Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (26 page)

“Well, you thought wrong, sugar.”

She walked forward and pressed her palms on the table. This was not the Ryan Calhoun she had come to know. This man was driven and angry, uncommunicative and vaguely threatening. But Isadora had changed, too. She wasn’t afraid of him.

“Tell me what’s troubling you.”

“My brother’s broke. The farm’s a ruin.”

She sat down on the curved bench next to the table. “You can’t give him this money.”

“Christ, what do you take me for?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Why don’t you explain yourself?”

He helped himself to a cup of port wine from the silver-clad decanter on the table. When he offered some to Isadora, she shook her head. “Tell me.”

“I need to buy three slaves,” he said, his voice barely audible. “It’s a promise I made a long time ago.”

Shock sucked the air from her lungs. She felt her eyes widen and then, in a rush of understanding, she relaxed against the back of the tufted bench. “You mean Journey’s wife, don’t you? His wife and children.”

He didn’t speak; he didn’t have to. She could read the truth on his face, and it made her want to leap up and launch herself at him, smothering him with kisses. All along she had thought him selfishly ambitious. At last she understood why.

She didn’t go to him, of course. She couldn’t, not now.

“So you see the dilemma, don’t you? I’m compelled to steal from my employer—and therefore from my own men—in order to keep a promise I made to Journey.”

“Isn’t there any other way? Couldn’t you make a promissory note to—what was the man’s name?”

“Beaumont. And the answer’s no. Calhoun credit isn’t much good in these parts lately.” Ryan’s chest expanded in a deep breath.

“And if you don’t take the money?”

“We leave here without Journey’s wife and kids. I won’t do that.”

She felt a tug at the conviction in his voice. It was rare indeed to find a man who was that committed, that loyal. It was a new and thrilling thing to her. And she said, meaning every word, “I know a way to accomplish this.”

He looked up and his eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Hand me the bo’sun’s whistle.”

Frowning, he took the silver whistle from around his neck. “I don’t see—”

“Of course you don’t,” she said in exasperation. “Wait here.”

She went out on deck, sounding the whistle. Ryan followed, propping his hip on a spirit barrel and regarding her with unconcealed skepticism. The crew gathered, clearly intrigued when they saw who had summoned them. Men, she thought. Sometimes they had bilge for brains.

She surveyed the circle of faces—harsh and bewhiskered, scoured by sun and wind, and realized with a lurch of her heart that in one voyage she had come to know these men better than she knew the members of her own family. Journey hung back, toying anxiously with the pendant around his neck. He had been solemn and thoughtful the past few days, and he was off his rations. Now she knew why. Terror and hope were consuming him.

“I think,” she said, “you probably all know our purpose in making port here.”

“We’re to fetch Journey’s wife and babies,” Timothy said steadily, “so they can be together as God and nature intended.”

She wanted to hug him for his simple, straightforward wisdom. If people in the South held the lad’s view, the abomination of slavery would not exist.

“’Tis only right we tolerate the delay,” Gerald stated with a firm nod in Journey’s direction.

“We are all agreed, then?” she asked.

Click rubbed his jaw speculatively. “Depends on what we’re agreed to.”

“I shall get right to it, then, for you are used to plain speaking. Captain Calhoun is in need of several thousand dollars for this transaction, and the only available source is the ship’s specie.”

“A hanging offense, laying hands on that,” said Chips.

“Piracy,” added Luigi.

“At the very least, we’ll be stripped of our seamen’s papers if we’re caught,” Izard stated.

“This was supposed to be my last voyage,” William Click said. “I’ve been saving up for a little farm.”

“I’ve got a family to feed,” Gerald reminded everyone.

“If I don’t pay my debts, I’ll land in jail for sure.” The Doctor stared mournfully down at his hands.

“This wasn’t part of the deal.” Chips sounded belligerent. “I signed on for full share.”

