The Last Runaway

by Tracy Chevalier

  Late in the day, as she was folding cloth, Honor heard a throat cleared beside her. “Excuse me, miss. How much is that a yard?”

  A black woman stood next to her, intent on the fabric in Honor’s hands: a cream cotton dotted with tiny rust-colored diamonds. She was as small as Honor, and older, her cheeks smooth and shiny and crisscrossed with lines, like the palms of hands. She wore spectacles and a straw hat trimmed with dandelions limp from the heat.

  Honor glanced toward Adam: he had disappeared into the back room. “I will look for thee,” she said, pleased to have been asked. Each bolt was wound around a flat piece of wood; on one end Adam had written the price. Honor searched for that now, pulling back the layers of cloth. “Fifty cents a yard,” she announced.

  The woman grimaced. “I can manage that, just about.” She pulled out a lace collar yellow with age but beautifully made, and laid it on top of the cloth, smoothing it with long fingers tipped with pale oval nails. “This go with it?” She said this more as a statement than a question, and Honor did not know if she should answer. The collar went well enough with the material, but something finer like silk would have been preferable. She did not think she should suggest this, though, as silk cost much more.

  “Is it for thee?” she asked.

  The woman shook her head. “Daughter’s wedding dress. She need somethin’ she can wear after, for everyday or for church.”

  She is like any woman, Honor thought, concerned that her daughter should look her best and yet have a practical dress. “Then it is a good choice,” she said. “How many yards would thee like?”

  “Six—no, five, please. She’s a little thing.”

  Her hands shaking, Honor measured and cut the cloth with more care than she had for any other customer that day. As she wrapped the cloth and tied twine around the paper, she thought, This is the first time I have helped a black person.

  She felt eyes on her and glanced up. The woman was studying the yellow rim of Honor’s bonnet. “Where you get that bonnet? Not from Oberlin, did you?”

  “No. Belle Mills’s Millinery in Wellington.” Several other women had already asked about the bonnet and had been disappointed that they would have to go all the way to Wellington for one.

  Recognition sparked in the woman’s eyes; she gazed at Honor, a steady look unhampered by her glasses. She might have been about to say something when Adam appeared from the back room. “Hello, Mrs. Reed. Has Honor been able to help with everything thee needs?”

  Mrs. Reed’s eyes disappeared behind a flash of spectacles as she turned to Adam. “Yep, she did. Where Abigail at?”

  “I’m afraid she was unwell this morning.”

  “Was she, now.” Mrs. Reed pressed her lips together and handed Adam the money for the fabric. She made it seem as if she had much to say but was holding it back behind her clamped mouth, only letting some of her thoughts seep out from her eyes. She picked up her package from the table. “Thankee. Good day.” She turned and departed without looking back.

  Honor refolded the cloth and put it away, deflated. Clearly their encounter had meant much less to Mrs. Reed than it had to her.

  Faithwell, Ohio

  7th Month 5th 1850

  My dear parents,

  I was overjoyed to receive your letter this morning—the first I have had since the letter that awaited my arrival in Faithwell. As I read it I could hear your familiar voices, and imagine exactly how Mother sat at the desk in the corner to write it, looking out of the window now and then while considering what news to tell me.

  My pleasure was only tempered by the pain of reading your address to Grace as well. Even as I write this, you, indeed the whole community, still do not know of her death, and it is an odd feeling, that news of such importance suffers a delay of almost two months. By the time you receive this letter, other things may have happened that you will not know of. Similarly, the news I have had from your letter may already have been overtaken by other events. I can only hope and pray that our lives will not be so full of drama as to outdate our letters before they reach their destination.

  Since last writing, I have been slowly getting to know the other residents of Faithwell, and to help Abigail more effectively than I did at first. I am no longer trying to reorganise the house, for when I do make a suggestion she takes it as a criticism against her. Of course I don’t mean it in that way—I am only trying to help her establish a household that runs smoothly. But she is very sensitive. Adam has refused to become involved other than to ask me to respect Abigail’s right as mistress of the house to organise it as she prefers. And so I have had to step back.

