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An unwanted inner voice told her she used to hide behind them. She hushed the inner voice. It was not up to Ryan Calhoun to drag her out of hiding.
She lifted the heavy lump of sodden fabric out of the tub and slapped it on the deck. Picking up the tub, she staggered toward the rail to empty it. The weight of it unbalanced her, and she lurched forward. The tub sloshed over, a fount of gray wash water exploding upward and drenching Ryan Calhoun from head to toe.
His stylishly cut red hair. His exquisite lace neck cloth. His silken turquoise waistcoat. His creased trousers and gleaming boots.
Isadora stood back, blinking and aghast. Then a satisfying sense of justice settled over her. “Oops,” she said.
She expected fury from him, but he surprised her. He threw back his head and roared with laughter.
What a singular way to cope with a humiliating mishap, she thought, puzzled by his mirth. She studied his tanned, wet throat and curling long hair and strong white teeth and dancing eyes. He was so quick to laugh at his own expense.
“Touché, Miss Peabody. Touché.”
“The pleasure was mine, I’m sure,” she said. She had the most inexplicable urge to smile at him. Determinedly she kept her face blank, her mouth grim.
He whistled as he strolled down the deck, water squishing from his boots. Isadora stared after him, intrigued. The seamen on duty stared, too, elbowing each other and whispering.
Papa had warned her that travel by sailing ship meant days of tedium.
Papa, for the first time in his life, was wrong.
One morning at sunrise, after the changing of the watch, Ryan was walking the starboard rail when he came across the sail maker crouched on deck with Isadora.
Despite living in tiny quarters with a minimum of amenities, she clung to her lubberly fashion of wearing a tightly bound gray or black dress, a bonnet and that idiotic knotted coiffure. Yet the wind, far more persistent even than Isadora’s stubbornness, plucked long strands of hair from her bonnet and swirled them in the sun until the exposure made her hair glisten with gold highlights.
Between Luigi and Isadora lay a pile of ropes and pulleys. “This,” the sail maker said, holding it out to her, “is a heaving line. You throw it with a monkey’s fist, like so.” He demonstrated. Then Isadora took a turn with it, beaming when she succeeded.
“And this one?” She held up a decorated knot.
“A cat’s-paw. And this one, see, it’s got a knot to hold a line on a gangway, this is a Turk’s head.”
She took up the next one. “What do you call this back splice?”
“A dog’s cock,” Luigi said matter-of-factly.
Miss Isadora dropped it as if it had burned her. “Ye powers.”
Laughing to himself, Ryan approached them. “A lesson in your sea-going jargon?” he inquired.
Luigi winked, twitching his mustache. “The lady, she is a fast learner.”
“Then perhaps one day you’ll tell her how we refer to heaving in a line a bit.”
She stood up. “And what would the answer to that one be?”
“If the back splice makes you blush, I don’t think you’re ready to hear.” Goaded by one of his famous impulses, Ryan cocked out his arm. “I was about to take the morning longitude sights and thought you might like to join me.”
He told himself he’d invited her as a small reward. She had been performing the exhausting task of nursing his mother and Fayette. She’d earned a little civil conversation.
She eyed him suspiciously. Over the past several days they had circled one another with cautious interest. Ryan could never be certain what she would do next, this “idler” he’d taken on to do the translating and clerical work. As the crew settled into the predictable rhythms of life under sail, there was a subtle, indefinable difference in the air about them.
Ignorant of social graces, these rough sailors, these sons of Neptune simply accepted her. Ryan had expected them to defer to her, to behave differently in her presence, but instead, they took it upon themselves to initiate her into their way of life.
One day she might be seated on a crate with Luigi, mending sail with a big hooked needle. The next might find her laughing as Gerald Craven, the jibboom man, taught her to play a tune on the Portuguese accordion. In the galley, she showed the Doctor how to make fudge. Once, Ryan came out of the chart room to find her holding Chips’s hand in her lap. The sight gave Ryan a sudden hot sting of annoyance until he realized she was picking a splinter out of the carpenter’s hand.
She made friends of them. This willful young woman from Beacon Hill, who came from people who wouldn’t deign to let a boy like Timothy Datty black their boots, had suddenly taken on a different role aboard the Silver Swan. She wanted to know about Luigi’s impressive array of tattoos and what each one meant. She asked after Gerald Craven’s children, knowing they had come down with the measles shortly before the Swan set sail. She conversed readily and easily with Chips, ordinarily a quiet man who contented himself with his hand-carving. The Doctor let her dry her stockings in his galley, a privilege he wouldn’t afford Ryan. And even William Click, the unpopular second mate, was wont to sit with her of an evening, smoking his pipe and listening as she read from one of the many books she had brought.
