The Horsemaster's Daughter (8 page)

I must go
Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the
young
Star captains glow.

—Herman James Elroy Flecker,
The Dying Patriot

“Y
ou know what’s curious?” Ryan asked, standing back from the captain’s table and watching Journey expertly pour the claret.

“Your taste in neck cloths?” Journey ventured, looking askance at the hibiscus-and-lime paisley cravat Ryan had donned for supper.

Ryan ignored him. “When I was in school, I could no more remember a Latin declension than the table of the elements. Yet on this ship I can keep every fact and figure as keenly in my mind as if God himself whispered them into my ear. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Maybe because Latin declensions don’t help you deal with dishonest stevedores.”

Ryan vividly recalled the endless hours of stumbling through lessons at Albion. “Why can’t I learn something simply for learning’s sake?”

“You’re starting to sound like your daddy.”

A chill slid through him. It was true. He recalled all those humiliating times he’d stood before Jared Calhoun, squirming inside while his father quizzed him mercilessly about Horace and the gospel and the price of tobacco in Richmond.

If you constantly have your head in the stars,
his father used to demand,
how are you going to keep your feet firmly on the ground?

“There’s no need, if I go to sea,” Ryan murmured.

“What’s that?”

Ryan shook his head. “Nothing. You know, I keep the stars up here, too.” He touched his temple. “Ever since we were lads, I’ve been able to read the stars as easily as most boys read their scripture.”

Journey put a cut glass stopper in the crystal decanter. The
Silver Swan
’s previous skipper had been a man of excellent taste and terrible business practices. When Abel Easterbrook discovered the extent of his cheating, he’d had the man hauled off in chains, leaving behind a salon full of his ill-gotten gains. Ryan had inherited comfortable quarters indeed.

Built into the wall of the cabin, invisible behind a false panel and snug against the hull itself, was the purser’s till, a safekeep of steel with a combination lock. Other than Abel himself, only Ryan knew the combination. When he sold the cargo in Rio, he’d receive payment in pounds sterling. It would all go into the till, never to be opened until Abel did the honors once they returned.

“I remember,” Journey said, “when we were lads we’d climb to our lookout on a clear night and navigate our way to the Spanish main.”

Ryan smiled, picturing the two of them lying side by side on the rough wooden planks of their tree house, hands clasped behind their heads, gazes turned to heaven. The breeze had stirred the poplar leaves, but to the boys’ ears it was the shush of the great deep Atlantic rushing past the hull of their ship. Their destination was a place he and Journey had conjured up from their imaginations. They had built it on their own boyish dreams, endowing the perfect island with everything a boy could want: gumdrop trees, geysers that spewed sarsaparilla, crystal clear freshwater pools for swimming. A pond in which the fish leaped for joy, grabbing right onto the end of their fishing poles. No chores, no schoolroom, no lessons, no stern tutor or disapproving papa, no mammy with a hickory rod.

“Did we ever actually reach that place?” Ryan checked the buttons of his cuffs. “I don’t remember.”

Journey set down the salt cellars, a thoughtful, distant expression on his face. “We’re still looking, Skipper. We’re still looking.”

A light knock sounded at the door, and in came his mother, attended by Fayette, her maid. He greeted the ladies with the Southern gallantry that had been bred into his very bones: a courtly bow, a charming smile, a sweep of his arm toward the table.

Then he spied Miss Isadora Peabody standing uncertainly in the companionway. A twinge of exasperation nagged at him. If she felt awkward, it was her own doing. She had used her influence with Abel to muscle her way aboard this ship. Ryan had resolved to use his position as skipper to make her regret it.

“You’re a crew member,” he said. “You’d best eat in the galley with the men.” He started to close the door.

“Oh, Ryan, for heaven’s sake,” his mother said, grabbing the door before it slammed. “Miss Peabody is my companion. I won’t hear of her eating hard tack and ale in the galley.”

“Truly,” Miss Peabody murmured, “if the captain orders me to go elsewhere, then I must obey.”

“But
I’m
the mother,” Lily said smugly. She elbowed Ryan aside. “Come in, and we shall celebrate our last night before departure.”

