The Last Runaway

  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 good-bye.”

  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 it, 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 center 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 gray 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 realized 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

  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 center 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 colors, plaids and floral prints. Spilling out of open chests of drawers were gloves, ribbons, wire, lace and feathers dyed in bright colors. 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 recognize. 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 molded 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 colored 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 Qu
akers 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 skeptical 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 traveler. 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 and 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 corn bread there, and butter. Help yourself.”

  Honor gazed at the greasy ham, the eggs flecked with fat, the stodgy corn bread 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 corn bread 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 drugstore. The backyards 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 neighbors, 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.