Книга - The Last Runaway

The Last Runaway
Tracy Chevalier


‘The best thing she's written since Girl with a Pearl Earring’ Rose TremainThe stunning novel from the bestselling author of Girl with a Pearl Earring.Honor Bright is a sheltered Quaker who has rarely ventured out of 1850s Dorset when she impulsively emigrates to America. Opposed to the slavery that defines and divides the country, she finds her principles tested to the limit when a runaway slave appears at the farm of her new family. In this tough, unsentimental place, where whisky bottles sit alongside quilts, Honor befriends two spirited women who will teach her how to turn ideas into actions.









The Last Runaway

TRACY CHEVALIER










Copyright (#ulink_470eaaae-3f47-5795-9a80-d8bb83573b8f)


The Borough Press

And imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

Copyright © Tracy Chevalier 2013

Map © John Gilkes 2013

Tracy Chevalier asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780007517312

Version: 2015-12-09




Dedication (#ulink_5d6dc0c3-e23e-52dd-b738-eed38c29321d)


This book is dedicated to Catoctin Quaker Camp

and Oberlin College:

two places that shaped and guided my younger self


Contents

Cover (#u057b6740-8605-5b7e-80bc-d97a90bcb5d1)

Title Page (#uc4832f6a-5072-5f94-bd25-a8af693fd64e)

Copyright (#u75c07bd0-fcb1-57c1-8cd4-7ae1ce97f0f7)

Dedication (#ucaf8c014-6ebb-54f6-bb57-8addd24e34ba)

Map (#u23254e19-7ce0-5edf-bc25-2e4443c2c19c)

Horizon (#uaf088be1-35dc-5280-9c03-becab733b675)

Quilt (#u811c357b-6c42-58c7-885d-673000ae844e)

Bonnets (#uc6857157-14d1-5c01-b6b4-19142c4257b5)

Silence (#u45c19908-a856-56ae-bb57-de22d2e7b3f4)

Appliqué (#uc2ae0d68-cd5a-5777-b60b-d0950ab3b9d8)

Dandelions (#litres_trial_promo)

Woods (#litres_trial_promo)

Corn (#litres_trial_promo)

Fever (#litres_trial_promo)

Blackberries (#litres_trial_promo)

Pole Star (#litres_trial_promo)

Sugaring (#litres_trial_promo)

Milk (#litres_trial_promo)

Onions (#litres_trial_promo)

Straw (#litres_trial_promo)

Water (#litres_trial_promo)

Comfort (#litres_trial_promo)

Ohio Star (#litres_trial_promo)

Read on for an extract from Tracy Chevalier’s new novel, At the Edge of the Orchard (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Praise (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Tracy Chevalier (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)










Horizon (#ulink_ab1fa41d-dfdb-5409-8cf3-95a73417daa8)







SHE COULD NOT GO back. When Honor Bright abruptly announced to her family that she would accompany her sister Grace to America – when she sorted through her belongings, keeping only the most necessary, when she gave away all of her quilts, when she said goodbye to her uncles and aunts, and kissed her cousins and nieces and nephews, when she got into the coach that would take them from Bridport, when she and Grace linked arms and walked up the gangplank at Bristol – she did all of these things with the unspoken thought: I can always come back. Layered beneath those words, however, was the suspicion that the moment her feet left English soil, Honor’s life would be permanently altered.

At least the idea of returning drew the sting from her actions in the weeks leading up to their departure, like the pinch of sugar secretly added to a sauce to tame its acid. It allowed her to remain calm, and not cry as her friend Biddy did when Honor gave her the quilt she had just finished: a patchwork of brown, yellow and cream diamonds pieced into an eight-point Star of Bethlehem, then quilted with harps and the running feather border she was known for. The community had given her a signature quilt – each square made and signed by a different friend or family member – and there was not room for both quilts in her trunk. The signature quilt was not so well made as her own, but of course she must take it. ‘’Tis best left with thee, to remember me by,’ she insisted as her weeping friend tried to push the Star of Bethlehem quilt back at her. ‘I will make more quilts in Ohio.’

Jumping over thoughts of the journey itself, Honor tried to fix her mind instead on its end at the clapboard house her future brother-in-law had sketched for Grace in his letters from Ohio. ‘It is a solid house, even if not of the stone thee is accustomed to,’ Adam Cox had written. ‘Most houses here are made of wood. Only when a family is established and unlikely to move do they build a brick house.

‘It is situated at the end of Main Street on the edge of the town,’ he had continued. ‘Faithwell is still small, with fifteen families of Friends. But it will grow, by the grace of God. My brother’s shop is in Oberlin, a larger town three miles away. He and I hope to move it when Faithwell has grown large enough to support a draper’s. Here we call it “dry goods”. There are many new words to learn in America.’

Honor could not imagine living in a house made of wood, that burned so quickly, warped easily, creaked and groaned and gave no feeling of permanence the way brick or stone did.

Though she tried to keep her worries confined to the notion of living in a wooden house, she could not stop her mind straying to thoughts of the voyage on the Adventurer, the ship that would take them across the Atlantic. Honor was familiar with ships, as any Bridport resident would be. She sometimes accompanied her father to the harbour when a shipment of hemp arrived. She had even gone on board, and watched the sailors furling sails and coiling ropes and mopping decks. But she had never set sail in one. Once when she was ten her father took them to nearby Eype for the day, and Honor and Grace and her brothers had gone out in a rowing boat. Grace had loved being on the water, and had shrieked and laughed and pretended to fall in. Honor, however, had gripped the side of the boat while her brothers rowed, and tried not to appear alarmed at the rocking, and the curious and unpleasant sensation of no longer having stable footing. She had watched her mother walking up and down the beach in her dark dress and white bonnet, waiting for her children to come back safely. Honor avoided going out in a boat again.






She had heard stories of bad crossings but hoped she would cope with such a thing as she did any other hardship, with steady patience. But she did not have sea legs. That was what the sailors said. Perhaps she should have realised this from her encounter with water under her feet in the rowing boat. After leaving Bristol she stood on deck with Grace and others, watching the Somerset and north Devon coast unfold alongside them. For the other passengers the unsteadiness was an amusing novelty, but Honor grew more and more unsettled, responding to the ship’s movement with a wrinkled brow, tightening shoulders and a heaviness deep in her gut, as if she had swallowed an iron pound weight. She held out as long as she could, but as the Adventurer was passing Lundy Island, Honor’s stomach finally convulsed and she vomited on to the deck. A passing sailor laughed. ‘Sick and we’re barely out of Bristol Channel!’ he crowed. ‘Wait till we reach the ocean. Then you’ll know sickness!’

Honor was sick down Grace’s shoulder, on to her blankets, on to the floor of their tiny cabin, into an enamel basin. She threw up when there was nothing left to bring up, her body like a magician managing to conjure something from nothing. She did not feel better after each bout. When they reached the Atlantic and the ship began its long roll up and down the swell of the waves, she continued to be sick. Only now Grace was ill too, as well as many of the other passengers, though only for a time, until they got used to the new rhythm of the boat. Honor never got used to it; the nausea did not leave her for the whole month-long voyage.

When not seasick herself, Grace nursed Honor, rinsing her sheets, emptying the basin, bringing broth and hard sea biscuit, reading to her from the Bible or the few books they had brought: Mansfield Park, The Old Curiosity Shop, Martin Chuzzlewit. To distract Honor she chattered on about America, trying to get her to think about what lay ahead rather than the grimness of the present moment. ‘What would thee rather see, a bear or a wolf?’ she asked, then answered her own question. ‘A bear, I think, for wolves are like overgrown dogs, but a bear is only like itself. What would thee rather travel on: a steamboat or a train?’

Honor groaned at the thought of another boat. ‘Yes, a train,’ Grace agreed. ‘I wish there were a train we could take from New York to Ohio. There will be one day. Oh, Honor, imagine: soon we will be in New York!’

Honor grimaced, wishing that she too could see this move as the great adventure Grace clearly did. Her sister had always been the restless Bright, the one most ready to accompany their father when he had to travel to Bristol or Portsmouth or London. She had even agreed to marry an older, duller man because of the promise he held out of a life away from Bridport. Grace had known the Coxes, a family of five brothers, since they moved from Exeter several years before to open a draper’s shop, but she only showed interest in Adam when he decided to emigrate to Ohio. A brother – Matthew – had already gone there but had become infirm, and his wife had written to ask a spare brother to come and help with the business. Once Adam had moved to America, he and Grace corresponded regularly, and with gentle hints she led him to ask her to join him in Ohio as his wife, where they would run the shop with Matthew and Abigail.

The Brights were surprised by Grace’s choice; Honor had thought she would marry someone livelier. But Grace was so thrilled by the prospect of living in America that she did not seem to mind her prospective husband’s reserve.

Though patient, and perhaps feeling guilty for subjecting her sister to weeks of seasickness, even Grace grew irritated by Honor’s persistent illness. After a few days she stopped urging her to eat, as Honor never kept anything down for more than a few minutes. She began to leave her sister alone in their cabin to walk on deck and sit and sew and chat with the other women on board.

Honor tried to accompany Grace to a Meeting for Divine Worship organised by the handful of other Friends on board, but as she sat in silence with them in a small cabin, she could not let go of her thoughts enough to empty her mind, worrying that if she did so, she might lose what little self-control she had and vomit in front of them. Soon the rocking of the ship and the upheaval in her stomach forced her to leave the cabin.

Sometimes on the fraught voyage between Bristol and New York, when she was curled like a shrimp in her cramped berth or doubled over a chamber pot, Honor thought of her mother standing on the pebbles at Eype beach in her white bonnet, and wondered why she had left the safety of her parents’ house.

She knew why: Grace had asked her, hoping a new life would quell her sister’s heartache. Honor had been jilted and, though her spirit was less adventurous, the prospect of remaining in a community that pitied her propelled her into following Grace. She had never been dissatisfied in Bridport, but once Samuel had released her from their engagement, she was as eager as Grace to leave.

All of her clothes stank with a sour meatiness no washing could remove. Honor avoided the other passengers, and even her sister: she couldn’t bear the disgust mixed with pity in their faces. Instead she found a space between two barrels on the leeward deck where she tucked herself out of the way of busy sailors and curious passengers, but close enough to the railing that she could run across and heave into the water without drawing attention. She remained on deck even in the rain and the cold, preferring it to the tiny cabin with its hard board for a bed and the close stench of her blankets. She was, however, indifferent to the seascape – the huge sky and sea that were such a contrast to the neat green hills and hedgerows of Dorset. While others were amazed and entertained by the storm clouds and rainbows and sunlight turning the water to silver, by schools of dolphins following the ship, by the sight of the tail of a whale, for Honor monotony and nausea struck dead any wonder she might have felt for such feats of nature.

When not leaning over the railing, she tried to take her mind off her sore, churning stomach by bringing out her patchwork. As a gift for the journey her mother had cut out hundreds of yellow and cream cloth hexagons and paper templates for Honor to sew into rosettes. She had hoped she might complete a whole grandmother’s garden quilt during the voyage, but the swaying of the deck made it impossible for her to establish a steady rhythm in which to make the neat, tiny stitches that were her trademark. Even the simplest task of tacking the hexagons on to the templates with loose stitches – the first sewing Honor had learned as a young girl – required more concentration than the movement of the ocean allowed. It soon became clear that whatever cloth she worked with would be forever tainted with nausea, or the idea of it, which was much the same thing. After a few days of trying to sew the rosettes, Honor waited until no one was about, then dropped the hexagons overboard – they would make her sick if she ever saw that fabric again. It was a shocking waste of precious cloth, and she knew she should have given them to Grace or other women on board, but she was ashamed of the smell that lingered on them, and of her weakness. Watching the bits of cloth flutter down to the water and disappear, Honor felt her stomach grow calm for just a moment.

‘Look at the horizon,’ a sailor commanded one day after witnessing her dry heaves. ‘Get up the bow and keep your eyes on where we headed. Pay no mind to the humping and bumping, the rocking and the rolling. Watch what don’t move. Then your stomach’ll settle.’

Honor nodded, though she knew it would not work, as she had already tried it. She had tried everything anyone suggested: ginger, a hot water bottle on her feet, a bag of ice on her neck. Now she studied the sailor out of the corner of her eye, for she had never seen a black man up close before. None lived in Bridport, and when she visited Bristol once she’d seen a black coachman drive past, but he was gone before she could take him in properly. Honor eyed the man’s skin: it was the colour of a conker from a horse chestnut tree, though rough and wind-burned rather than smooth and shiny. He made her think of an apple that has ripened to a deep, rich red on the tree while its neighbours remain pale green. His accent was untraceable, from everywhere and nowhere.