Isadora didn’t look at Ryan as she edged into the stateroom. He couldn’t quite bring himself to banish her. The painfully arranged hair, the trussed-up style of her black dress, the way she squinted behind her spectacles caused him to feel an unaccustomed tug of…of what? Annoyance, yes, and something perhaps akin to pity.

He tried to figure out why his mind kept clinging to thoughts of her. He’d always been a man who attracted pretty women, and Miss Peabody was not pretty. He enjoyed the charm of female company, yet she was not charming. He liked the inanity of lighthearted conversation, yet she was neither inane nor lighthearted.

So why did she plague him?

Perhaps it was the secrets she guarded within the hazel-and-gold depths of her eyes. In spite of himself, he wanted to know what thoughts hovered there, what ideas. What hopes and dreams.

Of course, he didn’t want to hear about her misguided passion for Chad Easterbrook, but other things about her—who she was and what she wanted, what she loved and hated, what surprised her, what delighted her, what angered her.

Immediately he pulled back. The only reason he wanted to discover her inner being was so that he could control her, keep her in line and keep her out of his affairs.

He treated her with a perfect parody of courtesy. “Our first night aboard the
Swan,
” he declared. “We must drink a toast.”

“I don’t drink strong spirits.” Her voice was quick and nervous.

“Then I assure you, we’ll only serve weak ones,” Ryan said. A warning look from his mother stopped him from going on.

“Have you any Cochituate water?” she inquired.

“No, I don’t have any Co-kit-tuate water,” he said, unable to resist mimicking her prissy accent. “This is a sea voyage, not a temperance crusade.”

He and Journey helped the ladies to their seats around the captain’s table. Once they were under way, formal meals like tonight’s supper would be rare, so Ryan intended to enjoy this one, Miss Peabody notwithstanding.

As Journey poured wine from the decanter, Fayette caught his eye. “I best get to the galley,” the maid said, fixing him with a censorious glare. “I don’t hold with no wine-drinking.”

Journey set his hands on his hips. “Girl, you’ve known me all my life. Don’t be looking at me like I got some disease.”

“Maybe you do, Journey-boy,” Fayette said in a tone Ryan recognized from his boyhood. “You all uppity now.”

The moment could have crackled with tension, but Journey laughed easily. “No, ma’am, I’m like any other man.”

“Hmph.” She made a fuss over spreading Lily’s napkin in her lap. “Uppity.”

“All men are, Fayette,” Lily said. “Every last one of them.”

Ryan knew, when news of Journey’s freedom had reached Albion, some of the field hands had threatened to revolt. The very idea that one of their own was now living as a free man had inflamed them. Lily, newly widowed and ready to set sail for England, had postponed her trip in order to quell the hot tempers and improve living conditions for the workers.

Isadora Peabody watched the exchange, her face draining to a pasty white. Lily laid her hand over Isadora’s. “You’ll have to excuse us, my dear. We’re family, every last one of us, and we shouldn’t be performing like this in front of company.”

“Oh, dear. I’m not company. I’m an ‘idler,”’ Miss Peabody declared.

For some reason, everyone laughed, and the tension eased as Fayette took Journey aside and the two of them went up on deck.

“He
is
your steward,” Lily said. “Do you think he should stay?”

“Let them go, Mama. There are things they can speak of only to one another.”

“They’ve not seen each other in a great while. What can she possibly tell him?”

He sighed, feeling Miss Peabody’s gaze on him. “Mama, I’ve always considered myself a blood brother to Journey, but I’ve never lived in that skin. Fayette has.” Ryan ached for the man who had been his only steady friend since they were boys. He ached for Delilah, the wife Journey missed so much that sometimes Ryan heard him weeping at night, fiercely, sobbing between his clenched teeth. But when morning came, Journey always faced the day with ready strength, boldly committed to their enterprise.

If this present voyage went well, Journey would be reunited with Delilah and their children inside a year. It was the only thing that mattered in Ryan’s life.

The Doctor and Timothy Datty arrived with supper on a two-handled platter. The last meal before setting sail was always lavish—roasted turkey, warm fresh bread, leeks and carrots and a good red wine from the Languedoc. They spoke of the heading they would take out of Boston harbor; of Lily’s long tour of the Continent; of fabled Rio and of the aunt Ryan had never met. Or rather, Ryan and his mother spoke while Isadora listened with rapt attention. Aunt Rose had married a Brazilian coffee planter and lived in a lofty castle as grand as any storybook fortress. She and Lily had not seen one another in twenty years.

