her head. “Oh, Ryan.”

Something deep inside him recoiled at her tone of voice. He’d heard it all his life. “Oh, Ryan” stood for a wealth of defects and disappointments. Each and every one of them richly deserved. Some things would never change. She would be “Oh, Ryan-ing” him until he was an old man.

“You of all people know my imperfections, Mama,” he said. “Did you think I was taking Miss Peabody on a pleasure cruise?”

Lily studied him solemnly, her expression loving yet wary. “It could be, you know.”

“A pleasure cruise?” He snorted. “Such a thing as pleasure has been outlawed in Boston.”

“According to the navigation log, we are presently a very long way from Boston,” Isadora said, arriving with a wooden tray.

Ryan stood, chagrined that she had overheard his comment. “And how far are we from pleasure?” he couldn’t resist asking.

“Everything was very pleasant indeed,” she said, “until a few moments ago.” She handed Lily and Fayette each a thick china mug. “I added a touch of lemon and honey. If that agrees with you, we’ll try some broth and bread later.”

He glared at her, but instead of feeling contempt, he caught himself wondering what she was like under all that black-and-brown armor. Did her impressive height come from long legs? Were her breasts full and round, crested with dusky rose peaks? Was her skin soft and smooth to the touch...? Christ. He’d been too long at sea.

“I hope you find the morning...pleasant, ladies,” Ryan said, exaggerating his drawl and his formal bow. “For me, duty calls.”

A few days later, below the jibboom, he found that someone had repaired the rigging. He picked up the broad web of rope, noting the precision of the knots.

“I’ll finish that now,” Isadora said.

Wordlessly, he handed it to her. Damn. The woman was like a bad rash. She wouldn’t go away. Everywhere he turned, he nearly collided with her.

“Luigi showed me how to do the mending,” she explained, though Ryan hadn’t asked.

“It’s a useful skill,” he admitted. What he didn’t admit was that he had noticed her growing camaraderie with each member of the crew. Each one seemed drawn to her, if not charmed by her then at least engaged enough by her natural curiosity to share something with her—a skill, a tidbit of sea lore, a useful turn of phrase. He didn’t know why this was so, but it was. Probably because he was as small-minded and immature as his mother claimed.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you for looking after my mother and Fayette.”

For the first time in days, she regarded him directly. She had nice eyes, he realized, now that they weren’t peering over the unneeded thick-lensed spectacles. The color shifted between warm brown and vibrant green.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d admired a woman’s irises.

“It’s my pleasure to look after them,” Isadora said.

She was that sort of person, he realized. One who understood human need and derived satisfaction from tending to it. One who would make a wonderful mother.

A scowl darkened his brow. She had set her cap for Chad Easterbrook, who had no idea what sort of mother she would make. He had no idea what sort of person she was, for that matter.

“Captain Calhoun?” she said.

“Since I’ve decided to address you as Isadora, I think you should call me Ryan,” he said.

“It won’t matter. Because what I was going to say is that it’s clear we don’t get along.” Her hands tightened on the rope. “I bullied my way onto your ship and I refuse to be sorry for that. You, in turn, have been bullying me since we set sail, and you’re not sorry, either.”

“When you state it that way—”

“I think it would be better for all concerned if you and I simply stayed out of one another’s way, don’t you?”

For some reason, he chose that particular moment to remember the way he’d touched her in the galley. She’d struck him as so alone and bereft that he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d rested his hands on her shoulders, then stroked her arms, and her softness had pleased him. He’d touched her face—this very face that now watched him impassively—and had been terrified that she was going to cry.

No, this woman wasn’t a weeper. That much was clear.

“You think we should steer clear of each other.”

“As much as possible, given the fact that we’re confined to this ship.”

“I see.” He knew she was right. She was absolutely right. He hated how right she was. “I will agree to this request, but on one condition.”

“What is that, Cap—Ryan?”

“That you keep yourself safe. No tottering around on inappropriate shoes, no testing the waters like an old salt, nothing of the sort.”

“I’m not accustomed to following orders,” she said.

“Yes, you are. You’ve followed every order and dictate of Beacon Hill society all your life.”

