Donovan watched her deepening red and responded with a flush of his own up his neck and cheeks. “Dammit, Honor. You didn’t give no one else a chance, did you?”
Honor swallowed. She had never imagined she would have such a conversation with him. “Friends marry Friends,” she said, “else we must leave the community. Besides, I could never-associate with a slave hunter.”
“But you’re associatin’ with me now.”
She shivered, and gazed at him, helpless. “Please get Jack,” she whispered.
The reminder of her husband seemed to rouse him. “I’ll just get the chickens ’fore the foxes do.”
“Don’t worry about the chickens. Jack will see to them.”
“No, I’ll do it. I want to have a little look around while I’m at it. That’s what I come here for, anyway-I’m lookin’ for somethin’. Didn’t know I’d find you.” Donovan paused. “How’d those chickens get out, d’you think?”
Honor shook her head.
Donovan looked at her. “All right then, Honor Bright. I’ll be seein’ you.”
He went back outside. Honor watched him walk through the yard, past the well with its mug gleaming on the wall like a beacon. Now that he had mentioned water, she was desperately thirsty. She closed her eyes. She could hear him whistling; then he pulled the barn door open and the whistling faded. It reappeared a few minutes later, and the chickens began to squawk as Donovan rounded them up.
Soon she heard his horse cantering toward the oats field. She must have slept for a few moments. Then she jerked awake, sure of a presence nearby. The room was empty, but a mug of water sat within reach on the table next to her bed. It was cool as if freshly drawn from the well, and tasted better than any water she had ever drunk.
Honor had not expected Donovan to accompany Jack back, but her husband must have been worried enough to accept a ride from the slave catcher. She heard the horse return, then Jack rushed into the sick room, knelt and felt her forehead. Donovan hung in the doorway, his hat in his hands. His eyes moved immediately to the mug of water, the only thing in the room that had changed in the last half-hour. Honor stared at him. Instead of the anger she expected, however, a slow smile spread across his face, along with an admiring expression, as if she had played a particularly skillful hand of cards. He wagged his finger at her. “Haymaker, you better tell your wife about the Fugitive Slave Law. I hear the president’s gonna approve it soon enough. Once it comes in, I won’t be so easy on her-or you. Maybe I’ll get you to help me catch a nigger.”
Jack stared up at him. Honor could not bear the tension of having them both in the same room. “Please go now, Donovan.”
Donovan grinned. “You got a feisty little wife there, Haymaker. Better keep your eye on her. I know I will.” He winked at Honor, then replaced his hat and backed from the room.
Honor closed her eyes and prayed that the woman had had enough time to find a better hiding place.
Jack began to question Honor even as Donovan’s horse could still be heard clattering through the yard. “He-that man, Donovan-he said he knew thee. Where did thee meet him?” Jack was trying to keep his face neutral, but it only exaggerated his suspicion.
“Wellington.” Honor reached for the mug by her bed.
Jack stared at it. “He brought thee water?”
Honor did not answer, so that she would not have to lie, but allowed Jack to think what he wanted. She sipped the water, then set the mug back on the table.
“But how-how would thee meet a man like him?” Jack continued. “A slave hunter.”
Honor closed her eyes to avoid his intent gaze. I have nothing to hide, she reminded herself. “He is the brother of the Wellington milliner.”
“What was he doing here? Had he come to visit thee?”
“No.”
“Did he speak to thee about a runaway? Did-” Jack stopped and his eyes narrowed. “Did a colored man come here and ask thee for help? And did thee help him?”
“No,” Honor was able to say. “No man was here apart from Donovan. Why would a runaway come here?”
“There are many runaways in Ohio, and established routes, with safe houses and helpers along the way. I believe they change often, to confound the slave catchers. They call it the Underground Railroad.”
Honor had not heard the phrase before.
“Most runaways pass through Oberlin,” Jack continued, “but now and then one strays this way. That must be what happened to bring Donovan here. If ever a runaway comes to the farm, thee must not keep them here, but indicate the way to Oberlin.”
“What if they are hungry-or thirsty?” Honor did not dare look at the mug.
Jack shrugged. “Of course give them water if they need it. But do not get involved. It could get thee-all of us-into trouble.”
She slept then. Later that evening when he came back from the fields, Jack sat next to her. “Donovan caught a colored woman in Wieland Woods,” he said. “He rode past here with her, but thee was probably asleep.”
He was watching her carefully, and Honor was equally careful not to react.
“I am glad he caught her,” Jack added.
Honor stiffened. “Why?”
Jack shifted on the edge of the bed. “It is better not to have people like Donovan chasing others across the countryside, disrupting honest people and scaring women.”
“Does thee think slaves should not try to escape?”
“Honor, thee knows we do not support slavery. It goes against our beliefs in the equality of all in God’s eyes. But-” Jack stopped.
“But what?”
He sighed. “It is difficult to explain to someone like thee, who comes from a country that has not had slavery woven into the very fabric of its foundation. It is easy to condemn slavery outright, without considering the consequences.”
“What consequences?”
“Economic consequences. If slavery were abolished tomorrow, America would fall apart.”
“How?”
“One of this country’s main products is cotton and the textiles made from it. The southern states grow it using slaves. The free northern states make the cotton into cloth. Each relies on the other. Without slaves to harvest the quantity of cotton needed at the right price, the northern factories would shut down.”
Honor considered this, wishing her head weren’t so fuzzy so that she could supply a coherent response.
“I know English Friends have strong principles about slavery, Honor,” Jack continued, “as do Americans. But we are perhaps a little more practical. Putting beliefs into practice is harder than preaching them. Think of all the cotton thee has used for thy quilts. Much of it, even what thee bought in England, is made using slave labor. We try when we can to buy cloth with no associations to slavery, but that is difficult, for there is little of it.” He fingered a rectangle of green chintz that made up part of a block on Honor’s signature quilt. “This bit of fabric was probably made in Massachusetts with cotton from a southern plantation. Will thee now throw away the quilt because of it?”
Honor found herself curling her fingers around an edge of the quilt, holding on to it as if she expected Jack to try and yank it away. “Does thee think that we should not help slaves who run away?”
“They are breaking the law, which I do not condone. I would not stop them, but I would not help them. There are fines, and imprisonment-and worse.” As he spoke Jack’s jaw tightened.
There is something he is not telling me, she thought. Shouldn’t a wife know everything about her husband? “Jack-”
“I must help with the milking.” Jack bolted from the room before Honor could say more.