by Lyn Cote
People crowded closer, the men moving forward, and Honor felt the press of their disapproval of this slave catcher.
He slapped the paper into Royale’s open hand, turned on his heel, and shoved through the crowd. Royale quickly concealed the paper again.
Resting a reassuring hand on Royale’s arm, Honor curtsied to the older gentleman. “I thank thee.”
He bowed his head. “Slave catchers congregate around coach yards and the wharves. Be sure to keep your maid close at these places.” He walked away, and that released the rest of the gawkers.
With a grunt, the boy lifted the shafts and started the cart forward again. Honor’s heart still thudded in her throat as she hurried to catch up with the cart. Royale drew closer still to Honor, her face again downcast. Would Royale be welcome in Miriam Cathwell’s house? If not, where could they go? How could she keep Royale and herself safe?
Sixth Avenue came at last. Honor welcomed the sight of the modest but obviously respectable street of one-and two-story frame houses, some with flowering window boxes. Which one—?
A woman in her middle years rushed out of a house ahead, waving a white handkerchief. “Is thee Honor Penworthy?”
“Yes, I am,” Honor said, hurrying forward, relief tingling through her.
“And I’m Miriam Cathwell,” the woman said in a thin voice. Her old-fashioned high-waisted dress revealed a frail frame. Her skin possessed a transparent quality, and deep lines etched the corners of her mouth and eyes. Miriam did not look to be in high health.
Halting, Honor felt momentarily guilty for adding to the woman’s work. What choice was left to me?
“Ever since thy letter arrived,” Miriam continued, “I have been on the watch. I am happy to greet thee.” Miriam’s smile was truly a welcoming one, igniting her face with a glow.
The expression drew Honor forward. Curtsying, she accepted the woman’s thin hand. “I’m so glad …” Her voice faltered, but she forced herself to go on. “This is my maid—I mean, Royale,” she stumbled. Was Royale her maid still?
Miriam extended her warm smile to Royale, who curtsied with a bowed head. “A cup of tea will help thee both. Come in.” Miriam gestured for the young women to enter. She turned to the boy. “Thee can leave the baggage inside the door. My son will carry it upstairs.”
Honor paused to pay the boy and thank him. Then she stepped through a side door that opened to the large kitchen. Miriam led them into the neat, cozy, whitewashed room. To the left of the fireplace, white dishes sat on shelves over the counter, where a deep-brown pottery basin and matching pitcher sat. The homey place began soothing Honor’s ragged nerves.
A scant cook fire burned in the hearth, a black cast-iron kettle hanging over it on a hook. Pots and pans hung above the mantel, and a settle occupied the other side of the hearth. One door opened onto this main room. As Miriam rinsed and then filled a teapot with boiling water, she waved the two of them toward the simple round oak table in the center of the room.
Honor was pleased that Miriam had welcomed Royale to her table. That wasn’t common. In most inns on their journey here, Royale had been sent to eat outside the kitchen. Now the two of them sat together gingerly, still tender from days on the hard coach bench.
“Before my son and grandson return from their errand, I want to explain our situation,” Miriam said, looking pensive.
What did she mean by “our situation”? A fresh wave of tension tightened Honor’s neck. “As thee wishes.”
“There are three of us: my son, Samuel; my grandson, Eli; and I,” Miriam said, filling the sugar bowl. “Until Samuel contracted a virulent fever at only eight years of age, he could hear and speak. He recovered, but the high fever took his hearing.”
Honor didn’t know how to reply to this.
“I be sorry,” Royale murmured.
With a long sigh, Miriam joined them at the table. “If the Father wishes Samuel to be deaf …” She shrugged. “Still, it has separated my son from God and from others. While it is true that his deafness was God’s will, why do people say that and then treat him as if he were responsible for this loss? Or as if it was a judgment on us?” Miriam’s words became tinged with bitterness. She scratched a dry patch on her arm that appeared red and irritated.
Honor waited, hoping to discern the point.
