Calhoun Chronicles Bundle by Susan Wiggs Page B

countenance.”
    “Yes, Mother. Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, everyone.” In spite of her eagerness to go, Isadora held a thick grief in her throat as she dispensed hugs to all and accepted sloppy, adoring kisses from her small niece and nephew. Then she turned away.
    The stevedores paraded up and down gangways with barrels and crates in tow. Journey and some of the crewmen were present, shouting orders. She guessed that the man with the thin, mournful face and the whistle was Ralph Izard, the chief mate, and she recognized Timothy Datty, the boy who had tried so hard to stop her from humiliating herself.
    He would soon learn the futility of that.
    She turned to look at her family one last time, using a finger to inch her spectacles down so she could see over the blasted things. Gilded by a dazzle of morning light, the Peabody clan stood on the wharf as if posing for a portrait. Lucinda held the baby in her arms while the two elder children waved sweetly. Arabella and Sophia linked arms while the men formed a tall backdrop for the lace-clad ladies and children. Dear heaven, if there were a painter alive who could capture such magnificent beauty, he had not yet done so. And he should, really. It was truly the most perfect family ever.
    Especially now, Isadora thought wryly.
    She lifted her hand in a final farewell. And then she turned away, keeping her chin high and her gaze to the sky as she boarded the Silver Swan.
    She knew better than to expect any sort of civilized welcome here. This was a working vessel, its entire purpose to make money. The decks swarmed with running sailors and porters, customs officers and agents and others she did not recognize. What a marvel it all was to her, the hogsheads and bundles that entered the belly of the ship in an endless parade, the eager agility of the sailors scrambling up through the rigging, readying her for the voyage.
    The very idea of all these goods being sent to distant places captivated her. When something went abroad, did the experience change it in some fundamental way? Would that bolt of Framingham broadcloth somehow be transformed into something vibrant, something its creator had never imagined? Would the giant blocks of Vermont mountain ice, wrapped in a thick insulation of straw and burlap, be used to cool foodstuffs no Vermonter had ever dreamed of tasting?
    She heard a clucking sound. A swaying stack of crates came lurching toward her. She could only see the cutoff duck trousers and bare feet of its bearer. When the column leaned precariously, she quickly stepped forward and pressed her hand against the top crate. “Careful, there,” she said.
    “Thank you.” A head peeked out from behind the crates, showing a friendly, gap-toothed grin and a wizened African face. “Wouldn’t want to spill our dinner before we even set sail.” He had a vaguely melodic accent, light inflections lifting his words.
    She peered over the top of her spectacles. “The chickens, you mean,” she said awkwardly.
    “Some are layers, some will be for the stew pot.”
    Keeping a hand on the crates, Isadora moved along the deck with the little African man. “You must be the cook, then.”
    “Aye. Samuel Liotta from Jamaica, but they call me the Doctor, and so shall you. You must be the lady idler.”
    “I will be serving as Captain Calhoun’s interpreter and clerk. My name is Isadora Dudley Peabody.”
    “Welcome aboard, Missy,” the cook said brightly.
    She helped him set down the crates. Peering into the pen, she discovered a small goat and a piglet.
    “Alfredo and the pig, I calls them. One for milk, one for meat.” He dusted his hands on a canvas apron. “Come, then. Time to meet more members of the crew.”
    The cook had, for whatever reason, decided to take her under his wing. With considerably better manners than she expected from a seaman, he introduced her to her shipmates.
    Ralph Izard served as chief mate, which put him in charge of just about everything. As he rushed