The Charm School

Everything was in order, from the perfectly packed traveling box—specially designed to fit the carriages of Brazil—to the dove gray bonnet Thankful had tied with a precise bow beneath Isadora’s chin. The bootblacked surface of her traveling trunk shone in the morning sun. She had a detachable pocket inside her black silk pongee skirts filled with paper money as well as gold and silver coins in the common currency of the high seas, pounds sterling.

Porters, stevedores, deckhands and passengers crowded the waterfront area, for at least nine ships would clear Boston harbor this day. Passersby paused to study the Peabody clan, and their expressions formed uncensored maps of their thoughts. They took in the silver dignity of the parents, the golden beauty of the brothers and sisters, then dismissed Isadora as a poor relation.

She hardened herself against the stares. Soon she would be gone from here, gone to a place she could only imagine, a place she and Aunt Button had found in their cozy nights by the fire in Salem. Her only regret was that Chad had not come to say goodbye.

Finally she saw it—the Silver Swan. The stately bark still held open its cargo hatches, taking on freight with rampant speed. The sight of the ship and the knowledge that the wind was in the right quarter for departure, filled her with excitement.

She nearly burst with anticipation. There was no chance of that, however. Thankful had been merciless in lacing her corset. The busk pressed like a restraining hand against her breastbone. Isadora wondered how, on shipboard, she would dress herself in stays each day, but she didn’t dare voice her fears aloud. She didn’t want to do or say anything to give her family second thoughts about letting her go.

Perhaps she would simply sleep in her stays.

A boatswain’s whistle pierced the air. “I should go aboard,” she said.

“Indeed.” Clearing his throat, her father turned to the porter who brought her things along in a large, creaky barrow. “You have everything you need—plenty of books—be certain you read the Emerson and send me your thoughts on it.”

“Of course, Papa. On the ship’s manifest I am listed—to my shame—as an idler. So I expect I’ll have plenty of time for reading.”

“Being an idler simply means you don’t take a turn standing watch,” Bronson said, taking her hand and squeezing it. “For that you can be grateful. The schedule sounds quite grueling for a common sailor.”

“There is nothing common about our Izzie,” Quentin declared.

“Behave yourself at Harvard, Quentin,” she said.

“What, and ruin my reputation?”

“Oh, Izzie.” Arabella hugged her. “And to think, when you return, I shall be a married lady!”

“I’ll bring you a special wedding gift. Something terribly exotic, I should think. A live parrot? A mango tree?”

Lucinda held the baby while her two toddlers clung to her skirts. “Dora, what an adventure. I never thought, of all of us, you would be the one to go sailing off to distant shores.”

Finally Isadora found herself facing her mother, and a world of memories and emotions swirled through her. Her mother loved her, of that she had no doubt, yet she was haunted by the pervasive feeling that she was a disappointment to this proud, handsome woman. That nothing she could do would ever please her entirely.

Except maybe disappear.

“I’ll write, Mother,” she promised dutifully.

“So shall I. And I want you to tell me everything that happens to you. Everything.” To Isadora’s astonishment, Sophia violated the dignity of the moment by bursting—oh so briefly—into sobs.

Her father snapped to attention as though someone had shoved a sword into his back. Within seconds, all three men were thrusting handkerchiefs at Sophia. Within a few more seconds, she had dried her face and was fussing with the ribbons of Isadora’s bonnet. “I wish you’d agreed to take Thankful along,” she said, not even acknowledging her outburst. “Remember to wear your hooded burnouse and stay out of the sun and the wind. They are so deleterious to one’s health and countenance.”

“Yes, Mother. Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, everyone.” In spite of her eagerness to go, Isadora held a thick grief in her throat as she dispensed hugs to all and accepted sloppy, adoring kisses from her small niece and nephew. Then she turned away.

The stevedores paraded up and down gangways with barrels and crates in tow. Journey and some of the crewmen were present, shouting orders. She guessed that the man with the thin, mournful face and the whistle was Ralph Izard, the chief mate, and she recognized Timothy Datty, the boy who had tried so hard to stop her from humiliating herself.

He would soon learn the futility of that.

She turned to look at her family one last time, using a finger to inch her spectacles down so she could see over the blasted things. Gilded by a dazzle of morning light, the Peabody clan stood on the wharf as if posing for a portrait. Lucinda held the baby in her arms while the two elder children waved sweetly. Arabella and Sophia linked arms while the men formed a tall backdrop for the lace-clad ladies and children. Dear heaven, if there were a painter alive who could capture such magnificent beauty, he had not yet done so. And he should, really. It was truly the most perfect family ever.

