Honor

by Lyn Cote

  Darah stood on the other side of the grave, staring downward, and had not once looked in Honor’s direction. Alec lurked behind Darah among the mourners, his curled hat brim shielding her from his gaze. No one had spoken to Honor except for the Episcopal priest who was officiating. And he had said as little as possible.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the priest intoned. He sprinkled some earth over the coffin, which was being lowered into the grave.

  Honor’s self-control melted. She could not hold back the sobs, not even with her handkerchief pressed over her mouth. Not only was she losing her grandfather, whom she’d loved, but also Darah, Alec, and her life here—everything.

  The mourners turned from the graveside and headed not toward the house as expected, but toward their carriages.

  This brought Honor up short. A buffet had been prepared in the house, as was customary. “Isn’t thee staying?” she blurted out.

  The crowd halted, but none turned to her. Their backs erected an unbroken wall.

  The priest, by her side, cleared his throat. “Miss Penworthy, your intentions are known. Perhaps you need to reconsider. Freeing your slaves is an act of willful disobedience to your grandfather. He discussed this with me on his deathbed. Won’t you change your mind and not do this dreadful thing?”

  Sorrow turned to shock and then to boiling anger. Honor shook with it. “Thee has made thyself clear.” Then she glared into his face. “It is better to obey God than man.”

  A collective gasp swept the mourners, and they all hurried away from her, the women lifting their skirts and nearly running.

  The priest sent her an acid glance and hastened after the others. Even Darah, on Alec’s arm, left with everyone else and without a backward glance.

  Honor watched them go, her tears falling.

  “Miss Honor,” Royale said, appearing beside her, “come to the house.”

  Honor let Royale urge her down the hillside, but she soon became aware that another set of mourners followed them at a respectful distance. She halted and reversed to look at the slaves, who had gathered apart at the graveside. They would soon be free. Why not begin now? “Thee are invited to the big house. Refreshments have been prepared.”

  Their faces registered shock. Except for the house servants, such as Royale, the other slaves had never entered the big house.

  She motioned toward them, trying to smile around her tears. “The food will go to waste. Please gather on the porch to enter the dining room for the buffet.”

  At the front of the crowd, her aged butler was startled but recovered presently. “You heard Miss Honor. Please follow me. And watch your manners.”

  Their people, numbering over a hundred, cast worried glances at her as they trailed after the butler, grouped in families.

  Royale touched Honor’s arm, tentative comfort.

  Honor pressed her hand over Royale’s, feeling the weight of grief on her shoulders. If she had the choice, she would have sunk to the green grass and closed her swollen, painful eyes. “Go on and help. I want to spend a few moments at my grandfather’s grave.”

  Royale squeezed her hand and walked toward the house.

  Honor watched her go, then returned to stand beside the new mound of earth. Grandfather had been buried next to the grandmother Honor had never known. Nearby lay her own father and alongside him her mother, who had died giving birth to Honor. She gazed at the graves, and moments passed. “I hate to leave thee,” she whispered.

  Lying on top of the rose-colored silk coverlet of her canopied bed, Honor woke at Royale’s touch.

  “Miss Honor, the lawyer Mr. Bradenton here to see you.”

  “What time is it?” Honor sat up, trying to clear her fuzzy head. The heat of the day was suffocating. She reached for her fan.

  “It be near half past three o’clock.”

  Almost two hours after the funeral luncheon had ended. Had the lawyer come already for the formal reading of her grandfather’s will? Her heart sagged, and she let her hand drop. “How do I look?”

  “I best fix your hair.” Royale offered Honor a hand and led her to the vanity, where Honor sat.

  The commonplace occurrence of Royale dressing her hair soothed Honor’s ragged emotions. When Royale was done, Honor caught her hand and pressed it to her cheek in thanks. “Soon thee will be free,” she murmured.

  Royale smiled but only in obedience, her eyes troubled.

  What is she thinking? Honor rose and headed down the stairs.

