Honor (31 page)

“Miss Honor,” Royale said in the doorway of the barn, “Perlie made cookies and a fresh pot of coffee for your guests. If they come to the house, she set up on your table.”

Honor sighed with silent relief at this clever ploy. “Please, gentlemen, come to our home for a small celebration of the beginning of Cathwell Glassworks.”

The men trooped after her, toward the cabin and away from the barn—away from the runaway.

“That was very thoughtful of Perlie,” Honor murmured to Royale.

Royale winked. “We just want to do you and the mister proud, Miss Honor.”

DECEMBER 17, 1819

Samuel woke up in the dark, chilled room. Honor was sliding between the sheets. He grabbed her hand. A little over a week had passed since this first happened. Where had she gone again?

She turned toward him, not trying to free her hand.

He couldn’t see clearly enough to know if she was signing with her other hand. He felt for it and claimed it as well.

She rolled toward him, cuddling close.

He felt how cold she was, but the way she came into his arms of her own accord distracted him from suspicion. In the darkness, as the scent of her rosewater enveloped him and her soft form pressed against him, his desire for her overcame his misgivings. He leaned forward and kissed
her. And when she kissed him back, he forgot everything but Honor in his arms.

DECEMBER 18, 1819

Against the mid-December chill, Honor added another log to the fire in Deborah Coxswain’s neat, plain parlor and sat down to continue sewing the sleeve of a winter coat for Caleb. Honor had driven alone to Deborah’s for this afternoon’s Anti-Slavery Society meeting with something concealed in her pocket. Anna and May were already sewing near the windows, making the most of the winter sunlight. The meeting had begun with a time of quiet meditation, and then everyone had taken up their handwork. Honor hoped Deborah or one of the other women would begin the discussion. She hesitated to share her latest attempt.

And overlaying all her thoughts, last night Samuel had caught her coming in from helping another runaway. She’d used passion to distract him and felt guilt about that dishonesty. A Christian wife shouldn’t employ passion as a shield or weapon. Yet at the time it had been the only choice that came to mind.

The fire crackled on some sap, flaring up. Honor glanced around, apprehensive over what these women would say if they knew she was harboring escaped slaves, breaking federal law. Did she have the courage or the right to reveal this? The folded paper in her pocket nudged her.

“I . . . have something to share.” Honor pulled out the paper.

“Deborah, it’s me.” Cordelia’s voice came from the front hall. They heard her shedding her shawl and scarf in the foyer before she entered the parlor, breathless. “I had trouble getting away. I’m sorry.” Pulling off her gloves, Cordelia took the vacant seat and smoothed back her straight, dark hair.

Deborah smiled and nodded. “Honor was just going to share something with us, and I have something too.”

Everyone looked to Honor, who now wished she had kept this to herself. But perhaps this new way of furthering the cause came from God too. “I tried my hand at some poetry.”

“Poetry?” Cordelia sounded uncertain.

“Yes. I was thinking that people are often touched by poetry, and this might be a vehicle for our cause. Perhaps it could persuade some.”

“Please read it, Honor,” Deborah encouraged. “We will give thee our honest but loving opinion.”

Honor cleared her throat. “It’s a child speaking to his mother.” She smoothed out the creases of the paper on her lap.

“What is a slave, Mother?—I heard you say

That word with a sorrowful voice, one day;

Methinks I have heard a story told,

Of some poor men, who are bought and sold,

And driven abroad with stripes to toil,

The live-long day on a stranger’s soil;

Is this true, Mother?”

Honor felt her throat clogging with emotion, but she pressed on.

“May children as young as I be sold,

And torn away from their mothers’ hold—

From home—from all they have loved and known,

To dwell in the great wide world alone,

Far, far away in some distant place,

Where they never may see their parents’ face?

Ah! how I should weep to be torn from you!

Tell me, dear Mother, can this be true?”

Shaken from reading her own words aloud, Honor glanced up, almost afraid of their reception of her poor attempt to portray the evils she had witnessed firsthand. “And finally the mother replies, ‘Alas, yes, my child.’”

“Oh,” Anna said, a hand to her mouth. “I hate to think of those poor children.”

May was dabbing her eyes under her spectacles with a handkerchief.

Cordelia was merely staring at Honor.

“A worthy effort,” Deborah said with sad confidence. “I think that thee should submit it to the
Philanthropist
. I’m certain they would welcome it.”

