The Last Runaway

Blackberries

A FEW DAYS later, when her head was clearer and she had regained her strength enough to be up and about, Honor found a response to Jack’s argument about slavery and cotton. It came so plainly to her mind that she wanted to pass it on before it lost its shine. And so at supper, to the astonishment of all three Haymakers, Honor spoke out without having been asked a question first. She was so eager to say what she was thinking, and so unused to leading a conversation, that she did not preface her words with any explanation. Into the silence-the Haymakers did not talk much when they ate-she stated, “Perhaps we should all pay a bit more for our cloth, so that cotton growers may use that extra money to pay the slaves, making them workers rather than slaves.”

The Haymakers stared at her. “I would pay a penny more a yard if I knew it was paying to dismantle slavery,” she added.

“I did not know thee had the pennies to be generous with,” Dorcas remarked.

Judith Haymaker passed her son a platter of ham. “Adam Cox would have to shut down his business if he raised the prices on the cloth he sold,” she said. “There are few pennies to spare these days. Besides, southerners would rather stop farming than pay their slaves a wage. It is not in their nature to make such a change.”

“‘The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself.’” Though she had heard the words many times, Honor spoke them without as much force as she would have liked.

Judith frowned. “Thee does not need to quote Leviticus at me, Honor. I know my Bible.”

Honor dropped her gaze, ashamed of her attempt to engage in a true discussion of the issue.

“We come from a slave state,” Judith continued. “We moved to Ohio from North Carolina ten years ago, as many Friends did at the time, for we could no longer live in the midst of slavery. So we understand the cast of the southern mind.”

“I am sorry. I did not mean to judge.”

“There are a few farmers in the South who have given their slaves freedom, or allowed them to buy it,” Jack conceded, “but they are rare. And it is difficult for free Negroes to find a living. Many come north, leaving families behind, to settle in places like Oberlin, which is more tolerant than most. But even in Oberlin they are a separate community, and those who have run away are not entirely safe. That is why we support colonization. It seems a better option.”

“What is colonization?”

“Negroes come originally from Africa, and they would be happier living back there, in a new country of their own.”

Honor was silent, thinking about this. She wondered how Jack knew what would make Negroes happy. Had he asked them?

She had an opportunity to do so herself the following week. Jack was driving the wagon to Oberlin to have a corn husker repaired, and Honor accompanied him. Ten days before she could not imagine having the strength to cross a room, much less go to town, but when the fever abated, her recovery was quick, as others told her it would be, and she was eager to go to Oberlin again. Adam had promised that once the harvest season was over, he would ask Jack if she might occasionally help him at the store on Sixth Days. She did not know what her husband would say: probably that she should learn about cows instead of fabric. Judith had said she would soon have her milking, which Honor dreaded, for the cows seemed big and alien. Because of her illness, so far she had remained in the house and garden, and managed to avoid the animals, with their insistent hunger and muck. She could not escape the smell, however.

Each time Honor’s life changed, she found she missed what she’d had before: first Bridport, then Belle Mills’s Millinery, now Cox’s Dry Goods. But there was no use in dwelling on what her life might have been: such thinking did not help. She had noticed that Americans did not speculate about past or alternative lives. They were used to moving and change: most had emigrated from England or Ireland or Germany. Ohioans had moved from the south or from New England or Pennsylvania; many would go farther west. Already since she had arrived in Faithwell three months before, two families had decided that after the harvest they would go west. Others would come from the east or south to take their place. Houses did not remain empty for long. Ohio was a restless state, full of movement north and west. Faithwell and Oberlin too had that restless feel. Honor had not noticed it when she first arrived, but now she was discovering that all was in flux, and it seemed to disturb only her.

In the center of town she and Jack parted, he to the blacksmith, Honor to Cox’s Dry Goods to say hello and search for fabric for a new quilt she was making for Dorcas. The boy was sitting out front, sharpening a pair of scissors; he barely looked up as she stepped inside. The shop had just one customer: Adam Cox was helping Mrs. Reed. Today she was wearing black-eyed Susans on her hat. Honor nodded to them both, and out of habit went over to one of the tables to fold and restack bolts of cloth. Gazing across the sea of colors, she was reminded of the discussion at supper several days earlier. She had always loved fabric, admiring the weaves and patterns and textures, imagining what she could make. A length of new cloth always held possibilities. Now, though, she understood that much of it was not innocent, unsullied material, but the result of a compromised world. To find fabric without the taint of slavery in it was difficult, as Jack had said; yet if she refused all cotton, she would have to wear only wool in the intense Ohio heat, or go naked.

