The Charm School

“He was a mighty fine interpreter,” Ryan reminded him, struggling to think past the fog of rum in his brain. “The best we had.”

“So now I am liable for his debts, and I have no Spanish interpreter for future voyages. Well done indeed, Captain.”

The woman called Isadora Peabody whispered something in a nervous breath.

“What’s that?” Abel demanded grumpily.

“I speak Spanish.” Miss Isadora looked appalled that she had actually dared to utter a word. Staring at the planks, she added, “Also French, Italian and Portuguese. My great aunt tutored me in languages, and then at Mount Holyoke Seminary I continued—” She broke off, clearing her throat. “My, I do go on. Forgive me. What I mean to say is, if you have documents that need translating, I could perhaps help.”

“Thank you for the offer, my dear. But I could never prevail upon a lady.” Easterbrook swung back to Ryan again. “You, sir, are an irredeemable dandy-cock and worse.”

Ryan tried his best to bear the insult with proper stoic contrition. But he couldn’t help it. When he opened his mouth, laughter burst out. It took several tries to stop. Finally he found a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Mr. Easterbrook, forgive me. I hope you’ll understand that this small festive occasion is the only amusement we’ve had in a hundred eighty days, and that you’ll—”

“Calhoun?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Shut up, Calhoun.”

“Sir,” the Peabody woman said, “I realize this is only my opinion, but earlier this evening you spoke of Mr. Calhoun’s prodigious talent for running a fast, profitable ship.”

Ryan squared his shoulders. “Ma’am,” he said unsteadily, “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’re a fine judge of character.”

She eyed him suspiciously, then cut her gaze away—in fright or in disgust, he couldn’t tell.

Easterbrook cleared his throat. “I will grant you this. You have made a difficult voyage in record time. You have added a fortune to the company coffers. And so I am trying to convince myself to give you a second chance. Tuesday at five o’clock I shall come here to discuss a new sailing plan. At that time, I expect you to have a new translator in place and the Swan’s cargo discharged, her papers in order and a new cargo lined up for the winter ice run to Rio de Janeiro.”

Ryan had no idea how he would accomplish all that in such a short time. But he needed the post, needed to skipper another command. More desperately than anyone could imagine. He wished the seriousness of his cause had occurred to him before the harbor bawds had swarmed aboard.

All his life he’d been borne along by personal charm, good looks and a general lack of respect for convention. Those shallow virtues weren’t enough anymore. Now he had to dig deeper and see if he had what it took to succeed. And so he nodded smartly. “You will have it. You can count on me.”

“Don’t disappoint me, Calhoun.”

“I shan’t, sir.”

Easterbrook tossed him a suspicious glare. Then he cocked out both arms. “Allow me, ladies.”

Ryan sagged against the deck chair, allowing himself a long, slow sigh of relief. If he could survive both his mother and his employer tonight, how hard could tomorrow be?

It was impossible, Isadora decided the next day as she stood in the parlor of her parents’ Beacon Hill mansion. Impossible to believe he still might want her.

She sneezed explosively, clapping a handkerchief to her nose and cursing the persistent grippe that plagued her. Then she looked down for the hundredth time at the hastily dashed-off note that had been delivered this morning. From Chad Easterbrook.

After the sting of her humiliation the night before, the invitation soothed her like a balm. Suddenly the world didn’t look so bleak; suddenly the colors of autumn she spied out her window glowed with stunning vibrance. It was a perfect day, with the russet leaves swirling in the breeze and Squire Pickering’s hawthorn hedge ablaze with sunset colors. Asters and mums and unexpected bursts of late-blooming roses decked the long, narrow, tiered garden in the back.

She sneezed again. A pity the colorful season plagued her this way.

Chad Easterbrook’s note affected her in the same manner the autumn colors adorned the landscape. He turned her drab world bright. Judging by their conversation the night before, she had no reason to hope that he would show her favor. But oh, she hoped. Hoped until she ached with it. Perhaps this time would be different. This time, doing his bidding would endear her to him.

She had to believe that. She had to believe there was an end to her loneliness. That something—someone—could fill the well of emptiness inside her. And that someone was Chad Easterbrook.

She sighed, holding herself very stiff and straight so that the busk of her corset wouldn’t stab into her. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a small smile of triumph. Chad wanted her to participate in the afternoon’s diversion—a croquet match on Kimball Green.