  The butler met her at the bottom. “Miss Honor, Mr. Bradenton brought Miss Darah with him, and they are waiting in your grandfather’s office.”

  The news that the two had come together felt ominous to Honor. “Thank thee.” She walked to the small office at the back of the first floor and entered. Mr. Bradenton was ensconced behind her grandfather’s desk, and Darah perched on one of two chairs that had been placed opposite the lawyer. Loss stabbed Honor. Her grandfather belonged at that desk.

  Darah did not look up but focused on the lawyer’s lined face.

  Honor sat beside her, but never before had she felt so unwelcome or awkward in this room. “Darah. Mr. Bradenton.”

  He nodded sharply once and began reading without any preamble of polite conversation. “The last will and testament of Charles Whitehead Penworthy. ‘First, I leave a message for my granddaughter Darah. Marry wisely. You have a propensity to take people at their word. You should not.’”

  The lawyer paused to pierce Honor with a withering look. “‘Second, to my granddaughter Honor Anne Penworthy, who is wise and foolish at the same time. Honor, since you intend to squander it, I am taking away your inheritance. Darah May Manning, not you, will inherit High Oaks.’”

  At first Honor couldn’t think; then came a roaring in her ears. Finally a coldness drenched her from her head down to her toes. “But Darah isn’t his heir. She is the daughter of my mother’s sister.”

  Mr. Bradenton raked her with disapproval. “Your grandfather summoned me a few days ago to change his will—and chose Miss Darah as the only other young person even distantly related to him. Miss Darah’s mother was a distant cousin of the Penworthys.”

  The lawyer’s face hardened. “Your grandfather said that you insisted on keeping your ill-considered promise to your father to free your people upon inheriting this plantation. So Charles changed his will and disinherited you. You can of course go to court, but I doubt any judge in Maryland will counter Charles’s wishes as stated and duly signed.”

  “May I see the will?” Honor asked, unable to believe the lawyer.

  He handed the parchment to her.

  She took it. At first she couldn’t focus her eyes, but at last the words became clear. It was true. Her grandfather had disinherited her in favor of Darah. The coldness drenched her again. Her hand shook as she returned the will to Mr. Bradenton.

  Through it all, Darah had not moved, had barely breathed. Her calm attention focused on the lawyer. She knew. Betrayal dug its teeth into Honor.

  Mr. Bradenton lifted another page. “There is a third stipulation. Honor, you are allowed to take your clothing, your mother’s jewelry, your father’s personal Bible, one hundred dollars in gold and silver, and your maid, Royale. That is all.” He turned to Darah. “You are instructed not to give her anything else, or you will lose the inheritance.”

  Darah nodded, just a flicker of acquiescence.

  The man pinned Honor with his gaze. “Your grandfather said that since you hold with such little regard what your family has labored over a hundred years to amass, you should leave with just enough to keep you from penury. You are a disgrace to your grandfather and an affront to every other landed family in this county.” His voice quavered with disapproval.

  Honor wanted to speak, but the words jammed in her tight throat. Her coldness turned to heat, anger at this betrayal.

  In his lifetime, the land and the people had been her grandfather’s. But they should have passed, unhindered, to her—the grandchild,
daughter of his only son. However, without one word to her, he had altered his will. Her grandfather had not played fair. He’d gone behind her back and thwarted her.

  She tasted hot bitterness on her tongue.

  As if propelled, she rose. “Thank thee, Mr. Bradenton. I will begin packing. I’ll be in my room, Darah, if thee wishes to discuss anything with me.” She walked from the office. Outside, she had to stop and lean against the wall to still the emotions that rampaged through her.

  Royale was waiting nearby for her. She came to Honor and walked with her toward the stairs. Halfway up the staircase, she whispered, “I was listening. We thought your grandfather would do something like this.”

  Honor swung toward Royale. “Thee did?”

  Tight-lipped, Royale nodded. “You should have told your grandfather what he wanted to hear and then did what you wanted after you buried him.”

