The Horsemaster's Daughter (3 page)

Why not seize the pleasure at once? How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!

—Jane Austen,
(1798)

T
he music stopped. Ryan felt the whore shift on his lap as she twisted to see the newcomers. She scowled bleary eyed at the tall woman with the corkscrew curls poking out from the rim of a bonnet. “The fat one’s your mother?”

“No.” With as much poise as he could muster, he set the woman on deck and stood up, pressing the backs of his knees against the chair to steady himself. Chips, the carpenter, had the presence of mind to step forward and lead the whore away, pacifying her with a fresh flask.

Ryan did his best to straighten out his crooked grin. “Mother, what an unexpected surprise.”

“I clearly am,” Lily said.

Drunk as he was, Ryan read the disappointment in her face. It pulled down the corners of her mouth, made her hesitate for a heartbreakingly long moment before she reached out and embraced him.

He reeked of rum and cheap perfume. He pulled back quickly, not wanting to taint his mother. Nothing had changed since the last time he’d seen her, not really. At their parting, they had been standing together at Albion Landing in the south reaches of Chesapeake Bay. She’d warned him that eschewing the University of Virginia and going north to Harvard would demand more from him, far more than he could possibly imagine. Possibly more than he had within him.

Drunk or sober, he was doomed to disappoint his mother, no matter what he did. He regretted being so public about it. He gestured toward the high aft deck. “Come to the stateroom. We can talk there—”

“What in the name of Saint Elmo’s fire is going on?” demanded a furious voice.

Ryan blinked his bleary eyes and groaned. Abel Easterbrook. Just what he needed. For the first time, apprehension touched his spine with ice. Tonight’s revels had put his whole mission in jeopardy. He and Journey were so close to their goal. One more voyage, and they’d have the money they needed. Now, thanks to his lack of restraint, he might have put the next voyage in doubt.

Fixing yet another lopsided smile on his face, he hid his thoughts and bowed to greet his employer. The sweetness of rum pushed ominously at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn’t disgrace himself even more than he already had. “I was conducting a small celebration in honor of our safe return, sir.” He exaggerated the enunciation of each word, hoping the long, slurred vowels would simply be attributed to his Southern upbringing rather than all that rum. “I thought a bit of levity would be good for company morale.”

“You’re not paid to think.” Easterbrook’s stormy gaze swept the decks, taking in the half-clad couples crumpled in the shadows, the men clustered eagerly around the keg, the chickens poking through spilled crumbs. “I am shocked. Shocked, I say. Small celebration indeed.”

“It is, sir. You see, where I come from…” Ryan paused. He’d made up so many lies to get Easterbrook to hire him that he had to stop for a moment to recall them. “Uh, aboard the
Twyla
of famous memory, it was considered a grievous error to send the crew ashore sober. There was the danger, you see, that the men would take landlubber jobs and wouldn’t sign on for the next voyage.”

With a grand gesture, he encompassed the deck, littered with motley drunkards and coarse bawds. “These are the men who have given the
Silver Swan
her place in the record books. They have earned their reward.” He caught the eye of Ralph Izard, the chief mate. At his skipper’s pleading look, Izard clapped his hands, sending people lurching and stumbling belowdecks.

Ryan stepped back with a gallant point of his booted foot. “Mr. Easterbrook, allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Lily Raines Calhoun and her companion—” He broke off, eyeing the dark-clad woman in the spectacles. She stood with gloved hands clasped tightly as if praying for his immortal soul.

If she knew Ryan Calhoun at all, she’d realize her efforts were for naught. He was doomed. It would take more than a lady’s fervent prayers to save him.

Easterbrook bowed over Lily’s extended hand. Then he turned to the other woman. “Shiver my timbers, Miss Isadora. What in the name of Davy Jones are you doing here?”

“You know each other?” Ryan staggered against a hatch coaming, putting out a hand to catch himself.

“I was summoned from a social gathering at her father’s home, damn your eyes. I have no idea what she’s doing here.”

The woman called Miss Isadora cleared her throat. “Well, I thought—that is, Mrs. Calhoun happened to ask about her…
son,
and since you’d mentioned that he was here with the
Swan
I thought, er, that is, Mrs. Calhoun was a guest at our party tonight, as were you, sir. Only she was a guest of the Hallowells—the groom’s family, you see. She seemed so eager to locate Mr.—er, Captain Calhoun, so I deemed it reasonable to suppose we would find him aboard.”

