one corner of Public Square was the town hotel. For such a small town, it was surprisingly grand: a long, two-storey building with a double balcony running all the way along its front on both floors, held up by several pairs of white columns. ‘Wadsworth Hotel,’ Belle remarked. ‘Only place in town to get a drink – not that you need to know that. You Quakers don’t touch alcohol, do you?’
Honor shook her head.
‘Well, I take my whisky at home. And that’s why.’ Belle nodded towards one end of the hotel, which faced the millinery shop across Public Square. Lounging on the porch out front were a cluster of men, bottles at their sides. Donovan was among them, his feet propped up on a table. On seeing Belle and Honor, he raised his bottle at them, then drank.
‘Charming.’ Belle led her on. As they passed the last pair of columns, Honor noticed a poster tacked on one of them. It was not $150 reward in big letters that drew her in, but the silhouette of a man running with a sack over his shoulder. She stopped and studied it.
The description was remarkably specific. She pictured the man she had seen in the lean-to. Now that there were words for what he looked like, adjectives like chunky and African and shrewd, she could picture him, his calculating eyes taking her in, the strength in his shoulders – and his hair, bushy but parted on the side.
Donovan was watching her.
‘Walk on,’ Belle hissed, taking her arm and marching her around the corner on to Mechanics Street.
When they were out of earshot, Honor said, ‘Did Donovan put up that poster?’
‘Yes. He’s a slave hunter. You worked that out, didn’t you?’
Honor nodded, though she did not know there was a name for what he did.
‘There’s slave hunters all over Ohio, come up from Kentucky or Virginia to try and take back Negroes to their owners. See, we got lots of runaways through here on their way to Canada. In fact, a lot of traffic comes through Ohio, one way or another. Hell, you can stand at the crossroads here and watch it. East to west you got settlers moving for more land. South to north you got runaway slaves looking for freedom. Funny how nobody wants to go south or east. It’s north and west that hold out some kind of promise.’
‘Why don’t the Negroes remain in Ohio? I thought there was no slavery here.’
‘Some do stop in Ohio – you’ll see free blacks in Oberlin – but freedom’s guaranteed in Canada. Different country, different laws, so slave hunters got no power there.
‘But Donovan’s interested in you,’ Belle continued. ‘Funny, usually he’s suspicious of Quakers. Likes to quote a politician who said Quakers won’t defend the country when there’s war, but are happy to interfere in people’s business when there’s peace. But it ain’t good to get his attention: once you do it ain’t easy to get rid of him. He’ll bother you over in Faithwell too. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch. I should know.’ At Honor’s questioning look, Belle smiled. ‘He’s my brother.’
She chuckled at the change in Honor’s face. ‘Two different fathers, so we don’t look much alike. We grew up in Kentucky. But our mother was English – Lincolnshire.’
A piece fitted into place. ‘Did she make the quilt on my bed?’
‘Yep. Donovan’s always tryin’ to take it back from me. He’s a mean son of a bitch. We gone in different directions, ain’t we, even if we both come north. Now, we better get back.’ Belle stopped in front of Honor. ‘Look, honey, I know you seen things goin’ on at my house, but it’s best if you don’t actually know anything. Then if Donovan asks, you don’t have to lie. Quakers ain’t supposed to lie, are they?’
Honor shook her head.
Belle took her arm and turned around to walk back towards the millinery shop. ‘Jesus H. Christ, I’m glad I’m not a Quaker. No whisky, no colour, no feathers, no lies. What is there left?’
‘No swearing, either,’ Honor added.
Belle burst out laughing.
Honor smiled. ‘We do call ourselves “the peculiar people”, for we know we must seem so to others.’
Belle was still chuckling, but stopped when they reached the hotel bar. Donovan was no longer there.
The next two days Honor sewed all day, first in the corner of the shop by the window during the morning, and on the back porch in the afternoon.
Belle had Honor work on bonnets again, finishing off some that customers were due to pick up that day. She edged one with lace, another with a double row of ruffles, then sewed clusters of cloth pansies to the inside rim of a stiff green bonnet and attached wide, pale green ribbons for tying under the chin. ‘Can you make more of them flowers if I give you the petals?’ Belle asked when Honor had finished.
Honor nodded: though she had never made flowers, since Quakers did not wear them, she knew they could not be harder than some of the intricate patchwork she had sewn for quilts.
Belle handed her a box full of petals and leaves. ‘I already cut out the petals after you went to bed last night. Just me and the whisky and the scissors. I like it that way.’ She showed Honor how to construct the pansies, then violets, roses, clover and little clusters of lace made to resemble baby’s breath. Honor wished Grace were there to see the things she was making: creations more and more colourful and elaborate.
Belle’s customers continued to comment on Honor’s presence, even those who had been to the shop the day before and already discussed her. ‘Goodness, look at that Quaker girl’s lap full of flowers!’ they cried. ‘Isn’t that the funniest thing! You’ll turn her, Belle, you will!’
Honor was only a short distraction, however, perhaps to be mulled over later. For now, once they’d made their remarks, the customers went on to the more important task of inspecting the latest goods and getting a bargain. Trying on the various hats and bonnets displayed on stands, they questioned Belle’s designs and criticised the shape and trim in order to drive down the price. Belle was equally determined to maintain her price, and a battle of words followed.
Honor was unnerved by the haggling, with its underlying assumption that the value of something could change depending on how badly someone wanted to buy or sell it. The lack of a fixed price made Belle’s hats take on a temporary quality. Quakers never haggled, but set what they felt was a fair price for materials and labour. Each product had what was thought of as its own intrinsic merit, be it a carrot or a horseshoe or a quilt, and that did not change simply because many people needed a horseshoe. Honor knew of merchants in Bridport who haggled, but they didn’t when she went into their shops or to their market stalls. The haggling she’d witnessed was off-hand, even embarrassed, as if the participants were only doing it in jest, because it was expected of them. Here the haggling seemed fiercer, as if both sides were adamant that they were right and the other not simply wrong, but morally suspect. Some of the women in Belle’s shop became so indignant as they argued with Belle that Honor wondered if they would ever return.
Belle, however, seemed entertained by the haggling, and unbothered when, more often than not, it reached a stalemate and the hat remained unsold.
