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her skirts and petticoats.
Shocking as that sight proved to be, Isadora felt her attention captured by the man’s face and demeanor. He had not yet noticed them, for he was preoccupied with the woman. There was something darkly compelling about the way he kept his concentration riveted upon the lady, regarding her with total absorption as if he meant to lose himself in her.
The man with the drum began to beat a tattoo that curiously resembled the nervous warning of a rattle snake.
Finally the red-haired man looked up, raising his face from its fleshy pillow and peering over the woman’s bosoms. He studied Isadora for a moment; then, dismissing her, he moved his gaze to Lily. Giving a lopsided, beatific grin, he said in a smooth Virginia drawl, “Hello, Mother.”
Three
Why not seize the pleasure at once?
How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!
—Jane Austen
(1798)
The 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 over-explain the matter, particularly in mixed company.
“Well, he’s a criminal and good riddance,” Abel said.
“He was a mighty fine interpreter,”