She pictured the scene: Chad and his crowd wearing dress whites and assembled on the green for croquet. She glowed at the thought of being one of the happy group as they spent a lazy afternoon in laughter and sunshine. Thanks to Chad, she would soon be a part of his charmed world.

Lovingly, a smile playing about her lips, she folded his note and tucked it in the most romantic spot she could think of—beneath her busk.

It itched.

The memory of the ball reared in her mind. She pictured herself stumbling to help Chad with his romantic entanglement. Making a spectacle of herself by knocking over the plant. Being seen scratching her chest with a letter opener. Stammering an excuse to Mrs. Hallowell. Rushing off to find Ryan Calhoun at the harbor.

The thought of the red-headed Virginian, his lap draped with a half-clad woman and his belly full of rum, brought an unexpected twitch of disgust to Isadora’s mouth. No matter how deeply she humiliated herself, she had never sunk to that level.

She had finally met someone who was more of a disgrace than she was.

He would never know what a comfort he was to her.

She straightened her shoulders. Today would be different, she thought, holding back a sneeze. Today she’d redeem herself from last night’s fiasco.

First, a dress. Though she had absolutely no sense of fashion, she knew better than to wear black to a croquet match. She plucked up her skirts and hurried to her chambers, opening the walnut clothes press and peering inside.

Dear heavens. When had she managed to amass such a collection of black, brown and gray? She had black gowns with black lace. Black gowns with brown piping. Black gowns with gray eyelet. But there—off to one side. It was an ecru tea gown made for some awkward, forgotten social occasion. The dress was just the thing for an afternoon of croquet.

She rang for Thankful, and the maid arrived in a trice, setting her feather duster on the bed. “Well, it’s different, miss, and that’s a fact,” Thankful said, picking up the pale India cotton dress.

“Do you think it’s too different from my usual style?” Isadora asked.

“Yes, it is.” With the brisk efficiency that had served her—and the Peabody family—well for three decades, Thankful took up her stay hook and freed Isadora from the black day gown. Then she held up the new dress. “Let’s see if we can make this fit.”

Isadora obediently put up her hands, and Thankful dropped the gown over her head, saying, “You know, your sister Arabella always looked so lovely in this color. The veriest picture, she was—” Thankful unapologetically put her knee in the middle of Isadora’s back and tugged hard “—stepping out with Lord knows how many gentleman callers….”

Isadora clutched the bedpost to steady herself as the maid struggled with the closures on the gown. She stopped listening to Thankful’s chatter. She’d heard the stories many times—Lucinda’s social triumphs, the duel that had almost erupted between two of Arabella’s suitors, Quentin’s habit of stepping out with a different young lady every night, Bronson’s liaisons with the best girls in Boston….

As the maid prattled on and performed the punishing ritual of forcing the dress to contain her, Isadora tried not to wince. She had often wondered why a lady’s garments must hurt. Corsets strangled, shoes pinched, ornamental combs dug into delicate scalps and society said “Ahh,” and made admiring noises. It had always been a puzzle to her.

“Thankful,” she said, “I think the stays are as tight as they need be.”

“One more twist, there we are,” the maid said. “I declare, you should follow the example of your mother and sisters, miss. They never seem to mind sacrificing a bit of comfort for fashion.”

Isadora didn’t argue. The maid, like everyone else in the world, simply could not understand what had happened with the middle daughter of Boston’s leading couple. She was the product of the same careful breeding that had given Beacon Hill her gorgeous sisters and gallant brothers. Yet Isadora was nothing like them. Not even close.

“There you are,” Thankful pronounced, stepping back and wiping the sweat from her brow. “Will there be anything else, miss?”

“No, thank you.” Isadora smoothed her hands down over the skirt, feeling better already. A pretty gown was the thing to win Chad’s attention.

She picked up a small hand mirror on a side table. By holding it out in front of her, she could admire the dress in individual pieces—high, puffy sleeves, ribbed panel, taut bodice, full skirts.

Setting aside the mirror, she noticed Thankful had left behind her feather duster. Rather than ring for the maid again, Isadora decided to take it to her. Hurrying along to the servants’ back stairway, she didn’t realize until it was almost too late that Thankful and the kitchen maid, Tilly, were gossiping in the stair.