Miriam surfaced from her preoccupation. “Samuel has a fine trade. As his late father was, he is a glassblower at a factory nearby. I wanted to prepare thee because he won’t speak except with his hands.” She glanced at the steeping teapot and tried to rise but appeared suddenly weaker as if she’d used up her reserves.
“Let me.” Royale rose to finish making the tea.
Honor remembered to smile her thanks to Royale, who did not have to serve them, then turned to Miriam, saying the only thing that came to mind. “I’ve seen that once before. One of the slave children on a nearby plantation was born deaf. He and his mother devised signs so he could communicate.”
“I ’member that boy,” Royale said.
“Well, when Samuel became deaf,” Miriam continued, “I wrote letters to different places of learning. Eventually I found a man in Philadelphia who had visited monks in Europe. Some of these monks had taken vows of silence and spoke with their hands. Mostly it’s a way to spell out words, with a few additional signs that express common phrases such as ‘How is thee?’ I was able to learn the hand language and teach it to Samuel, who had already learned his letters before the illness.”
“I see,” Honor said politely.
Royale set the pot and tea strainer on the table.
“Some people—most people—are put off by his deafness,” Miriam admitted as she pointed Royale to the white cups dangling from hooks on the wall. “They treat Samuel as if he’s lost his sense along with his hearing.”
Apparently Miriam hoped preparing Honor and Royale would prevent them from acting this way.
“You got a grandson, too?” Royale said, quietly setting the cups and saucers on the table.
Once again, Royale’s new habit of speaking out of turn surprised Honor. No, that wasn’t right: not “out of turn.” Honor pressed her lips together, thinking. It was just that servants never spoke unless spoken to or unless they brought a message. But Royale is no longer my servant.
“Yes, God blessed me with two sons,” Miriam said, her face lifting, then falling. “However, last spring, cholera took my son and his wife, leaving my only grandson, Eli, orphaned with us. He just turned three years old.”
Honor murmured sympathetic phrases, but in truth she just wanted to lie down to rest and weep, to shut her eyes and forget.
At Miriam’s request, Royale lifted the trapdoor to the root cellar and brought up a pitcher of cream. Soon the three of them were stirring sugar into their tea.
Honor knew she must be as forthcoming as her hostess. She tested her tight lips to see if she could speak naturally. “Cousin Miriam, my situation has altered. When I first wrote—” she focused on her spoon as she stirred the creamy tea—“I thought that I would be left with a modest inheritance, an independence, so that with thy guidance, I could purchase a small home and then devote myself to good works.”
Miriam paused, her cup held near her mouth by both hands, trembling ever so slightly. “What has happened?”
The woman’s warm tone reassured Honor. Still, she turned her head slightly away as she gave Miriam a succinct summary of what had come of her plan to free the slaves.
Miriam set down the teacup with a clatter. “That’s dreadful.”
Airing her difficulties further sapped Honor’s strength, and her chin dipped. “I’d appreciate it if thee did not share this with anyone else. It is too painful to … Now I need to find a way to provide for myself. As I see it, the only two avenues open to me are as a governess or a lady’s companion. But I have no idea of how to pursue either of those.”
“And I got to find work as a lady’s maid,” Royale added.
Honor stared into her cu
p, seeing her grandfather’s face and trying to hold back tears.
Miriam took a moment to compose herself. “I don’t think Royale will have much difficulty in finding a position, but … Honor, those positions—governess and companion—are scarce here. Why doesn’t thee consider marriage? That seems to be the most obvious solution.”
Honor nearly gagged in revulsion, sour acid washing up her throat. Marry? This soon after Alec’s betrayal? And out of necessity, without love? No.
Interrupting them at this opportune moment, one of the largest men she had ever seen entered the kitchen. Swinging a little boy down from his shoulders, he nodded to Miriam. Then he walked to the basin, where he washed his own hands and the child’s.
When he didn’t greet Honor and Royale or wait to be introduced, Honor knew he must be the deaf son. She studied him. His back was straight, and he had powerful shoulders and large hands. His reddish-brown hair was cut short but not fashionably so, waving around his nape.
