Honor (35 page)

The man turned and from his saddlebag lifted out a
packet of letters tied with string. “I’m the postal rider hereabouts. Got three letters for you. The charge be five cents.”

Honor gaped at him in surprise. Letters? From whom? They hadn’t yet received any post in the few months they’d lived here. Then, shivering from the cold, she asked him to step in and closed the door behind him. Inside, she eyed the packet of letters in the man’s hand.

“Much obliged,” he said, heading straight for the roaring fire to warm himself.

“Would thee like a cup of coffee?” The pot sat on a trivet on the hearth, keeping warm. Hospitality hadn’t prompted her but the need to delay him, to collect herself before the mail was in her possession. What if Darah had written her? The thought was excruciating, like a fine needle piercing her heart. She wanted desperately to hear from home, yet she wanted to forget High Oaks and everyone there.

“Yes, ma’am. Coffee would warm me, and I thank you.”

Dumbly she poured it and added sugar at his request, handing it to him where he stood, still thawing himself. “I must go get my husband to pay thee.” Anything to distance herself from the letters in that packet.

Wrapped in her wool shawl, Honor walked across the yard, not hurrying over the crunchy frozen grass to the barn. There in the light from the windows and the already-fired-up forge, Samuel was obviously teaching Judah some technique before they tried it with actual molten glass. Usually she enjoyed watching her husband working at what he did best, but today’s unwanted visitor had unnerved her. And an uneasy truce still lay between her and Samuel. Neither of them had mentioned runaway
slaves or abolition in the days since she’d returned from Bucktown.

She waited anxiously till Samuel looked up. “A letter carrier needs payment for postage. We have mail.”

Samuel signed a few more instructions to Judah and hurried beside her to the house. His large form so near always made her feel protected—even now, when they’d been at odds for days. Inside the cabin he lifted down his leather purse from the mantel and handed the man the exact postage.

Gawking at them as Honor signed to Samuel, the postal rider had frozen where he stood. Then, with a start, he gave her the letters. “One’s all the way from Maryland,” he said, still staring at Samuel.

“All the way from Maryland.”
What she’d dreaded.

“That’s the one that cost you the most. Do you have anything you want to mail?”

Honor recognized the handwriting on one of the letters. Darah had indeed written her. She blanched, and her hand trembled. It had been months since she’d written Darah of her marriage and her move to Ohio. She’d accepted the fact that Darah would not reply, and had been somewhat grateful for it. So why was her cousin communicating with her now?

“Ma’am?”

With effort, she brought her mind back to the present. “I have nothing today, but if thee comes near here in the future, please stop so I can send a reply.”
If I can send a reply. I don’t even know if I can bear to read this.

“Will do. Be back this way within a week.” The postal
carrier set his empty mug on the table and adjusted his scarves to confront the cold again. “I’m hoping for a break in this weather. I pray spring starts early this year. Well, I wish that every year.” He waved farewell, something close to a salute, and headed out, pulling the door shut behind himself.

Honor handed Samuel the letter addressed to him. With her mother’s silver letter opener taken from the mantel, she sank into the rocking chair by the hearth. She moved Darah’s letter behind the second letter, from a stranger named Mrs. Thomas Iding. She carefully opened the wax seal on this letter.

December 12, 1819

Dear Mrs. Cathwell,

I am Caleb’s mother. I’m writing to you to let you know where we are now. We have settled in the small town of Beardstown, Illinois, on the Illinois River. We have land that my husband bought from a veteran who wanted to move farther south.

I try not to, but I weep every night over having to leave my Caleb with you. I try to keep from blaming God for taking both my husband and son from me. Is Caleb well? Is he learning to speak with his hands? Again, I thank you and your man from the bottom of my heart for taking Caleb in. Please write to me. I long for news of my son.

Your obedient servant,

Mrs. Thomas Iding

Again bitterness gnawed at Honor, not against this woman but against a husband who would force her to abandon her son. At Samuel’s touch on her shoulder, she glanced up. “Caleb’s mother has written us from Illinois.”

He acknowledged this with a nod; then a grin spread over his face like the dawn. “I’ve received an order for bottles.”

Excitement for him lifted her to her feet. “Thy first order?”

Samuel handed her the businesslike letter, trying to hide his own jubilation. Someone had placed an order at last, likely prompted by the advertisement in the
Centinel
. Fortunately Samuel’s substantial bank account had carried them through this start-up time for his business. God had provided for all their needs.

As Samuel had predicted, it wasn’t a big order, such as one that would have been given to the larger glassworks in Cincinnati. This order came from a farmer who kept bees and wanted to start filling bottles with his name on them and distributing his honey to stores. Samuel’s first order specified four dozen bottles.

As Samuel went to the door and donned his jacket and hat, Honor could not mistake the lift in his step. She closed the distance between them. Stopping him, she took his hand, so large within hers, and looked him in the eye. “I’m so glad.”

He stepped closer to her, beaming now. “I first must carve a mold with the farmer’s name and town to appear on the front of the bottle. And perhaps something more—a picture of a honeybee?”

She stood on tiptoe and leaned in to kiss his cheek, then cupped his chin in her palm.

Haltingly he bent as if to kiss her cheek in return.

At the last moment she moved forward, her lips meeting his.
Samuel, I don’t want this distance between us.

He stood very still, not breaking their connection. His lips caressed hers.

Honor savored their closeness, his touch. She stepped back and signed, “I’m sorry I’ve angered thee.”

“I’m not angry with you.”

She signed the same words back to him.

