
In the spring of 1910, Chloe Haversham stood on the deck of the SS Carmania, her gloved hands gripping the cold rail as the English coastline receded into mist. The salty wind lashed her face, stinging her cheeks until they were as pink as rose petals.
She was eighteen, and from her vantage point at the bow, she could just make out the distant spires of Liverpool's churches, shrouded in fog like a memory on the verge of slipping away. Her parents lingered below decks, unwilling to face the chill, or perhaps the finality of their daughter's departure.
They had made it clear: If Chloe insisted upon seeking her fortune in America, she would do so without a penny more of their support.
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