The man turned, and a shaft of sunlight from the high window across from him gilded his hair. A few years older than her, he had fine, regular features, brown eyes, and a square jaw. His attractive face was set in lines that, while not disapproving, were at least unapproachable.
“This is my son, Samuel Cathwell,” Miriam said. “And my grandson, Eli.” The little boy hid behind his uncle.
Honor greeted Samuel as if he could hear her. But she was fascinated by Miriam’s swiftly moving “talking” fingers. This sign language appeared much more intricate than the one she’d once observed in Maryland.
Soon they were all gathered around the table. Eli perched on his uncle’s lap with his head against Samuel’s shirt. Honor was amazed to see such a little child simultaneously speaking aloud and signing to his uncle. Whenever Eli thought Honor wasn’t looking at him, he peeked at her.
In contrast, Samuel did not even look in her or Royale’s direction. Honor tried not to stare at him, but she wondered what it felt like not to be able to hear or speak. At least I haven’t been struck deaf and dumb.
Miriam poured more tea and set out a fragrant blueberry cake and slices of bread and cheese. Honor tried to eat like a lady, but it was the best food they’d had since leaving home. Her appetite awoke, and she had to resist the urge to lick her plate. Evidently guessing this, Miriam chuckled and brought more food to the table.
So his distant cousin had arrived from Maryland at last. At this intrusion, resentment chafed Samuel. When people found out he was deaf, they usually tried to act as if he were invisible. He, in turn, had long ago perfected keeping his face expressionless.
Samuel sent an aggrieved glance at his mother. He’d urged her to send her regrets to this distant relative. Mother needed to conserve her energy and her strength for their move. But she’d refused to listen to him, and now here were these strangers at their table. He fumed.
Then, with surprise, he noticed the cousin lifting her hand and talking to his mother. He observed his mother demonstrating the sign asking how a person was. In amazement, he watched the cousin, Honor, mimic this gesture, then turn to him and, with a hesitant smile, repeat the sign.
Gooseflesh sprang up on his arms. Very few had ever tried to learn how to greet him in sign. He stared at the young woman, really seeing her this time. She was pale with almost-white blonde hair, a fair complexion, striking green eyes, and golden brows. She had a long neck, dainty wrists, and slender, delicate hands. She was lovely but reserved. Then he realized the lady was blushing, her hand frozen in midair. A frisson of awareness crackled between them.
His mother tapped the table to gain his attention. “Reply.”
Hiding his gritted teeth, he begrudgingly raised his hand and signed, “I’m well. You?”
His mother translated and showed the cousin how to reply in kind.
“I’m fine,” the lady signed, then stared down at her plate, still blushing.
Samuel lifted his cup to conceal his mouth, twisted with irritation. He felt stirred up, unsettled inside. And he resented it. With quick slashes, he signed to his mother, “The land agent will come soon. You have invited these women to stay with us. Have you told them we leave for the Ohio Territory as soon as this house sells?”
His mother gazed at him, pleading for time. He refused to go along with her. “Tell them. They have a right to know.”
Samuel watched his mother speak and sign this to their guests. The lady’s reaction was plain to see. She went whiter and bowed her head.
His mother’s gaze scolded him.
He replied in sign, “She had to be told.”
“But not the first time she sat at our table. Thee has not been kind, Samuel.”
When did anybody make the attempt to be kind to him? Then his own words slapped back into his face. This woman had tried to be kind. Samuel drained his cooled tea, wrestling with his confusion. What did it matter? This attractive woman wouldn’t have any trouble finding a husband, and one wealthy enough to afford to hire her maid.
After supper, Samuel led Eli out to play catch in the small back garden. Royale offered to help Miriam clean up. When Honor realized how exhausted Miriam appeared, she rose and joined Royale at the sink. “I’ll help.”
Royale turned to her, looking surprised.
“I’m sure I’m capable of drying dishes,” Honor murmured. She had often glimpsed this chore in the kitchen and butler’s pantry at High Oaks.
