The Last Runaway. Tracy Chevalier

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.