“A poem by a
woman
?” Cordelia said with grievance in her tone. “They will say it is unladylike and—”

“Anne Bradstreet’s Puritan poetry has been published for years,” Deborah interrupted. “Some men belittle women, but not all.”

Samuel never belittles me,
Honor thought. She glanced
at Cordelia and wondered again about how her husband treated her. “Cordelia, I know I am not a great poet,” Honor said, “but it’s the cause that matters. I never thought to write poetry, but . . . I must let out what my heart feels about the suffering of my African sisters and brothers.”

“Let the editor of the paper decide,” Anna said. “If it’s God’s will, this poem will be published and move hearts to our cause.”

May nodded enthusiastically, the curls over her ears bouncing as usual and her spectacles slipping down her nose.

Cordelia drew in a deep breath. “I agree.”

Honor found she couldn’t stop a smile.

“Now for my news,” Deborah said. She drew a letter down from the mantel. “We have received a reply to our letter to one of our local legislators.” She read a flowery, condescending letter from the man.

Honor buried clenched hands in her lap. “So he thinks a pat on the back for our concerns about free people of color is commendable, and that’s all. Humph. Does he think we will give up after a polite dismissal?”

“I’m not about to be dismissed,” Cordelia stated. “Let’s write him again and also a letter to another legislator.”

Every lady turned to stare at Cordelia. Honor couldn’t hide her shock.

“What?” Cordelia responded. “I’ll write the letter this time. I have a few things to say!”

Spontaneous applause greeted Cordelia’s words. Honor clapped hard. Perhaps this group was about more than freeing only slaves.

By the end of the meeting, a reply to the first legislator
had been penned, a second to another one, and Honor had copied her poem and planned to mail it to the newspaper office before leaving the city.

She drove away, chilled in the late-afternoon twilight, warmed by the efforts of their group. Though what they did might amount to a teardrop in an ocean of misery, at least they were trying. And though she hated lying to Samuel, she could not stop helping runaways who found their way to her door.
God, help change his mind. I know I can’t.

DECEMBER 24, 1819

Samuel awakened to find the bed beside him empty once more. Why had Honor left him? Where could she be? Invisible fists of jealousy grabbed his heart and twisted. He would find out this time.

He sprang out of bed and clambered up the ladder, though he knew she wouldn’t be in the loft. Caleb’s pup opened an eye at him, his tail beating the floor, but then went back to sleep.

Samuel dragged clothes over his nightshirt. At the door, he yanked on his wool coat and knit hat and gloves. Where would he look first?

The only place he could think of was the kitchen. Was someone there ill? He could make no sense of her going out into the cold night, and jealousy clawed him—even though he knew it to be irrational. At least he would learn the truth tonight, for good or bad.

He shut the cabin door quietly but firmly behind
him. The crescent moon was still in the eastern sky, so it was before midnight. The scant moonlight glimmered on the inch of snow on the ground, and he saw them. Footprints—large running beside small. Who could be with Honor?

He took off at a run, disbelief and hurt surging with each step. He reached the kitchen. Candlelight shone from the window. He charged inside.

The scene that met his eyes shocked him into immobility.

With a candlestick in hand and her back to him, Royale stood beside the bed, opposite Honor on the far side. In the bed a black woman with a full womb writhed in the obvious pangs of childbirth.

All faces in the darkened room turned to him.

Honor looked horrified and darted forward. “Samuel, she’s a runaway and needed help. Please just go back to our cabin. I’ll explain later, but I can’t leave now. I’m needed.”

His mind stumbled in shock. “What are you doing here?”

Honor glanced over her shoulder. “I am helping this woman. She is about to give birth. Something’s wrong. Thee shouldn’t be here.”

Samuel stared at her. A runaway? Childbirth? His mind scrambled as if slipping on ice. He stumbled to the bench at the small table. “Go ahead. Help her.”

Then every head swung to the woman. Samuel couldn’t hear the woman’s distress, but he could see her face and body contorted with pain. His fingers shouted in panic, “Help her!”

Honor almost staggered with relief. She hurried forward and spent the next hour helping Perlie, who had some experience as a midwife. Finally Honor held a tiny infant, swaddled in a pillowcase and a linen towel. “We must get them into the barn loft before daylight. I never know when those two slave catchers could appear at our door.”