“I will just step next door to get change,” Adam was saying to Mrs. Reed. “Honor, will thee look after the shop for a moment?”

“Of course.”

As they waited for Adam to return, Honor continued to fold, while Mrs. Reed walked around the tables, patting the odd bolt, letting her hand linger on the material.

“May I ask thee a question?” Honor ventured.

Mrs. Reed frowned. “What… ma’am?” Honor did not wear a wedding band, as Friends did not need such a reminder of their commitment; yet somehow Mrs. Reed knew she was married.

“Please call me Honor. We do not use ‘ma’am’-or ‘miss.’”

“All right. Honor. What you want to know?”

“What does thee think of colonization?”

Mrs. Reed let her mouth hang open for a moment. “What does I think of colonization?” she repeated.

Honor said nothing. Already she regretted asking the question.

Mrs. Reed snorted. “You an abolitionist? Lots of Quakers is.” She glanced around the empty shop, and seemed to reach a decision. “Abolitionists got lots o’ theories, but I’m livin’ with realities. Why would I want to go to Africa? I was born in Virginia. So was my parents and my grandparents and their parents. I’m American. I don’t hold with sending us all off to a place most of us never seen. If white folks jes’ want to get rid of us, pack us off on ships so they don’t have to deal with us, well, I’m here. This is my home, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Suddenly Adam was at Honor’s side. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Reed?”

“No, sir, no problem.” Mrs. Reed held out her hand to take the change, then nodded at him. “Good day to you.” She left without looking at Honor.

“Honor, thee must never discuss politics with customers,” Adam said in a low voice. “They will bring them up-Americans often do-but thee must remain neutral.”

Honor nodded, holding back tears. She felt as if she had been slapped twice.

A few days later Honor and Dorcas went to pick the last of the season’s blackberries at the brambles on the edge of Wieland Woods. Though it was still hot when the sun was overhead, the heat had had its back broken, and evenings were becoming cooler.

Honor’s sister-in-law was almost as tricky to get along with as Abigail had been. She mimicked Honor’s accent, took offense at offers of help, and did not attempt to include Honor in conversation. Honor tried to feel sorry for her. It must be hard to have a stranger in her home who brought disruption and difference, particularly since she had been expecting her own friend to take that place. As Honor expected, Caroline had recently announced she was going west. And a week before, Honor had moved from the sick room back to the bedroom she shared with Jack. It was next to Dorcas’s room, and she must be aware of what went on there. Although they were quiet, the rhythmic movements of their coupling shook the bed and wall, and Jack sometimes groaned softly. Honor was getting over the shock of the demands made on her body, and beginning to enjoy what they did together.

On her own, however, without anyone else to make a point to or her mother to perform for, Dorcas was friendlier. As they bent over the brambles, she chattered on about picking enough blackberries to make pies for an upcoming frolic, the last they would have before the push to harvest the corn and put up produce from the kitchen garden and the orchard. Blackberry-picking for a frolic was a frivolity they would soon have no time for.

Ohio blackberries were subtly different from what Honor knew: larger than English berries, and sweeter, but not as tasty, the sweetness masking their unique fruitiness. Honor was hoping to surprise the Haymakers with blackberry junket, a sieving of the berries to turn them into a thick paste that concentrated the nutty flavor. She began to suspect, however, that these berries would be better for jelly or cordial.

As she worked, Honor had been only half listening to Dorcas, but a pause made her look up. Her sister-in-law was standing motionless, arms held out stiff from her sides, her fingers splayed. A swarm of yellow jackets hovered around her. As Honor watched, frozen, the wasps seemed to reach a collective decision, and swooped. “Ow!” Dorcas yelped, then began to scream, her face swelling. “Get them off me! Honor, help!” she cried, swatting at her skirt.

