Quaker women did not wear hats, but plain caps and bonnets, and usually made their own. Honor had only been into the milliner’s in Bridport a few times to buy ribbon. She had often peeked in the window, however, to admire the latest creations displayed on their stands. It had been a tidy, feminine space, with floorboards painted duck-egg blue and long shelves along the walls filled with hats.
On top of the dresser full of trimmings was a china jug decorated with pink roses sitting in a matching basin, the same Honor had seen in homes all across Pennsylvania. She used them now to wash, then dressed and smoothed her dark hair, noting as she put on her cap that her bonnet was missing. Before she went down, she glanced out of the window, which overlooked a street busy with pedestrians and horses and wagons. It was a relief to see people again after a day on the empty road through the woods.
Honor crept down the stairs and entered a small kitchen with a fire and range, a table and chairs, and a sideboard sparse with dishes. The room felt underused, as if little food were prepared there. The back door was open, bringing in a breeze that passed through the kitchen and into the front room. Honor followed it to the heart of the house.
In many respects the shop was like the Bridport milliner’s: hats on shelves lining the walls, hats and bonnets on stands on tables around the room, glass cases along the sides displaying gloves and combs and hat pins. A large mirror hung on one wall, and two front windows made the room light and airy. The floorboards were not painted but worn smooth and shiny from customers’ feet. In one corner on a work table were hats in various stages of construction: layers of straw molded around carved wood hat blocks, drying into shape; brims sewn into ovals and awaiting their crowns; hats banded with ribbon, a pile of silk flowers waiting to be attached among a tangle of ribbons and wire. There was little order on the table; the order lay in the finished hats.
In another way the room was completely different, as so many things about America felt to Honor. Where the Bridport shop was orderly by design, the Wellington milliner’s felt as if it had come about its order by accident. Some of the shelves were crammed with hats while others were bare. The room was bright but the windows dusty. Though the floor looked as if it had been swept clean, Honor suspected the corners housed dustballs. It felt as if the shop had sprung up suddenly, whereas Honor knew that her great-grandmother would have bought plain ribbons from the Bridport milliner’s.
The hats and bonnets too were peculiar. Though no expert in trimmings since she wore none herself, Honor was startled by some of the things she saw. A straw hat with a shallow crown pinned with a huge bunch of plaid roses. Another flat hat rimmed with a cascade of colored ribbons bound together with lace. A cottage bonnet with a deep crown much like Honor’s own, but with white feathers lining the inside rim rather than the usual white ruffles. Honor could wear none of them, for Quakers followed rules of simplicity in dress as well as in conduct. Even if she could she was not sure she would want to.
Yet these hats must sell, as the shop was full of women and girls, gathered around the tables, sorting through frilly caps and sun bonnets, plucking at baskets of pre-cut ribbons and cloth flowers, laughing and chattering and calling out.
After a moment she noticed a woman standing behind the back counter, surveying the room with an experienced air. This was the proprietress, whom Honor had met briefly the night before. She caught Honor’s eye and nodded. She was not at all what you would expect of a milliner. Tall and thin, she had a bony face and a skeptical air. Her hazel eyes bulged slightly, the whites tinged with yellow. For a milliner she wore a surprisingly simple white cap, with a burst of scrubby fair hair hanging on her forehead. Her tan dress hung from her shoulders and exposed a ridge of collarbone. She reminded Honor of the scarecrows hanging on wooden frames in Dorset gardens. The contrast between her angular plainness and the frilly wares she sold made Honor want to smile.
“What you grinnin’ at, Honor Bright?”
Honor started. Donovan had entered the shop, his heavy tread among the customers causing them to fall silent and take a collective step back.
Honor remained still. She did not want to cause a fuss, so she simply said, “I wish thee good day, Mr. Donovan.”
Donovan rested his eyes on her. “I was passing and saw you in here. And I thought to myself, ‘Why in hell did Old Thomas leave a Quaker girl at Belle Mills’s when she can’t wear none of the hats?’”
“Donovan, don’t be so rude to our guest, or she’ll go right back to England and tell everyone what bad manners American men have.” Belle Mills had come out from behind the counter, and turned her attention to Honor. “You’re English, ain’t you, Miss Bright? I could tell from the stitching ’round your neckline. Looks like something only an Englishwoman would think up. I never seen such a striking detail, certainly not on a Quaker woman’s dress. Very fine, that. Simple. Effective. Did you design it or copy it from something?”
“I made it up myself.” Honor glanced down at the white V of cloth edging the neckline of her dark green dress. It was not the crisp white it had been when she left England. But then, nothing was quite as clean in America as it had been back home.
“Hey, you bring any English magazines with you? Ladies’ Cabinet of Fashion or Illustrated London News?”
Honor shook her head.
“Shame. I like to copy hats from ’em. By the way, if you’re wonderin’ where your bonnet is, I got it here.” Belle Mills pointed to a shelf behind her. Honor’s bonnet-pale green, with the crown and brim merged into one horizontal line-had been pulled over one of the hat blocks. “It needed a little attention. I just gave it a brush and a sprinkle of starchy water. Give it an hour and it’ll get its shape back. You got it new for your trip?”
“My mother made it.”
Belle nodded. “Good hand. Can you sew like that?”
Better than that, Honor thought but did not say. “She taught me.”
“Maybe while you’re here you can help me out. Usually I’m not so busy once the Easter-bonnet rush is over, but it’s heated up all of a sudden and everybody’s decided they want a new bonnet, or new trim on their hats.”
Honor nodded in confusion. She was not expecting to remain in Wellington, but to go immediately on to Faithwell. It was only seven miles away, and she hoped to find another farmer with a wagon to take her, or get a boy to ride there with a message for Adam Cox to come and fetch her. The thought of seeing him so soon filled her with dread, though; she did not know if he would welcome her as warmly without Grace at her side.
Donovan interrupted her thoughts. “Jesus Christ, is this what you gals talk about all day? Dresses and bonnets?”
The customers had been soothed enough by Belle’s chat to go back to browsing the merchandise. Hearing Donovan’s tone, however-so alien to a millinery shop-they froze once again.
“Nobody asked you to come here and listen to us,” Belle countered. “Get out of here-you’re scaring my customers.”
“Honor Bright, are you stayin’ here?” Donovan demanded. “You didn’t tell me that before. Thought you said you was headed to Faithwell.”
“You keep out of her business,” Belle said. “Old Thomas told me you was botherin’ her on the road. Poor Honor has had to meet the lowest of Ohio society before she’s even had a chance to catch her breath.”