The Charm School by Susan Wiggs

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 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