The Last Runaway. Tracy Chevalier

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СКАЧАТЬ despite not managing to knock the price down, many women placed orders. Belle rarely measured their heads – most she knew already, and she could gauge a newcomer at a glance. ‘Twenty inches, most of ’em,’ she told Honor. ‘German heads a little bigger, but everybody else is pretty well the same, no matter how much or how little they got up there.’

      Her choice of hat shapes and trim was often unusual, but most customers accepted her judgement, saving their arguments for the price rather than the style. From what Honor could see of the customers who came to pick up their hats, Belle usually was right, often choosing colours and styles for them that were different from what they normally wore. ‘Hats can go stale on you,’ she said to a woman she had just convinced to buy a hat dyed green and trimmed with straw folded and tucked to resemble heads of wheat. ‘You always want to surprise people with something new, so they see you different. A woman who always wears a blue bonnet with lace trim will start to look like that bonnet, even when she’s not wearing it. She needs some flowers near her eyes, or a red ribbon, or a brim that sets off her face.’ She inspected Honor’s plain cap so frankly that Honor ducked her head.

      ‘But you wear the same thing every day, Belle,’ the woman pointed out.

      Belle patted her cap, which was almost as plain as Honor’s, though with a limp frill around the edge and a cord at the back that when pulled made a little pleat in the fabric. ‘It don’t do for me to wear anything fancy in the store,’ she said. ‘Don’t want to compete with my customers – you’re the ones got to look good. I wear my hats outside, for advertising.’

      Despite the haggling, the frivolous trimmings, the feeling at times that she was an entertainment for the hat wearers of Wellington, Honor liked working for Belle. Whatever she was making, she was at least kept busy, with no time to think about the traumas of the past, the uncertainty she was living in, or of what lay ahead.

      As she sat by the open window, Honor twice heard the thudding shoe of Donovan’s horse and saw him ride past. One afternoon he stationed himself at the hotel bar across the square, leaning against the railing, his eyes on the millinery shop and, it seemed, on her. She shrank back in her seat, but could not avoid his gaze, and soon moved to the back porch, away from his scrutiny.

      Belle had given Honor another pile of bonnets to work on, but before she began she sat for a few minutes, listening. There were no sounds from the woodshed, but Honor could feel that someone was there. Now that she knew who, and could even name and describe him, she felt a little less frightened. After all, it was he who would be frightened of her.

      Belle had been so matter-of-fact about slaves before, but the idea was still new and shocking to Honor. Bridport Friends had discussed the shame of American slavery, but it had merely been indignant words; no one had ever seen a slave in person. Honor was astonished that one was now hiding fifteen feet from her.

      She picked up a grey bonnet almost plain enough for a Quaker to wear. The lining was a pale primrose yellow, and she was to sew mustard-coloured ribbons on to it, and add a yellow cord drawstring to the bavolet at the back of the neck where the cloth could be tightened and create a small ruff. Though at first Honor was doubtful of the colour combination, by the time she’d finished it, she had to acknowledge that the yellow lifted the grey, yet was pale enough not to make the bonnet gaudy, though the ribbon colour was more insistent than she would have chosen. Belle had unorthodox taste, but she knew how to use it to good effect.

      During a lull in the shop, Belle brought out a tin mug of water. Leaning against the railing while Honor drank, she squinted into the yard. ‘There’s a snake sunning itself on the lumber,’ she announced. ‘Copperhead. You got copperheads in England? No? Keep away from ’em – you don’t want to get bit by one, it’ll kill you, and it ain’t a pretty death either.’ She disappeared inside, and came back out with a shotgun. Without warning, she aimed at the snake and fired. Honor started and squeezed her eyes shut, dropping the mug. When she dared to open them again, she saw the headless body of the snake lying in the grass, several feet from the planks. ‘There,’ Belle declared, satisfied. ‘Probably a nest, though. I’ll get some boys in there to kill ’em all. Don’t want snakes gettin’ into the woodshed.’

      Honor thought about the man hiding there, almost three days now cramped in the heat and dark, and hearing the gunshot. She wondered how Belle came to be involved in hiding him. When her ears had stopped ringing, she said, ‘Thee mentioned that Kentucky is a slave state. Did thy family own slaves?’ It was the most direct question she had dared to ask.

      Belle regarded her with yellowed eyes, leaning against the porch railing and still holding the shotgun, her dress hanging off her. It occurred to Honor that the milliner must have an underlying illness to make her so thin and discoloured. ‘Our family was too poor to own slaves. That’s why Donovan does what he does. Poor white people hate Negroes more’n anyone.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘They think coloureds are takin’ work they should have, and drivin’ down the price of it. See, Negroes are valued a lot higher. Plantation owner’ll pay a thousand dollars for a coloured man, but a poor white man is worth nothin’.’

      ‘But thee does not hate them.’

      Belle gave her a small smile. ‘No, honey, I don’t hate ’em.’

      The bell on the shop door rang, announcing a customer. Belle picked up her gun. ‘Donovan’s gone, by the way. Saturday night he always drinks himself silly up at Wack’s in Oberlin – that’s one thing you can count on. Guess he’s startin’ early today. You can stop hiding from him back here if you want.’

       Belle Mills’s Millinery

       Main St.

       Wellington, Ohio

       6th Month 1st 1850

       Dearest Biddy,

       It grieves me to have to tell thee that God has taken Grace, six days ago, carried off by yellow fever. I will not go into details here – my parents can let thee read the letter I wrote them. How I wish thee were sitting here with me now, holding my hand and comforting me.

       I think thee would be surprised to see where I am at this moment. I am sitting on the back porch of Belle Mills’s Millinery shop in Wellington, Ohio. The porch faces west, and I am watching the sun going down over a patch of land, at the end of which glints the metal track of a railroad. When finished, it will run south to Columbus and north to Cleveland. The Wellington residents are very excited about it, as we would be if the railway in England were to extend to Bridport.

       Belle is one of the many strangers who has taken pity on me and helped me along the way. Indeed, Belle more than most has been kind. Her shop is only seven miles from Adam Cox, yet when I arrived, she did not pack me off to Faithwell as soon as she could. She sensed without asking that I needed a pause to gather myself after Grace’s death, and so has let me stay with her for a few days. In return I have been able to help with sewing, which has pleased me since it is a familiar activity, and I am able to feel useful rather than having to rely completely on others, or my purse, to look after me.

       I am still stunned that Grace has been gone only a few days. Time and space have played funny tricks on me: the sea voyage seemed to go on for years, though it was but a month, and I already feel far from Hudson, where Grace is buried, though I have only been in Wellington three days. For someone whose life was so ordered and without surprise, a great deal has happened to me in a short time. I suspect America will continue to surprise me. СКАЧАТЬ