Isadora drew herself up, looking at each man in turn. “You are each free to determine what you can afford to do. Do you understand the meaning of that? You are
free
to decide.” She paused, feeling them waver. “Journey’s wife is not.” She fixed each man with a hard look. “I shall repay you myself out of my dowry money.”

“You can’t do that,” Gerald objected. “What will you bring to your husband when you marry?”

The laughter that bubbled up in her throat was painful. It was hard to believe that at one time, all she had dreamed of was marrying Chad Easterbrook. What a pitiful, self-deluded creature she had been. Ryan Calhoun had broken her heart, that was true. But he had also opened her eyes.

She felt his gaze upon her now, and dared to meet that chilly stare. This man had forever laid waste to her hopelessly romantic dreams. She should be grateful to him, but at the moment the hurt pressing against her chest left no room for gratitude.

“Believe me,” she said, “slavery is a far greater evil than my spinsterhood.”

Ryan turned away, planting his hands at his waist and staring at the reedy shoreline in the distance.

“What say you, gentlemen?” she asked, pretending not to notice his disgust. “Are you with your shipmate on this?” While she watched and waited, she held her breath, a hard knot in her throat.

The Doctor shuffled forward. “I never did bear the yoke of slavery,” he said to Journey. “But I am an African, too, and your brother in spirit. Debt or no debt, I’ll throw in my share.”

Journey shut his eyes, his face flooding with relief.

“Take it off our sailors’ bills,” Gerald said. “Whatever you need.” He fixed Mr. Click with a flinty eyed stare. “Ain’t that right?”

“Our sh-shares are huge on this trip,” Timothy added. “And Miss Isadora will make good on her promise.”

“Never said I wouldn’t throw in my lot.” Click nodded his head in Journey’s direction. “Whatever it takes, that’s what we got to offer.”

Journey made a choking sound, then turned away briefly. When he turned back, he could only mouth the words “Thank you.”

Isadora beamed at them all, letting the knot in her throat unfurl. “I’ll go get the ledger books.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Izard murmured as he stood at the rail beside Isadora. They watched Ryan sculling for shore in a launch.

“It will,” she stated. “All the figures summed up perfectly—”

“I fear money’s not the problem.”

She turned to study him. The chief mate was a puzzling man, quiet and somber, yet with a sturdy core of decency everyone respected, and an undeniable intelligence that made her listen when he spoke up. “So what, in your estimation, is the problem?”

“Perhaps I should have spoken sooner. I don’t believe Beaumont will take the money. He won’t accept any sum for the wench and her babies.”

“How do you know so much about this?”

He hesitated, then said, “My late wife had African blood.”

She gaped at him in wonder. “Mr. Izard—”

“Trust me, I know.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“Would you have listened? Would anyone?” He spread his arms. “You might get to keep your dowry after all.”

“That is not funny.” She started to pace, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “Something has to be done, then. Something bold. Something audacious. Something that will work.”

Izard was silent for a long time. “Miss Isadora, what are the chances you could charm the stockings off an old Southern gent?”

She laughed. “I couldn’t charm the peel off a banana, for heaven’s sake.”

“Not even if three lives depended on it?”

Her amusement faded. Self-doubt, her age-old companion, shadowed her thoughts. But then she glanced at the foredeck and spied Journey silhouetted against the late afternoon sky. He cut a lonely figure, tall and slender against the backdrop of the fiery clouds.

Ain’t never seen my baby girl.

Isadora straightened her shoulders. “I think, Mr. Izard, that I am about to become charming.”

Ryan had expected a chilly reception at Bonterre, but the outright hostility of Hugh Beaumont took him by surprise. The moment he walked up the horseshoe-shaped drive, a houseboy went running, and Beaumont himself appeared on the gleaming white porch, flanked by soaring columns.