  However, in one way I have managed to make real improvements. Abigail does not like to work in the kitchen garden—it is unbearably hot, with the sun shining more than in England and the air so thick and still. One might think that since she is a native to American summers she would be more tolerant of the heat than I. But she becomes very red in the face and complains so bitterly that I pity her. Then there is the constant struggle against animals and insects, which she finds trying. When I offered to do the work myself, Abigail looked grateful for the first time since my arrival. That in itself is worth the heat.

  In the garden we are growing many of the vegetables one would find in thy garden, Mother: potatoes, beans, carrots, lettuces, tomatoes. But they are different from what I am used to, even when the varieties are meant to be the same. The potatoes are larger, with more eyes. The carrots are thinner and more tapered—though as tasty. The beans have a smoother skin, and the lettuce leaves grow much faster.

  Much of the garden is given over to corn. Where at home it is only grown to feed livestock, here corn seems to be the primary staple, even more than wheat or oats. It grows everywhere, and though it is still too young to eat fresh, I am assured it is tender and sweet. I have, however, eaten much that is made with cornmeal. Too much, I sometimes think. Abigail insists on doing the cooking, though she will allow me to wash and chop and scrub for her. Everything seems to be corn-based, from the mush favoured for breakfast to the bread that accompanies dinner to the batter for the occasional fried fish to the cakes we have with coffee. Of course I do not complain; I am grateful for any food served. It is just that the underlying sweet vegetable flavour begins to make everything taste similar.

  I have much to do in the garden. Abigail and Adam started it off well enough, but in the summer heat it needs constant watering. The weeds seem to grow faster and more luxuriant than the crops. Then there are the deer and rabbits, the birds, the slugs and snails and locusts and other insects I am unfamiliar with. The rabbits are particularly clever at digging under fencing—I am sure American rabbits are more intelligent than English ones—to the point where I am almost tempted to sleep out in the vegetable patch to scare them away. Now that Abigail has handed over the responsibility for the garden to me, she has become very critical of my methods, without making useful suggestions herself. It can be rather trying. Luckily the corn does not need too much attention. I am glad, for whenever I go down the rows of it I always scare out a few snakes. I have never seen so many snakes; I have had to stifle a few screams. Most of them are harmless, though there are enough that are poisonous to keep me wary.

  They say here that the corn should be ‘knee-high by the Fourth of July’. Ours is much higher than my knee, and I thought it must be doing exceptionally well, until I was told that it meant one’s knee when mounted on a horse. There are so many words and phrases that I don’t understand, sometimes I wonder if American English isn’t a language as foreign as French.

  Yesterday was the Fourth of July. One subject Americans feel strongly about is their independence from Britain. They are very proud of having become a separate country. I did not know what to expect, though I had heard there would be celebrations in many places. However, neither Faithwell nor Oberlin celebrated, for it would be supporting the Declaration of Independence, a document that I have learned does not include Negroes as equal citizens. Instead some of
the Faithwell Friends went along to the college park in Oberlin to listen to anti-slavery speeches, bringing with us a picnic deemed necessary rather than celebratory. In general northern Ohioans oppose slavery, and Oberlin has a reputation for being the most vehemently anti-slavery of all the towns in the area.

  For once it was not too hot, with a breeze that kept us comfortable. The spread of food was enormous, all laid out on trestle tables. Americans take their picnics very seriously. Where at home we would carry modest provisions, here it is considered important to display and eat as much as possible. I did not think that Faithwell Friends would find a way to show off—indeed, in terms of dress and deportment they are as modest as any Bridport Friend. But they laid out more food than ever we could eat, with much care taken over the baked goods. This seemed to be the case with Oberlinites as well, as I noted when Abigail and I strolled about the square. I have never seen so many pies.

