Honor (10 page)

Later that day, through the narrow, airless, grimy streets, Honor reluctantly accompanied Samuel to the manufactory where he worked so he could get his tools and quit. Why did they have to go there today, the day of Miriam’s funeral? But, of course, the land agent was coming to complete the sale of the house tomorrow, and they must prepare to leave for faraway Ohio and the land Samuel had already bought.

Honor struggled to keep her mind focused on the present, not what might be coming toward her.
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof”
—the Gospel of Matthew stated it well.

At the factory’s wide double doors, the heat of the place hit her, wrapping itself around her face and smothering her. She stood gasping, watching men puffing into long-stemmed blowpipes, shaping terrifying molten glass into molds. And others fearlessly thrust tubes with the molten glass back inside small furnaces with open doors, alive with orange-and-blue flames. Honor had never seen anything like it. She fought the urge to flee from the hellish scene.

Samuel glanced into her face and tugged on her arm, prompting her to come with him. Still she held back. Then a few men did start looking her way, and this moved her forward. She didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself here.

The unfamiliar, harsh odors of molten glass and coal-burning furnaces filled her nostrils and raised her gorge. She clung to Samuel’s arm as he drew her toward what must be his place.

Samuel’s area sat empty. No one had turned toward him. The other glassblowers always ignored him. Yet even while intent on their dangerous work, they began to acknowledge his bride’s presence, not his. He loved working with glass. But he hated this factory, though it was the place where the father who’d loved him in spite of his deafness had taught him his trade. His memory brought up an image of his father working here. Today he could leave it once and for all—a break he desired yet dreaded, too.

Feeling as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff, he led Honor along the side of the large, dim room to the manager’s small office. Usually they communicated with brief notes, but now, with Honor translating, he introduced her as his wife. The man’s expression at the announcement irked Samuel, but he supposed he might as well get used to it, if he ever could. Samuel explained to the manager that he was leaving the manufactory. The manager had risen for Honor and stood behind his desk in rolled-up shirtsleeves, now staring at Samuel. Then he addressed Honor.

“He says he’ll give thee a raise if thee stays,” she signed.

“Tell him we’re going to Ohio, where I’ll set up my own glass shop,” Samuel signed.

The manager looked surprised, but then he startled Samuel by offering his hand.

Samuel accepted it. They shook, and after receiving the pay he was owed, Samuel and Honor left the office. They walked together to Samuel’s station, where he methodically packed his long wooden toolbox with paddles, tongs, shears, hooks, metal blowpipes, and bellows.

The other men evidently started to notice he was packing up. One began talking to Honor and the manager, who’d apparently followed Samuel from the office. When Samuel finished and looked up, all work had stopped. The other glassblowers had turned, regarding him.

Samuel stood, frozen. Why were they acknowledging him now?

Honor signed, “I told them your news—about your mother and about Ohio.”

One glassblower and then another raised his hand to Samuel as if in salute. Samuel stared at them. Most of these men had never even waved hello or good-bye to him. Today, for the first time, he felt a part of them, part of this band of men who worked in a hot, dangerous, yet useful and often-beautiful craft.

Then he, too, raised his hand to them. His throat thickened, clogged with his reaction to this tribute.

Honor and the manager accompanied him to the wide-open doors, and the manager shook hands with him again, thanking him for his work for the company. As Samuel turned his back, cold uncertainty flashed through him. He felt himself stepping into the dark unknown. Could he actually leave Pittsburgh, go somewhere he’d never seen, and set up a shop of his own?

The conflict between the known and the unknown sliced into Samuel like a knife. Sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the forges or the summer day beaded on his forehead.

Honor walked beside him under a parasol, not looking toward him, appearing drained by the heat and by the events of the day.

He led her toward home, the heavy toolbox slung over his back, the weight of his isolation over his heart, bitter over his inability to connect with the other glassblowers. They might have been friends.

Honor stumbled over the uneven cobblestones, and he offered her his free arm. When she took it, he slowed to her pace. Sometimes when he looked at her, he couldn’t breathe. But he had to hide his desire for her. So far their
acquaintance had been one crisis after another, no time to get to know each other.

But did his wife want to get to know him? Would there always be this separation? He didn’t know how to make friends, especially with a woman, a wife.

SEPTEMBER 20, 1819

A few days later, Honor sat at Miriam’s secretary desk in the parlor. She’d hunted through the pigeonholes and located a quill, ink, paper, sealing wax, and a seal. She had carefully laid out all of these on the fold-down desk. But she could not make herself lift the pen to dip it.

Never before had Honor resented the Inner Light. Never before had she felt a stronger prompting to do something. And of course, it would be something she did not want to do.

Father, I do not want to write a letter to Darah.

