Honor

by Lyn Cote

  PRAISE FOR HONOR

  and other novels by Lyn Cote

  “A wonderful story of a brave and strong woman, Honor is both a sweet romance and a lesson on the importance of doing what is right. The historical detail is fascinating and the characters are rich and real. Highly recommended!”

  GAYLE ROPER, AUTHOR OF AN UNEXPECTED MATCH

  “Cote skillfully and deftly combines period details with a touching, heartwarming love story in a thought-provoking tale that will have readers eager for the next book in the Quaker Brides series.”

  MARTA PERRY, AUTHOR OF THE LOST SISTERS OF PLEASANT VALLEY SERIES

  “In Honor, Lyn Cote has given her many faithful readers another story of suspense, surprise, and love that will hold their attention from beginning to end.”

  IRENE BRAND, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF LOVE FINDS YOU UNDER THE MISTLETOE

  “… A moving and emotional tale of self-forgiveness and compassion. Complex characters and good pacing make the story entertaining.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES ON THEIR FRONTIER FAMILY

  “In her new series launch, [Cote] demonstrates her skill at creating strong female protagonists in compelling stories that will captivate historical romance readers.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL ON THE DESIRES OF HER HEART

  “The Desires of Her Heart is a riveting historical romance that takes you to a time and a place not often written about. Ms. Cote’s characters are unique, and each one takes on a personality of its own.”

  TITLETRAKK.COM

  “Her Healing Ways is a wonderful love story… . Cote knows what will keep readers interested in the story and uses this knowledge throughout.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Lyn Cote’s website at www.lyncote.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Honor

  Copyright © 2014 by Lyn Cote. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Stephen Vosloo

  Edited by Danika King

  Published in association with the literary agency of Browne & Miller Literary Associates, LLC, 410 Michigan Avenue, Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Honor is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cote, Lyn.

  Honor / Lyn Cote.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4143-7562-5 (sc)

  1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Quakers—Fiction. 3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 4. Arranged marriage—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3553.O76378H77 2014

  813’.54—dc23 2014013147

  ISBN 978-1-4964-0019-2 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8476-4 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-0020-8 (Apple)

  Build: 2014-08-14 16:43:39

  To Mrs. Doris M. Crawford, one of my first African American teachers and the one who took the time to teach me to write, RIP

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  HIGH OAKS PLANTATION

  TIDEWATER, MARYLAND

  AUGUST 1819

  Each time her grandfather struggled for another breath, Honor Penworthy’s own lungs constricted. She stood beside the second-story window, trying to breathe normally, trying to catch a breeze in the heat. Behind her, the gaunt man lay on his canopied bed, his heart failing him. How long must he suffer before God would let him pass on?

  Outside the window stretched their acres, including the tobacco fields, where dark heads covered with kerchiefs or straw hats bent to harvest the green-speared leaves. High Oaks—to her, the most beautiful plantation in Maryland. She felt a twinge of pain, of impending loss.

  “The edict was impractical. And your … father was a dreamer. But at least he had the sense to realize his irrational decision must be kept secret. Doesn’t that tell you not to carry it out?” Each word in this last phrase slapped her, and each cost him.

  Unable to ignore this challenge, she turned. In her grandfather’s youth, the Society of Friends had dictated that all Friends should free their slaves. “My father remained Quaker.” She said the bare words in a neutral voice, trying not to stir the still-smoldering coals.

  “I remained a Christian,” he fired back. “My forebears chose to leave the Anglican church to become Quaker. I chose to change back.”

  He’d made that choice because the Episcopal church didn’t press its members to emancipate their slaves. All of the other Quakers in the county had left except for a few older, infirm widows—women who’d lost control of their land to sons. As a single woman, however, Honor could inherit and dispose of property legally.

  Honor returned to his bedside. At the sight of her grandfather’s ravaged face, pity and love surged through her.

  As she approached, her grandfather’s mouth pulled down and his nose wrinkled as if he were tasting bitter fruit.

  Torn between love for her father and for her grandfather, she didn’t want to fight with him, not now. “My father loved thee,” she said to placate him.

  “That is beside the … point. He should never have asked that promise of you. It was cowardly.” He panted from the exertion.

  Honor gazed at him levelly. The memory of her father’s untimely and unnecessary death still had the power to sweep away her calm, but one couldn’t change history. Her grandfather’s comment could lead them into harsh recriminations. And it proved that he knew he’d done wrong and had chosen the wide way, not the narrow gate. She chose her words deftly. “I believe that my father was right.”

  Grandfather’s mouth tightened, twisted, not only because of her recalcitrance but also from a sudden pain. He gasped wildly for breath.

  If only it weren’t so hot. She slipped another white-cased down pillow under his chest and head, trying to ease his breathing. She blinked away tears, a woman’s weapon she disdained.

