Still reeling from the thought of Belle Mills being married, Honor ran to get her bonnet. It was not what she would have worn for a walk in Faithwell, but she could not say no to its maker.
Belle pulled Honor’s arm through her own as they walked west along the rutted track, nodding at the families gathered on their own porches in neighboring houses. All stared at Belle and her hat, and Honor and her bonnet. Belle seemed not to notice. “Donovan bothered you any since you been here?” she asked.
“He has ridden by a few times, but not stopped.” Honor did not mention that his grin and wave each time brought grimaces from Abigail and Adam.
“Good. Don’t expect that to last, though. He never can resist payin’ people attention when they don’t want it.”
They passed the smithy, then the general store. Belle peered in the windows, though it was closed. “Not much to choose from, is there?” she remarked. “How many families live here?”
“Fifteen, including the outlying farms.”
“Lord, that’s the size of the speck I came from in Kentucky. I know what it’s like. How we gonna get you out of that house?”
“What does thee mean?”
Belle paused and shook Honor’s elbow. “Oh, come on, now, you ain’t gonna stay there with those two, are you? Not with Abigail giving you those looks. Did you see how rattled she got when you and Adam were talkin’ about England? Thought she would rock the runners off that chair. Any time she felt left out she had to interrupt.”
“But—” Honor stopped.
Belle’s hazel eyes were laughing. “She’s jealous of you. Surely you can see that? Or maybe you’re too nice to. No, she wants Adam to herself, and she don’t like another woman—a nicer woman, and better looking, certainly better at sewing, and probably a better housekeeper—in her way. Hell, I think she was jealous of me, till I mentioned the husband.”
As they began walking again, Honor repeated to Belle what Judith Haymaker had said to Adam about their irregular household.
Belle snorted. “I ain’t surprised. You’d get comments about your setup in Wellington too, and we ain’t so strict as Quakers.”
“This is her farm where we come for milk,” Honor said in a low voice. “That is Judith Haymaker.”
The older woman was sitting with her two children on the porch of a large white house with green shutters. It was set far enough back from the road that Honor and Belle could simply wave without being obliged to walk up and say hello. Jack Haymaker nodded; Dorcas stared; Judith rocked. Honor could feel three pairs of eyes on her bonnet as they continued along the track, the Haymakers’ orchard to their right. The cherries were finished, the plums and peaches not quite ripe.
That is the second time Judith Haymaker has seen this bonnet, Honor thought. And we have to walk past them on the way back.
“Farm looks well run,” Belle remarked. “Good herd too.” She nodded toward the brown cows in the pasture behind the barn. Honor had not even noticed them.
They reached the end of the orchard, where the trees began again and the road became little more than a path crisscrossed with roots, winding through a thick wood Honor had not dared to enter. To her this was the West, wild and unknown and unwelcoming. Even Belle, who did not seem frightened of anything, stood at its edge without suggesting they go on. The trees were mainly maples and beech, with a sprinkling of ash, elm and oak—their leaves long and smooth rather than with the curled edges Honor was used to. Even a tree as solid and steady as an oak was transformed in America into something alien. As she peered into the dim woods, a raccoon scurried away, its humped back swaying back and forth. Only when it had climbed high into a maple did it feel secure enough to turn its masked face toward the women. Grace would have loved to see a raccoon, Honor thought.
“Belle, I do not know what to do,” she said.
Belle was rearranging the cherries on her hat. “About what?”
“Living here the way I am, in that house.”
“All right, let me ask you something: Do you want to marry Adam Cox?”
“No!”
“Then you’re gonna have to look around. Any other men in Faithwell take your fancy?”
The press of Jack Haymaker’s eyes flashed through her mind—and then Donovan, grinning at her, the ribbon that held her key around his neck dark with sweat.
“It’s simple, Honor Bright, you got a choice to make,” Belle declared. “Go back home to England, or stay here. If you stay, you got to find a man to marry. What’s it to be?”
Honor shuddered, making Belle laugh. “It ain’t easy, findin’ a man you can stand. C’mon, honey.” She took Honor’s arm. “Let’s parade past them Haymakers again and show off our headwear. You get nervous, just have yourself a look at the marigolds in the front yard. Planted in rows!”
Faithwell, Ohio
7th Month 11th 1850
Dearest Biddy,
It made me very happy to receive thy letter yesterday with all the news from home, even if it is now six weeks old. Reading it, I almost felt I was with thee, walking along the familiar streets and stopping in on various friends. I was especially keen to read about thy visit to Sherborne and the new people thee met there. I wish I had been able to go too.
I am sitting out on the porch now in the cool evening—my favourite place to sew and write. Adam and Abigail have remained inside, saying the mosquitoes will come out with the damp. I do not mind the bites, if it gives me a few moments alone. Earlier there was a thunderstorm—they occur almost every afternoon during the summer. The storms are much more violent and frightening than the few we witnessed in Bridport, which managed only a bolt or two of lightning, usually remaining over the sea and not threatening us. Here they come on suddenly, with the sky turning from blue to black in just a few minutes. The rain falls in torrents, sometimes accompanied by hail that damages crops if it lasts long. The roads turn to mud in an instant. One afternoon last week the sky turned green, which Abigail said indicated a tornado was close. We had to crouch under the table, though I am not sure it would have given us much protection if the tornado had passed through. I have heard they can toss a house up in the air and completely destroy it.