“I thank thee both. The clean cloths are in those drawers,” Miriam said, gesturing toward a low oak sideboard. “I should go lie down on my chaise longue in the parlor. When the kitchen is tidy, I should be able to show thee up to thy room.”
Thy room. Honor and Royale exchanged glances. They had shared a bed as children. But after they’d put up their hair and let down their skirts, the gap between lady and maid had intervened.
Refusing to let her discomfort show, Honor found the dishcloths and stood beside Royale, drying each dish with care.
“What you think about them moving west?” Royale said in a low voice.
The question triggered another jolt of alarm. “I didn’t expect that we would stay here long,” Honor said, focusing on the cup in hand.
“I think Miriam be right—you not gonna find a job as a governess or companion,” Royale said, handing her another cup. “I know you don’t want to think of getting married, but you best start thinking that.”
Honor didn’t drop the cup, but her stomach dipped. She took her time drying it and hanging it back on its hook. She had set Royale free, and now Royale was at liberty to speak to her like this. But it was an adjustment, especially when she said words Honor could not bear. “I can’t even think about marrying yet.” Just saying the word caused her stomach to take another dip.
“You been through a lot, I give you that.” Royale’s voice radiated sympathy. “But you and me got to do what we got to do.” Royale’s tone turned sarcastic. “We coulda stayed in Maryland like Darah said—” then her tone shifted to practical—“but we moved here, and everything is different now. We got to be different too.”
Honor accepted another wet cup and rubbed it hard, wrestling with herself. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
Royale offered her another cup and stared at her. “A woman do what she got to in this world of men.”
Honor grasped the cup. The final word, men, brought the man of this house to mind. No doubt Samuel Cathwell felt awkward around strangers. That had prompted her to ask Miriam to teach her some sign language. But was that the true reason he did not want them here? Or was it personal?
And his insistence that she be told the house would soon be for sale—it had struck her like a bludgeon, as he must have intended. She dried the cup with a vengeance and slapped it onto its hook, where it rocked dangerously.
“Way will open,” that was the old Quaker saying. And one must open for her and Royale. Soon.
As Samuel Cathwell—home again from work—hung his hat on a peg by the door and sat down
at the table, Honor recalled from earlier the feeling of the delicate glass vase. Tall, clear amber with an elaborate ribboned rim.
Slipping from her wet hands.
Watching it fall. And hearing it shatter on the stone kitchen floor.
Downcast with regret, Honor moved to sit in the chair opposite him and beside Miriam. Honor began slowly to sign the words of apology that Miriam had taught her. “I am sorry. I was cleaning.” She watched her own hand, not daring to glance at him. “I broke the vase. I am sorry. It was beautiful.” She realized she was beginning to babble and rested her hands in her lap, waiting for his response.
Samuel sat, his arms crossed, confused by mixed reactions. The prized vase he’d made for his mother—broken. This pretty lady learning sign language. Why? We’re leaving, and she is staying.
His mother, who had been sitting at the table when he came in, rapped the tabletop and signed, “Where are thy manners, Samuel? The young woman has apologized.”
He looked to his mother. “And will she understand me if I sign?”
“She has spent the afternoon learning the signs for the letters and simple phrases. Please sign slowly, and she will understand.”
Irritation rubbed inside him like sand on raw skin. He swallowed down his reluctance to speak to this stranger. “It was an accident. I am not angry.”
But he was angry. His irritation gnawed at him, penetrating deeper. How often did he have the energy or time to make something of beauty? At the factory he made simple molded bottles in bulk. He had spent hours after work crafting that glass vase for his mother.
“I’m sorry,” Honor signed, adding again, “It was beautiful.”
Her repeated compliment caught him around the heart. She meant it, and it released something within him. A warmth flowed through him, and he couldn’t look away. The afternoon sunshine glinted on her fair hair. The curve of her elegant neck reminded him of the neck of the vase. He imagined brushing his palm down her soft neck—
Stop.
“Samuel, both Honor and Royale did the shopping today and have given the parlor the first deep cleaning it’s had in months. Please thank them.”