  I was interested to witness a small group of Negroes also picnicking. While my passage in America to Ohio took me only through states where slavery is not permitted, I did come across a few Negroes, usually working on the docks or the stagecoaches, or in the kitchens and stables of inns. I never saw any at their leisure. Here I studied them—out of the corner of my eye, for I did not wish to stare—and found they are not so different from everyone else. Their picnic was certainly as abundant, though it may have differed in content: many Ohio Negroes are originally from the South, where I have heard the cooking described as more vigorous. The Negro women dressed with more frills than a Quaker would, though the cloth was not so fine. The men wore dark suits and straw hats. Their children were boisterous, and played with balls and pinwheels and kites, as did the white children in the square—though they did not play together.

  The speeches were long, and I confess I did not understand much of what they said. It was not just the American accents, which are varying and at times baffling. It seems that even those opposed to slavery disagree about how it should be ended, with some advocating immediate emancipation, while others argue that such a drastic action would ruin the economy, and that freedom needs to be handed out incrementally. They talked too of Congress—the American equivalent of our Parliament, I think—debating a bill about fugitive slaves, and the men who spoke grew very heated, at times their words descending into personal insults towards politicians I had not heard of. However, their speeches gave me much to think about.

  Then the blacksmith from Faithwell recited a poem in a deep simple voice that was welcomed by the crowd. I asked afterwards and discovered it was a poem by Whittier: ‘Stanzas for the Times’. I have written down some of the lines I want to remember:

  . . . guided by our country’s laws,

  For truth, and right, and suffering man,

  Be ours to strive in Freedom’s cause,

  As Christians may,—as freemen can!

  When it grew dark the students of the college hung paper lanterns in the trees, and fiddlers played songs I was not familiar with. It was very beautiful, and I felt at ease for perhaps the first time since leaving England.

  Only one thing marred the day. I was at the picnic table, looking for food with no corn in it, when I overheard Judith Haymaker, a dairywoman who sells us milk and cheese and is one of the Elders of Faithwell Meeting, say to Adam, ‘A man living with two young women who are neither sister nor wife nor daughter is an arrangement that cannot continue.’ I did not hear Adam’s response, but he looked very grave.

  I would like to report that I was astonished by her words, but I was not. She has voiced the thought that has nagged at me ever since I arrived in Faithwell. Neither Adam nor Abigail has spoken of it, but there is a tension at times that I know stems from our unusual household. However, please do not be troubled on my account. You may take comfort in the knowledge that by the time you read this letter, we will have found a suitable arrangement to satisfy everyone.

  Your loving daughter,

  Honor Bright

  Woods

  THE FIRST DAY after the Fourth of July, Honor had a visitor. She was sitting on the porch with Abigail and Adam, sleepy and a little queasy from the Sunday dinner they had just finished, in which fatty, oversalted ham played a large part. Honor had never eaten so much pork. She longed for lamb, and fish—delicate tastes simply served.

  “I got a bone to pick with you, Honor Bright!”

  Honor started and opened her eyes. A light buggy had pulled up in front of the house, with Belle Mills holding the reins. She threw them over the white picket fence in front of the house and hopped down. “You been sending me too many Oberlin ladies sayin’ ‘I want that gray and yaller bonnet the Quaker girl’s wearing.’ How am I gonna keep up with orders without you helping me?” Belle nodded at Adam and Abigail. “You must be Abigail. I already met Adam. I’m Belle Mills, the milliner over in Wellington. Don’t know what Honor told you about me—probably nothin’. She don’t talk much, do she? Now, you gonna invite me out of the sun? It’s mighty hot.”

  Honor stood and waited for Abigail to ask Belle, deferring to her as the mistress of the house. But Abigail was staring at Belle’s hat: straw with a wide brim trimmed with a band of white lace over red ribbon, a clump of silk cherries pinned to the side.

  Honor gave up on Abigail and greeted Belle herself. “I am very glad to see thee. Please join us.”

  Belle stepped onto the porch and sank into the rocker Adam offered. “Oh, that’s good—no more jolting along that track,” she said, pulling off lace gloves. Honor had not seen her wear gloves in Wellington, not even when they went for walks. These dainty ones looked odd on her, especially when they were taken off to reveal Belle’s big hands and squared fingers. The gloves and her hat jarred with her lean frame and wide shoulders, so different from the plump curves and rounded shoulders that were the fashion. If women were meant to look like doves these days, Belle resembled a buzzard.