He smiled once more, looking bashful, before he left her, shutting the door behind him and the biting cold.

Honor stared at the closed door, glad she’d bridged the gap that had kept her from Samuel. Still, the unopened letter from Maryland nagged her. She began pacing before the fire, tapping the letter against the palm of one hand.

Letting in another blast of icy air, Royale hurried inside, huddled in a shawl. “Judah say you got mail. Did Darah write back?”

So Honor could no longer delay reading the other letter. Taking up the letter opener, she slit the seal open. The outside of the missive appeared only a little worn. Inside, the words were written in Darah’s elegant copperplate hand.

December 1, 1819

Dear Honor,

I apologize for not replying sooner to your letter announcing your marriage and your intention to depart for Ohio. I have been slowly becoming accustomed to not having you and Grandfather with me. Even though my full year of mourning had not been observed, I was married October 14 in a private ceremony at High Oaks. Alec was eager for us to marry, and his aunt said no one will think it precipitate, as I needed a husband to oversee my affairs. I hope you and your new husband are well and happy. Greet Royale for me.

Your obedient servant,

Mrs. Alec Martin

Sinking into the rocker once more, Honor read the letter to herself again before handing it to Royale. Married? Already? She had expected much more time to prepare. Images of Alec, his lazy smile as he leaned against the old oak in the garden, gazing at her. Alec, galloping his black stallion up to her door and swinging down with his customary flourish, his lips coaxing hers—

A log broke on the hearth, sending up a plume of sparks, jolting Honor from her daze. She tried to remind herself of the man she knew him to be—Alec, gripping her arms in the garden and berating her for doing what she knew was right and just.

“They got married in October?” Royale said with disapproval, holding the letter away from her like a snake. “That don’t sound right to me. Was Mr. Alec afraid she marry someone else and he would lose the land?”

Honor could not come up with an answer. She realized
she was chewing the inside of her cheek and stopped. Why had news of the marriage so taken her aback? She’d known that Alec and Darah would marry at some point. Darah had gotten everything—Grandfather’s favor, High Oaks, and now Alec. All was complete. They were married.

Honor accepted the letter from Royale and resisted the urge to toss it into the fire. “At least Darah mentioned thee.”

Royale snorted. “She probably wish I still belong to her. Darah wasn’t like you. She don’t see slaves as people.”

Honor rose and tucked the letters behind the Bible on the mantel, closing the discussion. Then she told Royale of the letter from Caleb’s mother. She rubbed her arms, chilled in spite of her long sleeves, and voiced a familiar question, the uppermost question, the one she’d asked Royale every day since they’d buried the runaway. “What are we going to do if another escaped slave comes?”

Royale shrugged. “Your man let us take the baby to Bucktown.”

Honor rubbed her arms again, then tucked her hands into the bends of her elbows. “I wish,” she murmured, “that I could make him understand how important abolition is to me.”

Reaching out, Royale smoothed back wisps of Honor’s hair from around her face. “Judah and I planning a spring wedding.”

Honor concocted a smile. “I’m glad.”

Royale frowned.

“What?”

“I know how much you give up and went through to
get us here—to set me free, keep me safe. I just wish I could do something for you.”

Honor realized that Royale was obliquely pointing out that while she was able to marry a man of her choice, Honor had been forced into a marriage of circumstance to save both of them. Tears threatened, and she tugged Royale close, pressing their cheeks together. She didn’t trust her voice to tell Royale all of what it meant to have blood kin still a part of her life. “Just having thee near is payment enough,” she managed. “I lost everyone and everything but thee.”

As if also unable to voice her feelings, Royale embraced her, a rare moment revealing and reaffirming the bonds that made them important to each other. Royale broke away first, hurried to the door. Drawing on her shawl, she became practical. “We both got work to do today. No time for tears. God will bless you, Honor. He blesses the faithful.”

“Then he will bless thee, too.” Honor swallowed down emotion. “I’ll bring my sewing into the kitchen. I don’t want to be alone today. And it’s time we called the boys indoors to warm up. They’ve played in the cold long enough.” She gathered her sewing box and a half-finished shirt for Eli. As she wrapped up against the cold, another bleak realization dawned on her. After their moment of sharing joy over his first order, Darah’s letter had heightened her feeling of separation from Samuel. She’d been reminded of the life that had been hers and the one she’d foolishly thought might be hers.
Alec and Darah, husband and wife so soon . . .

JANUARY 24, 1820

Three weeks later, Honor was preparing to drive Samuel to deliver the bottles he’d crafted for the beekeeping farmer. Alone in the cabin, she added layers of clothing before putting on her dress: a pair of long wool socks over her cotton stockings, a second pair of pantaloons, and another two petticoats. Then she wrapped her thickest wool shawl around her, found her fur-lined driving gloves, and donned a wool scarf and her bonnet over it. On top of everything else, she wrapped a muffler around her neck.

Last week a southern wind had brought the first breath of spring, but earlier today as she’d walked to the kitchen to discuss the day with Royale and Perlie, she’d seen her own breath. Though the snow had melted, remaining puddles now had a skin of ice over them. A vicious wind whipped the treetops.

Royale knocked and entered Honor’s bedroom. “I wish the weather was better. You’ll be frozen within miles.”

Honor ignored this. What could she do about the weather? About her husband’s continued reluctance to discuss her desire to help future runaways? “The wagon is already loaded,” she said. “Judah is hitching the team, and we’ll be off straightaway.”

Royale pushed a sack of lunch and two leather-covered canteens wrapped in layers of wool cloth—one of water and one of coffee—into Honor’s hands.