The Charm School Read Online Free PDF Page A

would sit and read aloud to her for hours. One of the last books they’d read together took place in Rio.
    As they neared the berths of Easterbrook Wharf, Isadora reached for the speaking tube to alert the driver. She looked forward to meeting this man who pleased Abel Easterbrook and earned a fortune, this man who freed slaves.
    A black sheep who had succeeded so soundly in his chosen profession would be an inspiration to her.
    Perhaps he was in his aft stateroom, resting after the fruitful voyage. Or perhaps he sat at the checkered counting table, doling out sailors’ bills to the common seamen. Perhaps-The sound of shattering glass caused the horses to shy. While the driver subdued them, Isadora leaned over the running board and looked out.
    The Silver Swan ran more than its anchor lamps. Bright Japanese lanterns swayed from her spars, halyards and outriggers, illuminating the decks. Every once in a while, someone set off a fire blossom that soared skyward with a whistle, then made a starburst of yellow sulfur light.
    When the coach rolled to a halt, Isadora didn’t wait for the driver to open the door. She descended on her own, lurching a little when she landed.
    Lily held back for the driver, then alighted like a butterfly on a flower.
    The tinny sound of pipes and the thud of a drum issued from the high decks of the bark.
    “Carriage ho!” someone shouted; then loosed a braying laugh.
    “Where away?” yelled another voice.
    “Fine on the starboard quarter!” A shadowed shape came to the rail.
    Isadora tugged self-consciously at the knotted strings of her cap and patted her lacquered sausage curls.
    “More ladies! More ladies!” shouted a rum-roughened voice.
    “Welcome aboard!”
    More ladies?
    Isadora straightened her shoulders and offered her arm to Lily.
    “I
    suppose we should board, then.”
    Lily pressed her mouth into a flat line, and Isadora wondered what could be passing through her mind. The prodigal husband was supposed to humble himself and come home. Not force the wife to come to him.
    “Come spare us a favor, loveys,” yelled the rum voice.
    “We just swallowed anchor after three seasons at seal ” Lily paused.
    “I would suggest that you go back to the carriage.
    This will not be pleasant.”
    “Nonsense. It was my idea to bring you here. If you’re going, I’m going.” Isadora took Lily firmly by the arm. They went aboard via the slanting gangplank, steadying themselves with the rope rails. The music’s tempo grew stronger; so did the laughter—and the syrupy stench of rum.
    Isadora frowned in confusion. Mr. Easterbrook had implied that Ryan Calhoun was a skilled and disciplined skipper. Surely he would not allow— “Oh, dear Lord above.” Lily stopped on the midships deck. Her grip on Isadora’s arm tightened.
    The whole deck resembled a Hogarth painting—the lowest of the low, engaged in the lowest of pursuits. The screeching whistle was piped by a sailor with a mustache. A Negro man with a skin drum and another with a mouth harp accompanied him.
    Isadora fumbled with her spectacles. Even in her imagination she could not have conjured up such a scene: jack-tars in loose trousers and striped shirts dancing with barelegged women who kissed them in public. Chickens running willy-nilly around the deck. A huge bald man with a ring of gold gleaming in one ear stood drinking directly from an unbunged barrel, upended and balanced upon his bare shoulder.
    She brought her shocked gaze in a full circle around the brightly lit deck, and at the last she found herself gaping at an extraordinary man. Like a king on a throne, he sat upon a big armless chair.
    Backlit by burning torches, the laughing man appeared almost inhumanly handsome with a long fall of fiery red hair flowing over his broad shoulders and framing his chiseled face. He wore a garish green waistcoat that left too much of his brawny arms and chest uncovered. Draped across his lap lay a woman whose bosoms spilled from her