The sailor was studying her too. Perhaps he had not seen many Quakers before, or he was curious what she looked like when her face was not ragged with nausea. Normally Honor’s forehead was smooth, punctuated with eyebrows like wings over wide grey eyes. Her seasickness, however, etched lines where there had been none, and pinched the calm beauty from her face.

‘The sky is so big it frightens me,’ she said, surprising herself by speaking.

‘Better get used to that. Everything’s big where you headed. Why you going to America, then? Going to find you a husband? Englishmen not good enough for you?’

No, she thought. They are not. ‘I am accompanying my sister,’ she answered. ‘She is marrying a man in Ohio.’

‘Ohio!’ The sailor snorted. ‘Stick to the coast, love. Don’t go nowhere you can’t smell the sea, that’s what I say. You’ll get trapped out there in all them woods. Oh, there she goes.’ He stepped back as Honor leaned over the railing once again.

The captain of the Adventurer said it was the smoothest, quickest crossing the ship had ever made across the Atlantic. This knowledge only tormented Honor. After thirty days at sea she stumbled, skeletal, on to the docks at New York, feeling she had vomited out every bit of her insides so that only a shell of her remained. To her horror, the ground heaved and bucked as much as the ship’s deck had, and she threw up one last time.

She knew then that if she couldn’t cope with the easiest crossing God could give her, she would never be able to go back to England. While Grace knelt on the docks and thanked God for reaching America, Honor began to cry, for England and her old life. An impossible ocean now lay between her and home. She could not go back.

Mansion House Hotel

Hudson, Ohio

5th Month 26th 1850

My dear Mother and Father, William and George,

It is with the heaviest heart that I must tell you of the passing today of our beloved Grace. God has taken her so young, and when she was so close to reaching her new life in America.

I am writing from a hotel in Hudson, Ohio, where Grace remained during the final stage of her illness. The doctor said it was yellow fever, which is apparently more common in America than in England. I can only accept his diagnosis, since I am unfamiliar with the disease and its symptoms. Having witnessed my sister’s painful demise, I can say that Dorset is lucky to be spared such a horror.

I have already written of our journey across to New York. I hope you received my letters from New York and Philadelphia. I do not always feel confident when I hand letters over here that they will reach their destination. In New York we changed our original travel plans, and decided to go by stage to Philadelphia and across Pennsylvania to Ohio, rather than take boats along the rivers and canals of New York to Lake Erie and down to Cleveland. Though many told me that such boats are very different from ships on seas, still I could not face being on the water again. I fear now that my lack of courage proved fatal to Grace, for perhaps she would not have caught the fever if we had gone by boat. With your forgiveness and God’s understanding, I must live with this guilt.

Apart from a mild bout of seasickness, Grace remained very well on the crossing, and down to Philadelphia, where we stayed with Friends for a week to recover from our journey. While there we were able to attend the Arch Street Meeting. I have never imagined one could be so large – there must have been five hundred Friends in the room, twenty times the size of Bridport. I am glad that Grace was able to witness such a Meeting in her life.

When travelling to Ohio, there is an established network of Friends one may stay with in Pennsylvania. All along the way – in large cities like Harrisburg and Pittsburgh and smaller settlements too – we were welcomed, even when Grace showed the first signs of the yellow fever, two days out from Harrisburg. It begins with a fever and chills and nausea, which could be any number of illnesses, so at first there was little concern except for Grace’s discomfort in the various coaches in which we crossed Pennsylvania.

We stayed for a few days in Pittsburgh, where she seemed to rally enough to insist that we press on. I am sorry that I listened to her and did not follow my own instinct, which told me she needed more rest, but we were both anxious to reach Faithwell. Unfortunately within a day her fever had returned, this time accompanied by the black vomit and yellow tinge to her skin that I now know confirms yellow fever. It was only with great difficulty that I managed to convince the coachmen not to leave us by the side of the road, but continue on to Hudson. I am sorry to say that I had to shout at them, though it is not in a Friend’s nature to do so. The other passengers would not allow us to sit inside for fear of contagion, and the coachmen made us perch on the luggage on top of the coach. It was very precarious, but I propped Grace against me and held tight to her so that she would not fall off.

In Hudson she lasted just a night before God called her home. For much of that time she was delirious, but a few hours before she died she became lucid for a little while, and was able to call out her love to each of you. I would have preferred to take her on to be laid to rest in Faithwell amongst Friends, but she has already been buried today in Hudson, for everyone is fearful of the infection spreading.

Since I am so close to Faithwell, I am determined to go on. It is only forty miles west of Hudson, which is no distance after the five hundred miles we came from New York and the thousands more across the ocean. It grieves me that Grace was so near to her new home, and now will never see it. I do not know what I will do when I get there. Adam Cox is not yet aware of this sorrowful news.

Grace suffered much and bore it bravely, but she is at peace now with God. I do know that one day we shall see her again, and that is some comfort.

Your loving daughter and sister,

Honor Bright




Quilt (#ulink_612ab083-ce06-54a6-84d6-949c6ec75ab9)







IT STILL SURPRISED HONOR that she had to rely so completely on strangers to shelter her, feed her, bring her from place to place, even bury her dead. She had not travelled much in England: apart from short trips to neighbouring villages, she had been only to Exeter for a Yearly Meeting of Friends, and once to Bristol when her father had business there. She was used to knowing most people she came in contact with, and not having to introduce and explain herself. She was not a great talker, preferring silence, as it gave her the opportunity to notice things, and to think. Grace had been the lively, chattering member of the family, often speaking for her sister so that Honor did not have to herself. Now without her sister Honor was forced to talk more – to describe her circumstances over and over to the various strangers who took charge of her when the coach first dumped the Brights at the hotel in Hudson.

Once Grace was buried, Honor did not know if she should send word to Adam Cox and wait for him, or find another way to Faithwell herself. She discovered, however, that Americans were practical, resourceful people, and the innkeeper had already found her a lift. An elderly man called Thomas was visiting Hudson, but lived near Wellington, a town seven miles south of Faithwell. He offered to take Honor with him on his way back. From Wellington she could find someone to drive her on to Adam Cox’s, or contact Adam to collect her. ‘Only we must start early,’ Thomas told her, ‘for I want to get home in one day.’

They set out for Wellington when it was still dark, her trunk stowed behind them in the wagon. It was heavy with Grace’s clothes, for Honor had left behind her sister’s trunk to keep Thomas’s load lighter. She had also been forced to leave behind the quilt she’d made especially for her sister’s marriage: whole-cloth in white, quilted with a delicate rose medallion in the centre and surrounded by intricate geometric borders, the space between filled in with double diamonds. Honor had done all the quilting herself and was pleased with the result. However, the innkeeper at the hotel had insisted they use their own bedding, and afterwards the doctor told her the quilt, along with any clothes Grace had worn, must be burned so they wouldn’t spread the fever.

Before bundling up the clothes for burning, Honor defied the doctor: she got out her scissors and cut a piece of material from Grace’s chestnut-brown dress. One day she would use the cloth for part of a quilt. And if it was infected with fever and killed her, then that was God’s will.

Though she had not cried when her sister passed – Grace was in such a state at the end that Honor prayed for God to release her – once she’d handed over the clothes and the quilt, she hid in her room and wept.

Thomas seemed to prefer silence as much as Honor did; he asked no questions, and for the first time since reaching land in America she was able to sit and look about without other passengers or the worry over her sister to distract her. Though they drove into darkness, soon the sun rose behind them, tinting the surrounding woods in a soft light. Birdsong intensified until it became a frenetic chatter, most of the sounds unfamiliar to her. She was startled too by the vivid plumage, in particular a tufted scarlet bird with a black face and a blue bird with black and white striped wings, their raucous screams scattering smaller, duller birds. She wanted to ask what they were, but did not like to disturb Thomas. Her companion sat so still that she would have thought he was asleep except that every few miles he stamped his foot twice and shook the reins, seeming to remind the fat grey mare pulling them that he was there. The horse was not fast but she was steady.

They were on a much smaller road than any Honor had ridden along in the stagecoaches through New Jersey and Pennsylvania. There she and her sister had followed well-travelled routes, where the roads were wide and sprinkled with houses and towns as well as inns for changing horses and eating and sleeping. Here it was more a track of dry, rutted mud cutting through dense trees. There were few houses, or clearings, or anything other than woods. After several miles driving through the same forest without any sign of people nearby, Honor began to wonder why such a road existed. Most roads where she was from had a clear destination. Here the destination was much farther away and less obvious.

But she mustn’t compare Ohio to Dorset. It did not help.

Occasionally they passed a house carved out of the woods alongside the road, and Honor found herself letting out a breath, then taking in another and holding it as the woods closed in on them once more. Not that the houses were much in themselves: hardly more than log cabins, many of them, surrounded by stumps. Sometimes a boy was outside chopping wood, or a woman was hanging out a quilt to air it, or a girl was hoeing a vegetable patch. They stared as Thomas and Honor passed and did not respond to Thomas’s raised hand. He did not seem to mind.

An hour into the journey they descended a shallow valley to a bridge crossing a river. ‘The Cuyahoga,’ Thomas murmured. ‘Indian name.’ Honor was not listening, however, nor looking into the river. Instead she was staring above her, for the straight wooden bridge they rumbled across had a roof. Thomas must have noticed her bewilderment. ‘Covered bridge,’ he said. ‘You’ve not seen one before?’

Honor shook her head.

‘Keeps the snow off, and the bridge from freezing.’

The bridges crossing streams and rivers from her childhood were stone and humped. Honor had not thought that something as fundamental as a bridge would be so different in America.

They stopped after a few hours to give the horse water and oats, and to eat the cold corn mush Ohioans liked for breakfast. Afterwards Thomas disappeared into the woods. While he was gone Honor stood by the wagon and studied the trees on the other side of the track. They too were unfamiliar. Even trees like oaks and chestnuts she knew from before seemed different, the oak leaves more pointed and less curly, the chestnut leaves not in the fanned cluster she was accustomed to. The undergrowth looked foreign, dense and primitive, designed to keep people out.

On his return Thomas nodded at the woods. ‘You’ll want relief.’

‘I—’ Honor had been about to protest, but something in his manner made it clear she should obey him, the way one does a grandfather. Besides, she could not admit she was frightened of Ohio woods. She would have to get used to them at some point.

She stepped off the track and into the trees, placing each foot with care on to dead leaves, mossy rocks and fallen branches. All around there was a raw, earthy smell of ferns and decay; rustling, too, which Honor tried to ignore, reasoning that the noises must be made by mice or grey squirrels or the small brown rodents with furry tails and black and white stripes down their backs she had learned were called chipmunks. She had heard that the woods were home to wolves, panthers, porcupines, skunks, possums, raccoons and other animals that did not exist in England. Most she would not even recognise if she saw them – which in a way made them even more frightening. Apparently there were many snakes as well. She could only hope that none was in this patch of forest on this particular morning. When she was thirty feet or so from the road Honor took a deep breath and forced herself to turn around so that she was facing the wagon, her back to the endless ranks of trees potentially hiding animals. Finding a place where she was shielded from Thomas, she lifted her skirts and squatted.

Apart from the wind rustling the leaves and the birds singing, it was quiet. Honor heard Thomas open the hinged seat they had been sitting on, where there must be storage space. She heard his low voice, probably talking to the horse, reassuring it as Honor herself needed reassurance that wolves and panthers were not hovering. The horse replied in a low nicker.

Honor stood up and rearranged her skirts. She could not relieve herself: being so exposed in the woods made her too tense. She looked around. This is as far from home as I can be, she thought, and I am alone. She shuddered, and ran back to the safety of the wagon.

When she had climbed on to her seat, Thomas stamped his foot twice and they started again. Breakfast seemed to have awakened him. Though he did not speak, he began to hum a tune Honor did not recognise, probably a hymn of some sort. After a while the humming, the rattle of the wagon and jangling of the horse’s bridle, the wind, the birds – this ensemble of sounds lulled her, as did the track extending straight out of sight ahead of them, and the trees rippling by. She did not fall asleep, but settled into the familiar meditative state she knew from Meeting. It was as if she were having a two-person Meeting with Thomas right on the wagon – though Friends did not normally hum during it. Honor closed her eyes and allowed her body to sway naturally, harnessed to the rhythm of the wagon’s movement. Steady and comfortable at last, she sank down inside herself to wait for the Inner Light.

It was all too easy to be distracted during Meeting for Worship. Sometimes her mind would be crowded with thoughts about a cramp in her leg, or remembering that she had forgotten to run an errand for her mother, or noticing a mark on a neighbour’s white bonnet. It took discipline to quieten the mind. Honor often found a kind of peace, but the true depth of the Inner Light, that feeling that God accompanied her, was harder to reach. She would not expect to find it in the middle of Ohio woods with an old man humming hymns beside her.

