Calhoun Chronicles Bundle by Susan Wiggs Page A

Thankful had tied with a precise bow beneath Isadora’s chin. The bootblacked surface of her traveling trunk shone in the morning sun. She had a detachable pocket inside her black silk pongee skirts filled with paper money as well as gold and silver coins in the common currency of the high seas, pounds sterling.
    Porters, stevedores, deckhands and passengers crowded the waterfront area, for at least nine ships would clear Boston harbor this day. Passersby paused to study the Peabody clan, and their expressions formed uncensored maps of their thoughts. They took in the silver dignity of the parents, the golden beauty of the brothers and sisters, then dismissed Isadora as a poor relation.
    She hardened herself against the stares. Soon she would be gone from here, gone to a place she could only imagine, a place she and Aunt Button had found in their cozy nights by the fire in Salem. Her only regret was that Chad had not come to say goodbye.
    Finally she saw it—the Silver Swan. The stately bark still held open its cargo hatches, taking on freight with rampant speed. The sight of the ship and the knowledge that the wind was in the right quarter for departure, filled her with excitement.
    She nearly burst with anticipation. There was no chance of that, however. Thankful had been merciless in lacing her corset. The busk pressed like a restraining hand against her breastbone. Isadora wondered how, on shipboard, she would dress herself in stays each day, but she didn’t dare voice her fears aloud. She didn’t want to do or say anything to give her family second thoughts about letting her go.
    Perhaps she would simply sleep in her stays.
    A boatswain’s whistle pierced the air. “I should go aboard,” she said.
    “Indeed.” Clearing his throat, her father turned to the porter who brought her things along in a large, creaky barrow. “You have everything you need—plenty of books—be certain you read the Emerson and send me your thoughts on it.”
    “Of course, Papa. On the ship’s manifest I am listed—to my shame—as an idler. So I expect I’ll have plenty of time for reading.”
    “Being an idler simply means you don’t take a turn standing watch,” Bronson said, taking her hand and squeezing it. “For that you can be grateful. The schedule sounds quite grueling for a common sailor.”
    “There is nothing common about our Izzie,” Quentin declared.
    “Behave yourself at Harvard, Quentin,” she said.
    “What, and ruin my reputation?”
    “Oh, Izzie.” Arabella hugged her. “And to think, when you return, I shall be a married lady!”
    “I’ll bring you a special wedding gift. Something terribly exotic, I should think. A live parrot? A mango tree?”
    Lucinda held the baby while her two toddlers clung to her skirts. “Dora, what an adventure. I never thought, of all of us, you would be the one to go sailing off to distant shores.”
    Finally Isadora found herself facing her mother, and a world of memories and emotions swirled through her. Her mother loved her, of that she had no doubt, yet she was haunted by the pervasive feeling that she was a disappointment to this proud, handsome woman. That nothing she could do would ever please her entirely.
    Except maybe disappear.
    “I’ll write, Mother,” she promised dutifully.
    “So shall I. And I want you to tell me everything that happens to you. Everything.” To Isadora’s astonishment, Sophia violated the dignity of the moment by bursting—oh so briefly—into sobs.
    Her father snapped to attention as though someone had shoved a sword into his back. Within seconds, all three men were thrusting handkerchiefs at Sophia. Within a few more seconds, she had dried her face and was fussing with the ribbons of Isadora’s bonnet. “I wish you’d agreed to take Thankful along,” she said, not even acknowledging her outburst. “Remember to wear your hooded burnouse and stay out of the sun and the wind. They are so deleterious to one’s health and