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Authors: Susan Wiggs
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on a tray. “I have, Miss Isadora. Your credentials are copper-bottomed, unimpeachable. However, what you ask is impossible. I cannot allow you to sign on as a member of the crew of the Silver Swan. ”
She kept her chin steady despite the urge to crumple in defeat. “May I ask why?”
“It’s not a woman’s place—”
“Ah, but it is.” She relaxed, pleased that she had prepared herself for this argument. “The Fairacre has not only a woman bo’sun, but the cook is a female as well.”
“The cook is the skipper’s wife,” he argued.
“She wasn’t when she signed on,” Isadora replied.
“I rest my case. I can’t let you be bound away with a shipload of jack-tars. God forbid you should come back married to one of them.”
She smiled at the irony. “Believe me, Mr. Easterbrook, there is no chance of any sort of…entanglement.” She thought of the ripe, laughing woman Ryan Calhoun had held in his lap the night she’d met him. If that sort was his preference, he wouldn’t look twice at Isadora. “And did you know,” she continued, “that the Pandora has three women aboard—and that she grossed a hundred thousand last year?”
“All right, I’ll concede that some crews include females. But Calhoun’s a loose cannon. You saw him the other night—he’ll give you the devil to pay and no pitch hot.”
“That is precisely why you need me. I alone know how important the Rio voyage is to you. I can be your eyes and ears on that ship, Mr. Easterbrook. I can make regular reports about Captain Calhoun’s behavior and the way he conducts his affairs.”
A crack appeared in his reluctance. “Wouldn’t mind having a barnacle on the hull for this voyage,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t be right to send a lady like you. He might shame you.”
“His mother will be there as a passenger—”
“He’ll probably humiliate her, as well.”
“Sir, I assure you, Mrs. Calhoun and I can look after our own reputations. The one who needs looking after is Captain Calhoun.”
“This is headed for rocky shoals, I can feel it.”
“Not at all. It will be smooth sailing, and I intend to see to it for your sake. Use the man’s skill as a skipper, but don’t let him scuttle your reputation as a leader in commerce.”
Her words made great headway into the kindly old man’s pride. Feeling herself close to victory, she said, “Mr. Easterbrook, you have ever been a visionary, on the leading edge of modern business. Engaging my services is the next logical step.”
Five
First ponder, then dare.
—Helmuth von Moltke
(attributed)
“C -can I h-help you, ma’am?” a young boy asked Isadora.
She turned on the dock to look at him. “Is this the Silver Swan ?” Isadora asked.
The lad—a wiry, nervous boy of perhaps fifteen—nodded jerkily. “Yes’m.” He snatched off his tarpaulin seaman’s cap. “Tim-Timothy Datty, at your service.”
“I am looking for Captain Calhoun.”
“H-he’s aboard, but—”
“Good. I was hoping he would be.” She headed toward the gangway, stepping around the dock where brawny-shouldered stevedores were discharging the cargo. She tried not to stare but couldn’t help herself.
In contrast to the fitted frock coats, silk hats and chicken-skin gloves of drawing-room gentlemen, the men of the wharf wore loose trousers, shirts and neckerchiefs fastened with slip-ties. Crude expressions, spoken in a variety of foreign accents, filled the air. She could not fathom the meaning of poodle faking but she felt certain she didn’t want to know.
“M-ma’am.” Timothy Datty trotted alongside her. “C-c-captain’s not—”
“You needn’t stop what you’re doing to accompany me,” she said. “I know the way.”
He pressed his mouth shut, waving his hands. There was something earnest and appealing about the boy. A pity about his stutter. Elocution lessons and special readings might help, but she didn’t suggest it for fear of
She kept her chin steady despite the urge to crumple in defeat. “May I ask why?”
“It’s not a woman’s place—”
“Ah, but it is.” She relaxed, pleased that she had prepared herself for this argument. “The Fairacre has not only a woman bo’sun, but the cook is a female as well.”
“The cook is the skipper’s wife,” he argued.
“She wasn’t when she signed on,” Isadora replied.
“I rest my case. I can’t let you be bound away with a shipload of jack-tars. God forbid you should come back married to one of them.”
She smiled at the irony. “Believe me, Mr. Easterbrook, there is no chance of any sort of…entanglement.” She thought of the ripe, laughing woman Ryan Calhoun had held in his lap the night she’d met him. If that sort was his preference, he wouldn’t look twice at Isadora. “And did you know,” she continued, “that the Pandora has three women aboard—and that she grossed a hundred thousand last year?”
“All right, I’ll concede that some crews include females. But Calhoun’s a loose cannon. You saw him the other night—he’ll give you the devil to pay and no pitch hot.”
“That is precisely why you need me. I alone know how important the Rio voyage is to you. I can be your eyes and ears on that ship, Mr. Easterbrook. I can make regular reports about Captain Calhoun’s behavior and the way he conducts his affairs.”
A crack appeared in his reluctance. “Wouldn’t mind having a barnacle on the hull for this voyage,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t be right to send a lady like you. He might shame you.”
“His mother will be there as a passenger—”
“He’ll probably humiliate her, as well.”
“Sir, I assure you, Mrs. Calhoun and I can look after our own reputations. The one who needs looking after is Captain Calhoun.”
“This is headed for rocky shoals, I can feel it.”
“Not at all. It will be smooth sailing, and I intend to see to it for your sake. Use the man’s skill as a skipper, but don’t let him scuttle your reputation as a leader in commerce.”
Her words made great headway into the kindly old man’s pride. Feeling herself close to victory, she said, “Mr. Easterbrook, you have ever been a visionary, on the leading edge of modern business. Engaging my services is the next logical step.”
Five
First ponder, then dare.
—Helmuth von Moltke
(attributed)
“C -can I h-help you, ma’am?” a young boy asked Isadora.
She turned on the dock to look at him. “Is this the Silver Swan ?” Isadora asked.
The lad—a wiry, nervous boy of perhaps fifteen—nodded jerkily. “Yes’m.” He snatched off his tarpaulin seaman’s cap. “Tim-Timothy Datty, at your service.”
“I am looking for Captain Calhoun.”
“H-he’s aboard, but—”
“Good. I was hoping he would be.” She headed toward the gangway, stepping around the dock where brawny-shouldered stevedores were discharging the cargo. She tried not to stare but couldn’t help herself.
In contrast to the fitted frock coats, silk hats and chicken-skin gloves of drawing-room gentlemen, the men of the wharf wore loose trousers, shirts and neckerchiefs fastened with slip-ties. Crude expressions, spoken in a variety of foreign accents, filled the air. She could not fathom the meaning of poodle faking but she felt certain she didn’t want to know.
“M-ma’am.” Timothy Datty trotted alongside her. “C-c-captain’s not—”
“You needn’t stop what you’re doing to accompany me,” she said. “I know the way.”
He pressed his mouth shut, waving his hands. There was something earnest and appealing about the boy. A pity about his stutter. Elocution lessons and special readings might help, but she didn’t suggest it for fear of
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