edge, but Quentin managed to turn the attention from Journey to Isadora. She sat like a statue, her face pale, her eyes cast down. The liveliness that had animated her moments ago had vanished.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Quentin asked with a gamin chuckle, “Or is it true? Is my sister actually to be found in conversation with a gentleman rather than with her nose in a book?”
The others laughed. Isadora managed a tight, uncomfortable smile.
“Oh, do stop,” Arabella protested prettily, shaking a white lace fan. “Can’t you see you’re embarrassing poor Izzie?”
Isadora responded by sneezing violently into her handkerchief.
“Bless you,” Chad Easterbrook murmured automatically.
She sent him a tremulous smile, shy and curiously sweet. Judging by Chad’s expression, he had no appreciation of what was immediately apparent to anyone with half a brain—the poor girl was quite thoroughly in love with him.
“How was your croquet match?” she asked softly, her voice wavering a little.
“Oh, capital,” Chad said. Offhandedly he added, “Though you were missed, of course.”
“Yes, indeed.” Lydia Haven brushed out a flounce in her white dress. “You certainly were. It is always so amusing to have you around, Izzie.”
“Thank you. But…as I was compelled to inform Chad, I’m unwell. I’m…ah…” She sneezed again, pressing the rumpled handkerchief to her reddened nose.
“What can be keeping the refreshments?” Bronson wondered aloud. “I asked for lemonade to be served out here. I’ll go inquire.”
The women gathered in the gazebo, and the men wandered away, Foster and Robert lighting their pipes. They fell into conversation, none of it terribly interesting. Ryan realized he’d had a better time discussing navigation with Isadora. He listened with only one ear to the men’s talk. Until Foster addressed him directly.
“I’m told—though, of course, I have no experience of this—that as soon as a gentleman leaves the college, he finds himself in quite a calamity.”
Ryan lifted one eyebrow. “I’ve done all right.”
“But isn’t it true that all your tailors and gaming friends, so generous to Harvard men, are apt to call in their markers?” Foster persisted, his eyes narrowing with slyness. “Perhaps not. Perhaps they sent their dun notes to your dear mama.”
Ryan flexed his fist and took a step toward him. Journey planted himself in his path. “Easy, Skipper,” he said quietly. “Remember why we came here. Remember what’s important.”
Ryan took a deep breath. He had to stay focused on the business venture.
He ignored the talk until Isadora’s name came up.
“There’s a family joke, you know,” said Quentin in a low voice, “that our parents had to tie a codfish cake around Izzie’s neck to get the cat to play with her.”
Foster Candy made a choked sound of amusement. “There, old stick, I daresay I’d charge a steeper price than a fish cake!”
“Lemonade,” Bronson called, helping the butler wheel a wooden cart across the lawn.
The refreshments arrived and the talk started up again, but the drink tasted bitter to Ryan. As he stood back and watched the laughing, white-clad croquet party and Isadora sitting like a black crow on her stool, he wished he had never come here.
“She lives in hell,” he muttered to Journey.
“There are many kinds of hell. Some worse than others.”
Ryan knew Journey was thinking of his family, still in bondage in Virginia, their only hope of freedom resting with the fortunes of the Silver Swan. Yet Isadora Peabody suffered in her own way; that was apparent enough. While Southern families institutionalized their inhumanity, claiming a moral right to keep slaves and justifying it in the oddest of fashions, this proper Yankee society had its own subtle brand of torture.
It was a calculated cruelty, razor sharp, aimed at the most vulnerable. Miss Isadora had no defenses against the biting cleverness of her
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Quentin asked with a gamin chuckle, “Or is it true? Is my sister actually to be found in conversation with a gentleman rather than with her nose in a book?”
The others laughed. Isadora managed a tight, uncomfortable smile.
“Oh, do stop,” Arabella protested prettily, shaking a white lace fan. “Can’t you see you’re embarrassing poor Izzie?”
Isadora responded by sneezing violently into her handkerchief.
“Bless you,” Chad Easterbrook murmured automatically.
She sent him a tremulous smile, shy and curiously sweet. Judging by Chad’s expression, he had no appreciation of what was immediately apparent to anyone with half a brain—the poor girl was quite thoroughly in love with him.
“How was your croquet match?” she asked softly, her voice wavering a little.
“Oh, capital,” Chad said. Offhandedly he added, “Though you were missed, of course.”
“Yes, indeed.” Lydia Haven brushed out a flounce in her white dress. “You certainly were. It is always so amusing to have you around, Izzie.”
“Thank you. But…as I was compelled to inform Chad, I’m unwell. I’m…ah…” She sneezed again, pressing the rumpled handkerchief to her reddened nose.
“What can be keeping the refreshments?” Bronson wondered aloud. “I asked for lemonade to be served out here. I’ll go inquire.”
The women gathered in the gazebo, and the men wandered away, Foster and Robert lighting their pipes. They fell into conversation, none of it terribly interesting. Ryan realized he’d had a better time discussing navigation with Isadora. He listened with only one ear to the men’s talk. Until Foster addressed him directly.
“I’m told—though, of course, I have no experience of this—that as soon as a gentleman leaves the college, he finds himself in quite a calamity.”
Ryan lifted one eyebrow. “I’ve done all right.”
“But isn’t it true that all your tailors and gaming friends, so generous to Harvard men, are apt to call in their markers?” Foster persisted, his eyes narrowing with slyness. “Perhaps not. Perhaps they sent their dun notes to your dear mama.”
Ryan flexed his fist and took a step toward him. Journey planted himself in his path. “Easy, Skipper,” he said quietly. “Remember why we came here. Remember what’s important.”
Ryan took a deep breath. He had to stay focused on the business venture.
He ignored the talk until Isadora’s name came up.
“There’s a family joke, you know,” said Quentin in a low voice, “that our parents had to tie a codfish cake around Izzie’s neck to get the cat to play with her.”
Foster Candy made a choked sound of amusement. “There, old stick, I daresay I’d charge a steeper price than a fish cake!”
“Lemonade,” Bronson called, helping the butler wheel a wooden cart across the lawn.
The refreshments arrived and the talk started up again, but the drink tasted bitter to Ryan. As he stood back and watched the laughing, white-clad croquet party and Isadora sitting like a black crow on her stool, he wished he had never come here.
“She lives in hell,” he muttered to Journey.
“There are many kinds of hell. Some worse than others.”
Ryan knew Journey was thinking of his family, still in bondage in Virginia, their only hope of freedom resting with the fortunes of the Silver Swan. Yet Isadora Peabody suffered in her own way; that was apparent enough. While Southern families institutionalized their inhumanity, claiming a moral right to keep slaves and justifying it in the oddest of fashions, this proper Yankee society had its own subtle brand of torture.
It was a calculated cruelty, razor sharp, aimed at the most vulnerable. Miss Isadora had no defenses against the biting cleverness of her
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