LITMIR.BIZ

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very face that now watched him impassively—and had been terrified that she was going to cry.

      No, this woman wasn’t a weeper. That much was clear.

      “You think we should steer clear of each other.”

      “As much as possible, given the fact that we’re confined to this ship.”

      “I see.” He knew she was right. She was absolutely right. He hated how right she was. “I will agree to this request, but on one condition.”

      “What is that, Cap—Ryan?”

      “That you keep yourself safe. No tottering around on inappropriate shoes, no testing the waters like an old salt, nothing of the sort.”

      “I’m not accustomed to following orders,” she said.

      “Yes, you are. You’ve followed every order and dictate of Beacon Hill society all your life.”

      She caught her breath as if he’d struck her. “You see what I mean?” She shook out the knot. “We must begin our campaign of mutual indifference at once.”

      He sent her a mocking smile, hiding a sense of loss he hadn’t expected to feel. “As you wish.”

      But as the days passed, he found it impossible not to notice her. In fact, his attention sought her out the way a tongue seeks out a sore tooth. He saw her seated on the foredeck with Timothy Datty, patiently repeating sounds and words with him to break his habit of stuttering. At sunup, she and the Doctor were wont to be found at the aft balcony, their lines cast out to troll for fish. Sometimes she helped Luigi with his sail making, insisting that he drill her in lessons to improve her command of Italian.

      The common seamen soon learned she was game for more active duties. On a balmy Wednesday morning, Ryan looked up to see her balanced in the shrouds and bent over a yardarm as she helped Gerald reefing a sail.

      His heart galloping in his chest, Ryan sounded the whistle and bellowed, “Come down from there, Miss Peabody.”

      “I’m busy,” she said.

      “That’s an order.”

      “You ordered me to ignore you, so that is what I shall do.”

      And Ryan Calhoun, who knew better, released a lengthy stream of colorful invective in an obnoxiously loud voice.

      Isadora looked across the web of rigging at Gerald. “Did you hear something? Or was it merely a great gust of wind?”

      Ryan stalked off. In driving Isadora away, holding her at arm’s length, he had propelled her toward the others. Judging by her behavior in Boston, he’d formed the idea that she was a solitary sort, not one to seek company when a good book lay at hand. Now she enjoyed being around people. She liked to talk and loved to listen. And judging by the reaction of the crew, she was damned good at it.

      Even William Click, the moody and secretive second mate, warmed to her. He showed her how to man the pulleys to bring water up from the sea, and sometimes they knelt side by side on the midships deck, doing their laundry. And Ralph Izard, generally circumspect about his personal life, often gave her a turn at the helm as he stood by, sharing his memories of his boyhood in New York City.

      Day by day, man by man, she was becoming their friend, their confidante, their shipmate. She was coming to know them in a way Ryan, as the captain, never could. By virtue of his role, he couldn’t speak to Timothy Datty of the farm he’d left in Rhode Island, to Gerald Craven of his recent trip to New Orleans. Ryan had to hold himself apart from the crew, but Isadora seemed to blossom in their midst.

      On quiet evenings after the supper hour, he would spy her skylarking with the men on the open main deck. She openly and good-humoredly despaired of her skill as a dancer, so the men were determined to teach her to curtsey and dance like an accomplished lady. At first Ryan tried not to pay attention, but lately she seemed to speak louder and laugh more frequently than she had before. She was becoming hard to ignore.

      Chips had carved her a serviceable recorder flute. Before long, she joined in the makeshift ensemble consisting of Journey with his skin drum, Luigi with his fiddle and Gerald with his hornpipes. The music they made was so merry that even his mother and Fayette came above to sit beneath their blankets and tap their feet, trying to forget their persistent misery.

      At least having his mother on deck gave him an excuse to draw close to the festivities. He greeted the ladies and Lily held on to his hand. “When will I ever get my sea legs?” she asked.

      “You should be over the sickness by now.”

      “I’m trying, Ryan. Really I am. We both are. Isadora brings us broth and bread, sometimes even a bit of egg and biscuit. She is an angel, I tell you. Purely an angel.”

      Ryan shot a furtive glance at the “angel.” She held the recorder to her lips, eyes dancing as she picked out the melody of “The Bo’sun’s Wife.” Her slippered foot tapped on the oaken deck. The lowering sun burnished the loose curls of her hair. But Ryan’s gaze kept wandering to her mouth. Full and moist, her lips circled the mouthpiece of the recorder, and at the corners they turned up slightly as if in amusement.

      He watched those lips and the way her nimble fingers played over the openings, making music. Unexpected heat rushed through him, and his thoughts wandered to dark, forbidden places scented by a woman’s musky perfume. He imagined, with startling vividness, the brush of bare silken skin and the softness of smiling lips beneath his own.

      Ryan shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying to reel in his thoughts and feeling a tight discomfort in his trousers. When he realized what was happening to him, he muttered something about taking a sounding, and then he walked away.

      Damn it.

      He missed her.

      Eleven

      Aboard at a ship’s helm, A young steerman steering with care.

      —Walt Whitman,

      Aboard at a Ship’s Helm

      “Tell me about your family, Journey,” Isadora said.

      Seated across from her at the galley table, he looked up from mending a shirt. The soft blue fabric lay draped over his bony knees, and a faraway expression clouded his gaze.

      She didn’t have long to wonder where he had been in his daydream. He said, “I haven’t seen my Delilah or my babies in four years.”

      Isadora felt each quiet, simple word like a velvet-gloved blow. She’d always known that slavery was an inhuman, unjust institution, but her conviction sprang from reading pamphlets and essays penned by educated men and women.

      By contrast, Journey’s presence, his dignity, his quiet despair, illustrated the point with brutal clarity.

      “Does it disturb you to talk about them?” she asked.

      “Not any more than not talking about them.” He stabbed his needle into the seam of the shirt, a sturdy broadcloth garment commonly worn by all the crewmen.

      Almost all, she reflected, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. Now that they had entered southern climes, she hadn’t suffered from the grippe in days. Yet her corset chafed more than ever. The soft broadcloth would feel wonderful.

      Knowing her mother would call for smelling salts at the very thought of her daughter lowering her standards of dress, Isadora had removed one layer of petticoats. She felt wicked doing so, but much more comfortable. Each day, her attitude relaxed a little more. Her confidence grew a little stronger. It was a wonder, after so many years of trying to press herself into society’s mold, to suddenly suspect that the problem was with the mold, not with her.

      Now, seventy-three miles north of the equator and a little east of St. Paul’s Rocks, she made up her mind to shed another layer or two.

      “Then tell me about your family, do,” she urged Journey, feeling petty for dwelling on her own discomfort.

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