In Dorset, tamed by centuries of settlement, the worst that had happened to Honor when she went for a walk was a nettle sting. The American landscape was much wilder, with more dangers and sudden crises. People responded to them methodically, digging storm cellars for tornadoes, shooting bears, lighting fires to smoke out caterpillars. Belle had shot the copperhead in her yard as if it were an everyday event, like swatting a fly or chasing rabbits from a vegetable patch. Honor knew she should do something equally competent. But, while she had been stung once or twice as a child, she had never had to cope with so many wasps, and had no idea what to do. When there was a pause in the yellow jackets’ attack, she had the presence of mind to take Dorcas’s arm and lead her away from the nest she had stepped on. A few of the yellow jackets briefly followed, one of them stinging Honor’s arm.

As she hesitated, a low voice spoke behind her. “Take her to the crick, strip her an’ roll her in the water. Then put mud on them stings.”

Honor turned around. A young black man was crouching by the brambles, his eyes flicking between Honor and Dorcas, whose face was now so swollen she could not see. He was sweating with nerves as much as heat, it seemed, and looked poised to run.

“Crick?” Honor whispered.

“The crick, yonder.” The man waved a hand deeper into Wieland Woods. “Cold water and mud’ll bring them stings down.” His eyes held Honor’s for a moment, his look bright and serious and fearful all in one. “Can you tell me which way to go? I get lost during the day without the northern star to follow.”

Honor hesitated, thinking of what Jack counseled her to do, and then pointed. “Oberlin, three miles that way. Ask any Negro for Mrs. Reed. She will help thee.” She was making this up, but she had to assume that Mrs. Reed would not turn the young man away.

He nodded. Then he smiled, a sudden flash of teeth that made their being out in the woods seem as if it were a game of Hide and Seek. It surprised Honor so much that she smiled back. She watched the man run off through the trees north toward Oberlin and freedom, and wished she had been able to give him some food for his journey.

She took a deep breath, then plunged into the forest, pulling Dorcas along in the direction the man had indicated. She had not gone into any woods since the trip between Hudson and Wellington with Thomas. She strode through the undergrowth, stepping on soft wet ground, nettles and brambles scratching at her. The woods turned out to be less frightening-and less thick-once you were in them, and had a destination.

They passed through a clump of beeches, with their smooth bark and the clear forest floor beneath them, and reached a stream. “Thee must take thy clothes off. Here, I will help thee.” Honor began unbuttoning Dorcas’s dress, and helped her out of her petticoat, yellow jackets falling out from the layers of clothes, some crushed, others attacking again as Honor swatted them away. Without her clothes Dorcas looked skinny and vulnerable, her hip bones knobby, her shoulder blades like chicken wings, her head incongruously large. She reminded Honor of a cow standing in a field, bereft of its herd and scrawny after a winter in a barn without fresh grass. Over her arms and legs and torso red welts from the stings were scattered.

“Come, thee must get in the water,” Honor instructed.

“It’s cold!” Dorcas shrieked as she rolled in the shallow pool. Honor knelt, scooped up some mud and plastered it on Dorcas’s back and arms. Dorcas began to cry again, this time from shame rather than pain. “I want to go home,” she moaned.

“Soon. Hold still.” Honor smeared mud on Dorcas’s face, and had to hide a smile. She resembled etchings Honor had seen of native tribesmen in Australia.

The water and mud helped to bring down the swelling, as the man had said. After a few minutes Dorcas climbed out of the water, and Honor helped her to dress, though they both hesitated about putting clothes on over mud. It couldn’t be helped, though-Dorcas could not walk back with flesh bared.

They did not speak as they trudged through the woods. Honor collected the pails of blackberries they had abandoned on the edge of the trees, yellow jackets still circling above. There was no sign of the man. Dorcas had said nothing about him, and Honor hoped she had been too distraught to notice him.

Upon reaching the farm, Dorcas began to cry again as her mother caught sight of them and hurried over. Judith had her daughter sit in a cold bath, then applied a paste of baking soda and water to the stings-nineteen of them, Dorcas announced to Jack when he returned that evening, and to anyone who came for milk over the next few days. Forgotten were the tears and pain and embarrassment as she recounted her battle with the yellow jackets. Honor too was cut from the story, and Dorcas seemed to have retreated from her friendliness. Honor did not mind, as long as Dorcas did not mention the black man.