Now, as she sat in the wagon that was taking her west, Honor began to feel a presence, as if she were not alone. Of course Thomas was with her, but it was more than that: there was almost a buzz in the air, a knowledge that she was being accompanied on her journey into the depths of Ohio. Honor had never felt this so tangibly before, and for the first time in a lifetime of Meetings, she was moved to speak.

She opened her mouth, and then she heard it. From far behind them there came a kind of scratching sound. After a moment it separated into a rhythm of hoofbeats, pounding fast.

‘Someone’s coming,’ Honor said – the first words she had spoken to Thomas all day. It was not what she had intended to say.

Thomas turned his head and listened, his eyes expressionless until he too picked up the sound. Then his gaze seemed to intensify, revealing some meaning Honor could not decode. He looked at her as if wanting to acknowledge something without saying it, but she did not know what it was.

She pulled her eyes from his and looked back. A dot had appeared on the road.

Thomas stamped his foot three times. ‘Tell me about your sister,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

‘Tell me about your sister – the one who died. What was her name?’

Honor frowned. She did not want to talk about her sister now, with someone else appearing and a new tension in the air. But Thomas had not asked her many questions on the trip, and so she obliged. ‘Grace. She was two years older than me.’

‘She was to marry a man from Faithwell?’

The sound was clearer now: one horse, ridden at a gallop, with a thick shoe that made a distinctive thud. It was hard not to be distracted. ‘He – he is English. Adam Cox. From our village. He emigrated to Ohio to help his brother run a shop in Oberlin.’

‘What kind of shop?’

‘A draper’s.’

When Thomas looked puzzled, Honor thought back to Adam’s letter. ‘Dry goods.’

Thomas brightened. ‘Cox’s Dry Goods? I know it. On Main Street, south of College. One of them’s been poorly.’ He stamped his foot three times again.

Honor glanced back again. The rider was visible now: a man riding a bay stallion.

‘Why did you come with your sister?’

‘I—’ Honor could not answer. She did not want to explain to a stranger about Samuel.

‘What are you going to do now you’re here without her?’

‘I – I don’t know.’ Thomas’s questions were direct and cutting, and the last was like a needle pricking a boil. It burst, and Honor began to cry.

Thomas nodded. ‘I beg your pardon, miss,’ he whispered. ‘We may need those tears.’

Then the rider was upon them. He pulled up next to the wagon, and Thomas stopped the grey mare. The stallion whinnied at her, but she stood solidly, with no apparent interest in this new companion.

Honor wiped her eyes and glanced at the man before folding her hands in her lap and fixing her gaze on them. Even sitting on a horse it was clear that he was very tall, with the leathery tanned skin of a man who spends his life outside. Light brown eyes stood out of his square, weathered face. He would have been handsome if there were any warmth to his expression, but his eyes were flat in a way that sent a chill through her. She was suddenly very aware of their isolation on this road. She doubted too that Thomas carried a gun like the one prominent on the man’s hip.

If Thomas had similar thoughts he did not reveal them. ‘Afternoon, Donovan,’ he said to the newcomer.

The man smiled, a gesture that did not affect his face. ‘Old Thomas, and a Quaker girl, is it?’ He reached over and pulled at the rim of Honor’s bonnet. As she jerked her head away he laughed. ‘Just checkin’. You can tell the other Quakers you know not to bother dressin’ niggers up in Quaker clothes. I’m on to that one. That trick’s old.’

He removed his battered hat and nodded at Honor, who stared at him, bewildered by his words, for they made no sense to her.

‘You don’t have to take your hat off to Quakers,’ Thomas said. ‘They don’t believe in it.’

The man snorted. ‘I ain’t gonna change my good manners just ’cause a Quaker girl thinks different. You don’t mind if I take off my hat to you, do you, miss?’

Honor ducked her head.

‘See? She don’t mind.’ The man stretched. Under a brown waistcoat his collarless white shirt was stained with sweat.

‘Can we help you with something?’ Thomas said. ‘If not, we have to get along – we’ve a long road ahead.’

‘You in a rush, are you? Where you headed?’

‘I’m taking this young woman with me back to Wellington,’ Thomas said. ‘She has come to Ohio from England, but lost her sister in Hudson to yellow fever. You can see from her tears that she is in mourning.’

‘You from England?’ the man said.

Honor nodded.

‘Say something, then. I always liked the accent.’

When Honor hesitated, the man said, ‘Go on, say something. What, you too proud to talk to me? Say, “How do you do, Donovan.”’

Rather than remain silent and risk his insistence turning to anger, Honor looked into his amused eyes and said, ‘How does thee, Mr Donovan?’

Donovan snorted. ‘How does I? I does just fine, thankee. Nobody’s called me Mr Donovan in years. You Quakers make me laugh. What’s your name, girl?’

‘Honor Bright.’

‘You gonna live up to your name, Honor Bright?’

‘A little kindness to a girl who has just buried her sister in a strange land,’ Thomas intervened.

‘What’s in that?’ Donovan switched his tone suddenly, gesturing to Honor’s trunk in the wagon bed.

‘Miss Bright’s things.’

‘I’ll just have a look in it. That trunk’s the perfect size for a hidden nigger.’

Thomas frowned. ‘It’s not right for a man to look in a young lady’s trunk. Miss Bright will tell you herself what’s in it. Don’t you know that Quakers don’t lie?’

Donovan looked expectantly at her. Honor shook her head, puzzled. She was still recovering from Donovan pulling at her bonnet and could barely keep up with their conversation.

Then, faster than she could have imagined, Donovan jumped from his horse and on to the wagon. Honor felt a dart of fear in her gut, for he was so much bigger, faster and stronger than her and Thomas. When Donovan discovered the trunk was locked, that fear made her pass over the key, which she’d kept on a thin green ribbon around her neck during the long journey.

Donovan opened the lid and lifted out the quilt Honor had brought to America. She expected him to set it aside, but instead he shook it out and draped it over the wagon bed. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, squinting at it. ‘I never seen writing on a quilt.’

‘It is a signature quilt,’ Honor explained. ‘Friends and family made squares and signed them. It was a gift to mark my move to America. To say goodbye.’

Each square consisted of brown and green and cream squares and triangles, with a white patch in the middle signed by the maker. Originally begun for Grace, when Honor decided at the last minute to go to America as well, the makers rearranged the configuration of names so that hers was in the central square, with family members in the squares around them, and friends beyond those. Quilted in a simple diamond pattern, it was not especially beautiful, for the work varied according to the skill of each maker, and it was not designed the way Honor would have chosen. But she could never give it to anyone else: it had been made for her to remember her community by.

Donovan squatted in the wagon bed and studied the quilt for so long that Honor began to wonder if she had said something wrong. She glanced at Thomas: he remained impassive.

‘My mother made comforts,’ Donovan said at last, running his fingers over a name – Rachel Bright, an aunt of Honor’s. ‘Nothin’ like this, though. Hers had a big star in the centre made out of lots of little diamonds.’

‘That pattern is called a Star of Bethlehem.’

‘Is it, now?’ Donovan looked at her; his brown eyes had thawed a little.

‘I have made that pattern myself,’ she added, thinking of the quilt she had left behind with Biddy. ‘They are not easy, because it is difficult to fit together the points of the diamonds. The sewing must be very accurate. Thy mother must have been skilled with her needle.’

Donovan nodded, then grabbed the quilt and stuffed it back in the trunk. Locking it, he jumped down from the wagon. ‘You can go.’

Without a word, Thomas flicked the reins and the grey mare sprang into life. A minute later Donovan rode up alongside them. ‘You settlin’ in Wellington?’

‘No,’ Honor answered. ‘Faithwell, near Oberlin. My late sister’s fiancé is there.’

‘Oberlin!’ Donovan spat, then pressed his heels into the stallion’s belly and flew past them. Honor was relieved, for she had wondered how she would tolerate him riding alongside them all the way to Wellington.

His horse’s hoofbeats remained in the air, quieter and quieter, for many minutes, until at last they faded away. ‘All right, now,’ Thomas said softly. Stamping twice, he flicked the reins over the mare’s back again. He did not hum, however, for the rest of the journey.

It was only miles later that Honor realised Donovan had not given her back the key to her trunk.

Belle Mills’s Millinery

Main St

Wellington, Ohio

May 30, 1850

Dear Mr Cox,

I got your fiancée’s sister, Honor Bright, here with me. Sorry to tell you your intended passed. Yellow fever.

Honor needs to rest up here a few days, so could you come pick her up this Sunday afternoon, please.

Yours ever faithful,

Belle Mills




Bonnets (#ulink_875186e1-0a91-5c88-bb3f-0f780127efb4)







HONOR HAD SLEPT IN so many beds by the time she got to Wellington that when she woke she did not remember where she was. Her dress and shawl were hanging over a chair, but she could not recall undressing or putting them there. She sat up, certain that it was not early morning, when she usually rose. She was wearing an unfamiliar cotton nightgown that was too long for her, and covered with a light quilt.

Wherever she was, there was no doubt that this was America. The quality of the sunlight was different – yellower and fiercer, biting through the air to warm her. Indeed, it was going to be a hot day, though at the moment it was fresh enough for her to be grateful for the quilt. She ran her hand over it: unlike most American quilts she had seen so far, this one was not appliquéd or pieced squares, but proper English patchwork, well made, so that while the cloth was faded, there were no tears or loose seams. The design was of orange and yellow and red diamonds that made up a star in the centre of the quilt – a Star of Bethlehem like Biddy’s quilt, and what Donovan had described his mother making. Recalling her encounter with him the day before, Honor shuddered.

Though of a good size, and containing the bed she had slept in, the room was not a bedroom so much as a storeroom. Bolts of cloth leaned against the walls, many of them white but also solid colours, plaids and floral prints. Spilling out of open chests of drawers were gloves, ribbons, wire, lace and feathers dyed in bright colours. In one corner, dominating the room, smooth blocks of wood in oval and cylindrical shapes were precariously stacked, as well as peculiar oval and circular bands like wheels or doughnuts, some of wood, others made of a hard white material Honor did not recognise. She leaned forward to study them more closely. The blocks reminded her of heads. When Thomas had left her off late the evening before, she’d entered a shop of some kind. While at the time she had been too tired to take note of it, now she understood: she was in a milliner’s storeroom.

Quaker women did not wear hats, but plain caps and bonnets, and usually made their own. Honor had only been into the milliner’s in Bridport a few times to buy ribbon. She had often peeked in the window, however, to admire the latest creations displayed on their stands. It had been a tidy, feminine space, with floorboards painted duck-egg blue and long shelves along the walls filled with hats.

On top of the dresser full of trimmings was a china jug decorated with pink roses sitting in a matching basin, the same Honor had seen in homes all across Pennsylvania. She used them now to wash, then dressed and smoothed her dark hair, noting as she put on her cap that her bonnet was missing. Before she went down, she glanced out of the window, which overlooked a street busy with pedestrians and horses and wagons. It was a relief to see people again after a day on the empty road through the woods.

Honor crept down the stairs and entered a small kitchen with a fire and range, a table and chairs, and a sideboard sparse with dishes. The room felt underused, as if little food were prepared there. The back door was open, bringing in a breeze that passed through the kitchen and into the front room. Honor followed it to the heart of the house.

In many respects the shop was like the Bridport milliner’s: hats on shelves lining the walls, hats and bonnets on stands on tables around the room, glass cases along the sides displaying gloves and combs and hat pins. A large mirror hung on one wall, and two front windows made the room light and airy. The floorboards were not painted but worn smooth and shiny from customers’ feet. In one corner on a work table were hats in various stages of construction: layers of straw moulded around carved wood hat blocks, drying into shape; brims sewn into ovals and awaiting their crowns; hats banded with ribbon, a pile of silk flowers waiting to be attached among a tangle of ribbons and wire. There was little order on the table; the order lay in the finished hats.

In another way the room was completely different, as so many things about America felt to Honor. Where the Bridport shop was orderly by design, the Wellington milliner’s felt as if it had come about its order by accident. Some of the shelves were crammed with hats while others were bare. The room was bright but the windows dusty. Though the floor looked as if it had been swept clean, Honor suspected the corners housed dustballs. It felt as if the shop had sprung up suddenly, whereas Honor knew that her great-grandmother would have bought plain ribbons from the Bridport milliner’s.

The hats and bonnets too were peculiar. Though no expert in trimmings since she wore none herself, Honor was startled by some of the things she saw. A straw hat with a shallow crown pinned with a huge bunch of plaid roses. Another flat hat rimmed with a cascade of coloured ribbons bound together with lace. A cottage bonnet with a deep crown much like Honor’s own, but with white feathers lining the inside rim rather than the usual white ruffles. Honor could wear none of them, for Quakers followed rules of simplicity in dress as well as in conduct. Even if she could she was not sure she would want to.

Yet these hats must sell, as the shop was full of women and girls, gathered around the tables, sorting through frilly caps and sun bonnets, plucking at baskets of pre-cut ribbons and cloth flowers, laughing and chattering and calling out.

