The Charm School (20 page)

At least, Ryan mused, landfall had not leached the healthy color from her face and she hadn’t coughed or sneezed in weeks.

With a gracious smile, he strode toward the pilot.

“Senhor, welcome aboard the Swan.”

“Oh, my,” Lily murmured, admiring his shore togs with a proud maternal head-to-toe glance.

“My baby boy is too handsome for words, isn’t he, Isadora?”

Isadora gave him a quick look, then ducked her head. “As you say, there are no words.”

At that moment, the shoreline forts fired a salute. Ryan raised his arms to acknowledge the courtesy.

The pilot tore his gaze from Lily long enough to offer Ryan a bow and a gap-toothed smile. Ryan gestured at the wharves.

“How much to bring us in to a berth?”

“Forty pound sterling, senhor. In now, and later out.”

Ryan clutched at his heart.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Izard? Just when I thought we’d make landfall without incident, I’m attacked by a pirate.”

“Senhor, I do not understand. I offer a service at a fair price”

“Fifteen pounds sterling and not a farthing more,” Ryan said.

The man sent a wounded look heavenward and released a long string of Portuguese lamentation.

Ryan waited patiently for his counter offer but instead, Isadora cleared her throat.

“Captain Calhoun, the poor man said he has five daughters, and his motherin-law has come to die in his house. I really do think the proper thing to do is to meet his price.”

The Brazilian clearly saw Isadora as the weak spot, and addressed his next prayerful stream of speech to her.

She listened, enraptured.

“He says a lesser pilot would risk grounding a ship of this size,” she warned. “Forty pounds is nothing compared to the many thousands you stand to lose if you allow a lesser pilot to run you aground. He’s absolutely right.

He” — “Twenty, and that’s my final offer,” Ryan snapped.

“Thirty,” the man countered.

“Done,” Ryan declared before Isadora could intervene again.

The Brazilian’s face lit up with a brilliant smile, and he hurried off to work.

Ryan whirled on Isadora, lowering his voice to a furious mutter.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“I am your translator.”

“Then translate. Don’t advise me on what to pay.”

“But five daughters and a dying motherin-law? The ten extra pounds would mean the world to the poor man.”

“Poor, hah. The old salt’s a bachelor who lives on his boat. The extra money goes to keep him in women, cigars, and Curasao.”

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

“It’s my business to know that. Now, the next time there’s any translating to be done, you give it to me word for word—without any of your back-slack.”

He stalked away, feeling strangely invigorated by the spat. That was the odd thing about knowing Isadora. Sparring with her was far more fun than polite conversation with a dozen other misses.

Lily hired a coach to take them up into the hills where her sister lived.

While Fayette oversaw the masses of traveling trunks. Lily wafted a fan in front of her face. The smells of roasting coffee and burning sugar cane filled the air.

In preparation for landing, Isadora had read a traveler’s guide and studied the engravings to learn the lay of the land. But no travelogue or sketch could have prepared her for Rio. She stood in a thrall of amazement, observing the busy, glittering paradise: a mountain called Corcovado, shaped like a man bending over and draped in emerald silk. The Sugar Loaf rock, massive and gleaming like pure marble in the hot sun. Botafogo, a sparkling diamond necklace that collared the turquoise bay. Overlooking all this splendor was a dazzling white edifice she recognized as Laranjeras Palace.

Dear Lord Almighty, Isadora thought. I have died and ascended to paradise.

She almost believed the fanciful thought, except for the rivulets of sweat that trickled unbearably down her back and between her breasts.

“Ah, here’s our coach,” Lily exclaimed.

“I cannot believe I’m nearly there. I can hardly bear the anticipation.”

Isadora studied the coach with a twinge of suspicion. All but buried beneath a pyramid of luggage, the conveyance looked as if it might collapse at any moment. “Do you think we’ll be safe in that?” she asked.

“Of course. It’s the way all people of fashion travel. Have you got everything you need?”

“Yes, but I should stay here,” Isadora protested. “Captain Calhoun might need help translating” — “Not today,” Ryan said, striding along the waterfront. He retained his seaman’s rolling gate, though he wore beautifully cut shore togs—tight black trousers and a full, blousy white shirt, with a tangerine-colored waistcoat.