“How are my mother and Fayette today?” Ryan asked as they made their way toward the chart room.
“Little better, I fear. I managed to get them to sip some broth, but they are both still reluctant to leave their beds.”
“Some folks never get their sea legs,” he said, then eyed Isadora, noting the way long trails of hair had been plucked from their pins. “You don’t suffer the mal de mer. What is your secret, Miss Peabody?”
“I’ve learned to be very cautious about what I eat.”
He narrowed his eyes, studying her. Were her cheeks less round? Did he detect dark circles under her eyes? “You’ll fall ill of weakness,” he warned her. “You’ll waste away.”
She laughed softly; she seemed to laugh far more readily at sea than on land. “I daresay I’ve a long way to go before facing that calamity, Captain.” She took a deep breath of the morning air. “Indeed, my health is much improved aboard this ship. I’ve not sneezed or sniffled since we left Boston.”
It was true, he realized with a start. The watery eyes, the reddened nose, the explosive sneezes—he’d seen none of them lately.
Ralph Izard stood on the foredeck, turning to greet them as they approached. “I think we can bring up the sea anchor, skipper,” he said to Ryan. “Seas’ve calmed a good bit since last night.”
“We’ve dropped anchor?” Isadora asked with a frown.
“A sea anchor,” Izard explained. “We used a drogue thrown overboard to keep the bow to the direction of the sea.” He indicated the windlass. “I was about to bring it up.”
“May I?” she asked, her face lighting up.
Izard glanced at Ryan, who shrugged. “Mind your fingers—we don’t want them pinched by the rope.”
Mr. Izard gave her a handspike and showed her how to insert it into the body of the windlass cylinder. Positioning herself behind the foremast, she began to work the apparatus. Slowly the thick rope, wet and hung with seaweed, began to emerge from the water.
“Steady now,” Izard said. “Keep her steady, and the rope will coil around it all of itself. Shall I give you a hand?”
“Don’t you dare,” she said, her voice strained. “I can do this.” Grinding away at the windlass, she made a very strange sailor—though her full skirts and landlubber shoes impeded her progress. A long, rolling wave lifted the bow at a sharp slant.
“Careful,” Ryan said. “Chips lifted out some of the planks to get at the dry rot, and—”
“Oh!” The heel of her shoe caught in a crevice between some of the missing boards. The next happened so quickly Ryan was powerless to stop it. Her feet came out from under her, and she let go of the handspikes. The rope spun wildly on the spool, winding her hair around it along with the twisted line. A second later, she lay against the foremast, bound there by her own hair. Her face had paled to a pasty white.
“Miss Peabody!” Ryan dropped to his knees. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but…it pulls at my scalp. Can you free me?”
“It does too hurt,” he snapped, making a few tentative attempts at untangling her. “You were dragged by the hair and your head slammed against the mast. So quit trying to be valiant and admit it hurts like hell.”
She bit her lip. “It hurts like…the dickens.”
“That’s harsh,” Izard muttered.
Each time Ryan moved the windlass, it pulled at her hair. Frustrated, he called for Journey, who came running, his broad bare feet slapping on the deck.
“Good job, honey,” he said, clearly impressed. “We haven’t ever had someone get tangled up in the windlass before.”
“I should like to get up now,” Isadora said.
The sailors who were off watch came to see what was the matter. So did Luigi and Chips. William arrived shortly as well, and everyone gathered around the capstan to witness the woman with a yard of hair tangled in the gears and rope.
Isadora Peabody’s cheeks turned red. “If you don’t mind, I should like to get up,” she said again.
“Any ideas?” Ryan asked the men.
“We could cut the line.”
“It’s as thick as a man’s wrist. That would take all day, and we’d be billed for destroying the line.”
“Dismantle the knight-heads of the windlass and slide the hair and the rope off the side?”
“I just repaired that,” Chips objected. “Took me half a day. The man who touches it dies.”
“Unwind it the opposite way.”
“I tried that. It pulls. She’ll lose her whole scalp.”
Ryan and Journey looked at one another. Journey’s gaze flicked to the sheathed midshipman’s dirk Ryan wore in his belt. They had the same thought at the same time.