Especially now, Isadora thought wryly.

She lifted her hand in a final farewell. And then she turned away, keeping her chin high and her gaze to the sky as she boarded the Silver Swan.

She knew better than to expect any sort of civilized welcome here. This was a working vessel, its entire purpose to make money. The decks swarmed with running sailors and porters, customs officers and agents and others she did not recognize. What a marvel it all was to her, the hogsheads and bundles that entered the belly of the ship in an endless parade, the eager agility of the sailors scrambling up through the rigging, readying her for the voyage.

The very idea of all these goods being sent to distant places captivated her. When something went abroad, did the experience change it in some fundamental way? Would that bolt of Framingham broadcloth somehow be transformed into something vibrant, something its creator had never imagined? Would the giant blocks of Vermont mountain ice, wrapped in a thick insulation of straw and burlap, be used to cool foodstuffs no Vermonter had ever dreamed of tasting?

She heard a clucking sound. A swaying stack of crates came lurching toward her. She could only see the cutoff duck trousers and bare feet of its bearer. When the column leaned precariously, she quickly stepped forward and pressed her hand against the top crate. “Careful, there,” she said.

“Thank you.” A head peeked out from behind the crates, showing a friendly, gap-toothed grin and a wizened African face. “Wouldn’t want to spill our dinner before we even set sail.” He had a vaguely melodic accent, light inflections lifting his words.

She peered over the top of her spectacles. “The chickens, you mean,” she said awkwardly.

“Some are layers, some will be for the stew pot.”

Keeping a hand on the crates, Isadora moved along the deck with the little African man. “You must be the cook, then.”

“Aye. Samuel Liotta from Jamaica, but they call me the Doctor, and so shall you. You must be the lady idler.”

“I will be serving as Captain Calhoun’s interpreter and clerk. My name is Isadora Dudley Peabody.”

“Welcome aboard, Missy,” the cook said brightly.

She helped him set down the crates. Peering into the pen, she discovered a small goat and a piglet.

“Alfredo and the pig, I calls them. One for milk, one for meat.” He dusted his hands on a canvas apron. “Come, then. Time to meet more members of the crew.”

The cook had, for whatever reason, decided to take her under his wing. With considerably better manners than she expected from a seaman, he introduced her to her shipmates.

Ralph Izard served as chief mate, which put him in charge of just about everything. As he rushed past, he had no time to talk, but he smiled cordially enough. She noted a certain sad resignation in his eyes.

William Click, the second mate, spoke with a Cockney accent and wore a short-handled quirt in a hip holster at his side. Chips, the carpenter, was tall and skinny; Luigi Conti, the Italian sail maker, was tiny, with merry eyes and a huge black mustache. Gerald Craven, the jibboom man with tattoed arms and a gold hoop earring, gave her a curt greeting, then hastened off to help Timothy haul down a tangle in the rigging.

Isadora brought her carpetbag to her assigned quarters. Here, she would spend her last night in Boston, and in the morning they would sail with the tide.

According to the Doctor, the Silver Swan was an unusual vessel. Sloop-rigged in order to carry less sail and thus a smaller crew, she had been built for a sea captain who insisted on traveling with his wife and four children. That accounted for the grandeur of the captain’s stateroom and for the snugness of the two side staterooms, which had once housed the children. Lily Calhoun and her maid would occupy one of the rooms, Isadora the other.

She found a single bunk, too short to accommodate her height, a single portal to let in the daylight and a single washstand with a lavatory and chamber pot. The cabin had the austere air of a monk’s cell, and she found that she rather liked the feel of it.

Lily and Fayette greeted her cheerily when they arrived. She accompanied them to their cabin, which was larger, with two boxlike bunks and a sitting area below the portal.

“Are you terribly excited?” Lily asked, helping her maid with a stubborn latch on a case.

“I hardly slept a wink all night.”

“It’s a little frightening, isn’t it?” Lily asked.

“It’s a lot frightening,” Fayette said, casting a suspicious glance at the door. “Only time I ever went somewhere with Mr. Ryan in charge was a day of fishing. We ended up in the middle of Mockjack Bay in a skiff, and he didn’t have no idea how to get back. No idea at all.”