Ryan wondered if the lady had been at the rum, so garbled was her explanation. He eyed her downward sloping shoulders, her twisting, praying hands. Christ, the woman was terrified.

“Mr. Easterbrook.” Lily’s voice slid like warm molasses into the conversation. “Miss Peabody was kind enough to conduct me here when she learned I was looking for my son.”

The timbre of her voice coaxed a puppy-dog smile from the old codger. Lily Raines Calhoun had that way about her. She was a sorceress with her voice, her accent, her intimate inflections. With the softest of comments, she had the power to mesmerize her listeners. Only Ryan could discern the steel beneath the gossamer silk of her voice. Especially when she said the words “my son.”

He was in trouble. He was in terrible trouble.

And as always, he didn’t give a damn.

“And now, thanks to you,” Lily continued, sending a lovely, supplicating smile at Abel Easterbrook, “I have found him. Perhaps you would be so gallant as to drive us home, Mr. Easterbrook.”

“It would be my honor,” Easterbrook said. “I can conclude my business in a moment or two.” He turned to Ryan. “I was shanghaied from a dancing party by my houseman. It seems Rivera is being sought by the police for questioning.” Clasping his hands behind his waist like an admiral, Easterbrook paced in agitation. “Police are on the trot for runaway slaves these days.”

During Ryan’s absence, the Fugitive Slave Law had gone into effect, making it illegal to abet or harbor runaways. “Rivera’s not involved in that,” he said quickly. “He’s got more games than a ship has rats, but none of them involve fugitives.”

“Then where in Hades is he?”

“I’m afraid Rivera didn’t return with us. He married a woman in Havana and wouldn’t leave her.” There was, of course, much more to the story—a duel, a bribe, a furious father, a forced marriage—but Ryan knew better than to overexplain the matter, particularly in mixed company.

“Well, he’s a criminal and good riddance,” Abel said.

“He was a mighty fine interpreter,” Ryan reminded him, struggling to think past the fog of rum in his brain. “The best we had.”

“So now I am liable for his debts, and I have no Spanish interpreter for future voyages. Well done indeed, Captain.”

The woman called Isadora Peabody whispered something in a nervous breath.

“What’s that?” Abel demanded grumpily.

“I speak Spanish.” Miss Isadora looked appalled that she had actually dared to utter a word. Staring at the planks, she added, “Also French, Italian and Portuguese. My great aunt tutored me in languages, and then at Mount Holyoke Seminary I continued—” She broke off, clearing her throat. “My, I do go on. Forgive me. What I mean to say is, if you have documents that need translating, I could perhaps help.”

“Thank you for the offer, my dear. But I could never prevail upon a lady.” Easterbrook swung back to Ryan again. “You, sir, are an irredeemable dandy-cock and worse.”

Ryan tried his best to bear the insult with proper stoic contrition. But he couldn’t help it. When he opened his mouth, laughter burst out. It took several tries to stop. Finally he found a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Mr. Easterbrook, forgive me. I hope you’ll understand that this small festive occasion is the only amusement we’ve had in a hundred eighty days, and that you’ll—”

“Calhoun?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Shut up, Calhoun.”

“Sir,” the Peabody woman said, “I realize this is only my opinion, but earlier this evening you spoke of Mr. Calhoun’s prodigious talent for running a fast, profitable ship.”

Ryan squared his shoulders. “Ma’am,” he said unsteadily, “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’re a fine judge of character.”

She eyed him suspiciously, then cut her gaze away—in fright or in disgust, he couldn’t tell.

Easterbrook cleared his throat. “I will grant you this. You have made a difficult voyage in record time. You have added a fortune to the company coffers. And so I am trying to convince myself to give you a second chance. Tuesday at five o’clock I shall come here to discuss a new sailing plan. At that time, I expect you to have a new translator in place and the
Swan
’s cargo discharged, her papers in order and a new cargo lined up for the winter ice run to Rio de Janeiro.”

Ryan had no idea how he would accomplish all that in such a short time. But he needed the post, needed to skipper another command. More desperately than anyone could imagine. He wished the seriousness of his cause had occurred to him before the harbor bawds had swarmed aboard.

