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. All right? We don’t have much choice.’
Honor nodded.
‘You do the dishes and I’ll work on the trunk.’ Belle surveyed the table, Honor’s clean plate and her own, almost untouched. Picking up the latter, she set it on the sideboard with a napkin over it. Then she disappeared upstairs. A few minutes later, as Honor was scrubbing the pan, she heard banging and then a triumphant shout.
‘English locks ain’t any better’n American,’ Belle announced as she came downstairs. ‘It’s broken now. Go and get your sewing things. I’ll finish up here.’
When Honor brought her box down, Belle was dragging a rocking chair through the back door. ‘Let’s set on the back porch, catch the breeze. You want this rocker, or a straight chair?’
‘I will bring out a straight chair.’ Honor had seen rocking chairs everywhere she went in America; they were much more common than in England. The sensation reminded her too much of the ship. Besides, she needed solid stillness for sewing.
As she picked up a chair in the kitchen, she noticed Belle’s plate of food on the sideboard was gone.
The milliner’s was on the end of a row of buildings that included a grocery, a harness shop, a confectionary and a drug store. The back yards of these establishments were underused, though one had a vegetable garden, and in another there was laundry hanging out. Belle’s yard had nothing in it but a pile of planed wood and a goat tethered in the weeds. ‘Don’t go near the wood,’ Belle warned. ‘Snakes there. And leave that goat be. It belongs to the neighbours, and it’s evil.’ There was also an outhouse, and a lean-to along the side of the house for storing wood, but clearly Belle’s energy went into her shop.
Honor sat and opened her sewing box to lay out her things. This ritual, at least, was familiar. The sewing box had belonged to her grandmother, who, when her sight began to fail, handed it on to the best stitcher among her granddaughters. Made of walnut wood, it had a padded needlepoint cover of lilies of the valley in green and yellow and white. This was an image Honor had known from an early age; eyes shut, she could perfectly recreate it in her mind, as she had often done to distract herself during her seasickness. The upper tray contained a needlecase Grace had made, embroidered with lilies of the valley similar to the box lid; a wire needle threader; a porcelain thimble her mother had given her, decorated with yellow roses; a beaded pin cushion her friend Biddy had made for her; packets of pins wrapped in green paper; a small tin holding a lump of beeswax she used on her quilting thread; and her grandmother’s pair of small sewing scissors with green and yellow enamelled handles, sheathed in a soft leather case.
Belle Mills leaned forward to inspect. ‘Nice. What are these?’ She picked up pieces of metal cut into different shapes: hexagons, diamonds, squares, triangles.
‘Templates for cutting patchwork. My father had them made for me.’
‘Quilter, eh?’
Honor nodded.
‘What’s underneath?’
Honor lifted the tray to reveal spools of different coloured thread, each slotted into its place.
Belle nodded her approval, then reached between the spools to pick out a small silver thimble. ‘Don’t you want this in the top section with the other things?’
‘No.’ Samuel had given her the thimble when their feelings for each other were ripe. She would not use it now, but could not quite give it up.
Belle raised her eyebrows. When Honor did not elaborate, she dropped the thimble back into the spools to ruin their perfect order. ‘All right, Honor Bright,’ she chuckled, ‘everybody’s entitled to their secrets. Now, let’s get you started. You sewed much on straw before?’
Honor shook her head. ‘I have not made hats, only bonnets.’
‘Bet you only got two bonnets – winter and summer. You Quakers don’t go in for fancy clothes, do you? Well, then, let’s start you on cloth. I got a sun bonnet for Mrs Bradley needs finishing. That’s easy – no straw structure, just corded. Most women make their own, but Mrs Bradley’s got a fancy notion she don’t ever need to pick up a needle. Think you can manage this? Here’s the thread. I been using a size six needle.’ She handed Honor a soft bonnet that had been cut and tacked together with loose stitches, and only needed sewing; it was a simple enough design, with a long, wide bavolet of cloth to cover the neck from the sun. The fabric was a light blue plaid crisscrossed with thin yellow and white stripes. It was not a style Honor was familiar with – no English woman would be willing to let so much fabric flap around her neck – but the sun was stronger here, so perhaps such covering was needed. At any rate, it would be easy to sew.
Honor reached for a spool and her needle threader and quickly threaded six needles, poking them into the pin cushion in readiness. Though Belle’s scrutiny made her self-conscious, in the sewing realm at least she was confident of what she was doing. She began to sew the crown on to the brim using a back stitch for strength, and gathering the crown cloth into little pleats as she made her way around. Honor was a fast, accurate seamstress, though she went more slowly on this bonnet, to make sure she was doing what Belle wanted.
Belle sat in the rocker next to her and sewed cream silk over the top of the straw, oval-shaped brim of a bonnet. Every so often she glanced over at Honor’s work. ‘I can see I don’t have to look after you,’ she remarked when Honor had finished the sun bonnet. ‘Now, watch the pleats I’m makin’ to get this cloth to lay flat around the brim. See, like this. Think you can do that? Here, try it. Use this – it’s a milliner’s needle – better for straw.’
When
