The Last Runaway

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.”

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 this 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