After a moment she noticed a woman standing behind the back counter, surveying the room with an experienced air. This was the proprietress, whom Honor had met briefly the night before. She caught Honor’s eye and nodded. She was not at all what you would expect of a milliner. Tall and thin, she had a bony face and a sceptical air. Her hazel eyes bulged slightly, the whites tinged with yellow. For a milliner she wore a surprisingly simple white cap, with a burst of scrubby fair hair hanging on her forehead. Her tan dress hung from her shoulders and exposed a ridge of collarbone. She reminded Honor of the scarecrows hanging on wooden frames in Dorset gardens. The contrast between her angular plainness and the frilly wares she sold made Honor want to smile.

‘What you grinnin’ at, Honor Bright?’

Honor started. Donovan had entered the shop, his heavy tread among the customers causing them to fall silent and take a collective step back.

Honor remained still. She did not want to cause a fuss, so she simply said, ‘I wish thee good day, Mr Donovan.’

Donovan rested his eyes on her. ‘I was passing and saw you in here. And I thought to myself, “Why in hell did Old Thomas leave a Quaker girl at Belle Mills’s when she can’t wear none of the hats?”’

‘Donovan, don’t be so rude to our guest, or she’ll go right back to England and tell everyone what bad manners American men have.’ Belle Mills had come out from behind the counter, and turned her attention to Honor. ‘You’re English, ain’t you, Miss Bright? I could tell from the stitching ’round your neckline. Looks like something only an Englishwoman would think up. I never seen such a striking detail, certainly not on a Quaker woman’s dress. Very fine, that. Simple. Effective. Did you design it or copy it from something?’

‘I made it up myself.’ Honor glanced down at the white V of cloth edging the neckline of her dark green dress. It was not the crisp white it had been when she left England. But then, nothing was quite as clean in America as it had been back home.

‘Hey, you bring any English magazines with you? Ladies’ Cabinet of Fashion or Illustrated London News?’

Honor shook her head.

‘Shame. I like to copy hats from ’em. By the way, if you’re wonderin’ where your bonnet is, I got it here.’ Belle Mills pointed to a shelf behind her. Honor’s bonnet – pale green, with the crown and brim merged into one horizontal line – had been pulled over one of the hat blocks. ‘It needed a little attention. I just gave it a brush and a sprinkle of starchy water. Give it an hour and it’ll get its shape back. You got it new for your trip?’

‘My mother made it.’

Belle nodded. ‘Good hand. Can you sew like that?’

Better than that, Honor thought but did not say. ‘She taught me.’

‘Maybe while you’re here you can help me out. Usually I’m not so busy once the Easter-bonnet rush is over, but it’s heated up all of a sudden and everybody’s decided they want a new bonnet, or new trim on their hats.’

Honor nodded in confusion. She was not expecting to remain in Wellington, but to go immediately on to Faithwell. It was only seven miles away, and she hoped to find another farmer with a wagon to take her, or get a boy to ride there with a message for Adam Cox to come and fetch her. The thought of seeing him so soon filled her with dread, though; she did not know if he would welcome her as warmly without Grace at her side.

Donovan interrupted her thoughts. ‘Jesus Christ, is this what you gals talk about all day? Dresses and bonnets?’

The customers had been soothed enough by Belle’s chat to go back to browsing the merchandise. Hearing Donovan’s tone, however – so alien to a millinery shop – they froze once again.

‘Nobody asked you to come here and listen to us,’ Belle countered. ‘Get out of here – you’re scaring my customers.’

‘Honor Bright, are you stayin’ here?’ Donovan demanded. ‘You didn’t tell me that before. Thought you said you was headed to Faithwell.’

‘You keep out of her business,’ Belle said. ‘Old Thomas told me you was botherin’ her on the road. Poor Honor has had to meet the lowest of Ohio society before she’s even had a chance to catch her breath.’

Donovan was ignoring Belle, his eyes still on Honor. ‘Well, now, guess I’ll see you round Wellington, Honor Bright.’

‘Mr Donovan, may I have my key back, please?’

‘Only if you call me Donovan. Can’t stand Mister.’

‘All right – Donovan. I would like my key back, please.’

‘Sure, darlin’.’ Donovan moved his hand, but then stopped. ‘Aw, sorry, Honor Bright, I lost it on the road.’ He held her eyes so that she would know he was lying but could not accuse him. His expression was no longer guarded, but intent, and interested. Her stomach twisted with a mixture of fear and something else: excitement. It was such an unsuitable sensation that she flushed.

Donovan smiled. Then he lifted his hat to the room and turned to go. As he reached the door Honor saw around the back of his neck a thin line of dark green ribbon.

The second he was gone the women began chattering like chickens riled by the sight of a fox.

‘Well, Honor Bright, looks like you’ve already made a conquest,’ Belle remarked. ‘Not one you’d ever want to take up with, though, I can guarantee that. Now, you must be starved. You didn’t eat nothin’ last night, and little on the road, I bet. Ladies’ – she raised her voice – ‘you all go on home and get dinner on the table. I got to feed this weary traveller. You want to buy something, come back in an hour or two. Mrs Bradley, I’ll have your bonnet ready tomorrow. Yours too, Miss Adams. Now I got a good sewer with me I can catch up.’

Honor watched the women obediently filing out, and confusion threatened to overwhelm her. Her life seemed to be in the hands of strangers – where she was going and where she stayed and for how long, what she ate and even what she sewed. It seemed now she was to make bonnets for a woman she had just met. Her eyes pricked with tears.

Belle Mills must have seen them, but said nothing, simply hung a CLOSED sign on the door and went back to the kitchen, where she heaped a ham steak and several eggs into a skillet. ‘Come, eat,’ she commanded a few minutes later, setting two plates on the table. Clearly cooking was not something she spent much time on. ‘Look, there’s cornbread there, and butter. Help yourself.’

Honor gazed at the greasy ham, the eggs flecked with fat, the stodgy cornbread she’d had at every meal in America. She did not think she could face eating any of it, but since Belle was watching her, she cut a tiny triangle of ham and popped it in her mouth. The sweet and salt together surprised her, and opened a door in her belly. She began to eat steadily, even the cornbread she was so tired of.

Belle nodded. ‘Thought so. You were looking mighty pale. When did you leave England?’

‘Eight weeks ago.’

‘When did your sister die?’

Honor had to think. ‘Four days ago.’ Already it felt like months and miles away. Those forty miles between Hudson and Wellington had taken her deeper into a different world than any of the rest of the journey.

‘Honey, no wonder you’re peaky. Thomas told me you’re going on to Faithwell, to your sister’s fiancé.’

Honor nodded.

‘Well, I sent him word you’re here. Told him to come Sunday afternoon to pick you up. I figured you need a few days to recover. You can help me with some sewing if you want. Earn your keep.’

Honor could not remember what day it was. ‘All right,’ she agreed blindly, relieved to let Belle take charge.

‘Now, let’s see what you can do with a needle. You got your own sewing things or you want to use some of mine?’

‘I have a sewing box. But it is locked in the trunk.’

‘Damn that Donovan. Well, I can probably get it open with a hammer and chisel as long as you don’t mind me breakin’ the lock. All right? We don’t have much choice.’

Honor nodded.

‘You do the dishes and I’ll work on the trunk.’ Belle surveyed the table, Honor’s clean plate and her own, almost untouched. Picking up the latter, she set it on the sideboard with a napkin over it. Then she disappeared upstairs. A few minutes later, as Honor was scrubbing the pan, she heard banging and then a triumphant shout.

‘English locks ain’t any better’n American,’ Belle announced as she came downstairs. ‘It’s broken now. Go and get your sewing things. I’ll finish up here.’

When Honor brought her box down, Belle was dragging a rocking chair through the back door. ‘Let’s set on the back porch, catch the breeze. You want this rocker, or a straight chair?’

‘I will bring out a straight chair.’ Honor had seen rocking chairs everywhere she went in America; they were much more common than in England. The sensation reminded her too much of the ship. Besides, she needed solid stillness for sewing.

As she picked up a chair in the kitchen, she noticed Belle’s plate of food on the sideboard was gone.






The milliner’s was on the end of a row of buildings that included a grocery, a harness shop, a confectionary and a drug store. The back yards of these establishments were underused, though one had a vegetable garden, and in another there was laundry hanging out. Belle’s yard had nothing in it but a pile of planed wood and a goat tethered in the weeds. ‘Don’t go near the wood,’ Belle warned. ‘Snakes there. And leave that goat be. It belongs to the neighbours, and it’s evil.’ There was also an outhouse, and a lean-to along the side of the house for storing wood, but clearly Belle’s energy went into her shop.

Honor sat and opened her sewing box to lay out her things. This ritual, at least, was familiar. The sewing box had belonged to her grandmother, who, when her sight began to fail, handed it on to the best stitcher among her granddaughters. Made of walnut wood, it had a padded needlepoint cover of lilies of the valley in green and yellow and white. This was an image Honor had known from an early age; eyes shut, she could perfectly recreate it in her mind, as she had often done to distract herself during her seasickness. The upper tray contained a needlecase Grace had made, embroidered with lilies of the valley similar to the box lid; a wire needle threader; a porcelain thimble her mother had given her, decorated with yellow roses; a beaded pin cushion her friend Biddy had made for her; packets of pins wrapped in green paper; a small tin holding a lump of beeswax she used on her quilting thread; and her grandmother’s pair of small sewing scissors with green and yellow enamelled handles, sheathed in a soft leather case.

Belle Mills leaned forward to inspect. ‘Nice. What are these?’ She picked up pieces of metal cut into different shapes: hexagons, diamonds, squares, triangles.

‘Templates for cutting patchwork. My father had them made for me.’

‘Quilter, eh?’

Honor nodded.

‘What’s underneath?’

Honor lifted the tray to reveal spools of different coloured thread, each slotted into its place.

Belle nodded her approval, then reached between the spools to pick out a small silver thimble. ‘Don’t you want this in the top section with the other things?’

‘No.’ Samuel had given her the thimble when their feelings for each other were ripe. She would not use it now, but could not quite give it up.

Belle raised her eyebrows. When Honor did not elaborate, she dropped the thimble back into the spools to ruin their perfect order. ‘All right, Honor Bright,’ she chuckled, ‘everybody’s entitled to their secrets. Now, let’s get you started. You sewed much on straw before?’

Honor shook her head. ‘I have not made hats, only bonnets.’

‘Bet you only got two bonnets – winter and summer. You Quakers don’t go in for fancy clothes, do you? Well, then, let’s start you on cloth. I got a sun bonnet for Mrs Bradley needs finishing. That’s easy – no straw structure, just corded. Most women make their own, but Mrs Bradley’s got a fancy notion she don’t ever need to pick up a needle. Think you can manage this? Here’s the thread. I been using a size six needle.’ She handed Honor a soft bonnet that had been cut and tacked together with loose stitches, and only needed sewing; it was a simple enough design, with a long, wide bavolet of cloth to cover the neck from the sun. The fabric was a light blue plaid crisscrossed with thin yellow and white stripes. It was not a style Honor was familiar with – no English woman would be willing to let so much fabric flap around her neck – but the sun was stronger here, so perhaps such covering was needed. At any rate, it would be easy to sew.

Honor reached for a spool and her needle threader and quickly threaded six needles, poking them into the pin cushion in readiness. Though Belle’s scrutiny made her self-conscious, in the sewing realm at least she was confident of what she was doing. She began to sew the crown on to the brim using a back stitch for strength, and gathering the crown cloth into little pleats as she made her way around. Honor was a fast, accurate seamstress, though she went more slowly on this bonnet, to make sure she was doing what Belle wanted.

Belle sat in the rocker next to her and sewed cream silk over the top of the straw, oval-shaped brim of a bonnet. Every so often she glanced over at Honor’s work. ‘I can see I don’t have to look after you,’ she remarked when Honor had finished the sun bonnet. ‘Now, watch the pleats I’m makin’ to get this cloth to lay flat around the brim. See, like this. Think you can do that? Here, try it. Use this – it’s a milliner’s needle – better for straw.’

When Honor had sewn enough to Belle’s satisfaction, the milliner stood and stretched. ‘Guess I got lucky with you comin’. When you finish that you can work on these.’ She patted a pile of bonnets in various stages of construction that she had placed on a table between them. ‘I’ll trim ’em later. You got any questions I’ll be in the shop. Got to open for the afternoon.’

It had grown warm, with the sun high in the sky and the porch less shaded. Honor had not been alone much since landing in America, and was glad to sit still on a bright spring afternoon with familiar work to do but nothing more expected of her. She would have liked a cottage garden to look at, with drifting borders of flowers such as her mother grew – lupins and delphiniums and columbine and love-in-a-mist and forget-me-nots. She didn’t know if any of these flowers even grew in America, or if Americans cultivated that sort of garden. She suspected not – it was not practical, especially here, where society was still being hewn from the wilderness, and energy was directed towards survival rather than decoration. Mind you – she surveyed the pile of bonnets Belle had left her – Ohio women did allow themselves some frivolity in their headwear: the bonnets were in brightly coloured ginghams and chintz.