He was with a dark, slender man of indeterminate race—he had the close-curled hair of an African, yet his skin was rich cinnamon in tone.

“Edison Cameros, at your service,” he said, his bow like that of a matador before a cheering crowd. When he straightened, he looked directly at Fayette.

Isadora felt the heat sizzle between them. That was the only way she could explain it. The moment their gazes connected, the two experienced a leap of knowing. Isadora glanced at Ryan to see if he, too, had sensed the sudden, undeniable interest.

“He’s an agent of my consignee,” Ryan explained, clearly oblivious to Fayette’s reaction to Cameros. “Since he speaks excellent English, I’ll have no need of a translator.” His grin was dazzling, his eyes dancing.

“Why, son, you certainly look pleased with yourself,” Lily observed.

“The ice cargo,” Cameros said.

“It is in a most excellent condition.

Yours is the first ice of the season to arrive.” He fashioned his brown face into a mournful look that failed to disguise his glee.

“He will rob me blind, making me pay such a sum for the ice.”

Ryan laughed.

“You’ll earn it back. Senhor Ferraro is no fool. He knows what it’s worth to be the first to fill his plant.”

The coach driver helped Lily in, and Ryan offered Isadora his hand.

He’d not been pleased with her first live translation with the harbor pilot.

Clearly this was his way of showing it—by handling her as if she were a stranger.

The rejection was harsh simply because he was so charming about it.

He kept one hand on hers, the other pressed to the small of her back.

She knew with mortified certainty that he would feel the dampness of her sweat.

“What do you think of Rio?” he asked as she stepped up to the foot board.

His tone was dismissive; he didn’t care about her answer.

What she wanted to tell him was that it was astonishing, magical, enchanting.

A paradise she had seen only in dreams.

“It’s very attractive,” she said tersely.

He handed her up and she seated herself beside Lily under the colorful fringed awning.

“Fayette,” called Lily, “are you coming?”

The maid mumbled, “Yes’m.” But she never stopped staring at Cameros, nor did he take his eyes off her as he helped her into the coach. A magnetic energy seemed to charge the air around the pretty dark-skinned maid and the slender, debonair agent.

“Go with God,” Cameros said softly, addressing all the ladies but not taking his eyes off Fayette.

“Until we meet again—farewell.”

The coach lurched, then started up the dusty road.

“Really, Fayette,” Lily said in a scolding voice that failed to mask her indulgence.

“We’re not an hour in port and you’re flirting already.

What am I to do with you?”

“Don’t know, ma’am,” Fayette said vaguely, leaning against a corner awning pole with a distant look on her face.

“I surely don’t know.”

She sighed sweetly and lifted one hand in farewell. Cameros returned the gesture, but Ryan had already turned away.

Isadora directed her attention to the scenery. She spied the mercado in the distance, pinwheels of color and sound, bright sunshades stretched over mounds of melons and pineapples and fruits she had never seen before. They passed busy bode gas and a church with an airy song coming from the choir, and a flock of nuns moving down the street. Black-skinned servants and laundresses with baskets balanced on their heads passed in droves up and down the road.

“There’s too much of it,” she said.

“It’s so hard to take it all in.”

“You have three glorious weeks here before setting sail again,” Lily said.

“You should make it a point to see a new sight each day. That’s something we learned while touring the Continent, isn’t it, Fayette?

Something new each and every day. Fayette? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“No, ma’am,” the maid said dreamily.

When the road wound around a hill they came to a cluster of houses.

The dwellings, set into the side of the hill, were pink-and-white confections of dusty pastel plaster. On all of the verges, seemingly in every rock and crevice, something grew: fuschia, bougainvillea, crimson and white poinsettia.

The coach went on into a thick forest, but it was like no forest Isadora had ever seen. The trees grew immeasurably tall; they had thick glistening leaves and some blossomed with mysterious huge yellow-tongued flowers. Lush ferns carpeted the floor. Birds, the same green and yellow as the foliage, swooped here and there, and somewhere close by, a secret spring trickled.

She leaned back against the seat and trembled, simply trembled, for she felt as if she had landed in the middle of a dream, and she was terrified of waking up.