When Honor next met Mrs. Reed, it seemed the older woman had been waiting for her. Honor had come to town with the Haymakers, who were buying more jars for putting up the last vegetables from their kitchen garden. Honor went first to visit Cox’s Dry Goods, then for a walk through the college square before rejoining her in-laws. Under the shade of the elms planted in the park, their leaves now edged with yellow, she heard a low voice beside her. “That was just foolishness, sending him to me like that. And usin’ my name! You one foolish child. I see I got my work cut out for me.”

Honor turned. The first thing she noticed was bright yellow buttons and fern-like leaves wrapped around the brim of a straw hat. She recognized the flowers: tansy, which her mother used to gather for a tea to brew when any of them had a sore throat. The distinctive spicy odor surrounded her; Mrs. Reed must have picked them just a few minutes before.

She was pursing her wrinkled mouth. “Keep walkin’,” she commanded. “Don’t want no one to wonder why you actin’ like a dumb mule. Come on.” Mrs. Reed stepped rapidly along the wooden walkway, nodding to black passersby and the odd white one. Honor followed, holding up her skirt so that it would not get snagged on the loose nails. She hoped the Haymakers were still busy with their jars, for she was not sure what they would think if they saw her with Mrs. Reed.

“He could of asked the wrong person about me, then what kind o’ trouble I would of been in,” Mrs. Reed continued. “Course they’s mostly sympathizers here, but not so many as you might think, and you can’t always tell ’em apart. Best to be cautious. Next time, tell ’em to look for a candle in the rear window of the red house on Mill Street. Then they’ll know it’s safe to come. If that signal change I’ll let you know.” Mrs. Reed increased her stride, and Honor hurried to keep up.

“Usually springtime’s when you get the most runaways-winter too cold, summer they busy in the fields and their masters lookin’ after ’em. But they’s gonna be a flood of passengers this fall now it look like the Fugitive Slave Law comin’ in. People who thought they was safe up here now thinkin’ twice and headin’ for Canada. Even coloreds in Oberlin lookin’ over they shoulder. Not me, though. I’m stayin’ put. My running days behind me.”

Donovan had mentioned the Fugitive Slave Law to Jack, but at the time Honor had been too feverish to ask what he meant. She wanted to ask Mrs. Reed now, and why there would be more runaways, and who else was helping. But Mrs. Reed was not someone of whom you asked too many questions. “What more can I do?” she said instead.

Mrs. Reed gave Honor a sideways look and rolled her tongue over her teeth. “Get you a crate and put it upside down behind your henhouse. Put a rock on it to weight it down so animals can’t get at it. Put you some victuals there-anything you got. Bread’s best, and dried meat. Apples when they come in. Y’all make peach leather?”

Honor nodded, remembering the hot peach pulp that scalded her arms as she stirred it, drying into tough strips that softened in her mouth into tangy sweetness.

“That kind o’ thing. Food that’ll travel. Even dried corn better than nothin’. I’ll get word to the people sending runaways your way so they know what to look for. Don’t ever talk to me about it, though.”

They were getting curious looks-not hostile, as Honor suspected would be the case in other towns, but nonetheless an acknowledgment of the rarity of a white woman and a black woman talking together in public. By now they had reached the First Church, a large brick building on the northeast corner of the square. Mrs. Reed shook her head as if to say, “I’m done with you,” and hurried up the steps. Honor dropped back, for Quakers did not go inside what they called steeple houses. Mrs. Reed probably knew that.

“Was thy daughter pleased with her wedding dress?” she called as the black woman was about to disappear inside.

A wide smile cracked open Mrs. Reed’s sober face. “She looked good, oh yes she did. That was a success.”

The next time a runaway came to the farm, Honor was more prepared. One evening when she and the Haymakers were sitting on the front porch to catch the last of the daylight, Donovan rode by. Jack lowered the newspaper he had been reading, Dorcas stopped sewing a tear in her skirt, and Honor paused, her needle half in and half out of the red appliqué she was working on for the new quilt. Only Judith Haymaker continued to rock back and forth in her chair as if there had been no interruption. Donovan raised his hat and grinned at Honor but did not stop, disappearing down the track into Wieland Woods.

“Must be a runaway somewhere nearby,” Jack said. “There is no reason for him to be over this way otherwise.” He glanced at Honor as if to reassure himself.

“They were saying at the store that a Greenwich family who had been helping runaways has stopped because of the Fugitive Slave Law,” Dorcas remarked. “Now that part of the Railroad is disrupted, some of them are ending up over this way rather than going through Norwalk.”