After supper, Lily excused herself to retire for the night. Ryan accompanied her and Isadora out into the companionway. Isadora hesitated in the low arched doorway and cast a glance through the hatchway where the night sky shone with silver stars.

Lily paused at the door to her cabin. “It’s early yet. Ryan, why don’t you take Miss Isadora on a turn around the deck?”

It was all he could do to keep from groaning aloud. “A turn on deck?” he echoed. “This is not a pleasure cruise.” And his feelings for his clerk were anything but pleasant.

Isadora blinked rapidly, eyeing the open sky. Then she said, “Um, I suppose…I—” She held her hands clasped tightly across her middle. “Captain Calhoun, I am in your service, and I know quite well that you are most certainly not obliged to squire me around.”

“And you are not obliged to accept my squiring.” He felt a twinge of exasperation. He caught a warning glance from his mother. “But there is no law on land or sea that outlaws an evening stroll.”

She looked outside again, her yearning palpable. The woman was as easy to read as an amateur card cheat. “No, there is not.”

Lily murmured a good-night and went to her quarters.

Resigned, he cocked his arm out at the elbow. “Shall we?”

She nodded but didn’t take his arm, preceding him up the companion ladder. Her crinolines and tight laced-up boots made the going chancey. She hesitated midway up the ladder. It was too dark to see what the trouble was; then Ryan heard a quiet ripping sound and an “Oh, dear.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I seem to have stepped on the hem of my petticoat. I’ll just…just…oh,
dear!
”

She fell backward, slamming into Ryan. He reeled against an upright stanchion. The air left him in a
whoosh
and for a few seconds he couldn’t breathe. Reflexively he’d flung his arms around her midsection when they’d collided. He hung on, marveling at the taut, hard shell of her corsets. Christ, how did the woman breathe?

“Oh heavens,” she said in a small, mortified whisper. “I’ve squashed you flat.”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, setting her on her feet.

She tottered a little, then grabbed the side of the ladder. “Captain Calhoun, I am terribly sorry.”

She was so meek, so humble. This was the perfect opportunity to swath himself in the mantle of righteous anger, to declare her entirely unsuited to her duties and send her ashore. She’d offer no argument now.

But he studied the downward angle of her head, the shoulders sloping in defeat, and he thought of her in the garden that day, a dark weed amid the flowers of Beacon Hill, the spinster pining for a shipping heir, and realized that, with a word, he could squash
her
flat.

“Try holding your skirts up out of the way,” he suggested brusquely. “And tomorrow, wear fewer petticoats. And do lose the iron maiden.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Iron maiden. That damned corset.”

She took hold of the ladder again. Ryan stood on alert, ready to catch her in case she came crashing down. She didn’t. She scrambled up and waited topside for him to follow.

When they emerged onto the deck, a brilliant night greeted them. The southerly breeze sang lightly through the shrouds.

“Everything’s battened down and shipshape,” Gerald Craven said, his bald head gleaming in the starlight as he made his way toward the galley. “I took care of that stowage problem.”

“Excellent, Mr. Craven.”

“I understand badly stowed cargo and ballast can create a problem of balance,” Isadora said as Craven left.

Ryan was amazed she knew even the first thing about ballast. “You’ve been reading again.”

“Charles Dana. He explains why it’s so hazardous to have the cargo poorly stowed. In heavy seas, anything left out on deck could come loose and damage the ship—or the crew. In the hold, cargo rolling around could unbalance her.”

When she spoke of things she’d learned in books, she shed some of her awkwardness. As she stood holding the rail, he could see the strength of her grip on the varnished wood, the set of her shoulders as she faced outward from the darkened harbor. She wanted this voyage, wanted it badly. He didn’t have to ask her why. He knew. Thinking of her parents and siblings and the way the Peabody family functioned, he knew.

He wished she’d find another ship to make her escape on.

She pushed her glasses down her nose and lifted her gaze to the sky. “I love the autumn constellations,” she said. “Is it the cold, do you think, that gives them such clarity?”

“Perhaps. Why do you wear the spectacles if you’re always having to peer over them in order to see?” Ryan asked, impertinent and not caring that he was.