She finished the cream bonnet and picked up another, of pale green fabric dotted with tiny daisies, and a brim that could be folded back to reveal another colour – tan in this case. Honor would have expected pink, but she was not about to suggest so. As she worked on the second bonnet, the steady, familiar rhythm of sewing took over, its repetition meditative, freeing her to her thoughts rather as Meeting for Worship did. She felt her shoulders begin to sink, the tension she had been carrying with her since leaving England easing a little. Reaching the end of the thread, she let her hands rest on the bonnet in her lap and closed her eyes. That calm, and her solitude, gave her the space in which to think: of Samuel telling her he loved someone else, and her decision to unmoor herself from Dorset; of her sister’s death leaving her so alone in a strange place. Honor at last began to cry, painful sobs reminiscent of the heaves she had suffered on board the Adventurer.

The relief of her tears did not last, however. In between her muffled gasps, a sense came over her, just as it had on the road from Hudson to Wellington, that she was not alone. Honor glanced behind her, but Belle was not in the doorway or the kitchen; indeed, she could hear her voice back in the shop. And she could see no one in any of the nearby yards. Then she heard behind her, in the lean-to at the side of the house, the sound of a log falling from the woodpile.

It could be a dog, she thought, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Or one of those animals we don’t have, a possum or a porcupine or a raccoon. But she knew they were unlikely to knock over a log. And she knew, though she could not say how, that the presence she felt now, and had felt on the road, was human.

Honor had never thought of herself as a brave person. Until coming to America, her mettle had not really been tested. Now, however, she resisted the urge to fetch Belle. Instead she put the bonnet aside, rose from her chair, and crept down the back steps. Hesitating would not help, she knew. She took a breath, held it, and walked over to the lean-to to look in.

The light reached only a foot or two inside the woodshed; then it was dim, leading to darkness. For a moment Honor could see nothing as her eyes tried to adjust. Then she made out wood stacked neat and high on the right; on the left there was a narrow gap between wood and wall, for access to the stack. In that gap stood a black man. Honor sucked in a shocked breath on top of the one she was holding, then let it out in a sudden exhalation. She stared at him. He was of medium height and build, with fuzzy hair and wide cheeks. He was barefoot, his clothes worn and dirty. That was all she could take in, or knew how to take in, for she was not familiar enough with Negro features to be able to gauge and compare and describe them. She did not know if he was frightened or angry or resigned. To her he simply looked black.

She did not know what to say, or if she should speak, so she did not, but stepped backwards. Then she hurried to the porch, and began putting her sewing things back into her box. Piling the bonnets on top, she picked up everything and took it inside.

Belle did not seem surprised to see her. ‘Heat got to you?’ she said as she adjusted a hat on a customer, sharpening the angle before sticking in a hat pin. Both women studied the effect in the mirror. ‘That’s better, ain’t it? Suits you.’

‘Dunno,’ the woman answered. ‘You’ve skimped on the violets.’

‘Think so? I can make you some more, now I got me an assistant. Penny a violet all right?’ Belle winked at Honor. ‘You finished Miss Adams’s bonnet? The green one. Yes? Good. You can work in the corner by the window – that’s the best light.’ Before Honor could speak, Belle turned back to her customer to discuss violets.






She worked all afternoon on the bonnets, and gradually her hands stopped shaking. After a while she even wondered if she had imagined the man. Perhaps the heat and light and her own recent trauma had made her turn a dog or a raccoon into a man. She decided then to say nothing to Belle.

The shop had a steady stream of customers; all of them gazed on Honor as a curiosity worth commenting on, though they directed their questions to Belle rather than her. ‘What you got a Quaker in the window for, Belle?’ they asked. ‘Where’s she from? Where’s she going? Why’s she here?’ Belle answered over and over again. By the end of the day every woman in Wellington must know that Honor was from England and on her way to Faithwell, but had stopped with Belle and was helping her out with sewing for a few days. She even made Honor into a feature of the shop. ‘She’s got a fine hand – better than mine, even. You order a bonnet today and I’ll get her to sew it for you. Last you a lifetime, her stitching’s that strong, or till you’re sick of it and want a new one. Then you’ll regret buyin’ one o’ Honor Bright’s bonnets – it just won’t fall apart and give you the excuse for a new one.’

Later, when the light was fading, Belle closed shop for the day and took Honor on a walk around Wellington. Little more than a cluster of shops and houses around a crossroads, its few streets were wide and laid out in a grid oriented north and south, east and west. Main Street had been widened so that there was a rectangular Public Square with a town hall, a church, a hotel and shops – one of them Belle’s – arranged around it. Shops in the surrounding streets included several general stores, as well as a cobbler, a tailor, a blacksmith, a cabinet maker, a brick yard and a carriage maker. Most were two storeys high and made of wood, with awnings and large windows displaying goods. A school had been built, and a train depot was almost finished for the railroad due to begin running to Wellington later in the summer. ‘This town’s gonna explode when that train comes through,’ Belle declared. ‘Good for business. Good for hats.’

As they strolled, Honor had the familiar uneasy feeling she had experienced when passing through American towns on her way to Ohio: that they had been built quickly, and could be destroyed just as quickly, by a fire or the extreme American weather she had heard about, hurricanes and tornadoes and blizzards. The storefronts might be relatively new but they had already been ravaged by sun and snow. The road was both dry and wet, dusty and muddy.

Wherever they went, the road and the planks laid above the mud were spattered with gobs of spit. Honor and Grace had been astonished when they reached New York at how often American men spat, walking around with a bulge of tobacco in their cheeks and letting fly both outside and in. Equally astonishing was that no one else seemed to notice or mind.

Belle nodded at everyone they passed, and stopped to speak a few words to some of the women. Most were wearing everyday bonnets, but a few wore hats that Honor recognised as Belle’s, with their peculiar combinations of trimmings. Belle confirmed this. ‘Some of them make their own bonnets, but all the hats are mine. You’ll see more of ’em Sundays, for church. They wouldn’t dare wear a hat from one of them Oberlin milliners – they know I’d never do business with ’em afterwards. Nothin’ wrong with Oberlin, but you buy from your own, don’t you?’ Belle herself wore a straw hat with a wide orange ribbon around the brim, trimmed with flowers fashioned from pieces of straw.

On one corner of Public Square was the town hotel. For such a small town, it was surprisingly grand: a long, two-storey building with a double balcony running all the way along its front on both floors, held up by several pairs of white columns. ‘Wadsworth Hotel,’ Belle remarked. ‘Only place in town to get a drink – not that you need to know that. You Quakers don’t touch alcohol, do you?’

Honor shook her head.

‘Well, I take my whisky at home. And that’s why.’ Belle nodded towards one end of the hotel, which faced the millinery shop across Public Square. Lounging on the porch out front were a cluster of men, bottles at their sides. Donovan was among them, his feet propped up on a table. On seeing Belle and Honor, he raised his bottle at them, then drank.

‘Charming.’ Belle led her on. As they passed the last pair of columns, Honor noticed a poster tacked on one of them. It was not $150 REWARD in big letters that drew her in, but the silhouette of a man running with a sack over his shoulder. She stopped and studied it.






The description was remarkably specific. She pictured the man she had seen in the lean-to. Now that there were words for what he looked like, adjectives like chunky and African and shrewd, she could picture him, his calculating eyes taking her in, the strength in his shoulders – and his hair, bushy but parted on the side.

Donovan was watching her.

‘Walk on,’ Belle hissed, taking her arm and marching her around the corner on to Mechanics Street.

When they were out of earshot, Honor said, ‘Did Donovan put up that poster?’

‘Yes. He’s a slave hunter. You worked that out, didn’t you?’

Honor nodded, though she did not know there was a name for what he did.

‘There’s slave hunters all over Ohio, come up from Kentucky or Virginia to try and take back Negroes to their owners. See, we got lots of runaways through here on their way to Canada. In fact, a lot of traffic comes through Ohio, one way or another. Hell, you can stand at the crossroads here and watch it. East to west you got settlers moving for more land. South to north you got runaway slaves looking for freedom. Funny how nobody wants to go south or east. It’s north and west that hold out some kind of promise.’

‘Why don’t the Negroes remain in Ohio? I thought there was no slavery here.’

‘Some do stop in Ohio – you’ll see free blacks in Oberlin – but freedom’s guaranteed in Canada. Different country, different laws, so slave hunters got no power there.

‘But Donovan’s interested in you,’ Belle continued. ‘Funny, usually he’s suspicious of Quakers. Likes to quote a politician who said Quakers won’t defend the country when there’s war, but are happy to interfere in people’s business when there’s peace. But it ain’t good to get his attention: once you do it ain’t easy to get rid of him. He’ll bother you over in Faithwell too. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch. I should know.’ At Honor’s questioning look, Belle smiled. ‘He’s my brother.’

She chuckled at the change in Honor’s face. ‘Two different fathers, so we don’t look much alike. We grew up in Kentucky. But our mother was English – Lincolnshire.’

A piece fitted into place. ‘Did she make the quilt on my bed?’

‘Yep. Donovan’s always tryin’ to take it back from me. He’s a mean son of a bitch. We gone in different directions, ain’t we, even if we both come north. Now, we better get back.’ Belle stopped in front of Honor. ‘Look, honey, I know you seen things goin’ on at my house, but it’s best if you don’t actually know anything. Then if Donovan asks, you don’t have to lie. Quakers ain’t supposed to lie, are they?’

Honor shook her head.

Belle took her arm and turned around to walk back towards the millinery shop. ‘Jesus H. Christ, I’m glad I’m not a Quaker. No whisky, no colour, no feathers, no lies. What is there left?’

‘No swearing, either,’ Honor added.

Belle burst out laughing.

Honor smiled. ‘We do call ourselves “the peculiar people”, for we know we must seem so to others.’

Belle was still chuckling, but stopped when they reached the hotel bar. Donovan was no longer there.






The next two days Honor sewed all day, first in the corner of the shop by the window during the morning, and on the back porch in the afternoon.

Belle had Honor work on bonnets again, finishing off some that customers were due to pick up that day. She edged one with lace, another with a double row of ruffles, then sewed clusters of cloth pansies to the inside rim of a stiff green bonnet and attached wide, pale green ribbons for tying under the chin. ‘Can you make more of them flowers if I give you the petals?’ Belle asked when Honor had finished.

Honor nodded: though she had never made flowers, since Quakers did not wear them, she knew they could not be harder than some of the intricate patchwork she had sewn for quilts.

Belle handed her a box full of petals and leaves. ‘I already cut out the petals after you went to bed last night. Just me and the whisky and the scissors. I like it that way.’ She showed Honor how to construct the pansies, then violets, roses, clover and little clusters of lace made to resemble baby’s breath. Honor wished Grace were there to see the things she was making: creations more and more colourful and elaborate.

Belle’s customers continued to comment on Honor’s presence, even those who had been to the shop the day before and already discussed her. ‘Goodness, look at that Quaker girl’s lap full of flowers!’ they cried. ‘Isn’t that the funniest thing! You’ll turn her, Belle, you will!’

Honor was only a short distraction, however, perhaps to be mulled over later. For now, once they’d made their remarks, the customers went on to the more important task of inspecting the latest goods and getting a bargain. Trying on the various hats and bonnets displayed on stands, they questioned Belle’s designs and criticised the shape and trim in order to drive down the price. Belle was equally determined to maintain her price, and a battle of words followed.

Honor was unnerved by the haggling, with its underlying assumption that the value of something could change depending on how badly someone wanted to buy or sell it. The lack of a fixed price made Belle’s hats take on a temporary quality. Quakers never haggled, but set what they felt was a fair price for materials and labour. Each product had what was thought of as its own intrinsic merit, be it a carrot or a horseshoe or a quilt, and that did not change simply because many people needed a horseshoe. Honor knew of merchants in Bridport who haggled, but they didn’t when she went into their shops or to their market stalls. The haggling she’d witnessed was off-hand, even embarrassed, as if the participants were only doing it in jest, because it was expected of them. Here the haggling seemed fiercer, as if both sides were adamant that they were right and the other not simply wrong, but morally suspect. Some of the women in Belle’s shop became so indignant as they argued with Belle that Honor wondered if they would ever return.

Belle, however, seemed entertained by the haggling, and unbothered when, more often than not, it reached a stalemate and the hat remained unsold. ‘They’ll be back,’ she said. ‘Where else can they go? I’m the only hat maker in town.’