The prompting did not relent.

Already the day’s heat was beginning to suffocate her. She closed her eyes and bent her head into both hands. “Father,” she whispered, “my life in Maryland is over. I don’t want to keep in touch with my cousin. She doesn’t need me. She will probably read my missive with scorn or, worse, laughter.”

Darah isn’t laughing now.

Honor’s eyes flew open. The words had come without a voice—just the words, just the feeling. She tried to discount what she’d thought. Tears flashed into her eyes at the memory of Darah standing with Alec Martin at their grandfather’s graveside.

The prompting increased, demanding.

Blinking away the moisture, she picked up the quill and penned:

Dear Cousin,

I am writing to let thee know that I have married a Friend in Pittsburgh, Samuel Cathwell. He is a glassblower by trade. We are about to move to Ohio, near Cincinnati. Royale is going with us.

She knew she should add an inquiry about how Darah was, but she could not. Darah was doing very well indeed. She had inherited High Oaks and over a hundred slaves and was living comfortably with Alec’s aunt while waiting for her mourning period to end so she and Alec could marry.

Honor ended the letter formally:

Thy obedient servant,

Mrs. Samuel Cathwell

Before her trembling hands could tear it up, she sanded the ink, heated the wax, and sealed the folded letter.

She rose, shaken. She hoped that Darah didn’t read anything sad into the sparse words. She didn’t want her cousin’s pity.

Honor heard Royale opening the kitchen door; then a man’s voice sounded. The land agent, no doubt. She entered the kitchen, where Samuel had risen in silent greeting. “Good day, Friend,” she said and signed.

The three of them sat at the round table. Royale led Eli
outside to play. While Honor signed the agent’s words to Samuel and he set his name to the documents, transferring the deed and receiving a bank draft for the price of the house, Honor studied her husband.

Going with him to the manufactory had increased her respect for Samuel Cathwell. How did he do such dangerous and exacting work? And even in the heat of summer.

Within a few minutes the transaction was done. The land agent departed.

As her husband rose to leave, Honor stopped him. Why didn’t he tell her what she needed to know without being asked? “When do we leave for Ohio?”

“Within the month. We must go to the docks and make reservations on a steamboat to Cincinnati.”

“A steamboat?” The idea of trying out this newest mode of travel startled her.

“I will help you pack,” Samuel signed. “We will need the household items, but I have sold the house furnished.”

Honor had trouble drawing breath and could only nod. Another deeply unwelcome packing up and leaving. She tried to think of something to say, but no thoughts or words appeared. Just the taunting image of Darah and Alec, stone-faced, staring at her across her grandfather’s grave.

OCTOBER 15, 1819

After nearly a month of preparation, Honor stood uncertainly on the Pittsburgh wharf with Samuel at her side. At her elbow was Royale with Eli in hand. This place marked the head of the mighty Ohio, where two rivers—the Allegheny and Monongahela—converged.

A trace of autumn chill chose this morning to appear, raising a billowing, cloaking mist. The murky, turbulent sky reflected her feelings toward her husband, toward this journey to a new home. She did not want to get on that steamboat.

A high whistle sounded, goading her. In the jostling but groggy crowd, Honor urged Royale and Eli toward the gangplank. Samuel strode forward and offered Royale his hand to help her onto the plank. Then he turned to Honor.

Honor hesitated. She felt as if she were about to step across some invisible but palpable line. Once on deck, there would be no turning back. She would be putting her whole trust in this distant, confusing man who had married her only out of necessity or obligation, not out of love nor even fondness.

He signed, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Her pulse thrumming at her temples, she grasped his hand. Still she glanced over her shoulder one last time. But why? Nothing, no one remained for her in Pittsburgh. With a deep breath, she stepped aboard.

While gaining control over her unruly emotions, Honor scanned the steamboat, the first she’d ever boarded. The craft looked shiny new, neat and imposing with its tall black smokestack. Two large cabins sat in the middle of the deck, leaving plenty of room to walk around. Through the mist, she saw the top rim of a large paddle wheel attached to the side of the boat. She tried to draw confidence from these signs of progress and attention to detail.

A uniformed man greeted them immediately, looking at a black ledger in his hand. “Name, please?”

For a moment Honor waited for Samuel, the man, to reply for them. Then she remembered she was Samuel’s voice. “We are the Cathwells. I am Mrs. Samuel Cathwell.” This was the first time she had given her new name aloud. She felt as if she were speaking of someone else.

The official lifted an eyebrow, no doubt at her replying instead of her husband. He jotted something in the book with a pencil. “You will be in Cincinnati tomorrow evening.” And then he cocked his head as if waiting for her response.

“One night?” Honor echoed in genuine surprise, remembering to sign this to Samuel.