She caught her breath as if he’d struck her. “You see what I mean?” She shook out the knot. “We must begin our campaign of mutual indifference at once.”

He sent her a mocking smile, hiding a sense of loss he hadn’t expected to feel. “As you wish.”

But as the days passed, he found it impossible not to notice her. In fact, his attention sought her out the way a tongue seeks out a sore tooth. He saw her seated on the foredeck with Timothy Datty, patiently repeating sounds and words with him to break his habit of stuttering. At sunup, she and the Doctor were wont to be found at the aft balcony, their lines cast out to troll for fish. Sometimes she helped Luigi with his sail making, insisting that he drill her in lessons to improve her command of Italian.

The common seamen soon learned she was game for more active duties. On a balmy Wednesday morning, Ryan looked up to see her balanced in the shrouds and bent over a yardarm as she helped Gerald reefing a sail.

His heart galloping in his chest, Ryan sounded the whistle and bellowed, “Come down from there, Miss Peabody.”

“I’m busy,” she said.

“That’s an order.”

“You ordered me to ignore you, so that is what I shall do.”

And Ryan Calhoun, who knew better, released a lengthy stream of colorful invective in an obnoxiously loud voice.

Isadora looked across the web of rigging at Gerald. “Did you hear something? Or was it merely a great gust of wind?”

Ryan stalked off. In driving Isadora away, holding her at arm’s length, he had propelled her toward the others. Judging by her behavior in Boston, he’d formed the idea that she was a solitary sort, not one to seek company when a good book lay at hand. Now she enjoyed being around people. She liked to talk and loved to listen. And judging by the reaction of the crew, she was damned good at it.

Even William Click, the moody and secretive second mate, warmed to her. He showed her how to man the pulleys to bring water up from the sea, and sometimes they knelt side by side on the midships deck, doing their laundry. And Ralph Izard, generally circumspect about his personal life, often gave her a turn at the helm as he stood by, sharing his memories of his boyhood in New York City.

Day by day, man by man, she was becoming their friend, their confidante, their shipmate. She was coming to know them in a way Ryan, as the captain, never could. By virtue of his role, he couldn’t speak to Timothy Datty of the farm he’d left in Rhode Island, to Gerald Craven of his recent trip to New Orleans. Ryan had to hold himself apart from the crew, but Isadora seemed to blossom in their midst.

On quiet evenings after the supper hour, he would spy her skylarking with the men on the open main deck. She openly and good-humoredly despaired of her skill as a dancer, so the men were determined to teach her to curtsy and dance like an accomplished lady. At first Ryan tried not to pay attention, but lately she seemed to speak louder and laugh more frequently than she had before. She was becoming hard to ignore.

Chips had carved her a serviceable recorder flute. Before long, she joined in the makeshift ensemble consisting of Journey with his skin drum, Luigi with his fiddle and Gerald with his hornpipes. The music they made was so merry that even his mother and Fayette came above to sit beneath their blankets and tap their feet, trying to forget their persistent misery.

At least having his mother on deck gave him an excuse to draw close to the festivities. He greeted the ladies and Lily held on to his hand. “When will I ever get my sea legs?” she asked.

“You should be over the sickness by now.”

“I’m trying, Ryan. Really I am. We both are. Isadora brings us broth and bread, sometimes even a bit of egg and biscuit. She is an angel, I tell you. Purely an angel.”

Ryan shot a furtive glance at the “angel.” She held the recorder to her lips, eyes dancing as she picked out the melody of “The Bo’sun’s Wife.” Her slippered foot tapped on the oaken deck. The lowering sun burnished the loose curls of her hair. But Ryan’s gaze kept wandering to her mouth. Full and moist, her lips circled the mouthpiece of the recorder, and at the corners they turned up slightly as if in amusement.

He watched those lips and the way her nimble fingers played over the openings, making music. Unexpected heat rushed through him, and his thoughts wandered to dark, forbidden places scented by a woman’s musky perfume. He imagined, with startling vividness, the brush of bare silken skin and the softness of smiling lips beneath his own.

Ryan shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying to reel in his thoughts and feeling a tight discomfort in his trousers. When he realized what was happening to him, he muttered something about taking a sounding, and then he walked away.

Damn it.

He missed her.