  “How will you … work the land without … our people?” he demanded in between gasps.

  “Thee knows I cannot. And that once they are gone, there will be no way I can hold the land.” She said the words calmly, but inside, fear frothed up. Freeing their slaves would irrevocably alter her life.

  He slapped the coverlet with his gnarled fist. “This estate has been Penworthy land for four generations. Will you toss aside the land your great-great-grandfather cleared by hand and fought the Cherokee for?”

  Honor felt the pull of her heritage, a cinching around her heart. “I know. It weighs on me,” she admitted.

  “Then why do it?”

  He forced her to repeat her reasons. “I gave my father my promise, and I agree with him.”

  Her grandfather made a sound of disgust, a grating of rusted hinges. Then he glared at her from under bushy, willful brows. “Things have changed since your father left us. Did you even notice that our bank failed this year?”

  The lump over Hon
or’s heart increased in weight, making it hard to breathe. “I am neither blind nor deaf. I am aware of the nationwide bank panic.”

  “Are you aware that we’ve lost our cash assets? We only have the land and the people to work the land. And debts.”

  “Debts?” That she hadn’t known.

  “Yes, debt is a part of owning a plantation. And I’m afraid last year’s poor crop put us in a bad situation even before the bank panic.”

  Honor looked into her grandfather’s cloudy, almost-blind eyes. “How bad?”

  “If you free our people and sell the land, you will have nothing worthwhile left.”

  A blow. She bent her head against one post of the canopied bed. The lump in her chest grew heavier still. “I didn’t think emancipation would come without cost.”

  “I don’t believe you have any idea of how much it will cost you.” Disdain vibrated in each word. “Who will you be if you free our people and sell the plantation? If you aren’t the lady of High Oaks?”

  She looked up at the gauzy canopy. “I’ll be Honor Penworthy, child of God.”

  “You will be landless, husbandless, and alone,” he railed. A pause while he gathered strength, wheezing and coughing.

  Honor helped him sip honey water.

  “I don’t want you in that vulnerable position,” he said in a much-gentler tone, his love for her coming through. “I won’t be here to protect you. You think that Martin boy will marry you, but he won’t. Not if you give up High Oaks.”

  Alec Martin had courted her, but no, she no longer thought they would marry. A sliver of a different sort of pain pierced her.

  The floor outside the door creaked, distracting them. Honor turned at the sound of footsteps she recognized. “Darah?” she called.

  “I want to see her,” Grandfather said, looking away.

  Honor moved quickly and opened the door.

  Darah paused at the head of the stairs. She was almost four years younger than Honor’s twenty-four, very slight and pretty, with soft-brown eyes and matching brown hair.

  “Cousin, come here. Our grandfather wishes thee.”

  Darah reluctantly glanced into Honor’s eyes—at first like a frightened doe and then with something else Honor had never seen in her cousin before. Defiance?

  Darah slipped past her into the room. “Grandfather?”

  He studied his hands, now clutching the light blanket. “Honor, leave us. I wish to speak to Darah alone.”

  Why? Worry stirred. She ignored it. “And I must see to a few of our people who are ailing.” Honor bowed her head and stepped outside, shutting the door. She went down the stairs to gather her medicine chest, remembering that later she must meet with the overseer. The plantation work could not be put aside because her grandfather’s heart was failing. She tried to take a deep breath, but the weight over her heart would not budge.

  Honor hated to see her grandfather suffer, and she hated to disappoint him. But her course had been set since she was a child. She shuttered her mind against the opposition she knew she would stir up.

  Later that afternoon, Honor was walking down the path to the kitchen when she glimpsed her cousin Darah stepping into a carriage farther down their drive. Was it the Martin carriage? “Darah!” she called. “Where is thee going?”

  Though she must have heard, Darah did not even turn. Honor watched the carriage drive away. Why had the Martin carriage come for her cousin? Honor and Alec had not been a couple for several months now, but he still entered her thoughts at will.

  Her maid, Royale—a year older than Honor and more beautiful than her, with light-caramel skin and unusual green eyes—met her on the path. She asked after one of Honor’s patients. “How the baby doing?”

  “Better.” Honor handed Royale the heavy wooden medicine chest. Moving under the shade of an ancient oak, she pressed a handkerchief to her forehead, blotting it. “Who is with my grandfather?”

  “His man is sitting with him.”

  “Then I can take time to cut flowers for Grandfather’s room.” Honor dreaded going back into the room and awaiting death.

  Royale bowed her head, wrapped as usual in a red kerchief. She always seemed to want to hide her golden-brown hair. “I’ll bring out your flower basket.”

  They parted, and Honor headed farther from the house toward the lush and sculptured garden. The daisies and purple coneflowers would be in bloom.

  The heaviness she’d carried since the bank panic, and since she had parted with Alec Martin, had become a tombstone over her heart. A sudden breeze stirred the leaves overhead, sounding like gentle, mocking laughter.

