NOVEMBER 5

Our voyage begins by not beginning. We set out this morning in a freshening breeze, but it turned blustery, with such a strong head wind that B. determined we would only be beat about, so we anchored here, scarcely a mile from the city. Sophy is playing with her toys and talking to herself; she is a cheerful companion, and B. is writing a letter to his mother. I have written to Arthur and to my spendthrift brother William, who is squandering his small inheritance in Philadelphia, though it does sound as if he’s finally found a position at a firm there. We had words after Father died and I attempted to give him some useful advice about handling his finances. He has never much confided in me, but now he is distant, though he did write a sweet note when I sent him a few mementos of our mother, especially a little “eye” box Father left, which Mother had made for him when they were courting. It is a black lacquer box, about the size of a pillbox, containing a perfect painted likeness of our mother’s left eye. I might have given it to Hannah, as she was fascinated by it as a child, but I know Father would have wanted William to have it, and also Mother’s eye might prove too disturbing a subject of contemplation to a nature as fantastical as my sister’s. I am thinking of her much, and never with an easy heart. After Father’s death, she was set on going off to Boston. She had an invitation from one of those awful Spiritualist ladies, who have so much money that they buy themselves young women to use in peddling their vicious religion – which is filling the madhouses, Father believed, and so I told Hannah. I talked her into waiting until we return from this trip, and I begged her to come and live with us then. She agreed to wait, but I fear as soon as we sail she will be in touch with what I suppose must be her preferred companions, both the living and the dead.

When B. and I were on our wedding trip, she ran off – she was barely fifteen. Father, through his contacts, found her within a week – she was staying in a judge’s house, of all things, in upstate New York. Father got on a train, went over there, and brought her home. She had lied to the judge, saying she had no family. Father said, “You may want no family, but you have a family, and one that loves you dearly and prays that you will come to your senses and return our love and trust.” She stayed home then, but not because she’d come to her senses. She just knew our father would find her and bring her back.

This afternoon when I stepped out onto the poop for a breath of rather too fresh air, I thought I must have lost my wits, for I heard a pretty tune drifting toward me from the forecastle. I thought it must be a flute. When I mentioned it to Mr. Head, he said, yes, it was. One of the Germans had packed his flute in his sea chest and was practicing a few airs. It seems the fellow is bookish as well and has a stack of books in his chest. He plans to make a shelf for them at the end of his bunk.

Mr. Head brought us some nice apples baked with honey and a walnut inside. He makes an excellent hash, which Sophy adores.

B. says he believes we will get outside tomorrow.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 702