“That Greenwich family has sense,” Judith Haymaker declared, “though doubtless another will take their place.”

“What-what is the law?” Honor asked.

“It means a man like that”-Judith jerked her head at Donovan’s back-“can demand we help him capture a runaway or be fined a thousand dollars and imprisoned. We would lose the farm.”

“Congress is on the verge of passing it,” Jack added. “Caleb Wilson led a discussion of the law at a Meeting for Business during thy illness, Honor, so thee did not hear. It was decided that each individual must follow his own conscience when it comes to helping fugitives or obeying the law.”

Honor looped the thread through itself, pulled tight, and bit off the end.

The next morning when she went to collect eggs, there were two fewer than usual, and the chickens-normally laying like clockwork-seemed upset. Honor told her mother-in-law she had stepped on the eggs and broken them, though she hated lying, and suspected Judith did not believe her anyway.

Later, though, she took some leftover corn bread, smeared it with butter, folded it in a handkerchief and hid it beneath a crate she had taken from the wagon shed where Jack kept farm tools, a rock on top to weigh it down and signal that something was concealed there. It was a risk-any of the Haymakers might find it, or Donovan if he came snooping. The next morning when Honor went to collect eggs, the corn bread was gone, the handkerchief neatly folded. She left a few pieces of bacon that evening, but in the morning they were still there, crawling with ants. Runaways must not linger, she reasoned, or people would notice.

She began to keep a closer eye out for signs of runaways: rustling in the woods; Digger’s barking in the night; the shifting of the cows in the barn. More than these clues, though, Honor began to be able to sense when a presence hovered on the outskirts of the farm. It was as if she carried an inner barometer that measured the change in the surrounding area, as one senses the air swelling before a thunderstorm. The shift was so clear that she marveled none of the others seemed to notice. To her, people’s beings gave off a kind of cold heat. Perhaps that was what Friends meant by an Inner Light.

Often she did not see the runaways, and could only be sure they were out there when the food she hid disappeared. Each time she waited for one of the Haymakers to find the crate and accuse her. But no one went behind the henhouse unless a chicken got out or Jack took the hoe to the snakes that lived in holes there and stole eggs. He normally announced he was doing this, and Honor hid the crate until he was done. To her surprise, and sometimes shame, she was growing used to stealing, and to hiding what she was doing. It was not like her, and it went against Quaker principles of honesty and openness. But since she had come to America, Honor was finding it harder and harder not to lie and conceal. At home her life had been simple and open, where even the heartbreak of losing Samuel was conducted in front of family and community. Among the Haymakers, Honor felt she was constantly working to keep from speaking out, and maintaining a blank expression so that her thoughts and behavior did not clash openly with her new family.

Yet while she said nothing and accepted that it was for her to adjust to the Haymakers, she could not agree with their stance on slavery and fugitives. And so she kept watch, and noted when she became aware of a presence, and looked for ways to help that would not bring attention to what she was doing. She must not seem to be disobeying her husband’s family. Underneath it all, though, she was.

It was not easy to hide her activities. A farm is run communally, with all taking part and working together. Honor was rarely alone. If she was working in the garden-as she often did, for it felt more familiar to her than the rest of the farm-Judith or Dorcas was at the kitchen window, or shaking rugs outside, or making butter on the back porch, or pegging out laundry in the yard. Once the cows were milked, Jack led them out to pasture for the day, and then mended fences, or chopped firewood, or delivered cheese to neighboring towns, or mucked out the pigs, or groomed the horses, or worked in the fields. He was constantly busy with different tasks, and his movements were unpredictable.

Slowly Honor found gaps where she could be alone. Though she was not keen to help with the cows, she willingly took over the chickens, for it was harder to make mistakes with them. Every morning she fed them and collected their eggs; once a week she cleaned out the henhouse. Jack and Dorcas were busy milking then, while Judith was at the stove making breakfast, and Honor was free to check the food crate. When she went to the outhouse to use it or empty chamber pots, she could fill an old mug with water and leave it under the crate or at the edge of the woods. She did these things, always expecting that eventually she would be found out, and not knowing what she would do then.

