Susan Wiggs - The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle - The Charm School

When the Silver Swan lay-to a few miles north of the line, a full-moon calm settled over the bark. Yet the seas were rough with Atlantic combers that had been gathering muscle for thousands of miles, all the way from the coast of Africa. Lily and Fayette, who had enjoyed a few days of comfort, descended again in seasick misery to their cabin.

Isadora, Ryan observed from his splay-legged stance at the helm, seemed to be getting on better than ever. She spent a lot of time on deck or in the galley or chart room, absorbing knowledge and sailor lore like a sea sponge. She moved less awkwardly around the decks, having learned to steady herself with one hand on the rail or rigging.

She haunted him, appearing out of nowhere and pretending he wasn’t there. As they approached the equator, Ryan stood at the helm once again. He saw her making her way aft, clearly unaware of his proximity.

She paused to stoop down and scoop up the cat, draping it over one arm and stroking its fur. The new assurance in her movements and posture made a dramatic difference in the way she appeared. Her clothes were not so fussy and fine as those she’d worn in the Beacon Hill drawing room of her parents. Her short hair spilled untidily around her neck and shoulders.

Yet for all her dishevelment, she looked…different. She carried herself with a new posture and attitude. He found that he preferred a woman in tatters and bare feet who would look him square in the eye to a humble, perfectly groomed female who shrank timidly from the slightest slant of a glance.

He was annoyed at her for ignoring him, but at least he respected her.

At the moment she stood unguarded, pausing to lift her face to the summery sky filled with the lofty billows of high clouds. Lately she hadn’t bothered with bonnet or parasol and she seemed not to notice the effect the wind and sun were having. Her pale skin had taken on a honeyed hue; her hair bore streaks of gold. It was a look Ryan knew her strait-laced mother would term common.

Yet he had another word for it.

A high-pitched squeal pierced the air, startling both Isadora and Ryan. She dropped the cat, who scampered under a bumboat. Looking aft, Ryan spied the Doctor with the pig held under one arm, a broad, curved knife in his other hand.

“Heavenly days,” Isadora murmured, rushing past Ryan. “He’s going to slaughter Lydia.”

Ryan followed her. “Lydia? You call the pig Lydia?”

She ignored him. “Doctor! Oh, Doctor, please stop, do!” she called down the decks.

The cook turned. “What is it, Miss?”

“You can’t—you mustn’t kill the pig.”

The Doctor glanced at Ryan. “Porker’s all fatted up. I figured it’s time. Skipper?”

Ryan looked at the snuffling, struggling creature under the cook’s arm. He looked at the horror and grief on Isadora’s face. “I suppose we could grant the beast a reprieve,” he said offhandedly. “We’re decently close to Rio, and stores are good.”

“But—”

“Leave go, Doctor. She grieved for three days over that last chicken you stewed. I can’t abide a whining woman.”

The next day Ryan spied Isadora shading her eyes to watch Click and Craven tarring the mainmast. The men swung in saddles, their bare legs and bare chests smudged with tar. They paused in their work to wave at her and, grinning, she waved back.

It wasn’t proper, Ryan thought, her seeing barechested men wherever she turned.

Ducking under a shroud, she didn’t notice him until she was almost upon him.

“Oh,” she said, “Captain Calhoun.”

“I thought I’d take a turn at the helm.” He spoke with elaborate indifference.

She eyed him nervously, as if she did not quite trust him—or herself with him. “I wanted to be topside when we cross the equator. Will you say when?”

He was ridiculously happy to oblige. Perhaps that was the virtue of Isadora. Perhaps that was why the crew indulged her whims. Her wide-eyed curiosity about everything relieved the monotony of the long days at sea.

“Mr. Datty, at the helm, sir,” he called to Timothy.

“Aye, sir.” The boy arrived with a sharp salute that amused Ryan.

He gave the helm to Timothy and his free hand to Isadora. She hesitated, eyeing his hand as if it were a venomous serpent.

“It’s made of flesh and blood like any other man’s,” he said lightly, hiding his annoyance. Color misted her cheeks, and he laughed. “Unless that’s precisely the problem.”

Almost defiantly, she put her hand in his. Hers felt…surprising. Yes, that was it. Women of her station were supposed to have soft, moist skin. Isadora, by contrast, had a sturdy grip and…calluses.

“You take your lessons in sail making and seamanship seriously, I gather,” he said, leading the way to a companion ladder and reaching to help her up.

“I take everything seriously, Captain.”

“I noticed. Why is that, Isadora?” They came to the bow of the ship and he turned to study her.

“I have no idea.”

“There!” Ryan said suddenly, shading his eyes. “There it is!”

“There what is?”

“The equator.” He took out his spyglass and handed it to her.

She closed one eye and peered through it. “What am I looking for?”

“The equator. Isn’t that what you came here to see?”

“See? But—”

“Keep looking.” Furtively, Ryan plucked a hair from his head. On the pretext of adjusting the focus, he held the hair crosswise over the lens. “Now can you see it? The equator?”

“Why, yes,” she crowed, clearly elated. “I do believe I can.” Her mouth curved into a smile that had a disquieting effect on him. “How fascinating. And isn’t that an elephant walking along the line?”

He took the spyglass from her and put it away. “I was fairly certain you wouldn’t fall for that.”

She regarded him with her usual prim disapproval, though her eyes still danced with humor. “I am not in the habit of ‘falling’ for things, Captain. I’ve no idea why you would attempt such a prank with me.”

“To see you smile. You don’t do it often enough, and you should.”

She regarded him somberly. “Why should I?”

“Because…” Ryan began to feel foolish. “Because I order you to, and I’m the captain.”

She rewarded him with a grin. “Then I suppose I have no choice.”

He grinned back. “No, ma’am, I don’t guess you do.” He leaned back against a timber head. “We’re about nine hundred miles out from Rio.”

“It sounds like an unbearably large number.” She shaded her eyes and gazed at the nothingness that surrounded them.

“The briny blue. As far as the eye can see. That’s why I like the crew to get along.”

“They seem to. Even Mr. Click has been quiet this past week. When do you think we’ll make Rio?”

“Within the week. There’s a premium of a hundred dollars a day for each day under average for the whole trip.” He reached up, running his hand along an awning. “This looks good. Is it new?”

“I doused it with salt water,” she said, meeting his puzzled gaze. “Luigi says it prevents mildew.”

“So it does,” Ryan said, and though they spoke of mundane matters, he felt a beat of emotion that had nothing to do with awnings or deadlines or anything but the woman standing with him on his ship.

This was new to him. She was new to him. In the past he’d been drawn to women whose beauty outweighed their brains, whose idle chatter rang louder than their common sense—in short, women who didn’t make him see himself for what he was—a spoiled, shallow young man who hadn’t grasped the importance of social conscience until it was too late. He used to prefer women who didn’t challenge him to be more than he was. But not anymore. He wasn’t certain exactly when or why it had happened, but at some point he had started to feel something soft and new for Isadora Peabody.