there, in that lavender dress.” Putting one hand on Isadora’s shoulder, he leaned out of the alcove and pointed. “Lydia Haven. She’s dancing with Foster Candy. I took her ring as a prank and she’s so cross with me, she won’t allow me near her to give it back. Do tell her I’m sorry….”
Isadora didn’t hear the rest over the rush of blood in her ears. Through a blur of humiliation she saw Lydia Haven, ravishing in her lilac gown, tipping back her head as she laughed at a jest made by her dancing partner.
“You want me,” she managed to say, “to deliver Miss Haven’s ring to her?”
“That’s it exactly, there’s a girl.” With his hand tucked into the small of her back, he steered her out of the alcove.
The hard busk dug into her breastbone as she resisted him. “Mr. Easterbrook,” she said.
“Yes?”
She yearned to hurl the ring right into his excessively handsome face. Instead, she did something worse. Something much, much worse.
She looked him in the eye and said, “As you wish.”
“I knew I could count on you, Izzie my girl.” He gestured at the crowd. “Oh, look, you’ll have to hurry. The set’s ended.”
Hating herself, she marched off to do as he asked. She handed the ring back to its owner. Lydia gave her a lovely smile and said, “Why, thank you, Dora. I thought you were going to steal Chad clean away from me.” She and her friends giggled, each peal of mirth a lethal dagger. “Look at you in your black,” Lydia continued, fingering the gros grain ribbon trim on Isadora’s skirt. “What are you mourning, dear?”
The death of good manners, Isadora thought, but she was too mortified to speak. Pursued by female titters, she tried to beat a hasty retreat. But her way was blocked by a blond woman with a belled pointe skirt and an ivory-and-lace fan. The lady smiled tentatively, as if she were about to offer a greeting.
Isadora curtsied, hoping the flaming blush in her cheeks would subside. Only the stiff corset held her upright as she brushed past the woman. Had it not been for the merciless undergarment, she would have crumpled from pure shame. She had to get away, and quickly.
To her horror, she heard someone calling to her. “Dear, dear Isadora,” sang Mrs. Robert Hallowell Jr. The mother of Arabella’s intended, she beamed with the bright dazzle of social triumph. “Aren’t we fetching tonight?”
“Some of us are,” Isadora said in an undertone.
“How happy you must be to see your younger sister become a bride. Why, soon it will be just yourself and your dear, dear parents, all alone in this house. Won’t that be cozy?”
“We shall be cozy indeed,” she said to Mrs. Hallowell, “and how terribly kind of you to point it out.”
“Come along,” the older lady said. “We must raise a toast to the betrothal.”
No, dear God, no, she could not face them all now. Isadora had never been adept at concealing her feelings; her family would know immediately that she was upset, would question her in their unbearably well-intentioned way, and she would fall to pieces before them.
“Isadora, didn’t you hear me? You must come join the family circle. And where have your brothers got to?” Mrs. Hallowell waved her gloved hand impatiently.
Someone grasped Isadora’s arm. Startled, she gave a little cry and drew back to find herself looking at the blond woman she’d practically trampled while trying to escape the ballroom.
Perfect curls. A mature, deeply beautiful face. Eyes full of sympathy. One look into those eyes confirmed what Isadora had suspected—the woman had witnessed Isadora’s grinding humiliation.
“May I…help you?” Isadora asked.
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact.” The woman turned to Mrs. Hallowell. “I’m feeling the tiniest bit faint, Hester. Isadora has been so kind as to offer me the refuge of her chamber for a small rest.”
Mrs. Hallowell’s eyes narrowed. “But Lily, we were going to toast the new family circle.”
“I’m sure our guest’s comfort takes precedence over a toast,” Isadora murmured. Weak with gratitude, she led the woman up the stairs to her large, airy chamber and shut the door, smashing her backside against it for emphasis. “Thank you,” she said softly.
The woman waved away her thanks as she turned up the flame of a gaslight. “My name is Mrs. Lily Raines Calhoun,” she said.
Isadora detected a soft Southern accent in Lily’s voice. “How do you do? You’re visiting from out of town?”
“Indeed I am. I come from Virginia, though I’ve recently returned from three years on the Continent. The Hallowells were kind enough to invite me to your family’s party.”
“I hope you’re having a pleasant time.” Strains of music and a round of applause wafted up from the ballroom. Arabella and her handsome fiancé would be the center of attention now, surrounded by Lucinda and Quentin and Bronson and their parents, bursting with pride. Isadora suppressed the urge to clap her hands over her ears.
“As a matter of fact, I’m not. I’ve been hoping to have a word with Mr. Abel Easterbrook.”
“Oh, dear. I’m afraid he’s been called away from the party on business.”
Lily peeled off her gloves and lifted a crystal vial of rose water. “May I?”
“Of course.”
She sprinkled the fragrant water on her wrists. “I suppose I shall have to wait, then. I am no stranger to waiting.” She lowered her head, the gaslight touching a delicate profile, a face haunted by doubt. “I’m actually looking for Ryan Calhoun. As it turns out, he’s run off to sea aboard an Easterbrook vessel.”
Isadora’s problem with Chad faded quickly to pettiness. Here was a woman who had traveled across the Atlantic to see her husband—only to find him missing.
“Dear heaven, Mrs. Calhoun, I’m so sorry,” she said, crossing the room to take the lady’s hands. “I—what did you say his name was?”
“Ryan. Ryan Michael Calhoun.”
“What a marvelous coincidence,” Isadora said, hugely pleased to feel a sudden sense of purpose. “You needn’t bother with Mr. Easterbrook at all. I can take you directly to Ryan Calhoun. Tonight, if you wish.”
“What?”
“I know exactly where he is, Mrs. Calhoun.”
Two
Now our ship is arrived And anchored in the Sound. We’ll drink a health to the whores That does our ship surround.
Then into the boat they get And alongside they came. “Waterman, call my husband, For I’m damned if I know his name.”
—“A Man of War Song” (traditional)
“What
