She moved a chair aside, crouched next to the baby and laid a hand on her back. “There now, my dear. How is it with thee?” She tried to imagine the bump lodged in her womb turning into this squirming, squalling being. It didn’t seem possible.
Then she noticed the quilt.
Honor was now familiar with most American quilt styles. She might not like the colors or pattern, but they were designed with care, the cloth chosen from the best fabrics available, even if made from scraps of old clothes. The patterns were deliberate and, whether simple or complex, clearly thought out.
Mrs. Reed’s quilt was made up of strips of cloth sewn together to form rough squares, in blue, gray, cream and brown, with the odd yellow strip thrown in. They were of wool or linsey, cut from coats, blankets, shirts, petticoats, and were worn and faded. The cover had not been quilted, but tie knots of brown yarn had been placed at the center of each square-a shortcut method of keeping the batting and backing together. Honor flipped over a corner of the quilt. It was lined with brown linsey cut with thin orange stripes. Running her hand over the squares, she pulled two tight to inspect the stitching: it was even without being overly precise.
What struck her about the quilt was the same thing she had noticed about the front garden. The placement of the colors seemed unplanned, and yet there was something pleasing about them. The gray brought out the clear beauty of the blue. The blue deepened the brown and made the cream rich and clean. The gray and cream should not go together, yet they looked as natural as two rocks side by side. And every now and then a bit of yellow popped out, making the other colors seem uniform. It felt as if there was an overall pattern that tugged at Honor’s eyes, yet when she tried to find it, the patchwork fell back into random pieces. Bright, rich, spontaneous, Mrs. Reed’s quilt made the red and green appliqué quilts favored by Ohio women look childlike, and Honor’s own careful patchwork contrived and overcomplicated.
“That a good sign if a baby quiets without you picking her up. You’ll do all right with your own.” Mrs. Reed was leaning against the door jamb.
Honor started. The baby was indeed quiet, still lying on her front as if pinned there by Honor’s hand on her back. She looked up at Mrs. Reed. “This quilt is”-she searched for the right word-“remarkable.”
Mrs. Reed snorted. “That quilt keep me warm, is all.” Beneath her gruffness, however, she seemed pleased. She fingered a strip of brown. “That from my husband’s old coat. Wore it when my daughter and me ran off. He wouldn’t let us go without a coat, an’ gave me his ’cause it was warmer.”
“Where is he now?” Honor asked, and then wished she hadn’t, for Mrs. Reed’s face closed.
“In Virginia, if he’s still alive. He was goin’ to join us later-thought we had more chance just two of us. But he never escaped.” Mrs. Reed reached down for her granddaughter. “C’mon, Sukey, let’s get you somethin’ to eat. Get you some corn mush with a little syrup-you like that.” She picked up the baby, who squealed, her tears forgotten. She grabbed at Mrs. Reed’s spectacles.
“Stop that, you little monkey. I’m gonna monkey you.” Mrs. Reed carried the child into the kitchen.
Honor touched the strip of brown before following Mrs. Reed. The older woman had the baby hooked over her shoulder as she stood by the range, patting her back with one hand and stirring a saucepan of mush with the other. Now she was in a secure place, the baby no longer seemed frightened, but stared hard at the white woman. Honor wondered if it was her skin color that surprised the baby, or simply her strangeness. Perhaps they were one and the same.
Honor cleared her throat. “I must get back.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Reed turned slightly toward her, but kept her eyes on the mush. Her spectacles had fogged up again. “Don’t say sorry to me,” she replied, rhythmically patting the baby’s back. “It’s them runaways come lookin’ for help you got to say sorry to. Good luck with that, Honor Bright.”
Belle Mills’s Millinery
Main St.
Wellington, Ohio
April 6, 1851
Dear Honor,
I’m going to ignore that letter till you write me another that don’t sound like you got your mother-in-law hanging over your shoulder.
Also, you should never put things in writing. In the wrong hands they can be dangerous to people. Tell Mrs. Haymaker that.
You always got a friend in Wellington, whether you want her or not.
Yours ever faithful,
Belle Mills
Straw
FOR A MONTH the flow of runaways dried up. Indeed, Honor had little contact with anyone outside of Faithwell. Though he had threatened to, Donovan did not ride past the farm. There were no letters from her family or Biddy. She did not go to Oberlin, even when Abigail had her baby and Adam could have used an extra pair of hands at the store; nor did Jack offer to take her with him when he delivered cheese. Honor did not complain, but worked hard in the garden, finished Dorcas’s quilt and began another, and grew.
Only sometimes she reread Belle Mills’s letter and smiled.
She was planting squash in the garden one afternoon when something flickered in the corner of her eye. Honor looked up across the orchard to Wieland Woods and saw a figure ducking from one tree to another. When she went over to the edge of the woods and called softly, a young man emerged, limping, to stand by the brambles where Honor and Dorcas had picked blackberries. He was shaking, from fear or something else Honor did not yet know. As she prepared to explain that he could not stop here, she glanced down at his feet and sucked in her breath.
“Please, ma’am, can you help me?” The man leaned against a maple trunk. “I ain’t doin’ so good.”
“What happened to thee?”
“Got caught in a trap.”
Someone had tried to help by dressing the wound with a knot of pine resin, but his foot was swollen, and blood and pus dribbled from it. It smelled of a rotting sweetness that, now she knew what it was, made Honor want to gag. She could not imagine that Belle would have let him go on in this state. “Where has thee come from?”
“Greenwich. They told me to go to Norwalk. This Norwalk?”
Norwalk was twenty miles to the west. “No. I-We cannot keep thee here.”
The man stared at her with feverish eyes.
Honor sighed. “Wait here. I will get thee some water.” She hurried back to the well. As she drew up the bucket to fill the tin mug, Judith came out onto the back porch. “Thee has promised not to help runaways.”
Honor flushed. “I am just giving him water. I will not hide him.” The grim line of Judith’s mouth made her add, “He has been hurt, his foot caught in a trap. Infection has set in. Can thee look at it? There may be something we can do.”
“We are not getting involved in that colored man’s troubles.”