The Last Runaway by Tracy Chevalier Read Free Book Online

shops and houses around a crossroads, its few streets were wide and laid out in a grid oriented north and south, east and west. Main Street had been widened so that there was a rectangular Public Square with a town hall, a church, a hotel and shops—one of them Belle’s—arranged around it. Shops in the surrounding streets included several general stores, as well as a cobbler, a tailor, a blacksmith, a cabinet maker, a brickyard and a carriage maker. Most were two stories high and made of wood, with awnings and large windows displaying goods. A school had been built, and a train depot was almost finished for the railroad due to begin running to Wellington later in the summer. “This town’s gonna explode when that train comes through,” Belle declared. “Good for business. Good for hats.”
    As they strolled, Honor had the familiar uneasy feeling she had experienced when passing through American towns on her way to Ohio: that they had been built quickly, and could be destroyed just as quickly, by a fire or the extreme American weather she had heard about, hurricanes and tornadoes and blizzards. The storefronts might be relatively new but they had already been ravaged by sun and snow. The road was both dry and wet, dusty and muddy.
    Wherever they went, the road and the planks laid above the mud were spattered with gobs of spit. Honor and Grace had been astonished when they reached New York at how often American men spat, walking around with a bulge of tobacco in their cheeks and letting fly both outside and in. Equally astonishing was that no one else seemed to notice or mind.
    Belle nodded at everyone they passed, and stopped to speak a few words to some of the women. Most were wearing everyday bonnets, but a few wore hats that Honor recognized as Belle’s, with their peculiar combinations of trimmings. Belle confirmed this. “Some of them make their own bonnets, but all the hats are mine. You’ll see more of ’em Sundays, for church. They wouldn’t dare wear a hat from one of them Oberlin milliners—they know I’d never do business with ’em afterward. Nothin’ wrong with Oberlin, but you buy from your own, don’t you?” Belle herself wore a straw hat with a wide orange ribbon around the brim, trimmed with flowers fashioned from pieces of straw.
    On one corner of Public Square was the town hotel. For such a small town, it was surprisingly grand: a long, two-story building with a double balcony running all the way along its front on both floors, held up by several pairs of white columns. “Wadsworth Hotel,” Belle remarked. “Only place in town to get a drink—not that you need to know that. You Quakers don’t touch alcohol, do you?”
    Honor shook her head.
    “Well, I take my whiskey at home. And that’s why.” Belle nodded toward one end of the hotel, which faced the millinery shop across Public Square. Lounging on the porch out front were a cluster of men, bottles at their sides. Donovan was among them, his feet propped up on a table. On seeing Belle and Honor, he raised his bottle at them, then drank.
    “Charming.” Belle led her on. As they passed the last pair of columns, Honor noticed a poster tacked on one of them. It was not the $150 REWARD in big letters that drew her in, but the silhouette of a man running with a sack over his shoulder. She stopped and studied it.

    The description was remarkably specific. She pictured the man she had seen in the lean-to. Now that there were words for what he looked like, adjectives like chunky and African and shrewd , she could picture him, his calculating eyes taking her in, the strength in his shoulders—and his hair, bushy but parted on the side.
    Donovan was watching her.
    “Walk on,” Belle hissed, taking her arm and marching her around the corner onto Mechanics Street.
    When they were out of earshot, Honor said, “Did Donovan put up that poster?”
    “Yes. He’s a slave hunter. You worked that out, didn’t you?”
    Honor nodded, though she