The Last Runaway. Tracy Chevalier

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