  The brazen words shocked Honor to her marrow. Royale had not spoken so baldly in her presence since they were children. Honor could not have lied to her grandfather. Yet how could he, in turn, have so callously disinherited her? Hurt throbbed with each beat of her heart.

  She walked beside Royale up the grand staircase and into her room, where she sat on the chair beside the window. She wondered if Darah would come up or lack the courage to face her.

  Honor had her answer soon enough. She recognized the footsteps mounting the stairs. Darah entered her bedroom without knocking, then stood staring at Honor. “You can still change your mind.”

  What naive, silly words. And people called her foolish. Honor rose to face Darah. “Can Grandfather still change his mind? Can I regain my inheritance?”

  “You can change your mind about abolition. People will forgive you. You’ll find someone to marry and be happy. Why do you have to take the hard way?”

  Honor felt a grinding inside her like rough metal rubbing against rough metal. “Thy words are apt.” She quoted Matthew: “‘Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat: Because … narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.’” She folded her arms and, not wishing to add more weight to her words, gazed down at the floral hand-tied rug. “I choose the narrow way.” She softened her voice. “Is that not the way thee wishes too, Darah?”

  “You are so self-righteous.” Darah’s hands clenched the ribbons of her reticule. “But what you want to do is wrong. What would our people do without us to care for them?”

  Honor gripped tightly her self-control. “How can thee say that? Who raised us when our mothers died? Royale’s mother, Jamaica, did. Did she lack understanding or ability?”

  “Even animals can make good mothers,” Darah retorted.

  Honor’s hand itched to slap Darah, and the urge shocked her. Their slaves were deemed children by most, but Honor’s father had taught her to view them as people who differed only in the color of their skin. She couldn’t let Darah’s scorn go unchallenged. “Jamaica was as wise as she was loving to us. How can thee belittle her?”

  Darah looked as if she were crushing hard words between her teeth. “You will not listen. You think you know better than anyone else.”

  “I think differently. If people didn’t know in their souls that what they say about slaves needing us is a lie, what I believe wouldn’t cause them such anger.” Her father had taught her that too.

  Darah shook visibly with outrage.

  Honor changed tack. “What was it that Grandfather said in the will—for thee to be careful whom thee weds? Is thee indeed planning to marry Alec Martin?”

  “Yes, I am.” Darah’s chin lifted. “You don’t want him.”

  Regret, remorse pooled inside Honor. Her feelings for Alec had been strong, but how could a woman who freed her slaves marry a man who kept his? There was no middle ground for them.

  “Do you still love him?” Darah asked in a softer voice, uncertain, reaching for Honor’s hand but not taking it.

  Now Honor looked her in the eye. “No. It has been over between the two of us for months. I came to my senses and told him the truth.” Saying those final words cost her more than she had expected. Her long-standing attachment to Alec could not be dismissed, discounted, or denied. Not yet.

  “What will you do?” Darah asked.

  “Weeks ago I wrote to a relative of my mother’s in Pittsburgh. As soon as I hear from her, I’ll pack and leave with what has been allowed to me.”

  Darah appeared to want to say more, but what was there to say? She left the room, weeping.

  From her window, Honor watched Darah enter Mr. Bradenton’s carriage and drive away down the avenue of stately oaks.

  Like a bellows losing air, Honor sank onto the chair, suddenly weak. Her mind jumped from thought to thought—from Grandfather to Father to Darah to Alec. She leaned backward and let tears flow from her eyes. First she must let the heartbreak and sorrow and betrayal have their way, expend themselves.

  And then, when she could think instead of feel, she must pray that her mother’s cousin in Pennsylvania would welcome her for a visit.

  Honor had thought her future course was laid out. She would free her slaves, sell High Oaks, move to Pennsylvania with modest wealth, spend the rest of her life in good works. Independent-minded, she had doubted marriage would ever have a place in her life.

  But one hundred dollars in gold and silver did not mean wealth of any kind, especially since she must help Royale establish herself too. Fear threatened her, but what choice did she have now? She’d been shunned by the living and betrayed by the dead.

