The Charm School

Isadora refused to take no for an answer. So what if Ryan Calhoun turned out to be as shallow and mocking as Quentin and his friends? He had something she wanted—a way out of Boston. And she was determined to get it.

As she waited in the brick-fronted Merchants’ Exchange offices of Abel Easterbrook, she allowed herself a brief, satisfying moment of gloating. Though he didn’t know it, Captain Calhoun himself had given her the key to obtaining the post.

“Ahoy, Miss Isadora!” Abel opened the door to his inner chamber and greeted her with a bewhiskered smile. “Welcome aboard.”

“I shan’t keep you long, sir, for I know you’re busy.” She seated herself in the chair he held for her. Lithographs of ships and lighthouses graced the bradded-leather walls of the office and stacks of ledger books filled the shelves. She folded her gloved hands, inhaling the scent of ink and tobacco and paper—the scent of commerce.

“You have a marvelous office,” she said, shaking her head briefly when Abel offered her a cup of sherry.

“It’s been in the family for three generations,” he said. “One day it’ll all be Chad’s.”

A thrill shot down her spine. If Abel agreed to her plan, she could finally win Chad’s esteem. By the time Chad took over the company, Isadora intended to be indispensable to the enterprise. With her knowledge of the business, she would be a great asset to Chad. Perhaps a great enough asset to be his wi—

She cut the thought short. One step at a time, she told herself. “Have you had a chance to consider my proposal, sir?”

He tamped his pipe on a tray. “I have, Miss Isadora. Your credentials are copper-bottomed, unimpeachable. However, what you ask is impossible. I cannot allow you to sign on as a member of the crew of the Silver Swan.”

She kept her chin steady despite the urge to crumple in defeat. “May I ask why?”

“It’s not a woman’s place—”

“Ah, but it is.” She relaxed, pleased that she had prepared herself for this argument. “The Fairacre has not only a woman bo’sun, but the cook is a female as well.”

“The cook is the skipper’s wife,” he argued.

“She wasn’t when she signed on,” Isadora replied.

“I rest my case. I can’t let you be bound away with a shipload of jack-tars. God forbid you should come back married to one of them.”

She smiled at the irony. “Believe me, Mr. Easterbrook, there is no chance of any sort of…entanglement.” She thought of the ripe, laughing woman Ryan Calhoun had held in his lap the night she’d met him. If that sort was his preference, he wouldn’t look twice at Isadora. “And did you know,” she continued, “that the Pandora has three women aboard—and that she grossed a hundred thousand last year?”

“All right, I’ll concede that some crews include females. But Calhoun’s a loose cannon. You saw him the other night—he’ll give you the devil to pay and no pitch hot.”

“That is precisely why you need me. I alone know how important the Rio voyage is to you. I can be your eyes and ears on that ship, Mr. Easterbrook. I can make regular reports about Captain Calhoun’s behavior and the way he conducts his affairs.”

A crack appeared in his reluctance. “Wouldn’t mind having a barnacle on the hull for this voyage,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t be right to send a lady like you. He might shame you.”

“His mother will be there as a passenger—”

“He’ll probably humiliate her, as well.”

“Sir, I assure you, Mrs. Calhoun and I can look after our own reputations. The one who needs looking after is Captain Calhoun.”

“This is headed for rocky shoals, I can feel it.”

“Not at all. It will be smooth sailing, and I intend to see to it for your sake. Use the man’s skill as a skipper, but don’t let him scuttle your reputation as a leader in commerce.”

Her words made great headway into the kindly old man’s pride. Feeling herself close to victory, she said, “Mr. Easterbrook, you have ever been a visionary, on the leading edge of modern business. Engaging my services is the next logical step.”

Five

First ponder, then dare.

—Helmuth von Moltke

(attributed)

“C-can I h-help you, ma’am?” a young boy asked Isadora.

She turned on the dock to look at him. “Is this the Silver Swan?” Isadora asked.

The lad—a wiry, nervous boy of perhaps fifteen—nodded jerkily. “Yes’m.” He snatched off his tarpaulin seaman’s cap. “Tim-Timothy Datty, at your service.”

“I am looking for Captain Calhoun.”

“H-he’s aboard, but—”

“Good. I was hoping he would be.” She headed toward the gangway, stepping around the dock where brawny-shouldered stevedores were discharging the cargo. She tried not to stare but couldn’t help herself.

In contrast to the fitted frock coats, silk hats and chicken-skin gloves of drawing-room gentlemen, the men of the wharf wore loose trousers, shirts and neckerchiefs fastened with slip-ties. Crude expressions, spoken in a variety of foreign accents, filled the air. She could not fathom the meaning of poodle faking but she felt certain she didn’t want to know.

“M-ma’am.” Timothy Datty trotted alongside her. “C-c-captain’s not—”

“You needn’t stop what you’re doing to accompany me,” she said. “I know the way.”

He pressed his mouth shut, waving his hands. There was something earnest and appealing about the boy. A pity about his stutter. Elocution lessons and special readings might help, but she didn’t suggest it for fear of embarrassing him. Besides, she was in a hurry to see Ryan Calhoun.

She wondered if he would be surprised to see her. With a shiver of anticipation, she remembered the way he’d taken his leave of her after their meeting. He had crossed the lawn, looking as masterful and dignified as a young prince, and bowed over her hand. Even Lydia Haven had dragged her attention away from Chad long enough to notice the gallant gesture.

Isadora held Ryan Calhoun’s boldness in quiet fascination. While she shrinkingly obeyed the rules of her parents and society, Mr. Calhoun flouted convention and took his own path. Perhaps his very lack of protocol would make him see the sense in her plan, then.

One of the stevedores struck up a bawdy song in Portuguese, the strong, operatic voice ringing across the waterfront. Women’s body parts sounded so much more poetic in Portuguese, Isadora observed, trying her best not to blush. She headed up to the main deck and then climbed to the…she consulted her memory as she progressed. The afterdeck—yes, that was it—reached by means of a gangway and companion ladder.

She had burned the gaslight late the night before, studying a tome of nautical terms. At their meeting in the garden, Captain Calhoun had nearly exhausted her supply of knowledge, and she had stocked up on more. A deceptive practice, yes, but Isadora was desperate.

She could hear young Timothy Datty shouting to her from the dock far below, but with the singing stevedore and the screech of lifting gear, she couldn’t hear him. And why was he jumping up and down and waving his arms?

The deserted main deck had been cleared of crates and barrels, though a few remnants of the revelry remained—stray chicken feathers, a broken bottle, a spent cigar. She tucked away her apprehension and made her way to the captain’s stateroom, finding the door slightly ajar. Within, she could hear a faint thumping sound.

Clearing her throat, she knocked at the door. “Captain Calhoun, are you there?”

“Al…almost…” His voice sounded ragged, and he let out a gasp and a moan.

He was ill! Dear heaven, he might be dying in there. She pushed the door open and marched inside. “I’m here, Captain. Do you need any help?”

“I—oh, for Christ’s sake.” The crude words came from within a draped alcove.

“What the hell’s going on?” asked a female voice, also behind the drapes.