Indeed, despite not managing to knock the price down, many women placed orders. Belle rarely measured their heads – most she knew already, and she could gauge a newcomer at a glance. ‘Twenty inches, most of ’em,’ she told Honor. ‘German heads a little bigger, but everybody else is pretty well the same, no matter how much or how little they got up there.’

Her choice of hat shapes and trim was often unusual, but most customers accepted her judgement, saving their arguments for the price rather than the style. From what Honor could see of the customers who came to pick up their hats, Belle usually was right, often choosing colours and styles for them that were different from what they normally wore. ‘Hats can go stale on you,’ she said to a woman she had just convinced to buy a hat dyed green and trimmed with straw folded and tucked to resemble heads of wheat. ‘You always want to surprise people with something new, so they see you different. A woman who always wears a blue bonnet with lace trim will start to look like that bonnet, even when she’s not wearing it. She needs some flowers near her eyes, or a red ribbon, or a brim that sets off her face.’ She inspected Honor’s plain cap so frankly that Honor ducked her head.

‘But you wear the same thing every day, Belle,’ the woman pointed out.

Belle patted her cap, which was almost as plain as Honor’s, though with a limp frill around the edge and a cord at the back that when pulled made a little pleat in the fabric. ‘It don’t do for me to wear anything fancy in the store,’ she said. ‘Don’t want to compete with my customers – you’re the ones got to look good. I wear my hats outside, for advertising.’

Despite the haggling, the frivolous trimmings, the feeling at times that she was an entertainment for the hat wearers of Wellington, Honor liked working for Belle. Whatever she was making, she was at least kept busy, with no time to think about the traumas of the past, the uncertainty she was living in, or of what lay ahead.

As she sat by the open window, Honor twice heard the thudding shoe of Donovan’s horse and saw him ride past. One afternoon he stationed himself at the hotel bar across the square, leaning against the railing, his eyes on the millinery shop and, it seemed, on her. She shrank back in her seat, but could not avoid his gaze, and soon moved to the back porch, away from his scrutiny.

Belle had given Honor another pile of bonnets to work on, but before she began she sat for a few minutes, listening. There were no sounds from the woodshed, but Honor could feel that someone was there. Now that she knew who, and could even name and describe him, she felt a little less frightened. After all, it was he who would be frightened of her.

Belle had been so matter-of-fact about slaves before, but the idea was still new and shocking to Honor. Bridport Friends had discussed the shame of American slavery, but it had merely been indignant words; no one had ever seen a slave in person. Honor was astonished that one was now hiding fifteen feet from her.

She picked up a grey bonnet almost plain enough for a Quaker to wear. The lining was a pale primrose yellow, and she was to sew mustard-coloured ribbons on to it, and add a yellow cord drawstring to the bavolet at the back of the neck where the cloth could be tightened and create a small ruff. Though at first Honor was doubtful of the colour combination, by the time she’d finished it, she had to acknowledge that the yellow lifted the grey, yet was pale enough not to make the bonnet gaudy, though the ribbon colour was more insistent than she would have chosen. Belle had unorthodox taste, but she knew how to use it to good effect.

During a lull in the shop, Belle brought out a tin mug of water. Leaning against the railing while Honor drank, she squinted into the yard. ‘There’s a snake sunning itself on the lumber,’ she announced. ‘Copperhead. You got copperheads in England? No? Keep away from ’em – you don’t want to get bit by one, it’ll kill you, and it ain’t a pretty death either.’ She disappeared inside, and came back out with a shotgun. Without warning, she aimed at the snake and fired. Honor started and squeezed her eyes shut, dropping the mug. When she dared to open them again, she saw the headless body of the snake lying in the grass, several feet from the planks. ‘There,’ Belle declared, satisfied. ‘Probably a nest, though. I’ll get some boys in there to kill ’em all. Don’t want snakes gettin’ into the woodshed.’

Honor thought about the man hiding there, almost three days now cramped in the heat and dark, and hearing the gunshot. She wondered how Belle came to be involved in hiding him. When her ears had stopped ringing, she said, ‘Thee mentioned that Kentucky is a slave state. Did thy family own slaves?’ It was the most direct question she had dared to ask.

Belle regarded her with yellowed eyes, leaning against the porch railing and still holding the shotgun, her dress hanging off her. It occurred to Honor that the milliner must have an underlying illness to make her so thin and discoloured. ‘Our family was too poor to own slaves. That’s why Donovan does what he does. Poor white people hate Negroes more’n anyone.’

‘Why?’

‘They think coloureds are takin’ work they should have, and drivin’ down the price of it. See, Negroes are valued a lot higher. Plantation owner’ll pay a thousand dollars for a coloured man, but a poor white man is worth nothin’.’

‘But thee does not hate them.’

Belle gave her a small smile. ‘No, honey, I don’t hate ’em.’

The bell on the shop door rang, announcing a customer. Belle picked up her gun. ‘Donovan’s gone, by the way. Saturday night he always drinks himself silly up at Wack’s in Oberlin – that’s one thing you can count on. Guess he’s startin’ early today. You can stop hiding from him back here if you want.’

Belle Mills’s Millinery

Main St

Wellington, Ohio

6th Month 1st 1850

Dearest Biddy,

It grieves me to have to tell thee that God has taken Grace, six days ago, carried off by yellow fever. I will not go into details here – my parents can let thee read the letter I wrote them. How I wish thee were sitting here with me now, holding my hand and comforting me.

I think thee would be surprised to see where I am at this moment. I am sitting on the back porch of Belle Mills’s Millinery shop in Wellington, Ohio. The porch faces west, and I am watching the sun going down over a patch of land, at the end of which glints the metal track of a railroad. When finished, it will run south to Columbus and north to Cleveland. The Wellington residents are very excited about it, as we would be if the railway in England were to extend to Bridport.

Belle is one of the many strangers who has taken pity on me and helped me along the way. Indeed, Belle more than most has been kind. Her shop is only seven miles from Adam Cox, yet when I arrived, she did not pack me off to Faithwell as soon as she could. She sensed without asking that I needed a pause to gather myself after Grace’s death, and so has let me stay with her for a few days. In return I have been able to help with sewing, which has pleased me since it is a familiar activity, and I am able to feel useful rather than having to rely completely on others, or my purse, to look after me.

I am still stunned that Grace has been gone only a few days. Time and space have played funny tricks on me: the sea voyage seemed to go on for years, though it was but a month, and I already feel far from Hudson, where Grace is buried, though I have only been in Wellington three days. For someone whose life was so ordered and without surprise, a great deal has happened to me in a short time. I suspect America will continue to surprise me.

Already I am confused by its people, for they are so different from the English. Louder, for one thing, and they speak their minds in a way I am not accustomed to. Though they are familiar with Quakers, they think me odd. Customers in Belle’s shop have been forthright in saying so, and in an overly familiar manner that jars. Thee knows I am quiet; being around Americans has made me even quieter.

Yet they have their secrets. For example, I am almost certain that, barely fifteen feet from where I write this letter, a runaway slave is hiding. I also begin to suspect he was hidden somewhere in the wagon that brought me to Wellington. But I do not dare to find out, for men are searching for the slave, and thee knows I cannot lie if asked. At home it was easy enough to be truthful and open. I rarely had to conceal anything from my family or thee. Only the business with Samuel was difficult in that way. Now, however, I have to keep my thoughts close. I do not ever want to lie outright, but it is more challenging to keep to that principle here.

I can at least be honest with thee, my dearest friend. I confess that I am nervous about Adam Cox’s arrival tomorrow. He left for Ohio expecting only his future wife to join him, but now he has to contend with me without Grace. Of course I have known him and Matthew since the Coxes moved to Bridport, but they are older and not people I have been close to. Now they will be the only familiar faces amongst strangers.

Please say nothing of this to my parents, for I do not want them to worry about me. I do not think it is dishonest to withhold information about my feelings – they are not facts, and they are bound to change. Next time I write I hope to be able to report that I feel welcome in Faithwell and am content to live there. Until then, dear Biddy, keep me in thy thoughts and prayers.

Thy faithful friend,

Honor Bright




Silence (#ulink_0c5d2cd5-fc72-5896-a998-257a914d8aa2)







HONOR WOKE EARLY ON Sunday. Adam Cox would not come to pick her up until afternoon, after Meeting for Worship in Faithwell had finished, but anxiety made her lie awake in bed, listening to the dawn chorus of unfamiliar American birds, running her fingers over the outline of the Star of Bethlehem in the centre of the quilt, and waiting for the changes to come.

Despite staying up much of the night with a bottle, Belle was also up early. As they ate breakfast – more eggs and ham, along with hominy grits, a white, thin sort of porridge Belle said she’d grown up with in Kentucky – Honor wondered if the milliner would go to church. But Belle made no move to leave; after clearing up the kitchen she sat out on the back porch reading the Cleveland Plain Dealer, which a customer had left behind the day before. Honor hesitated, then got her Bible out of her trunk and went to join her.

The moment she sat down she knew the man was gone from the lean-to. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, and in Belle, who seemed more relaxed. She glanced over at the book in Honor’s lap. ‘I don’t go to church much myself,’ she remarked. ‘Me and the minister don’t agree on most things. But I’ll take you if you want. You got a choice of Congregationalist, Presbyterian or Methodist. I’d go for Congregationalist myself – better singers. I’ve heard ’em from outside.’

‘There is no need.’

Belle rocked in her chair while Honor opened her Bible, trying to remember what she had last read, with her sister on her deathbed, a lifetime ago. She read a passage here and there, but could not concentrate on the words.

Belle was rocking faster. ‘Somethin’ I want to know about Quakers,’ she announced, lowering the newspaper.

Honor looked up.

‘You sit in silence, don’t you? No hymns, no prayers, no preacher to make you think. Why’s that?’

‘We are listening.’

‘For what?’

‘For God.’

‘Can’t you hear God in a sermon or a hymn?’

Honor was reminded of standing outside St Mary’s Church in Bridport, just across the street from the Meeting House. The congregation had been singing, and she had been briefly envious of the sound.

‘It is less distracting in the silence,’ she said. ‘Sustained silence allows one truly to listen to what is deep inside. We call it waiting in expectation.’

‘Don’t you just think about what you’re having for dinner, or what someone said about someone else? I’d think about the next hat I’m gonna make.’

Honor smiled. ‘Sometimes I think about the quilt I am working on. It takes time to clear the mind of everyday thoughts. It helps to be with others also waiting, and to close one’s eyes.’ She tried to think of words to explain what she felt at Meeting. ‘When the mind is clear one turns inward and sinks into a deep stillness. There is peace there, and a strong sense of being held by what we call the Inner Spirit, or the Inner Light.’ She paused. ‘I have not yet felt that in America.’

‘You been to many Meetings in America?’

‘Only one. Grace and I went to a Meeting in Philadelphia. It was – not the same as England.’

‘Ain’t silence the same everywhere?’

‘There are different kinds of silence. Some are deeper and more productive than others. In Philadelphia I was distracted, and did not find the peace I was looking for that day.’

‘I thought Philadelphia Quakers are supposed to be the best there is. Top-quality Quakers.’

‘We do not think like that. But …’ Honor hesitated. She did not like to be critical of Friends in front of non-Quakers. But she had started, so she must continue. ‘Arch Street is a big Meeting, for there are many Friends in Philadelphia, and when Grace and I entered the room, there were not many benches still free. We sat on one that was, and were asked to move, for they said it was the Negro pew.’

‘What’s that?’

‘For black Members.’

Belle raised her eyebrows. ‘There’s coloured Quakers?’

‘Yes. I had not known there were. None came that day to Meeting, and the bench remained empty, even though the other benches grew crowded and uncomfortable.’

Belle said nothing, but waited.

‘I was surprised that Friends would separate black Members in that way.’

‘So that’s what kept you from God that day.’

‘Perhaps.’

Belle grunted. ‘Honor Bright, you are one delicate flower. You think just ’cause Quakers say everyone is equal in God’s eyes, that means they’ll be equal in each other’s?’

Honor bowed her head.

Belle shrugged and took up her newspaper again. ‘Anyway, I like me a good hymn. Give me that over silence any day.’ She began to hum, rocking in time to the simple, repetitive melody.

Later Belle had the neighbours’ boys bring down Honor’s trunk so that it was ready for Adam Cox’s arrival. After dinner they sat together in the shop to wait for him. Though the other shops were also closed, people strolled up and down, looking in the windows.

‘Thankee for your help,’ Belle said as they waited. ‘I’m caught up now. Won’t be so busy again till September when they bring me their winter bonnets to be retrimmed.’

‘I am very grateful to thee for having me.’

Belle waved her hand. ‘Honey, it’s nothing. Funny, normally I don’t take to company, but you’re all right. You don’t talk too much, for one thing. Are all Quakers as quiet as you?’

‘My sister was not quiet.’ Honor gripped her hands so they would not tremble.