He had changed little from Ryan’s boyhood recollection. He’d always been a tall, ramrod straight widower with long hair and a waxed moustache with handles wide enough for birds to perch on. He wore well-cut clothes of stark black and snow-white, a marked contrast to Ryan’s canary yellow shirt and peacock blue jacket. Maybe he should have listened to Journey and worn more somber colors, but it was too late now.

“Mr. Beaumont,” he said, “it’s a pleasure to see you.” Ryan mounted the porch steps and stuck out his hand.

Beaumont ignored it. “I take no pleasure in this meeting. And no Calhoun is welcome in my house.”

Ryan flashed his best smile. “We’re off to a fine start, then, aren’t we? A dandy start. All right, sir. Suppose we forget I’m a Calhoun. I’ve come to make a business transaction with you, pure and simple. And then I’ll be on my way.”

The waxed moustache twitched. “What sort of business?”

“I’m interested in acquiring some slaves.” Ryan nearly gagged on the words. “The wench called Delilah and her young ones.”

Beaumont tilted back his head and roared with laughter. “I guess they didn’t teach you much up there at Harvard College. Else you’d know damned well I’m on to you. You’re interested in Delilah because you took her man away, set the buck free.” His laughter stopped. “Don’t you see, boy? If you’d left well enough alone, that family’d be together.”

Ryan used all of his self-control to keep from trying to pound common sense into Beaumont’s head. “Sir, I’m prepared to pay—”

“Uncle Ryan! Uncle Ryan!” Blue came tumbling across the lawn, a little tousle-haired moppet in tow. “Hey Uncle Ryan! What you doing here? Are you going to stay for supper?” He unleashed a steady stream of questions as he led the little girl up the steps to the porch. “Can we go look at your boat again? You want to help me build a tree house?”

“Whoa, there, son,” Ryan said, smiling as he went down on one knee. “This your sister?”

“Uh-huh. Belinda. She’s three.”

“Well, hey there, three-year-old Belinda.” Ryan winked at her. She stuck one finger in her mouth. Through a tumble of yellow curls, she peered at him shyly with eyes as blue as painted china. “I’m your uncle Ry—”

“Children, come inside this instant,” said a nervous-sounding voice from the door.

Ryan straightened up quickly. “Lacey, it’s good to see you again.”

“I’m sure I can’t say the same,” she stated, then creaked open the screen door. Looking subdued but resentful, Blue and Belinda went to her side. Petite and beautiful, her hands moving in flutters of agitation, she kept her eyes averted from Ryan. “Father, I trust you won’t be long? It’s nearly the children’s bedtime.”

He nodded. With visible relief, Lacey let the door slap shut.

Evening was coming on, a long flat lowering of the light over the bay. On the road that passed in front of the main house, a horse whinnied, and somewhere unseen in the distance, a deep voice sang a spiritual hymn. As always in the mysterious tidewater region, beauty and brutality were present in equal measures.

Beaumont said, “I won’t do business with you, Calhoun. Is that clear?”

Ryan drew a deep breath. “I’ll pay you double what they’re worth.”

Beaumont smiled. “It’s not a matter of money, but one of principle. Allowing this sort of thing would upset the natural balance of things. I can’t simply sell a family into freedom. That would be irresponsible of me.”

Ryan loosed a bark of incredulous laughter. “Good God, man, do you hear what you are saying?”

Beaumont drew himself up. “Sir,
you
are the one who is having trouble hearing. I’ll do no business with you. The wench and her babies are not for sale at any price.” He made a loud exhalation of disgust. “Your entire family is a disgrace.”

Ryan’s hand clenched into a fist. With a will, he kept it at his side. At least, he thought furiously, he would have no need of the ship’s money. But now he’d have to find another way to bring Journey’s wife north with them.

“Goodbye, Mr. Beaumont,” Ryan said formally. “I shall give your regards to my brother.”

“Sir, your brother knows exactly where he stands in my regard.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

“Pardon me. I believe I have another visitor.” Beaumont brushed past Ryan and walked down the steps.