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.