‘Anyway,’ Belle said after a pause, ‘you can come here any time. Next visit I’ll show you how to make hats. Now, I got somethin’ for you.’ Belle went behind the counter and took down from a shelf the grey and yellow bonnet Honor had worked on the day before. ‘A new life needs a new bonnet. And this bonnet needs an adventure.’ When Honor did not take it, Belle pushed it into her hands. ‘It’s the least I can do, as pay for all that work you did. And it’ll suit you. Go on and try it.’

Honor reluctantly took off her old bonnet. Though she liked the dove grey of the body of the bonnet, she didn’t think the yellow rim would suit her. Yet when she looked in the mirror on the wall of the shop, she was startled to discover Belle was right. The yellow brim was like a soft halo that lit up her face.

‘There you go,’ Belle remarked, satisfied. ‘You’ll go to Faithwell lookin’ smart, and maybe just a little more up-to-date. And here’s a bit of the yellow left over – not enough for a lining so it’s not much use to me. I know you quilters like your scraps.’






Though she accepted that it was a silly thought, Honor wondered at first if Adam Cox was so cold with her because he didn’t like the new bonnet.

When they heard a wagon approach from the north, Honor and Belle went out to the front of the shop to meet him, Honor’s stomach twisting. Though she dreaded having to go through the details of Grace’s death with him, to witness his grief and reignite her own, she was also looking forward to seeing a familiar face. When he drew up in front of the shop, slow and careful, she stepped forward eagerly, and was stopped short by his stiff gaze, as if he were far away and not engaged in what he was looking at. He could not seem to meet her eye. Nonetheless she said, ‘Adam, I am glad to see thee.’

Adam Cox climbed down from the wagon. Honor had always been surprised that Grace chose to marry him. A tall man with the sloped shoulders of a shopkeeper, whiskers along his jaw, sober clothes and a broad-brimmed hat, he nodded at her as he approached the porch, but did not embrace her as a family member would. He looked uncomfortable, and it was confirmed to Honor even before he’d said a word that this would be a difficult reunion. There was no tie of blood or love to bind them, only circumstances and the memory of Grace. She felt tears welling, and struggled to keep them under control.

‘I am glad to see thee too, Honor,’ Adam said. He did not sound glad.

‘I thank thee for coming for me.’ Honor’s voice emerged strangled.

Belle had been watching them, crossing her arms over her chest as she made up her mind about Adam Cox. But she was civil. ‘I’m real sorry about your intended’s death, sir,’ she said. ‘God gives us a hard life, that’s for sure. You look after Honor, now. She’s had one hell of a time.’

Adam stared at her.

‘She’s also got the finest sewing hand in town,’ Belle added. ‘I got a lot of work out of her. Well, now, Honor, I guess I won’t see much of you – Faithwell’s closer to Oberlin than to here, so you’ll be goin’ that way for your provisions. You watch out for them Oberlinites – they got opinions about everything and they’ll be glad to tell you of ’em. You ever get tired of it over that way, come back – there’s always work for you here. There, now, what’s this?’ For Honor was crying. Belle put her arms around her and gave her a hard, bony hug. For a thin woman she was very strong.






The road north from Wellington was wider and more established than the route Honor and Thomas had taken from Hudson. The trees had been cut further back so that the forest was less oppressive, and there were farms and fields of corn and oats along the way, as well as pastures where cows grazed. There was little traffic, though, it being Sunday.

Within a mile, Honor understood a little better Adam Cox’s awkwardness: in terse words he told her that his brother Matthew had died three weeks before, of the consumption that brought Adam to Ohio to help with the business.

‘I am so sorry,’ Honor said.

‘It was expected. I did not want to burden Grace with the prognosis in my letters.’

‘How fares Matthew’s widow?’

‘Abigail is resigned to God’s will. She is of strong character and will cope. But tell me of Grace.’

Honor gave a brief account of her sister’s illness and death. Then they lapsed into silence, and she could feel in its density the weight of unasked questions and unspoken comments. Chief among them, she was sure, was: ‘What is the sister to me now that the wife is gone?’ Adam Cox was of course an honest and honourable man, and would accept responsibility for his would-be sister-in-law. But it was not easy for either.

Adam glanced over at Honor. ‘Is that bonnet new?’

Startled that he would show any interest in her wardrobe, Honor stuttered, ‘It – it was a gift, from Belle.’

‘I see. Thee did not make it.’

‘Is there something wrong with it?’

‘Not – wrong. It is different from what thee normally wears – what a Friend would wear. But no, not wrong.’ It was strange to hear his Dorset accent so far from home. Adam cleared his throat. ‘Abigail – Matthew’s widow – was not expecting thee. Indeed, I was not expecting thee either. We did not know thee was coming to Ohio until the milliner wrote the other day to say thee was with her.’

‘Thee did not get Grace’s letter? She wrote the moment I decided to come. She sent it immediately – within a day.’ Honor kept adding information, as if by saying enough, the letter would appear.

‘Honor, letters do not always arrive, or they arrive late – sometimes later than the person they announce. And by the time the letter arrives, the news is months old. Thee has written to thy parents about Grace, yes?’

‘Of course.’

‘They will not know of her death for six weeks at the earliest. In the meantime thee will receive letters still asking after her. Thee must be prepared for that, upsetting as it is. The gap between letters can be disturbing. Things change before those affected are fully aware.’

Honor was only half listening, for threaded through his words was the sound she had been expecting since leaving Wellington: the uneven hoofbeats of Donovan’s horse approaching from behind.

He drew up alongside them, smelling of whisky and stale smoke. ‘Honor Bright,’ he said, ‘you didn’t think you could leave town without a goodbye, did you? That wouldn’t be polite, after all. Wouldn’t be friendly.’

Adam Cox pulled on the reins to stop the wagon. ‘Hello, friend. Thee knows Honor?’

‘This is Mr Donovan, Adam,’ Honor broke in. ‘I met him on the road to Wellington.’ She did not add that he was Belle’s brother: that would not help Adam’s opinion of the milliner.

‘I see. I thank thee for any kindness thee has showed Honor during this difficult time.’

Donovan chuckled. ‘Oh, Honor’s been quite the fixture in town, ain’t you, darlin’?’

Adam frowned at the coarse familiarity. However, he knew no other way to be than honest. ‘I am taking her to live in Faithwell. If thee has finished, we will continue.’ He held up the reins expectantly.

‘What, you gonna marry her now the sister’s gone?’

Honor and Adam flinched and leaned away from each other. Honor felt physically ill.

‘I have a responsibility to look after Honor,’ Adam said. ‘She is like a sister to me, and will live with my sister-in-law and me as family.’

Donovan raised his eyebrows. ‘Two sisters-in-law and no wife? Sounds cozy for you.’

‘That’s enough, Donovan.’ Honor’s sharp tone was almost as surprising as her dropping of ‘Mr’. Adam blinked.

‘Ah, got your claws out! All right, all right, my apologies.’ Donovan half bowed from his saddle, then dismounted. ‘Now, I’ll just have a look in your wagon. Down you get.’

‘What reason could thee have to search our things?’ Adam demanded, the colour rising in his face. ‘We have nothing to conceal.’

‘Adam, allow him,’ Honor whispered as she climbed down. ‘It is easier that way.’

Adam remained on the seat. ‘No man has the right to search another’s possessions without cause.’

The violence when it came was so swift Honor caught her breath. One moment Adam was sitting hunched but defiant on the seat of the wagon; the next, he was lying in the dust of the road, crying out and holding his wrist while blood spurted from his nose. Honor ran and knelt by him, holding his head in her lap and mopping the blood with a handkerchief.

In the meantime, Donovan had opened her trunk once again, pawing through the contents and scattering them about on the wagon bed; he did not remark on the signature quilt. Then he lifted the seat they had been perched on and rummaged about. Satisfied at last, he jumped down and stood over them. ‘Where’s the nigger, Honor? You know you can’t lie to me, Quaker gal.’

Honor looked up at him. ‘I do not know,’ she was able to say honestly.

Donovan held her gaze for a long moment. Though weary from his Saturday night carousing, his eyes were still lit with interest, and Honor found them mesmerising, for in the clear brown were little flecks of black like pieces of bark. He was still wearing her key under his shirt – she could see its outline.

‘All right. Don’t know why, but I believe you. Don’t you ever lie to me, though. I’m gonna keep my eye on you. I’ll be paying you a visit over in Faithwell soon.’ He swung up on to his bay horse. Turning its head back towards Wellington, he paused. ‘My sister’s bonnet suits you, Honor Bright. Them colours are from a blanket we had when we was little.’ He clucked his tongue and the horse sprang away into a gallop.

Honor wished he would not tell her such things.

In the distance another wagon was coming. Honor helped Adam to his feet so that he would not be further shamed lying in the dirt in front of strangers. He clutched at his wrist.

‘Break or sprain?’ she asked.

‘Sprain, I think, thanks be to God. It just needs binding.’ Adam shook his head at the mess of Honor’s things in the wagon. ‘What did he think he would find? He knows we won’t have any liquor or tobacco, or indeed anything of value.’ He turned his bewildered eyes on Honor, who had retrieved his hat from the side of the road and was dusting it off.

She handed it to him. ‘He is looking for a runaway slave.’

Adam stared at her until he had to move to make way for the approaching wagon. He said nothing until they were seated again, his wrist bound with one of Honor’s neck cloths, and heading once more towards Faithwell. Then he cleared his throat. ‘It seems thee is quickly learning the ways of Americans.’ He did not sound pleased.

Faithwell, Ohio

6th Month 5th 1850

Dear Mother and Father,

It has been a very long journey from Bridport to Faithwell. The best part of my arrival was not lying down in a bed I knew I would not have to leave the next day, but seeing your letter awaiting me. Adam Cox told me it has been here two weeks. How can it have arrived so long before me when it had to make the same journey? I cried when I saw thy hand, Mother. Even though it was written just a week after I left, I relished every bit of news, because it made me feel I was still at home, taking part in all the daily events of the community. I had to remind myself by looking at the date of the letter that thy words and the things thee describes are two months old. Such a delay is so disorienting.

I am sorry to have to tell you that Matthew Cox has passed: the consumption he suffered from overtook him four weeks ago. This means the Faithwell household I have joined is now very different from what was anticipated. Instead of two married couples and me, there are just three of us, with tenuous ties to one another. It is awkward, though it is early days yet and I hope to feel more settled eventually, rather than a visitor, as I do now. Adam and Abigail, Matthew’s widow, have been welcoming. But Grace’s death has been a great shock to Adam, who of course had been looking forward to marrying and settling his wife into a new life in Ohio. My appearance was also a surprise, for the letter informing him that I had decided to accompany Grace to America never arrived.

I often find myself thinking of how Grace would have coped, how she would have smoothed the rough edges of the circumstances with her laughter and good humour. I try to emulate her, but it is not easy.

Adam’s house in Faithwell – or Abigail’s house, perhaps I should say, for she owned it with Matthew – is so different from what I am used to. I feel when I am in it as if the air around me has shifted and is not the same air I breathed and moved in back in England, but is some other substance. Can a building do such a thing? It is a new house, built about three years ago, of rough pine boards that smell of resin. The wood makes me think of a doll’s house: it lacks the solidity of stone that made our own home on East Street feel so safe. The house creaks constantly, with the wood responding to the wind and the moisture in the air – it is very humid here, and they say it will get worse later in the summer. Apart from my bedroom it is spacious, for one thing America has is much land on which to build. There are two floors, and everyone knows when others go from one to the other, as the boards squeak so. The downstairs comprises a parlour, kitchen and what Americans call the sick room – a bedroom off the kitchen where whoever is ill at the time stays to be looked after. Apparently Americans get fever so often that they need such a room set aside for them – which is troubling, given what I have just witnessed with Grace.

There are three bedrooms upstairs: the largest, which Abigail would have shared with her husband, a medium-sized that Adam was expecting to share with Grace, and a tiny room that would have been for the baby if there were one. They have put me there, for now; the arrangement feels temporary, though what would be more permanent, I cannot say. Although there is room for little other than a bed, I do not mind. When I shut the door it is mine. The furnishings are adequate, though, as in many other American houses where I have stayed, they too have a temporary feel about them, as if they have been knocked together until there is time to build something more permanent. I always sit carefully in chairs, for fear they may break. The table legs often have splinters because they have not been properly sanded and finished. They are mostly made of maple or ash, which makes me miss the timelessness of our oak furniture.