  Honor tried to concentrate on cutting the flowers, and only on that, but failed. She tried to envision her future and failed at that, too.

  “What about me?”

  The familiar voice startled her, and she looked up from the flowers she was cutting. One thing Honor had always liked about Alec Martin was that he didn’t bore her with idle social chatter. She thought she understood his abrupt question. He had no doubt heard her grandfather was nearing death and wanted to know if this affected her decision not to accept his proposal.

  Alec leaned against a maple, his dark horse grazing nearby. He was as handsome as ever—lithe and of medium height, with wavy black hair. The urge to run to him nearly overpowered her. Yet his words held her in place.

  “You are so lovely, Honor, even in this situation.”

  His praise brought back sweet memories of his compliments about her flaxen hair and fair complexion. He’d called her beautiful. She felt again his lips on hers. Sudden irrational elation blossomed within, and she moved forward, seeking his comfort. “Alec.”

  “Is it true?” he asked.

  His sharp tone stopped her.

  “Are you still determined to free your people?” He picked up a fallen branch and began to whip the air with it. “Destroy High Oaks?”

  His question and his savage movements rendered her mute for a time. In her naiveté, she’d allowed Alec to court her. But six months ago, when her grandfather began to fail, she’d revealed her secret resolve to liberate her slaves. And it had broken them apart.

  Watching his slashing motions, she held on to her composure. “Thee knows quite well,” she said at last, “that I am.”

  He threw away the branch and advanced on her. “Why? Freeing your people makes no logical sense.” His voice increased in intensity and anger with each step he took. “It’s just a woman’s weakness, and I never thought you would be so foolish. It’s time you grew up, Honor.”

  The unveiled fury in Alec’s tone alarmed her. He sounded almost dangerous. My nerves are strained; that’s all. And then, recalling Darah and the Martin carriage, “Does thee know where Darah is?”

  Alec brushed aside her question with an irritated shake of his head. He reached her and gripped her arms, and the cut flowers fell from her hands. “Why are you doing this? If you didn’t want to marry me, why not just say so?”

  “Thee isn’t making sense, Alec Martin,” she said, reverting to the formality they usually observed in the company of others. “My decision to honor my father’s wish has nothing to do with us.” Or it shouldn’t, not if thee truly loved me.

  His grip became painful. She struggled to pull free, but his grasp only tightened.

  “Thee will leave bruises,” she snapped. “Let go.”

  With a throaty growl he released her, and she staggered backward.

  “I’ll go, but just remember this is all your doing, not mine. I intended to marry you and join our two plantations. With your grandfather’s gold, we would have been able to salvage everything.” He stalked to his horse and mounted. “And we could have been together as we should be. Just remember—this is all your willfulness, your fault, Honor!” He tossed her one final fiery glance and then kicked his horse into a gallop.

  His words jumbled in her head until she couldn’t sort them out. She realized she was rubbing her arms where he had gripped them. Until now, she had never
seen the slightest bit of temper from him—not toward her, at least.

  Royale ran to her side. “Miss Honor, please come.” Her voice was shrill. “Miss Darah’s maid is packing her clothing!”

  Honor could only stare at her.

  Insistent, Royale nudged her toward the house, leaving the fallen flowers behind. Raising their hems, the two of them hurried inside and up the stairs. But in Darah’s room, the maid would only tell her that Miss Darah and she would be staying nearby with Alec Martin’s aunt.

  “But Grandfather is …” Honor’s voice failed her.

  “Miss Darah will come to visit,” the maid said, avoiding Honor’s eyes as she folded all of Darah’s possessions neatly, packing a trunk and valises.

  Honor stared at the young woman. Though her heart was in tumult, her mind was clear. Darah was leaving because she did not want to be associated with Honor and what she meant to do.

  And Darah was going to stay with Alec’s aunt. Honor didn’t have to be brilliant to know exactly what that meant. So that was the way it was going to be. Matters would not work out with Alec. Her last thin lace of hope dissolved.

  For a moment she pressed a hand over her heart, longing for peace, for the ease of swimming with the current rather than against it. But she couldn’t go against her conscience, against her father’s dearest wish.

  And her father had counseled her with Luke chapter 12: “Suppose ye that I am come to give peace on earth? I tell you, Nay; but rather division… . The father shall be divided against the son.” And now she against her family and even the man she’d once thought would be the father of her children. “Your fault” echoed in her mind, mocking her.

  Less than a week later, Honor stood at the graveside alone—or that was how she felt. A large crowd of neighbors and distant relatives had come to see Charles Whitehead Penworthy laid to rest in the family cemetery on a hill overlooking the plantation. Honor’s black mourning dress and bonnet soaked up the August heat and the dazzling sunlight that was more appropriate for a wedding than this funeral.