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Authors: Tracy Chevalier
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at her.
“She’s also got the finest sewing hand in town,” Belle added. “I got a lot of work out of her. Well, now, Honor, I guess I won’t see much of you—Faithwell’s closer to Oberlin than to here, so you’ll be goin’ that way for your provisions. You watch out for them Oberlinites—they got opinions about everything and they’ll be glad to tell you of ’em. You ever get tired of it over that way, come back—there’s always work for you here. There, now, what’s this?” For Honor was crying. Belle put her arms around her and gave her a hard, bony hug. For a thin woman she was very strong.
* * *
The road north from Wellington was wider and more established than the route Honor and Thomas had taken from Hudson. The trees had been cut further back so that the forest was less oppressive, and there were farms and fields of corn and oats along the way, as well as pastures where cows grazed. There was little traffic, though, it being Sunday.
Within a mile, Honor understood a little better Adam Cox’s awkwardness: in terse words he told her that his brother Matthew had died three weeks before, of the consumption that brought Adam to Ohio to help with the business.
“I 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 honorable 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 whiskey and stale smoke. “Honor Bright,” he said, “you didn’t think you could leave town without a good-bye, 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
“She’s also got the finest sewing hand in town,” Belle added. “I got a lot of work out of her. Well, now, Honor, I guess I won’t see much of you—Faithwell’s closer to Oberlin than to here, so you’ll be goin’ that way for your provisions. You watch out for them Oberlinites—they got opinions about everything and they’ll be glad to tell you of ’em. You ever get tired of it over that way, come back—there’s always work for you here. There, now, what’s this?” For Honor was crying. Belle put her arms around her and gave her a hard, bony hug. For a thin woman she was very strong.
* * *
The road north from Wellington was wider and more established than the route Honor and Thomas had taken from Hudson. The trees had been cut further back so that the forest was less oppressive, and there were farms and fields of corn and oats along the way, as well as pastures where cows grazed. There was little traffic, though, it being Sunday.
Within a mile, Honor understood a little better Adam Cox’s awkwardness: in terse words he told her that his brother Matthew had died three weeks before, of the consumption that brought Adam to Ohio to help with the business.
“I 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 honorable 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 whiskey and stale smoke. “Honor Bright,” he said, “you didn’t think you could leave town without a good-bye, 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
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