  “Abigail, perhaps our guest would like something to drink,” Adam suggested.

  “Oh!” Abigail hurried inside, embarrassed at having to be reminded.

  “Well, ain’t this something,” Belle remarked, looking around. “I never been out this way. That the rest of Faithwell?” She nodded toward the general store.

  “There are a few outlying farms, but yes,” Adam replied. “It is growing, however. New families are moving here all the time.”

  “Sure they are. All of ’em Quakers, right? I can’t imagine anyone else willing to go down that track. What’s it like in the rain? Mud’s bad enough on the road between Wellington and Oberlin.”

  When Abigail reappeared with four glasses, a bottle of dark liquid and a pitcher of water, Belle nodded. “Blackberry cordial, is it? I’m impressed you managed to save some from last summer. I would’ve drunk it all by October.”

  Abigail paused in the act of pouring, as if she couldn’t do so and think at the same time.

  “Don’t worry, honey, that’s a compliment,” Belle added. “It takes a good housekeeper to hold back the best stuff so she’s got something to give guests.” She turned to Honor. “I was wonderin’ if we would see you in Wellington for the Fourth of July, but I expect it was too far for you, wasn’t it?”

  “We do not celebrate the Fourth,” Adam replied.

  “Really? What, Quakers don’t like to have fun?”

  “We do not wish to celebrate a document that does not include all men as citizens of America.”

  “We went to Oberlin to listen to speeches opposing slavery,” Honor added.

  “Of course you did. I should’ve guessed Quakers would be more entertained listening to abolitionists than shootin’ guns in the air. Me, I like the guns. How’s business up in Oberlin?”

  “Fair,” Adam said. “I would like to see it a little busier.”

  “Bet you don’t sell much satin or velvet, do you?”

  “Not much, no.”

  Belle chuckled. “Them Oberlinites don’t go in for anything fancy, do they? I wouldn’t be a milliner there—I
’d never get to make anything fancier than Honor’s bonnet.” Belle glanced at Abigail’s and Honor’s plain dresses, at Adam’s collarless shirt and braces. “Which fabric supplier do you use in Cleveland?”

  While Abigail finished pouring cordial and Honor passed it around, Belle discussed business with Adam with an ease Honor envied. But then, much of her job involved talking to people. Belle more than many managed to combine sincere interest with casual humor and offhandedness.

  “You got a similar accent to Honor,” she remarked. “You two from the same place in England?”

  Adam concurred, and Belle asked him and Honor question after question about Bridport. As they discussed their home town, Abigail began to rock faster and faster until she suddenly stopped. “Would thee like more cordial?” she interrupted, jumping up.

  “Sure would, thankee.” Belle held out her glass, winking at Honor as Abigail filled it. “Where you from originally, Abigail?”

  “Pennsylvania.”

  “Well, there you go. We’re all from somewhere else. That’s how Ohio is.”

  “Where was thy home?” Adam asked.

  “Kentucky—can’t you tell from my accent? I came up here ’cause my husband went to Cleveland to speculate on steamboats on Lake Erie. I thought Cleveland would be more interesting than a Kentucky hollow. Well, it was, sort of.”

  “Thee was married?” Honor exclaimed.

  “Still am. Rascal ran off—encouraged by my brother, I’m sorry to say. Them two never saw eye to eye. No idea where he is now. Oh, he was no good, and I was a fool, but I would’ve liked to do the chasin’ off rather than leave it to Donovan. Bastard.” Belle paused. “Sorry for cursing. Anyway, just as well he left—railroads set to take over steamboats soon enough. In Cleveland I learned how to make hats—it’s one of the only businesses a woman can run on her own. Then I came out to Wellington to set up shop. Thought about Oberlin, but they don’t like feathers, or color, and I do. Now, Honor,” she continued, draining her glass, “you gonna show me the rest of Faithwell? I’m ready to stretch my legs. And wear that gray bonnet—I want to see it in action.”