The Last Runaway (14 page)

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 bucket, 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.”

“What did thee mean?”

Thinking back over what she had said, Honor understood she had made the mistake of presenting England in a better light. She would have to praise Ohio somehow. Americans liked that. “I do like the firefl—the lightning bugs,” she said. “They are cheerful and welcoming.”

“More so than the people?”

Honor sighed. Again he was taking her few words and twisting them. It exhausted her. This was why she so often kept quiet.

“It cannot be easy, living with Abigail and Adam,” he continued.

Honor frowned. Though she welcomed sympathy from the right person, she did not know Jack well enough to accept it from him. As much as his physical presence drew her in, she wanted to back away from his words.

“I’d best go in,” she said.

“I will come with thee.”

They went back through the kitchen and into the crowded parlor, where Dorcas Haymaker and her friend Caroline turned their faces toward them like two silver plates catching the light. Caroline’s cheeks were red—rubbed with mullein, Honor suspected, a trick Grace had used to brighten her cheeks when she thought she was looking too pale. Quaker rouge, she’d heard outsiders call the plant.

Jack did not seem to notice his sister’s friend. “Will thee eat?” he said. “Quilting all afternoon must give thee an appetite.”

Honor could not tell whether he was teasing her or not. It was hard to know with Americans: they laughed at things she did not find funny, and were silent when she wanted to smile. She said nothing, but stepped up to the tables heavy with food, hoping he would not follow, and that the buzzing in her head would subside. She did not know why he had such a physical effect on her. His easy manner unnerved her, much the way America itself did. Honor was accustomed to an efficient, organized life, and hers had been anything but that since leaving Dorset. Jack Haymaker was part of the American chaos that pulled at her, making her want to step back.

She surveyed the field of food laid out before her. It was already predictable: the shoulder of ham, the roast beef, the mounds of mashed potatoes, the string beans, the johnnycakes, the army of pies. She swallowed a surge of nausea. What she longed for was a buttered crumpet, smoked mackerel pâté, a lamb cutlet, strawberries and cream—food prepared simply and easily digested, not served in a heap. Then she spied a bowl of gooseberries, pushed to the back of the table, and reached for it.

At that moment there was a stirring in the crowd around the food, and it parted to reveal Judith Haymaker, carrying a large platter piled with ears of steaming corn, stripped of their husks and tassels. “Corn’s ready!” she cried, her face bright with heat and anticipation. For once she was smiling fully. There was a scramble as women moved dishes so that she could set the plate down in the middle of the table.

“First corn of the season,” Jack explained as people surged forward to pick out ears. “The ears are smaller than they will be next month, but they’re tenderer too. Where is thy plate? They will go fast.” He reached over and picked up an ear between thumb and finger. “Quick, it’s hot!”

Honor had no choice but to take a plate, and Jack deposited two ears of corn upon it. “I—” she began to protest, but Jack talked over her.

“Thee can have it with butter, if thee likes. See the plate there with the slab of butter? That’s for rolling corn in. But I think the first corn is better plain. It’s so sweet, it doesn’t need butter’s help. Come.” He led her to a bench pushed up against the wall and waited for her to sit so that he could hand her the plate and join her. Honor could feel more eyes on them besides Dorcas and Caroline—Adam and Abigail, Judith Haymaker, Caleb Wilson the blacksmith. Caroline had glittering eyes and a hard stare.

Honor ducked her head and studied her ear of corn, each kernel like a translucent tooth. Jack was already gnawing at his, turning it around and around as his teeth cut away the kernels with a chomping sound like a horse, or a deer crashing through undergrowth. Honor could not bear to look. Her brothers, Samuel, even Adam Cox would never make such a noise when they ate. Jack Haymaker ate joyously, brutally.

Dropping his spent corncob onto the plate they shared, he stood to go for more and noticed hers, untouched. “Does thee not like corn?”

Honor hesitated. “I have never eaten it on the cob.”

“Ah.” Jack smiled. “Then thee has a treat in store. This I must see.” To her embarrassment he remained in front of her, looking down, with his broad grin and his hair messy and a kernel of corn sticking to his chin. If they hadn’t been watching Honor and Jack before, everyone was now. She flushed a deep, hot red but knew she had no choice. To hesitate longer would draw even more attention. Picking up the ear, she turned it as if trying to find the best place to begin biting.

“Go on, Honor,” Jack said. “Jump in.”

Honor closed her eyes and bit down, slicing the kernels with her teeth. She opened her eyes. Never had she tasted anything so fresh and sweet. This was corn in its purest form, a mouthful of life. Turning the cob, she bit again and again, to savor the taste, so different from the other corn dishes she’d eaten over the past weeks. Then she couldn’t stop, and bit all the way up and down the cob until it was bare.

Jack laughed. “That did thee good. Welcome to Ohio, Honor. Shall I fetch thee another?”

* * *

Jack Haymaker came into Cox’s Dry Goods the day after the frolic, toward the end of the afternoon when the final rush was over and Honor was folding material while Adam Cox recorded the day’s takings. Though she tried not to show it, she started when Jack entered, and her chest grew tight. She greeted him, then concentrated on the fabric she was wrapping around the bolt—the same cream with rust diamonds that Mrs. Reed had bought for her daughter the month before. Earlier she had asked Adam’s permission to cut a small piece of it to add to the scraps she’d saved from Grace’s brown dress and Belle’s yellow silk.

Jack turned to Adam, who had paused in his writing, his pen steady over his accounts book. “I have finished delivering a batch of cheese to the college,” he announced, “and thought I’d offer Honor a lift back, if thee is done with her. She must be tired after a long day here.”

Adam glanced between Jack and Honor, the relief that crossed his face telling her more than any words could: Jack was courting her, with Adam’s tacit blessing. Her life, which had been so uncertain these last few months, now had a needle hovering over it, ready to tack it into place. She did not feel secured, though, but rather as she had when she stepped off the
Adventurer
in New York, the land pitching and heaving under her feet.

“Of course,” Adam replied. “I can finish up here.” He began to write again. As Honor reached for her shawl—redundant in the heat, but a woman always carried one—hanging on a peg on the wall behind him, she glanced down at his ledger.
11 needles sharpened @ 1 cent/needle: 11 cents. 5 pairs scissors sharpened @ 5 cents/pair: 25 cents. 3 yards coarse calico
, he was writing. From this angle she could see the bald spot on top of his head.