Once the storm is past, though, the air is clear and fresh, and blessedly cooler. I had heard of Ohio heat, but not believed it could be so extreme. Sometimes I can barely move, it is so thick and relentless, even at night. So I welcomed today’s thunderstorm.
I have surprising news: Adam and Abigail’s banns were read out at Fifth Day Meeting today. They are to be married in ten days. I had thought banns were to be read out over a three-week period to give the community time to consider the match, but apparently they are willing to do things faster here.
Adam and Abigail did not tell me of their intentions before Meeting, so I was as surprised as the rest of the community when the announcement was made. Afterwards they were congratulated by other Members, though I felt the words were rather perfunctory. There was not the joyous feeling in the air one normally senses when a marriage is announced. Adam and Abigail were both subdued and even a little embarrassed. I expect they felt this was a practical solution to the awkward arrangement of our household.
Grace died only six weeks ago. I would like to have reminded Adam of that. He has not been able to look me in the eye all day. Indeed, he and Abigail have avoided me—and I them, if I am honest. Though it was very hot and close, I spent much of the afternoon after Meeting out in the garden, weeding. Only the thunderstorm drove me inside.
Some of the women have quickly organised what they call a quilting “frolic” for tomorrow, to help Abigail with quilts for her marriage. Where at home Grace and Mother and I would have quilted a coverlet over several days, here they sometimes quilt it all in one day, with many hands helping. I had been looking forward to attending one, but I wish this frolic were not to do with Abigail’s marriage: it takes some of the pleasure out of the day.
I know thee will want to hear about it, so I shall delay sending t
his letter in order to report back.
Later
The frolic took place at the Haymaker farm where we get our milk. I do like their name, though the mother is full of steel and the daughter resembles Abigail a little in mood. We arrived with a side of ham and a cherry pie, only to discover there were four other cherry pies and two sides of ham. The ‘comfort’ we were to work on had been stretched over a square frame. I had expected we would make a whole-cloth bridal quilt, but instead it was an appliqué pattern of flowers in vases and fruit in bowls, the predominant colours red and green on a white background—a look common throughout Ohio. Abigail has worked hard these last few weeks to finish sewing the cover. She does not sew much, so perhaps I should have guessed the reason for all of this activity. Appliqué is very popular here. To my eye it has a facile look about it, as if the maker has not thought hard but simply cut out whatever shape has taken her fancy and sewn it onto a bit of cloth. Piecing together patchwork, on the other hand, requires more consideration and more accuracy; that is why I like it, though some say it is too cold and geometrical.
Judith Haymaker had marked out with chalk and a taut string simple double parallel lines for us to quilt in a diamond pattern, with stitching in the flowers and leaves as well, copying their shapes. For backing Abigail had used the familiar blue cloth thee will know from Friends’ quilts in England; some customs have successfully crossed the ocean. However, the batting was cotton rather than the wool thee and I would have used. There was some discussion about the origins of the cotton, whether it had been grown and picked by slaves. Judith Haymaker assured us that Adam Cox had bought it for her from a merchant in Cleveland who had dealings with plantations in the South that do not use slaves. I have heard of a store in Cincinnati, run by a Friend, where all of the goods are guaranteed to be of slave-free provenance. But I did not know of such a store in Cleveland. I was glad, however, that Faithwell Friends are concerned about such things.
Eight of us sewed for several hours and, as has happened before, even in England, much was made of the speed and evenness of my stitches, and of my doublehanded sewing as I quilt. Most of the women controlled their needle with one hand, and were astonished at how quickly I was able to sew in and out of the layers using both hands. Indeed, I was so much quicker that I had to change places with the slower quilters. Some also crawled under the frame to look at my underside stitches. Thee knows I have always managed to quilt evenly on both sides. I do not write this to boast, but rather to point out how displaced I often feel here, even when performing the most familiar of tasks. Instead of complimenting my quilting, the others stared as if I were some sort of strange fruit being sold at a market. Compliments in America can take an almost aggressive form, as if the speaker needs to defend her own shortcomings rather than simply to rejoice in another’s ability. However, Judith Haymaker did ask me to quilt the appliquéd fruit and flowers, as they will be noticed more; that was a compliment of sorts.
There was much talk as we quilted, though I was quiet unless asked a direct question, which was not often. The other women were pleasant, though I confess that, apart from the discussion on the origin of the cotton, I found their conversation dull. I do not want thee to think I have become judgemental. Perhaps if one of them were sitting with us in Bridport, they too would find our conversation tedious as we discuss people they don’t know and places they haven’t visited. In time I expect I will get to know those people and places, and conversations will hold more interest. In general, though, I have found that American women seem to be interested in little other than themselves. Perhaps the struggle to live here is enough of a challenge that they prefer not to think much beyond their immediate circumstances.
