The Horsemaster's Daughter (14 page)

He tried to figure out what it was about her that so fascinated and infuriated him. They always seemed to rub one another the wrong way, even when things started out pleasantly enough. One moment they were laughing at a shared joke; the next they were grousing at each other over the most minor of issues. And sometimes he found himself—of all the damn fool things—pressing her into a dark corner and wondering what secrets she hid beneath her voluminous skirts.

He had always taken pride in his ability to understand the female of the species. He thought he knew what women wanted, what they needed, what they expected. And, until Isadora, he had been able to provide it with reliable regularity.

But this one, this intelligent, vexing, interesting female, did not seem to be taken by any of the usual charms. She didn’t care for fashion, though she clung to the restrictive modes of Beacon Hill out of habit. She was immune to flattery, for she neither trusted nor believed a compliment sent her way. She took no delight in the usual ladylike pursuits of needlework and gossip, finding more pleasure in perusing the Bowditch with Ralph Izard or conducting elocution lessons for Timothy Datty. To look at her, he’d never have guessed she had the strength to endure the storm, yet the hardships only made her quicker and more assured than she’d ever been on dry land. Worst of all, she was impervious to the unexpected mist of heat that pervaded the atmosphere whenever they found themselves alone together. He had no idea where his unwanted urge to be close to her came from. He meant to intimidate her, humiliate her, make her sorry she’d forced her presence on him, yet his plan kept misfiring. He kept catching himself enjoying the closeness far too much…and wanting far more than was good for both of them.

He was insatiably curious about her. She gave tirelessly to others, but what did she want for herself? He should ask her, and he would, if she’d ever deign to speak to him again after yesterday’s scene in the galley.

“There now, don’t you look a sight.” Journey came into the stateroom. “What is that color you’re wearing today—mango?”

Ryan plucked at his silken cravat, admiring the peach-blush shade of it. “One of my favorite colors.”

“Goes well with the lime green sash.”

Ryan ignored the wry censure in his voice. His steward favored somber colors and a dignified manner, but that didn’t suit Ryan. “There’s a reason for this,” he said.

“Yes. Horrible personal taste, for one.”

“So you say. But picture Ferraro’s cold storage plant. Hundreds of workers swarming about, dozens of skippers with ice to sell. Who will they remember next season—a black-clad downeast Puritan, or the dashing Captain Calhoun?”

Journey turned his hands palms-out and took a step back. “Never mind, then. Commerce before taste, always.”

“Captain!” Timothy rapped smartly at the door. “P-pilot’s here!”

Ryan strode out to the main deck. The harbor pilot had come over in a launch and boarded. Dark-skinned, a battered hat clutched beneath his arm, he was staring drop-jawed at Lily, who had come out with Fayette and Isadora to observe the arrival.

“I guess he found something prettier than you,” Journey said.

Lily wore a dress of lavender and lace, complete with a wide-brimmed picnic bonnet and a ruffle-edged parasol. Ryan had seen flower arrangements less elaborate than his mother.

Fayette stood dutifully behind her mistress, though the maid’s wide-eyed gaze devoured the busy harbor with tall ships moving in and out, pilot boats and launches scooting to and fro.

And then there was Isadora, already shrinking into herself, he observed with annoyance. Now that they were about to go ashore, she was reverting to the gawky, timid creature he’d met in Boston. She kept her shoulders hunched and her eyes cast down, though she darted an occasional glance toward Sugar Loaf, the massive upended rock that marked the harbor. She had trussed herself up in an ugly brown dress he hadn’t seen south of the tenth parallel and her hair, which had begun to look somewhat better than squirrel fur, had disappeared into an odd black-and-brown bonnet.

At least, Ryan mused, landfall had not leached the healthy color from her face and she hadn’t coughed or sneezed in weeks.

With a gracious smile, he strode toward the pilot. “
Senhor,
welcome aboard the
Swan.
”

“Oh, my,” Lily murmured, admiring his shore togs with a proud maternal head-to-toe glance. “My baby boy is too handsome for words, isn’t he, Isadora?”

Isadora gave him a quick look, then ducked her head. “As you say, there are no words.”

At that moment, the shoreline forts fired a salute. Ryan raised his arms to acknowledge the courtesy.

The pilot tore his gaze from Lily long enough to offer Ryan a bow and a gap-toothed smile. Ryan gestured at the wharves. “How much to bring us in to a berth?”

“Forty pound sterling, senhor. In now, and later out.”

Ryan clutched at his heart. “Did you hear that, Mr. Izard? Just when I thought we’d make landfall without incident, I’m attacked by a pirate.”

“
Senhor,
I do not understand. I offer a service at a fair price—”

“Fifteen pounds sterling and not a farthing more,” Ryan said.

The man sent a wounded look heavenward and released a long string of Portuguese lamentation.

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.

The coach went on into a thick forest, but it was like no forest Isadora had ever seen. The trees grew immeasurably tall; they had thick glistening leaves and some blossomed with mysterious huge yellow-tongued flowers. Lush ferns carpeted the floor. Birds, the same green and yellow as the foliage, swooped here and there, and somewhere close by, a secret spring trickled.

She leaned back against the seat and trembled, simply trembled, for she felt as if she had landed in the middle of a dream, and she was terrified of waking up.

Yet when the coach ground to a halt on the crushed seashell drive of a vast pink villa, she dared to believe it was real.

The driver gave a whistle. A herd of houseboys swarmed over the carriage, helping them out and chattering away in a charming patois as they liberated the luggage. Isadora was delighted and challenged by the language. How different it was from her textbook Portuguese. The rapid, colorful slang barely gave the nod to the formal mother tongue.

She caught the eye of one of the boys and smiled pleasantly, greeting him in her best Portuguese.

He and his friends giggled uncontrollably.

Lily asked, “What did you say to them?”