Honor (2 page)

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.

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.