While the weather was mild, passing fugitives remained in Wieland Woods, only venturing out to look for food under the crate. Honor never saw them, or heard of them, unless they were caught by Donovan or another slave hunter. Donovan in particular liked to advertise his victories to Honor, making sure to ride by the Haymakers’ farm, even when it was out of his way. Often he had the runaway shackled and bound and forced to ride behind him, struggling not to be bounced off the horse’s back.

One evening when the Haymakers were sitting on the porch, Donovan rode up, raised his hat, then nudged the man he had caught off his horse. Honor leaped up, but Jack grabbed her and held her back. “Do not get involved, Honor. He wants thee to.”

“But a man needs help. He may be hurt.” The runaway was lying facedown in the dust, kicking his legs to try to roll onto his side.

“It is a victory to a man like Donovan if thee goes to him.”

Honor frowned.

“Do what thy husband tells thee,” Judith Haymaker said. “And do not look at me like that.”

Honor winced at her sharp tone, and looked to Jack to soften his mother’s command. He did not: he was watching Donovan, arms folded across his chest.

“Haymaker, help me out here,” Donovan called. “I got a live one tryin’ to escape.” When Jack did not immediately move, Donovan grinned. “You want me to quote the law? I’m happy to oblige you: ‘All good citizens are hereby commanded to aid and assist in the prompt and efficient execution of this law wherever their services may be required.’ See, I learned to read just to be able to quote words like that. Now, you gonna be prompt and efficient or you want me to bring you in for breakin’ the law? Or maybe you’d like a little stay in jail, away from your pretty wife.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. He is caught, Honor thought, just as I am caught. Is it worse to have no principles, or principles you cannot then uphold?

She stood on the porch and watched while her husband helped Donovan pick up the black man and heave him back into the saddle. The man’s face was bruised, his clothes torn, but as Donovan rode away the slave’s eyes met Honor’s for a moment. Donovan did not see the exchange, but Jack did. He glanced at his wife, and she dropped her gaze. Even looking was becoming dangerous.

Faithwell, Ohio

10th Month 30th 1850

Dearest Biddy,

I have been meaning to write to thee these last several weeks, but each time I pick up my pen I fall asleep over my words. We have been so busy bringing in the crops that I am too tired to do anything other than eat and wash before falling into bed. Then I am up at dawn for the milking. Yes, I now know how to milk a cow! Judith has insisted on it, and I do understand that if I am truly to be a Haymaker I must take part in the milking.

I confess at first I was terrified of the cows. They are so big and solid and bony, and would do what they like rather than what I wish them to, shifting and stamping and pushing at me. I was frightened that they would step on my foot and break it, and was always jumping out of the way. Even when Judith gave me the more placid cows, I found it hard to master the technique. My hands are small and my arms are not strong. (Judith and Dorcas’s forearms are as thick as fence posts!) For a time it took me twice as long to milk a cow as the others. I think they despaired of me, especially as I wasted so much milk from the cows kicking over my pail.

It is an odd thing to touch a cow’s udders. At first it did not feel right, and I thought it would upset them. But Dorcas taught me to spit on my hands so that I would not chafe them, and the cows seem not to mind. Little by little I have become more confident, and in the past week I have not had one pail spilled. Perhaps my arms are stronger, for now I can milk a cow in fifteen minutes. That is still slower than the others, who take only ten minutes. But I am persevering. I have even begun to enjoy the milking: there is something calming about leaning against a cow’s flank and coaxing milk from her. Sometimes I even have that sinking-down feeling that I get at Meeting.

I am glad to be able to help. Indeed, I must help, if the farm is to grow. Each year the Haymakers try to add a cow to the herd, if they have brought in enough extra hay to support one. Jack is very pleased that we managed three good crops of hay this summer, which means that we can afford to keep the calf born last month.

I can picture thee now, smiling at my talk of cows and hay and crops. I too never thought I would live such a life. If thee could see the pantry here, thee would be amazed at the rows and rows of jars filled with all the food from the garden: beans and peas and cucumbers and tomatoes and squash. The cellar is full of potatoes and turnips and carrots and beets, and apples and pears. The cherries and plums are in syrup or dried. We are now making apple sauce, apple butter, and drying apple rings as well.