The kitchen is not so different in principle from that on East Street: there is a hearth, a range, a long table and chairs, a sideboard for crockery and pots, a larder – called a pantry here – for storage. Yet the feeling is entirely different from the East Street kitchen. Partly it is that Abigail is not so well organised as thee, Mother. She does not seem to have ‘a place for everything, and everything in its place’, as thee taught me. She stacks wood haphazardly so that it does not dry out, leaves the broom blocking the slops bucket rather than out of the way in the corner, doesn’t wipe up crumbs and so attracts mice, leaves dishes in a jumble on the sideboard rather than neatly stacked. Then too, the range and fireplace take wood instead of coal, so the kitchen smells of wood smoke rather than the deeper earthiness of burning coal. We don’t have to clean up coal dust, but the wood ash can be just as trying, especially when Abigail is clumsy.

It is unfortunate that Abigail and I did not get off to a good start. The first meal she served on my arrival was a steak pie: the meat was tough and the pastry hard. I said nothing, of course, and chewed away at it as best I could, but Abigail was embarrassed – and was made more so by giving me sour milk the next morning. I am hoping to be helpful to her, using gentle persuasion over time.

I have ventured out into town a little – though ‘town’ is perhaps an ambitious word for a row of buildings along a rutted track. Bridport must be a hundred times its size. There is a general store – what we would call a chandler – a smithy, the Meeting House, and ten houses, with farms in the surrounding fields. The community comprises some fifteen families, most of whom moved from North Carolina to get away from the slavery that is engrained in society there. I have not yet been to Meeting here, but the people I have met are friendly, though absorbed in their own concerns, as many Americans I have met seem to be. They do not practise the art of conversation in quite the way the English do, but are straightforward to the point of bluntness. Perhaps this will change when I have got to know the community better.

Beyond us the road extends into forest, except where farms have been hacked out of the trees. I had no idea before coming to America just how hard it is to create farmland out of woods. There are stumps everywhere. England is very ordered, with the feeling that God has put trees in their place, and meadows in theirs, and that the fields have always been there rather than needing to be created. I look at the woods here from the window of my little room and it feels as if they are creeping towards the town, and axes will only temporarily keep them back. You know I have always loved trees, but here they are so overwhelmingly abundant that they feel threatening rather than welcoming.

The general store is sparsely stocked with everyday items. For everything that the general store doesn’t carry, we must go to Oberlin, three miles away. It is much larger, with a population of two thousand as well as a collegiate institute full of students. I have not yet visited, though Adam’s shop is there and he goes most days. Eventually if Faithwell grows large enough he would like to move the shop and sell primarily to Friends, but that may take some time. He has said I can help at the shop when they are busy. I shall be glad to be useful.

Daily life here feels more precarious than it did at home. What Bridport did not have Dorchester or Weymouth was sure to. In the American towns I have visited on my way here, and especially now in Faithwell, I sense that we must be self-sufficient, that we cannot rely on others because they are not always there to be depended upon. Most here grow their own vegetables, as we did, but there is no one selling lettuces should one’s own be eaten by rabbits, as Abigail’s have – here one simply goes without. Many keep their own cow as well. Abigail and Adam do not have a cow, though they do keep chickens; we buy milk and cheese from one of the outlying farms.

I have painted only a very brief portrait of Faithwell. I do not yet have a place here, but with God’s help and the support of Friends, I hope to find one. Please be reassured that I am safely arrived, and am well looked after. I have a bed and enough to eat and kind people about me. God is still with me. For these things I am grateful and have no reason to complain. Yet I think of you all often. Though it is too warm to use it now, I have laid the signature quilt across the end of my bed, and at the beginning and end of the day I touch the signatures of all who are dear to me.

Your loving daughter,

Honor Bright




Appliqué (#ulink_a472b5e6-eec5-5088-8234-2fe607ffdc07)







SHE COULD NOT STAY. Honor knew this within half an hour of arriving at Adam and Abigail’s in Faithwell. It was not the messy kitchen, where dishes left over from dinner were still piled in the sink, or the mud that had not been swept from the hallway, or the inedible supper, or the smokiness from a stove that did not draw well. It was not the mouse droppings she spied in the pantry, or the tatters of cobwebs fluttering in corners, or the tiny room Adam showed her that held no more than a bed, so that her trunk had to sit in the hallway. None of these things would have put her off.

She could not stay because Abigail clearly did not want her there. A tall woman with a wide forehead and dark, staring eyes, she had broad shoulders and thick ankles and wrists. On meeting Honor she hugged her, but there was no warmth in the contact. Defensive after the unpalatable meal she served, she rattled off a list of excuses as she showed Honor around the house. ‘Watch thee doesn’t trip on that rug – it needs tacking down, doesn’t it, Adam?’ ‘This lamp does not usually smoke – I was such in a fluster about thy coming so unexpectedly that I didn’t have time to trim it properly.’ ‘I would have swept, but knew thee and thy trunk would bring in dust I would have to sweep away again.’ Abigail had a way of making the faults of the household seem the result of everyone but herself. Honor began to feel guilty for being there at all.

As a child she had been taught that everyone has a measure of the Light in them, and though the amount can vary, all must try to live up to their measure. It seemed to her now that Abigail’s measure was small, and she was not living up to it. Of course she had recently nursed and then lost a husband, and so could be forgiven for being sombre. But Honor suspected her unfriendliness was part of her nature.

Adam Cox did not try to defend Honor or make her feel welcome, but sank further into himself, sober and quiet – stunned by the double loss of his brother and his fiancée, Honor suspected. Though their courtship had been conducted almost entirely through letters, he must have looked forward to the arrival of a lively, beautiful wife. Now he was stuck with the quiet sister and a difficult sister-in-law.

He only became animated as they were sitting on the front porch after supper and Abigail brought up Honor’s decision to come to Ohio. ‘Adam told me about Grace’s family,’ she said, rocking vigorously in her chair, her hands idle, for it was too dark to sew. ‘He said thee was to be married. Why is thee here instead?’

Adam sat up, as if he had been waiting for Abigail to bring up the difficult topic. ‘Yes, Honor, what happened with Samuel? I thought thee had an understanding with him.’

Honor winced, though she knew eventually this question would have to be answered. She tried to do so in as few words as possible. ‘He met someone else.’

Adam frowned. ‘Who?’

‘A – a woman from Exeter.’

‘But I am from there and know most of the Friends there. Who is it?’

Honor swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. ‘She is not a Friend.’

‘What, he married out of the faith?’ Abigail practically shouted.

‘Yes.’

‘I assume Bridport Meeting disowned him?’ Adam asked.

‘Yes. He has gone to live in Exeter, and joined the Church of England.’ That was what was hardest: Honor could almost manage the thought of Samuel no longer loving her, but for him willingly to leave the faith that was the very foundation of her life was a blow she did not think she could recover from. That, and the embarrassment in Samuel’s parents’ eyes whenever she ran into them, and the pity in everyone else’s, had made her say yes to Grace’s suggestion to emigrate.

Thinking of this, she found she was gripping her hands in her lap. She took a deep breath and tried to relax her fingers, but her knuckles were still white from being forced to think of Samuel.

Abigail shook her head. ‘That’s just terrible.’ She sounded almost gleeful, but then frowned, perhaps recalling it was those circumstances that brought her this unwelcome guest. Something hard and cruel in her sidelong glance gave Honor the guilty feeling that, once again, she was at fault.

Though it was warm, that night she huddled under the signature quilt in the tiny bedroom, seeking solace.






Later Honor admitted to herself that she had not hidden her dismay at her new home well, and Abigail might easily have taken offence. The ramshackle, frontier nature of the house extended to Faithwell itself. When Adam brought her from Wellington, she’d thought the scattering of houses had been just the announcement of a larger settlement nearby. The next morning she discovered otherwise when she and Abigail went for a walk. Though it was raining and the road in front of the house had turned to mud, Abigail insisted on going out. It was as if she dreaded being alone with Honor – Adam had left early for the Oberlin shop. When Honor suggested they might wait until the rain let up, Abigail frowned and continued putting on her bonnet. ‘I hear it rains all the time in England,’ she countered, tying the ribbon tight under her chin. ‘Thee should be used to it. Thee won’t wear that grey and yellow bonnet, will thee? It’s fancy for Faithwell.’

Honor had already decided to store Belle’s bonnet; she wondered if she would ever find a place to wear it. Grace would have managed to wear it here, she thought.

She followed Abigail along the track, picking through the mud to planks that had been laid alongside for this purpose, though the mud covered them as well. They passed a few houses, similar in construction to Adam and Abigail’s, but no one else was out. The general store was also empty apart from the owner. He greeted her kindly enough, with the sort of open, honest face she was familiar with among Friends back home. The shop itself was small and basic, the space given over primarily to barrels of flour, cane sugar, cornmeal and molasses. There were also a few shelves carrying a jumble of bits and pieces such as candles and bootlaces, a tablet of writing paper, a dishcloth, a hand broom – as if a pedlar had come along and convinced the shopkeeper he needed one of each in case someone asked for it someday.

Honor maintained a strained smile as she looked around, trying to mask what she was thinking: that these barrels and shelves represented the limitations of her new life. A metal pail, a packet of needles, a jar of vinegar: these lone items, sad on their shelves, were all there was to Faithwell. There was no additional room full of tempting sweets or beautiful cloth, no corner to turn with another row of shops on a mud-free street, no duck-egg-blue floorboards. Adam’s letters to Grace had not been lies, exactly, but he had made the town out to be thriving. ‘It is small but growing,’ he had written. ‘I am certain it will flourish.’ Perhaps Honor should have paid more attention to Adam’s use of the future tense.

Back at the house she tried to help Abigail: she washed dishes and scrubbed pots, shook out the oval rag rugs scattered throughout the house, brought in wood for the range and hauled out ash from the stove to dump in the privy – ‘Outhouse,’ she murmured. With every task she asked for instructions so that she would not offend Abigail with different ways of doing things that might imply her hostess was in the wrong. Abigail was the sort of woman who thought that way.

She made her big mistake while sweeping the kitchen and pantry. ‘Does thee have a cat?’ she asked as the mouse droppings accumulated in the pile of sweepings, thinking this gentle suggestion might solve the mouse problem.

Abigail dropped the knife she was using to peel potatoes. ‘No! They make me sneeze.’ She disappeared into the pantry and came back with a jar of red powder, which she tapped into bellows and began blowing into the corners, her movements jerky and accompanied by sighs. Honor tried not to stare, but curiosity overtook her, and she picked up the jar. ‘What is this?’

‘Red pepper. Gets rid of vermin. Doesn’t thee use it in England?’

‘No. We had a cat.’ Honor did not add that their cat, a tortoiseshell called Lizzy, was a good mouser. She used to sit next to Honor while she sewed and purr. The thought of her old cat made her eyes sting, and she turned back to her sweeping so that Abigail would not see her tears.

In the evening when Adam returned, Honor heard Abigail whispering to him out on the porch. She did not try to listen; from the tone she knew what Abigail was saying: She could not stay. But where could she go?






The next afternoon, when Abigail decided they had done enough housework for the day, she settled into the rocker on the front porch with a quilt she was working on and a bowl of new cherries from a tree behind the house. Honor had picked them so the blue jays wouldn’t eat them all. Fetching her sewing box, she joined Abigail. She had not worked on a quilt since being on board the Adventurer – her journey since then had been too disjointed, and her sewing time at Belle’s was spent on bonnets.

Though she’d thrown into the ocean all of the hexagons her mother had cut out for her, Honor still had some bits of cloth from home, a few shapes she had already pieced, and fabric tacked around templates, ready to be sewn together. Most women who made quilts had half-started projects waiting for the right moment to be taken up again. Honor looked through the rosettes and stars she had already made, wondering what she should do with them. The shapes and colours – brown and green rosettes made from Grace and Honor’s old dresses, the beginning of a Bethlehem Star in different shades of yellow – reminded her of Dorset, and seemed foreign in the bright American sunlight. She did not think she could make something from them that would complement Ohio life. However, she was not ready to sit with pen and paper and work on a new design: it was too soon, and she needed a clear head, and inspiration.

Honor glanced at Abigail’s quilt; if she were with her mother, or Grace, or her friend Biddy, she could offer to help if she did not want to work on her own project. However, she did not dare ask Abigail, who would doubtless take the offer the wrong way. Besides, Abigail’s quilt was in a style Honor could not imagine making: a floral appliqué of red flowers and green leaves spilling out of a red urn, sewn on to a white background. Honor had always preferred patchwork to appliqué, feeling that to sew pieces of fabric on top of large squares of material was somehow cheating, a shortcut compared to the harder task of piecing together hundreds of bits of fabric, the colours blended so that the whole was graduated and unified and made a pleasing pattern. Though some quilters despaired of the rigid geometry and the accuracy required for making patchwork, to Honor it was a happy challenge. Since coming to America she had seen these appliquéd quilts – usually red and white, sometimes with green as well – everywhere, in inns and guest houses, hanging on lines and over porch railings for airing. They were bright, cheerful, unsophisticated. Some of the quilting patterns were beautifully executed, of feathers or vines or grapes, sometimes padded so that the pattern stood out. But the overall look was not to her taste.





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