The Last Runaway. Tracy Chevalier

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

      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