She took a deep breath and smoothed down the front of her dress, trying for calm. She was packed, ready to leave for Calcutta, and then on to Burma, on the morning tide. Drawing a shaky breath, she turned away from her trunk, pacing her room with restless agitation. She had not, she acknowledged, had a moment’s peace since she’d written to Mr. Anderson and accepted George Jamison’s proposal by proxy. George Jamison. Her future husband. Dear heaven, how had this come about? How had she agreed? She’d nearly made up her mind to reject Anderson’s suggestion when Margaret had swept in with all of her sunny optimism and fiery determination, leaving Isobel quite overcome in her wake. “But you cannot back down now!” Margaret had exclaimed when Isobel had haltingly told her of Mr. Anderson’s unusual suggestion, and her resolution to reject it. “Not when you—and I—have both worked so hard for this to come to pass! Think what an adventure it will be, Isobel.” “I’m not sure if I wish for that kind of adventure any longer,”