All his life he’d been borne along by personal charm, good looks and a general lack of respect for convention. Those shallow virtues weren’t enough anymore. Now he had to dig deeper and see if he had what it took to succeed. And so he nodded smartly. “You will have it. You can count on me.”

“Don’t disappoint me, Calhoun.”

“I shan’t, sir.”

Easterbrook tossed him a suspicious glare. Then he cocked out both arms. “Allow me, ladies.”

Ryan sagged against the deck chair, allowing himself a long, slow sigh of relief. If he could survive both his mother and his employer tonight, how hard could tomorrow be?

It was impossible, Isadora decided the next day as she stood in the parlor of her parents’ Beacon Hill mansion. Impossible to believe he still might want her.

She sneezed explosively, clapping a handkerchief to her nose and cursing the persistent grippe that plagued her. Then she looked down for the hundredth time at the hastily dashed-off note that had been delivered this morning. From Chad Easterbrook.

After the sting of her humiliation the night before, the invitation soothed her like a balm. Suddenly the world didn’t look so bleak; suddenly the colors of autumn she spied out her window glowed with stunning vibrance. It was a perfect day, with the russet leaves swirling in the breeze and Squire Pickering’s hawthorn hedge ablaze with sunset colors. Asters and mums and unexpected bursts of late-blooming roses decked the long, narrow, tiered garden in the back.

She sneezed again. A pity the colorful season plagued her this way.

Chad Easterbrook’s note affected her in the same manner the autumn colors adorned the landscape. He turned her drab world bright. Judging by their conversation the night before, she had no reason to hope that he would show her favor. But oh, she hoped. Hoped until she ached with it. Perhaps this time would be different. This time, doing his bidding would endear her to him.

She had to believe that. She had to believe there was an end to her loneliness. That something—some
one
—could fill the well of emptiness inside her. And that someone was Chad Easterbrook.

She sighed, holding herself very stiff and straight so that the busk of her corset wouldn’t stab into her. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a small smile of triumph. Chad wanted her to participate in the afternoon’s diversion—a croquet match on Kimball Green.

She pictured the scene: Chad and his crowd wearing dress whites and assembled on the green for croquet. She glowed at the thought of being one of the happy group as they spent a lazy afternoon in laughter and sunshine. Thanks to Chad, she would soon be a part of his charmed world.

Lovingly, a smile playing about her lips, she folded his note and tucked it in the most romantic spot she could think of—beneath her busk.

It itched.

The memory of the ball reared in her mind. She pictured herself stumbling to help Chad with his romantic entanglement. Making a spectacle of herself by knocking over the plant. Being seen scratching her chest with a letter opener. Stammering an excuse to Mrs. Hallowell. Rushing off to find Ryan Calhoun at the harbor.

The thought of the red-headed Virginian, his lap draped with a half-clad woman and his belly full of rum, brought an unexpected twitch of disgust to Isadora’s mouth. No matter how deeply she humiliated herself, she had never sunk to that level.

She had finally met someone who was more of a disgrace than she was.

He would never know what a comfort he was to her.

She straightened her shoulders. Today would be different, she thought, holding back a sneeze. Today she’d redeem herself from last night’s fiasco.

First, a dress. Though she had absolutely no sense of fashion, she knew better than to wear black to a croquet match. She plucked up her skirts and hurried to her chambers, opening the walnut clothes press and peering inside.

Dear heavens. When had she managed to amass such a collection of black, brown and gray? She had black gowns with black lace. Black gowns with brown piping. Black gowns with gray eyelet. But there—off to one side. It was an ecru tea gown made for some awkward, forgotten social occasion. The dress was just the thing for an afternoon of croquet.

She rang for Thankful, and the maid arrived in a trice, setting her feather duster on the bed. “Well, it’s different, miss, and that’s a fact,” Thankful said, picking up the pale India cotton dress.

“Do you think it’s too different from my usual style?” Isadora asked.

“Yes, it is.” With the brisk efficiency that had served her—and the Peabody family—well for three decades, Thankful took up her stay hook and freed Isadora from the black day gown. Then she held up the new dress. “Let’s see if we can make this fit.”