The Last Runaway. Tracy Chevalier

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

      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