No one spoke of Abigail’s marriage, though I sense there is relief that our unusual household will be made more regular now. No one asked me what I am to do. I am wondering that myself. I do not wish to continue to live with them, but there are few alternatives within such a small community.
At the end of the day when the quilt was done, the men came in from their work and we all ate. As well as ham, there was roast beef, mashed potatoes, baked sweet potatoes—which have orange flesh and taste more like squash than potato—green beans (which they call ‘string’ beans), fresh corn as well as corn bread, a wide variety of preserves, and many pies, mostly cherry, as they were recently in season. I was most pleased by a bowl of gooseberries, which I had not thought were grown in America. Their simple, fragrant taste reminded me of our garden at home in the summer sun.
I was glad to be at the frolic, for quilting is always a pleasure to me, whatever the conversation. The even repetitiveness of the work soothes me. I only wish there had been another sitting around the quilt who might become a friend. There were two others close to my age—Dorcas Haymaker, the daughter of the house, and another named Caroline, but they were more suspicious than friendly, and I believe both felt threatened by my sewing. It made me miss thee all the more.
I am sorry, Biddy. In each letter I feel compelled to apologise for my judgements and complaints. I am surprised myself at how hard I have found it to adjust to this new life. I had thought that I would take to it easily. But then, I had never been far from home and so had no true idea of what lay ahead, and how challenging it would be to my very spirit. And of course I thought I would have Grace here to support and encourage me.
I promise thee that in my next letter I shall not complain, but show thee how I can truly embrace life in America.
Thy faithful friend,
Honor Bright
Corn
JACK HAYMAKER WAS like a pulled muscle that Honor sensed every time she moved. She found she was looking out for him on the days when she went to the Haymaker farm to buy milk. Usually he was out of sight, and his absence was both a disappointment and an anticipation of his eventual appearance. Occasionally, though, she caught a glimpse of him coming out of the barn, or walking behind the cows in the pasture, or hitching the horses to a wagon full of surplus milk. When she did see him, it was like looking at the sun—she could not do so directly, but only glance, and hide her reaction. And whenever she did look, Jack was already smiling, even when not looking back at her. He always seemed to know that he had her attention.
At Meeting, when he sat across the room from her in the men’s section, his presence was so disruptive Honor began to think she would never be able to concentrate on the still small voice inside herself while he was in the same room. Afterward, when everyone stood chatting outside the Meeting House, she hoped he would not approach her and Abigail and Adam. In such a small community, every gesture was noted. He must have understood this, for he remained talking with the other young men, laughing and scuffling in the dried mud on the road so that his white shirt grew dusty. But though his eyes were not directly on her, Honor could feel him there, and wondered that no one else seemed to notice the connection.
He was not an especially handsome man: his features were flat and his eyes small and close set—though he was clean shaven, which Honor preferred to the beard that lined the jaws of most Quaker men. What made him most attractive was that he was attracted to her. Another’s interest can be a powerful stimulant. She could feel his eyes on her as an almost physical pressure.
At the Haymakers’ frolic, Honor was glad she had the familiar, steadying task of quilting to keep her occupied. Yet even as she worked, she knew Jack Haymaker would arrive at the day’s end to join the women for supper. While she was skilled enough to keep the mounting tension from affecting her stitches, after a few hours her wrists and lower back ached and her shoulders were tight. Coupled with the heavy heat she had not yet grown used to, she felt a headache creeping up. By the time Jack appeared with the other men she could barely see him for the pulsating lights before her eyes and the pain at her temples.
As the porch and parlor began to fill with people, Honor slipped through the kitchen and out of the back door, where she stumbled to a well in the center of the yard. After drawing up the bucke
t, she leaned against the curved stone wall and drank from a tin mug left out for the purpose. Then she took a deep breath and gazed up at the darkening sky, dotted with a few stars. It was still and hot, and fireflies blinked in the farmyard. Honor watched them flickering and marveled that insects could light up from within.
“Is thee all right, Honor?”
Of course he had followed her out, though she had not meant him to. “I was a little hot.”
“’Tis a hot night, even outside. I wonder at everyone willingly crammed into the parlor.” Jack Haymaker spoke with a faint drawl.
A firefly landed on Honor’s sleeve and began walking up her shoulder, its tail still blinking. As she craned her neck to look down at it, Jack chuckled. “Don’t be scared. It’s just a lightning bug.” He placed his finger in its path. Honor tried not to think about the pressure of his touch. When the firefly crawled onto his finger, he lifted it up and let it fly off, signaling its escape route with sparks of light.
“We do not have fireflies in England,” she said.
“Really? Why not?”
“Many things are different there.”
“Like what?”
Honor looked around. “The land is more—ordered. Fields there are divided by hedgerows and are greener. It is not so hot there, and there are not so many trees.”
Jack folded his arms. “Sounds like thee prefers England.”
“I—” Words had tripped her. It would have been better to say nothing. “That is not what I meant.”
The Last Runaway Page 10
