Susan Wiggs - The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle - The Charm School

“How are my mother and Fayette today?” Ryan asked as they made their way toward the chart room.

“Little better, I fear. I managed to get them to sip some broth, but they are both still reluctant to leave their beds.”

“Some folks never get their sea legs,” he said, then eyed Isadora, noting the way long trails of hair had been plucked from their pins. “You don’t suffer the mal de mer. What is your secret, Miss Peabody?”

“I’ve learned to be very cautious about what I eat.”

He narrowed his eyes, studying her. Were her cheeks less round? Did he detect dark circles under her eyes? “You’ll fall ill of weakness,” he warned her. “You’ll waste away.”

She laughed softly; she seemed to laugh far more readily at sea than on land. “I daresay I’ve a long way to go before facing that calamity, Captain.” She took a deep breath of the morning air. “Indeed, my health is much improved aboard this ship. I’ve not sneezed or sniffled since we left Boston.”

It was true, he realized with a start. The watery eyes, the reddened nose, the explosive sneezes—he’d seen none of them lately.

Ralph Izard stood on the foredeck, turning to greet them as they approached. “I think we can bring up the sea anchor, skipper,” he said to Ryan. “Seas’ve calmed a good bit since last night.”

“We’ve dropped anchor?” Isadora asked with a frown.

“A sea anchor,” Izard explained. “We used a drogue thrown overboard to keep the bow to the direction of the sea.” He indicated the windlass. “I was about to bring it up.”

“May I?” she asked, her face lighting up.

Izard glanced at Ryan, who shrugged. “Mind your fingers—we don’t want them pinched by the rope.”

Mr. Izard gave her a handspike and showed her how to insert it into the body of the windlass cylinder. Positioning herself behind the foremast, she began to work the apparatus. Slowly the thick rope, wet and hung with seaweed, began to emerge from the water.

“Steady now,” Izard said. “Keep her steady, and the rope will coil around it all of itself. Shall I give you a hand?”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, her voice strained. “I can do this.” Grinding away at the windlass, she made a very strange sailor—though her full skirts and landlubber shoes impeded her progress. A long, rolling wave lifted the bow at a sharp slant.

“Careful,” Ryan said. “Chips lifted out some of the planks to get at the dry rot, and—”

“Oh!” The heel of her shoe caught in a crevice between some of the missing boards. The next happened so quickly Ryan was powerless to stop it. Her feet came out from under her, and she let go of the handspikes. The rope spun wildly on the spool, winding her hair around it along with the twisted line. A second later, she lay against the foremast, bound there by her own hair. Her face had paled to a pasty white.

“Miss Peabody!” Ryan dropped to his knees. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but…it pulls at my scalp. Can you free me?”

“It does too hurt,” he snapped, making a few tentative attempts at untangling her. “You were dragged by the hair and your head slammed against the mast. So quit trying to be valiant and admit it hurts like hell.”

She bit her lip. “It hurts like…the dickens.”

“That’s harsh,” Izard muttered.

Each time Ryan moved the windlass, it pulled at her hair. Frustrated, he called for Journey, who came running, his broad bare feet slapping on the deck.

“Good job, honey,” he said, clearly impressed. “We haven’t ever had someone get tangled up in the windlass before.”

“I should like to get up now,” Isadora said.

The sailors who were off watch came to see what was the matter. So did Luigi and Chips. William arrived shortly as well, and everyone gathered around the capstan to witness the woman with a yard of hair tangled in the gears and rope.

Isadora Peabody’s cheeks turned red. “If you don’t mind, I should like to get up,” she said again.

“Any ideas?” Ryan asked the men.

“We could cut the line.”

“It’s as thick as a man’s wrist. That would take all day, and we’d be billed for destroying the line.”

“Dismantle the knight-heads of the windlass and slide the hair and the rope off the side?”

“I just repaired that,” Chips objected. “Took me half a day. The man who touches it dies.”

“Unwind it the opposite way.”

“I tried that. It pulls. She’ll lose her whole scalp.”

Ryan and Journey looked at one another. Journey’s gaze flicked to the sheathed midshipman’s dirk Ryan wore in his belt. They had the same thought at the same time.

“Miss Peabody.” Ryan went down on one knee. “Close your eyes.”

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Her voice rose, quavering with distrust.

“Getting you out of this fix. Now, close your eyes.”

Isadora knew she was disobeying a direct order, but she didn’t care. The men began to murmur among themselves, and so she opened her eyes.

Just in time to see Ryan unsheath a thin-bladed knife. She screamed, scrambling back as far as the entanglement would permit, her hair pulling viciously at her scalp. The blade flashed in the sunlight, then came down with a thunk. She waited to feel a rush of blood, but instead she sprang free of the coil.

She sprawled on the deck, her face inches from the skipper’s booted foot. “You’ve gone mad, haven’t you?” she said in a shaky voice. “I’ve heard of this—men gone too long at sea lose their grasp on sanity, and—eek!” She put her hand to her head, where her hair should have been. Then she looked at the windlass. Her hair. Still caught in the coils of rope. But it was no longer attached to her head.

“My hair!” she cried. “You’ve cut off my hair.”

The crewmen slunk away, clearly loath to interfere.

Ryan Calhoun squatted down. Without looking at her, he lifted the hem of her skirt. “Christ, no wonder you bumble about the decks. You’ve got on at least five petticoats.”

“How dare you?”

“I’m the skipper, that’s how.” He grasped her by the ankle and began to unlace her high-heeled boot. “This,” he said through his teeth as he tugged it off, “is the cause of your troubles.” He cast her shoe overboard and grabbed the other foot.

“Stop that,” Isadora cried, trying to wrench away from him. “Stop that, I say!”

He held her ankle in a ruthless grip as he removed the other shoe. She flinched, for he pressed his thumb hard where she’d injured herself the first day at sea.

“I’ve watched you stumble around the ship until I was sure you’d topple overboard. No more.” He pitched the shoe over the rail.

She put both hands to her head, feeling the barren place where he’d hacked off her hair. “Dear heaven,” she whispered, “what have you done?”

He met her shocked gaze with a steely stare. “It’s only hair,” he said. “It’ll grow back.”

She sat immobile, too stunned to do anything but gape like a codfish. It was some dreadful Samson-and-Delilah scenario in reverse. What sin had she committed, what god had she angered, that Ryan Calhoun would visit this calamity upon her? To think she had left behind her home, her family and all she held dear for this terrible misadventure.

She dropped her hands into her lap. A fresh wind blew tendrils of her newly cropped locks against her cheeks and neck. She shivered from the light, cool breath of the breeze on her neck. Her feet, covered by only thin black stockings, felt shockingly bare.

“What—” She stopped and swallowed, feeling the awful press of tears in her eyes. No. She would not cry. She took a deep breath and tried again. “What have I ever done to make you hate me so?”