night’s turkey and claret sat ill in her stomach, and when she rose to avail herself of the chamberpot—that in itself a disgusting operation she endured only by scrunching her eyes shut tight and refusing to think of it—she smacked her head on a beam so hard she saw stars.
Sitting on the edge of the bunk, she rubbed her head and peered out the woefully tiny portal. Indeed, they had left their berth in the harbor and were now at anchor; they’d be headed out to sea any moment.
The night before, she’d managed to struggle out of her corset and had slept in her chemise. She eyed the garment—a Corset Amazone that her mother had ordered specially from Freebodys—with loathing. The great fallacy of the corset was that it did not sheer off fullness; it merely displaced it to uncomfortable locales. Captain Calhoun had not been far wrong in calling it an iron maiden, after a medieval torture device.
Resigned, she stood up to don the corset. A sharp pain shot up her leg, stealing her breath. She sank back to the bunk, holding out her left ankle. It resembled a great sausage, swollen and discolored. Gingerly she touched the bruise, wincing at the pain. She must have injured herself when she fell off the ladder—directly onto Captain Calhoun.
This is not a pleasure cruise. His sarcastic words, uttered the night before, still rang in her ears.
Dear lord, had she ever actually thought she belonged on this voyage?
People had told Isadora all her life that she was foolish. Now, at last, she was fulfilling the prophecy. What possible business did she have on a ship, living among men of dubious repute and bound for the pirate-infested waters of the south Atlantic?
Gritting her teeth, she struggled through the ordeal of getting dressed, her conviction hardening with each moment. She was Isadora Dudley Peabody of the Beacon Hill Peabodys. She should be home reading a book or embroidering slipper tops, perhaps drinking tepid coffee from a china cup. Not bumping around in a tiny cabin trying to tie her own stays and bring order to her wild, waist-length hair.
Perhaps, she thought, her urgent fingers grappling with stay wires and corset hooks, there was still time to turn away, to back out. If she hurried, she could get herself on a lighter boat or launch; surely there were any number of skiffs plying back and forth across Boston harbor.
Yes, that was the thing to do. That was precisely it. She looped her hair a few times and stabbed it into place with some pins, rammed on her bonnet and spectacles and hastened out of the cabin. Pain blazed from her ankle, but she forced herself to keep a steady gait. A wall of sea-fresh air greeted her in the companionway. Through the hatch, she could see men running to and fro, their faces intense as they discharged their duties, their voices raised in jolly song:
“All hands on board!
Farewell to friends!
’Tis the signal for unmooring
We’re bound across the ocean blue,
Heave your anchor to the bow,
And we’ll think on those girls when we’re far, far away,
And we’ll think on those girls when we’re far, far away.”
Ryan Calhoun stood on deck and once again Isadora was struck by the dazzling male beauty that emanated like sunlight from him. He was sipping from an enameled metal mug and speaking with a customs official. They referred to a mass of scrolled papers strewn across the navigators’ desk. Though she hated to interrupt, she knew she had to act fast to get herself back home where she belonged.
Home? The house on Beacon Hill? When had she ever belonged there?
She thrust aside the questions. Though she might be a misfit in her own life, she was even more out of place here on this ship, where men in rope-belted trousers scrambled up rigging and masts and swore even when they knew a lady was around.
“Captain Calhoun,” she said, puffing a little as she hoisted herself up the companion ladder to the next deck. She hobbled along on her injured ankle. “Captain, I must speak to you of a—”
“Ah, Miss Peabody.” Ryan nodded brusquely at her. Then, rude as Foster Candy, he turned back to the port official. “I’ve already furnished three copies of the manifest, sir. As to that claim form, I—”
She bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Captain, a moment of your time—”
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Dickie Warbass of the Customs Office,” he said, not even looking at her.
“How do you do.” Another hasty curtsy. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but I must—”
“This is the one, right here.” He thrust a document into her hands. “Mr. Warbass and I have been searching for half an hour for some form in Portuguese.”
She frowned down at the paper. “But Captain, I—”
“What does it say?” he asked. “I apologize for our haste, but Mr. Warbass has other duties to attend to this morning and we mustn’t keep him.”
“You have a launch?” she asked the official.
“Of course.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Warbass could take her off the ship. Back to her mother and father and their baffled but familiar affection. Back to her brothers and sisters, so perfect and humorous that the world worshiped at their feet. Back to pining for Chad Easterbrook, praying he’d notice her. Back to the whirl of a society that did not welcome her.
Troublesome thoughts, for certain, but not nearly so troublesome as the idea of making a rough sea voyage in the company of strangers to a foreign land. She couldn’t believe she’d actually come this far.
She felt as if she were tumbling out of control through unknown waters, like a barnacle pried forcibly from the dock.
She inched her spectacles down her nose and peered over the rims to read the document. “It’s a copy of the consignment agreement with a firm called Ferraro and Son. Is that what you had in mind, Captain?”
He pointed to a space at the bottom. “My signature goes here, I presume?”
“Yes, and you’re welcome,” she said pointedly.
“Welcome to what?”
She shut her eyes until patience returned. “Never mind. The date as well. And a mark…a seal of note.”
“I’ve got that right here.” Warbass produced a brass seal.
While they worked on the documents, Isadora’s attention wandered to the activity on the ship. Responding like clockwork soldiers to the shouted orders of the chief mate, the crew sent up the topgallant sails and courses, the royals and flying jib. They moved with athletic litheness and a surety of their place in the world.
Favoring her injured ankle, she leaned her head back, growing dizzy from the view of the masts swaying high overhead. Then something—the heel of her shoe, perhaps—hooked into a coil of line. She wheeled her arms, grabbing at anything, finding a web of rope nearby. The moment she clutched it, a series of knots along the rail came loose, unraveling like a row of knitting being pulled apart.
Luigi, the sail maker, roared an Italian obscenity and dove