“Miss Peabody.” Ryan went down on one knee. “Close your eyes.”
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Her voice rose, quavering with distrust.
“Getting you out of this fix. Now, close your eyes.”
Isadora knew she was disobeying a direct order, but she didn’t care. The men began to murmur among themselves, and so she opened her eyes.
Just in time to see Ryan unsheath a thin-bladed knife. She screamed, scrambling back as far as the entanglement would permit, her hair pulling viciously at her scalp. The blade flashed in the sunlight, then came down with a thunk. She waited to feel a rush of blood, but instead she sprang free of the coil.
She sprawled on the deck, her face inches from the skipper’s booted foot. “You’ve gone mad, haven’t you?” she said in a shaky voice. “I’ve heard of this—men gone too long at sea lose their grasp on sanity, and—eek!” She put her hand to her head, where her hair should have been. Then she looked at the windlass. Her hair. Still caught in the coils of rope. But it was no longer attached to her head.
“My hair!” she cried. “You’ve cut off my hair.”
The crewmen slunk away, clearly loath to interfere.
Ryan Calhoun squatted down. Without looking at her, he lifted the hem of her skirt. “Christ, no wonder you bumble about the decks. You’ve got on at least five petticoats.”
“How dare you?”
“I’m the skipper, that’s how.” He grasped her by the ankle and began to unlace her high-heeled boot. “This,” he said through his teeth as he tugged it off, “is the cause of your troubles.” He cast her shoe overboard and grabbed the other foot.
“Stop that,” Isadora cried, trying to wrench away from him. “Stop that, I say!”
He held her ankle in a ruthless grip as he removed the other shoe. She flinched, for he pressed his thumb hard where she’d injured herself the first day at sea.
“I’ve watched you stumble around the ship until I was sure you’d topple overboard. No more.” He pitched the shoe over the rail.
She put both hands to her head, feeling the barren place where he’d hacked off her hair. “Dear heaven,” she whispered, “what have you done?”
He met her shocked gaze with a steely stare. “It’s only hair,” he said. “It’ll grow back.”
She sat immobile, too stunned to do anything but gape like a codfish. It was some dreadful Samson-and-Delilah scenario in reverse. What sin had she committed, what god had she angered, that Ryan Calhoun would visit this calamity upon her? To think she had left behind her home, her family and all she held dear for this terrible misadventure.
She dropped her hands into her lap. A fresh wind blew tendrils of her newly cropped locks against her cheeks and neck. She shivered from the light, cool breath of the breeze on her neck. Her feet, covered by only thin black stockings, felt shockingly bare.
“What—” She stopped and swallowed, feeling the awful press of tears in her eyes. No. She would not cry. She took a deep breath and tried again. “What have I ever done to make you hate me so?”
He shook his head. “Miss Peabody, I don’t hate you. Whatever gave you that impression?”
“To begin with, you threw my spectacles overboard.”
“Do you miss them?”
She hesitated. In truth, she barely noticed the lack. “That is beside the point,” she said. “They belonged to me, as did my shoes. As did my hair. You had no right.”
“On the contrary, Miss Peabody. I have every right.”
“Ah, yes. How could I forget? You are master of this ship. Your word is law. I wouldn’t be surprised if you appointed yourself lord high executioner.”
He caught her in his angry stare. “Don’t tempt me.”
“You have robbed me of my spectacles, my shoes and my hair.”
“You’re better off barefoot. Those heeled things you wore made you as useless as tits on a fish.”
The image made her shudder. “Why does cruelty come so easily to you?” she asked softly. “Doesn’t that scare you sometimes? It would scare me.”
“Everything scares you, Miss Peabody.” With that, he straightened up and walked away, casually slipping his knife back into its hip sheath.
She drew her knees up to her chest and dropped her head onto them. She would not cry. She would not cry.
“B-begging your p-pardon, miss,” someone said.
She lifted her head. “Timothy.”
“I have some sk-skill at barbering,” he said in an explosive rush. He showed her a slender pair of scissors. “If you like, I’ll make a straighter job of the skipper’s handiwork.”
“Very well.” She surprised herself by agreeing and following him into the deserted galley. The deck felt hard and alien beneath her stockinged feet. “Do what you can.”
He moved behind her and gently lifted the hacked off strands away from the nape of her neck. She heard a deft snip-snipping sound as he set to work.
