The Charm School by Susan Wiggs Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Wiggs
world.
Samuel Eliot Morison, Maritime History a/Massachusetts i “This waistcoat chafes in my armpits.”
“Stop whining,” said Ryan.
“I have a headache the size of Atlantis and I’ve got no idea what we’re doing here.”
“Wasting time, when we should be trying to save your sorry white backside,” Journey observed, running a long finger around the neckline of his boiled collar. “These shoes pinch,” he added.
Ryan whirled on him, seeing stars from the sudden movement. But after a few seconds he focused and saw that yes, he really was here, halfway up Beacon Hill at the Belknap intersection, on a mission so incredibly foolish he wondered if he might still be drunk from the night before.
“It’s not my backside that needs saving,” he said.
Journey, who was magnificently tall, looked down his nose at Ryan, who was also tall but not magnificently so.
“Then explain why I had to be the one to run your creditors off this morning.”
“What creditors?” Ryan demanded.
“And how the devil did they find me?”
“Our arrival was announced at a party in one of these very strongholds,” Journey declared, gesturing. The solid brick mansions huddled shoulder to shoulder, a united front against the encroachment of riffraff. The staid facades of the houses and clipped greens of Boston Common stood in implacable denial that anything so upsetting as poverty existed in the world.
Ryan had come here often in his Harvard days. He’d attended stuffy essay readings and anemic musicales in this rarefied neighborhood.
But when, foolishly, he tried to seek friendship based on something deeper than wealth or athletic prowess, he encountered a deep-rooted snobbery that raked over his senses like the holystone over a ship’s deck.
“This morning’s creditors were Mr. delauncey of Harvard Trust and his associate, Mr. Keith,” Journey explained.
“Apparently their generosity ends when a man leaves Harvard.”
Ryan trudged on.
“And on top of everything, my mother decides to come back from Europe.”
“Uh-huh. And you know what else? She’s coming to Rio with us,” Journey said.
Ryan stopped again, reeling. Disbelief pounded harder than his headache.
“What?”
“She and her maid, Fayette, signed on as passengers. She wants to go see your aunt in Rio.”
“Excellent. I’ve always dreamed of spending weeks at sea in the company of my mother.” With slow, plodding steps he continued walking.
He loved his mother, he always had, but the two of them inhabited different worlds. Lily Raines Calhoun was like a hothouse gardenia—beautiful, delicate and overpowering when she was in full bloom.
She had no inkling of what he planned for this voyage and why it was so important. He hoped like hell she wouldn’t interfere.
“Do you suppose your mother will tell Mr. Easterbrook that you lied about your skipper’s credentials?” Journey ventured.
Ryan glowered at him.
“You’re making my headache worse. And the money he made off me should stop any inquiries.”
A black-lacquered coach rumbled past, the muscular team straining up the red brickwork slope. It felt strange to tread these streets, this place of pretense. The inhabitants pushed hard at the wheels of commerce, yet their wealth was inherited, built solidly on the backs of the opium and slave trades. Not so different from his own father, Ryan reflected, though rather than trafficking in slaves he had merely owned them.
Ryan was considered a traitor to his class for enrolling in the radical Yankee institution known as Harvard. When he’d been dismissed from the university, he’d never thought to return to Beacon Hill again. Certainly he didn’t think he’d be welcome, having disgraced himself by running away to sea.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Journey grumbled.
“You should have written the plaguey female a note and said no thank you to her offer.”
Ryan scanned the
Samuel Eliot Morison, Maritime History a/Massachusetts i “This waistcoat chafes in my armpits.”
“Stop whining,” said Ryan.
“I have a headache the size of Atlantis and I’ve got no idea what we’re doing here.”
“Wasting time, when we should be trying to save your sorry white backside,” Journey observed, running a long finger around the neckline of his boiled collar. “These shoes pinch,” he added.
Ryan whirled on him, seeing stars from the sudden movement. But after a few seconds he focused and saw that yes, he really was here, halfway up Beacon Hill at the Belknap intersection, on a mission so incredibly foolish he wondered if he might still be drunk from the night before.
“It’s not my backside that needs saving,” he said.
Journey, who was magnificently tall, looked down his nose at Ryan, who was also tall but not magnificently so.
“Then explain why I had to be the one to run your creditors off this morning.”
“What creditors?” Ryan demanded.
“And how the devil did they find me?”
“Our arrival was announced at a party in one of these very strongholds,” Journey declared, gesturing. The solid brick mansions huddled shoulder to shoulder, a united front against the encroachment of riffraff. The staid facades of the houses and clipped greens of Boston Common stood in implacable denial that anything so upsetting as poverty existed in the world.
Ryan had come here often in his Harvard days. He’d attended stuffy essay readings and anemic musicales in this rarefied neighborhood.
But when, foolishly, he tried to seek friendship based on something deeper than wealth or athletic prowess, he encountered a deep-rooted snobbery that raked over his senses like the holystone over a ship’s deck.
“This morning’s creditors were Mr. delauncey of Harvard Trust and his associate, Mr. Keith,” Journey explained.
“Apparently their generosity ends when a man leaves Harvard.”
Ryan trudged on.
“And on top of everything, my mother decides to come back from Europe.”
“Uh-huh. And you know what else? She’s coming to Rio with us,” Journey said.
Ryan stopped again, reeling. Disbelief pounded harder than his headache.
“What?”
“She and her maid, Fayette, signed on as passengers. She wants to go see your aunt in Rio.”
“Excellent. I’ve always dreamed of spending weeks at sea in the company of my mother.” With slow, plodding steps he continued walking.
He loved his mother, he always had, but the two of them inhabited different worlds. Lily Raines Calhoun was like a hothouse gardenia—beautiful, delicate and overpowering when she was in full bloom.
She had no inkling of what he planned for this voyage and why it was so important. He hoped like hell she wouldn’t interfere.
“Do you suppose your mother will tell Mr. Easterbrook that you lied about your skipper’s credentials?” Journey ventured.
Ryan glowered at him.
“You’re making my headache worse. And the money he made off me should stop any inquiries.”
A black-lacquered coach rumbled past, the muscular team straining up the red brickwork slope. It felt strange to tread these streets, this place of pretense. The inhabitants pushed hard at the wheels of commerce, yet their wealth was inherited, built solidly on the backs of the opium and slave trades. Not so different from his own father, Ryan reflected, though rather than trafficking in slaves he had merely owned them.
Ryan was considered a traitor to his class for enrolling in the radical Yankee institution known as Harvard. When he’d been dismissed from the university, he’d never thought to return to Beacon Hill again. Certainly he didn’t think he’d be welcome, having disgraced himself by running away to sea.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Journey grumbled.
“You should have written the plaguey female a note and said no thank you to her offer.”
Ryan scanned the
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