  SEPTEMBER 2, 1819

  The coach jerked to a stop, throwing Honor and Royale forward. “All out, Pittsburgh!” the coachman shouted from his seat above.

  Choking dust swirled in through the windows, and Honor began brushing off her face and dress. After leaving Maryland on a clipper and then two weeks of being jolted over the Allegheny Mountains, she felt trampled like tobacco fields after hail.

  Her one hundred dollars had been flattened also by traveling costs for two. And now the trip was done and she faced starting a new life here—not only for herself but also for Royale, a chancy undertaking.

  As the other passengers grumbled and stumbled out of the coach, Honor closed her eyes, seeing her last glimpse of High Oaks, hearing the farewell wailing of the people she’d thought she would free …

  Honor stilled, grappling with the hurt her grandfather had inflicted. He’d cleaved her heart, slicing away home and family.

  The burly, unshaven driver urged her and Royale down from the coach. Touching the cobblestoned street, she swayed a little as she had when they’d left the vessel that had sailed them to Philadelphia on the first leg of their journey.

  “Miss Honor!”

  Honor swung around at Royale’s cry.

  A man had claimed Royale’s elbow and was whispering to her, tugging her away.

  “Please unhand my maid,” Honor insisted, pulling Royale free.

  The man disappeared into the crowded coach yard. A lady and her maid traveling without male protection, they’d both been circumspect and cautious. But unfortunately this wasn’t the first time men had behaved in an overly bold manner toward Royale. “Keep close to me,” Honor muttered into her ear.

  Royale nodded, her head bowed.

  They needed to reach the protection of family. Honor attracted a young boy with a two-wheel cart from a gaggle of such. Soon their trunk and three valises were loaded onto it. The boy placed himself between the shafts and got the cart creaking toward 22 Sixth Avenue, where Honor’s mother’s second cousin, Miriam Cathwell, lived. “It’s not far,” the boy said. “Less’n a mile.”

  Honor and Royale walked side by side behind the cart. How would Miriam Cathwell view Honor’s straitened circumstances? Receiving a wealthy relative was different from being burdened with a poor one.

  A stranger barreled out of an alley, nearly colliding with the cart. Honor pulled Royale closer and
skirted around the man.

  A rifle in hand, he stared after them, his stubbled face intent and sour.

  Honor picked up her pace. Every slight breeze of the hot September afternoon wafted up another foul smell. She pressed a lavender-scented handkerchief over her nose as she glanced over her shoulder. The man with the rifle was following them, actually tracking them. She quickened her step, drawing nearer to the cart and Royale.

  “There be a lot of black smoke round here,” Royale said, glancing up at the smudged sky.

  “Iron,” the boy said in a tone redolent with pride. “They make iron here. We even got an arsenal for guns and cannons and such.”

  In a sudden burst, the man sprinted forward and halted in front of the cart. “Hold up.”

  Honor drew herself up. “Sir, why is thee blocking our progress?” Men and women around them stopped, openly gawking.

  The man spit and pointed at Royale. “She got a manumission paper? I’m looking for a runaway mulatta gal.”

  Honor’s throat constricted. A slave catcher, the lowest of the low. Indignation trapped her words.

  “I got my paper.” From a concealed pocket under her apron, Royale produced the notarized paper Honor had written.

  The man yanked it from Royale and stood perusing it. He read aloud her description in a mocking, disrespectful tone. “‘Royale, a Negro woman with light skin, light-brown hair, and green eyes.’” He took his time inspecting Royale, insulting her.

  “Royale is free, not a runaway,” Honor said stiffly. “Please return her paper.”

  The man spit again and made no move to give back the document. “You the one who freed her?” This time he spit words at Honor.

  “I am.” Honor held out her hand, demanding the paper. “I have witnesses—” she glanced around at the crowd that had gathered—“that thee has accosted respectable, free women on a public street.”

  “She is correct.” An older gentleman with a beaver hat and cane stepped out of the crowd. “You had the right to ask to see the girl’s manumission paper. Now give it back to her and be on your way.”