Of course back home we put up our garden too, but not as extensively as here. We must have five times the produce that Mother put up. It was a great deal of work, and I stank of brine and vinegar, and have burns on my hands and arms from hot syrup or the wax we used to seal the jars. At times I thought of the ease of going to the shops in Bridport and simply buying what we needed. But here we haven’t the money. Moreover, the Haymakers-indeed, everyone-take great pride in being self-sufficient. It is satisfying to look in the pantry and see it brimming. And the hay is topping the haymow; the corn crib is full of dried corn. The pigs are fattening fast and will be slaughtered in a month or two, the chickens will be bottled (yes, they put them in jars!), and Jack is going hunting for deer. In short, the farm is ready for the winter, which they say is long and very cold. I do not think I will mind it-I prefer snow to the suffocating heat. Actually I am enjoying the autumn here-fall, they call it, for the falling leaves. It has been quite mild, though the nights are sharp, and there was a frost two weeks ago. The leaves are glorious colours, far more vivid than any I have seen in England: bright red and orange maples, so plentiful here, gold birches, purple oaks. The sight makes my heart glad.

I am getting on a little better with Judith and Dorcas, now that they see I can be useful. I have learned to defer to Judith and let her tell me what to do, for if I go my own way I always err, in her eyes. It is wearying at times, but easier than trying to justify my methods. And, by submitting to her, it gives me more freedom, as she does not scrutinise me quite so much. Also it lessens the strain I feel at times with Jack, that he is being pulled between us. It is not easy, joining another family.

I am afraid that I have failed in my cooking. They do not like it; they say it is too delicate. Indeed, the ingredients here do not respond as I would like them to. When I try to make a posset, the milk burns rather than curdles. The flour is so coarse that my pastry falls apart. The beef is tough and I don’t know how to make it as tender and tasty as English lamb. There is no lamb-cows fare better here than sheep. The ham and bacon are so salty I can barely eat them. The Dutch oven is too hot and burns everything. And whatever I cook tastes of corn, whether I am using it or not. Now I simply do what Judith asks of me-chopping, scrubbing, sweeping.

The one thing I am truly valued for here is my sewing and quilting. Judith has handed over all of the sewing, and I have happily taken it. At several of the frolics I have been asked to quilt the central panel, as that is the one most noticed on a bed.

I am now working on a quilt for Dorcas to replace one of those she gave me for my marriage-the first of three I owe her. I am making good progress on it. Dorcas has settled on an appliqué pattern they call a President’s Wreath, made of circles of red flowers and green leaves on white fabric arranged in repeated blocks. They are bordered first in solid red, then with an outer border of a trailing green vine, with more red flowers all around. The colours, being complementary as well as standing out against the white, are very bold. The effect is striking but much less subtle than what thee and I are accustomed to. I drew it out for her, with her changing her mind several times about the details-vines in green or red, the size of the wreaths, daisies alternating with tulips or not. Then she changed her mind again after I had already cut out the pieces! I thought I would have to throw away a great deal of cloth, and be considered wasteful, but for once Judith came to my rescue and told Dorcas to let me decide what is best. In that one area, then, I am my own mistress.

I did manage to convince Dorcas to let me use printed material rather than plain, so the red has tiny blue dots, the green tiny yellow. That way the appliqué will look less flat. It was one small victory, and makes me more willing to work on the quilt. Then, too, appliqué does go much quicker than patchwork, so at least I will not be working on this one for too long. By the time I make the next, perhaps I will have persuaded her to allow me to make her an English patchwork quilt, even if it takes much longer.

I wonder sometimes why I don’t make quilts for myself and simply give back hers when they are done. We have not used them yet anyway-at the moment Jack and I are sleeping under my signature quilt and the whole-cloth white quilt made for us the week before our wedding. I have not suggested this idea to Judith, however, for I sense that she and Dorcas would not like the suggestion. Mine will be the better made, and Dorcas would prefer that, as long as she gets the pattern she wants. I look forward to the quilting, as she has fewer opinions about that element of the work, and I can quilt the patterns I prefer. I think I will quilt a running feather border, though it is more difficult than other patterns. Then when one looks past the red and green wreaths and flowers, one may see that bit of sewing which is truly me.

I expect by now Mother will have asked thee for the Star of Bethlehem quilt I gave thee before leaving for America. I was ashamed to have to ask for it back, but I know my dearest friend will understand. Circumstances have led me to marry much sooner than expected, and I was not ready, in terms of quilts-and other ways too. I hope one day to make another quilt and send it on its long journey to reach thee.

Thy faithful friend,

Honor Haymaker