Susan Wiggs - The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle - The Charm School

Ryan waited patiently for his counteroffer, but instead, Isadora cleared her throat. “Captain Calhoun, the poor man said he has five daughters, and his mother-in-law has come to die in his house. I really do think the proper thing to do is to meet his price.”

The Brazilian clearly saw Isadora as the weak spot, and addressed his next prayerful stream of speech to her.

She listened, enraptured. “He says a lesser pilot would risk grounding a ship of this size,” she warned. “Forty pounds is nothing compared to the many thousands you stand to lose if you allow a lesser pilot to run you aground. He’s absolutely right. He—”

“Twenty, and that’s my final offer,” Ryan snapped.

“Thirty,” the man countered.

“Done,” Ryan declared before Isadora could intervene again.

The Brazilian’s face lit up with a brilliant smile, and he hurried off to work.

Ryan whirled on Isadora, lowering his voice to a furious mutter. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I am your translator.”

“Then translate. Don’t advise me on what to pay.”

“But five daughters and a dying mother-in-law? The ten extra pounds would mean the world to the poor man.”

“Poor, hah. The old salt’s a bachelor who lives on his boat. The extra money goes to keep him in women, cigars, and curaçao.”

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

“It’s my business to know that. Now, the next time there’s any translating to be done, you give it to me word for word—without any of your back-slack.”

He stalked away, feeling strangely invigorated by the spat. That was the odd thing about knowing Isadora. Sparring with her was far more fun than polite conversation with a dozen other misses.

Lily hired a coach to take them up into the hills where her sister lived. While Fayette oversaw the masses of traveling trunks, Lily wafted a fan in front of her face. The smells of roasting coffee and burning sugar cane filled the air.

In preparation for landing, Isadora had read a traveler’s guide and studied the engravings to learn the lay of the land. But no travelogue or sketch could have prepared her for Rio. She stood in a thrall of amazement, observing the busy, glittering paradise: a mountain called Corcovado, shaped like a man bending over and draped in emerald silk. The Sugar Loaf rock, massive and gleaming like pure marble in the hot sun. Botafogo, a sparkling diamond necklace that collared the turquoise bay. Overlooking all this splendor was a dazzling white edifice she recognized as Laranjeras Palace.

Dear Lord Almighty, Isadora thought. I have died and ascended to paradise. She almost believed the fanciful thought, except for the rivulets of sweat that trickled unbearably down her back and between her breasts.

“Ah, here’s our coach,” Lily exclaimed. “I cannot believe I’m nearly there. I can hardly bear the anticipation.”

Isadora studied the coach with a twinge of suspicion. All but buried beneath a pyramid of luggage, the conveyance looked as if it might collapse at any moment. “Do you think we’ll be safe in that?” she asked.

“Of course. It’s the way all people of fashion travel. Have you got everything you need?”

“Yes, but I should stay here,” Isadora protested. “Captain Calhoun might need help translating—”

“Not today,” Ryan said, striding along the waterfront. He retained his seaman’s rolling gate, though he wore beautifully cut shore togs—tight black trousers and a full, blousy white shirt, with a tangerine-colored waistcoat.

He was with a dark, slender man of indeterminate race—he had the close-curled hair of an African, yet his skin was rich cinnamon in tone.

“Edison Carneros, at your service,” he said, his bow like that of a matador before a cheering crowd. When he straightened, he looked directly at Fayette.

Isadora felt the heat sizzle between them. That was the only way she could explain it. The moment their gazes connected, the two experienced a leap of knowing. Isadora glanced at Ryan to see if he, too, had sensed the sudden, undeniable interest.

“He’s an agent of my consignee,” Ryan explained, clearly oblivious to Fayette’s reaction to Carneros. “Since he speaks excellent English, I’ll have no need of a translator.” His grin was dazzling, his eyes dancing.

“Why, son, you certainly look pleased with yourself,” Lily observed.

“The ice cargo,” Carneros said. “It is in a most excellent condition. Yours is the first ice of the season to arrive.” He fashioned his brown face into a mournful look that failed to disguise his glee. “He will rob me blind, making me pay such a sum for the ice.”

Ryan laughed. “You’ll earn it back. Senhor Ferraro is no fool. He knows what it’s worth to be the first to fill his plant.”

The coach driver helped Lily in, and Ryan offered Isadora his hand. He’d not been pleased with her first live translation with the harbor pilot. Clearly this was his way of showing it—by handling her as if she were a stranger.

The rejection was harsh simply because he was so charming about it. He kept one hand on hers, the other pressed to the small of her back. She knew with mortified certainty that he would feel the dampness of her sweat.

“What do you think of Rio?” he asked as she stepped up to the footboard. His tone was dismissive; he didn’t care about her answer.

What she wanted to tell him was that it was astonishing, magical, enchanting. A paradise she had seen only in dreams. “It’s very attractive,” she said tersely.

He handed her up and she seated herself beside Lily under the colorful fringed awning.

“Fayette,” called Lily, “are you coming?”

The maid mumbled, “Yes’m.” But she never stopped staring at Carneros, nor did he take his eyes off her as he helped her into the coach. A magnetic energy seemed to charge the air around the pretty dark-skinned maid and the slender, debonair agent.

“Go with God,” Carneros said softly, addressing all the ladies but not taking his eyes off Fayette. “Until we meet again—farewell.”

The coach lurched, then started up the dusty road.

“Really, Fayette,” Lily said in a scolding voice that failed to mask her indulgence. “We’re not an hour in port and you’re flirting already. What am I to do with you?”

“Don’t know, ma’am,” Fayette said vaguely, leaning against a corner awning pole with a distant look on her face. “I surely don’t know.” She sighed sweetly and lifted one hand in farewell. Carneros returned the gesture, but Ryan had already turned away.

Isadora directed her attention to the scenery. She spied the mercado in the distance, pinwheels of color and sound, bright sunshades stretched over mounds of melons and pineapples and fruits she had never seen before. They passed busy bodegas and a church with an airy song coming from the choir, and a flock of nuns moving down the street. Black-skinned servants and laundresses with baskets balanced on their heads passed in droves up and down the road.

“There’s too much of it,” she said. “It’s so hard to take it all in.”

“You have three glorious weeks here before setting sail again,” Lily said. “You should make it a point to see a new sight each day. That’s something we learned while touring the Continent, isn’t it, Fayette? Something new each and every day. Fayette? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“No, ma’am,” the maid said dreamily.

When the road wound around a hill they came to a cluster of houses. The dwellings, set into the side of the hill, were pink-and-white confections of dusty pastel plaster. On all of the verges, seemingly in every rock and crevice, something grew: fuschia, bougainvillea, crimson and white poinsettia.