Yet when the coach ground to a halt on the crushed seashell drive of a vast pink villa, she dared to believe it was real.

The driver gave a whistle. A herd of houseboys swarmed over the carriage, helping them out and chattering away in a charming patois as they liberated the luggage. Isadora was delighted and challenged by the language. How different it was from her textbook Portuguese. The rapid, colorful slang barely gave the nod to the formal mother tongue.

She caught the eye of one of the boys and smiled pleasantly, greeting him in her best Portuguese.

He and his friends giggled uncontrollably.

Lily asked, “What did you say to them?” “I hope I said it’s a pleasure to be here, but the way they’re giggling, I can’t be certain.” She found the boys enchanting. She could not be certain of their race. They were not black in the way Journey and the Doctor were, but neither were they Anglo. Their faces and bare legs were the color of the caffe corn leche the port authorities had served at the landing.

She found it interesting that their race was indeterminate—and that it did not seem to matter in the least.

A high-pitched squeal issued from a colonnaded walkway leading from the main house. Lily became alert like a hound on the scent. She whirled around and answered the squeal with one of her own.

“Rose! Oh, my darling Rose!”

The two women fell into each other’s arms with such heartfelt emotion that Isadora and Fayette held hands and gulped back tears as they watched.

The two sisters made an entrancing pair. Lily was as pale and delicate as her namesake, and Rose was as bold and vibrant as hers.

She wore an extraordinary garment—a tiered skirt that showed her shapely ankles and bare feet. Her blouse was cut low in the neck.

Isadora could tell for certain that Rose wore no corsets and petticoats under the loose, light costume.

When Lily made the introductions, Rose embraced both Fayette and Isadora in turn.

“Welcome to my home,” she declared. A touch of Virginia still accented her words, but her speech also had the rhythmic cadences of Brazil. She laughed at their stares and plucked playfully at Lily’s multi layered skirts.

“We dress for the weather at Villa do Cielo, and so must you. Were it not for the hot-blooded nature of our menfolk, we would probably go about in the nude.”

Isadora stifled a gasp. Yet lightning did not strike simply because a woman mentioned something earthy. She decided she liked Rose very much indeed.

As Rose led the way under the blossom-draped colonnade, she looked up and saw that each flower was a perfect orchid.

Isadora knew she was going to enjoy Rio.

CHAPTER Twelve.

Be good and you will be lonesome.

Mark Twain, Following the Equator.

riot, sweet and languid—those were the dominant impressions Ryan had of Rio. After concluding his preliminary business with Ferraro’s agent, he arranged for the cargo to be discharged.

Luigi, who spoke his native tongue with the team of Italian stevedores, had matters well in hand.

Before hiring a rig to convey him to his aunt’s in Tijuca, Ryan stood at the loud, busy waterfront and felt himself slowly fill up with a splendid feeling so rare that at first he couldn’t identify it. But it had a name—pride.

Pride that he had done something of consequence, and done it so well that even strangers on the wharves had learned who he was. Captain Calhoun, who carried a tiny crew and too much sail. Captain Calhoun, who had won a bonus for coming in days before his due date.

The wharf rats learned his identity as quickly as the shipping agents and local merchants.

“I have the finest diamonds for sale,” hissed a smiling young man with oily hair and restless hands.

“Come and see my selection.”

Ryan cheerfully declined the suspicious offer, only to find the oily merchant replaced by a soft-hipped whore. “You have been long time at sea,” she purred, running her tongue around her lips in a gesture that should be outlawed.

“I make you happy, happy today.” “Card game?” another man asked.

“Faro or dice?”

Ryan grinned from ear to ear. He hadn’t even gotten paid yet.

And then, because a sudden hollowness opened up inside him, he held out his arm to the whore and asked, “What’s your name, sugar-pie?”

In the end, he realized he’d never even heard it. All he remembered was the ripeness of her, the intoxicating musk, the way her soft body opened to him, the way he sank into her. Yet the act had a disturbingly mechanical nature.

He pleasured her, yes, but in a curiously detached fashion. And, in a curiously detached fashion, he found his own pleasure as well, and paid her handsomely for the encounter.