leaning against the railing, his eyes on the millinery shop and, it seemed, on her. She shrank back in her seat, but could not avoid his gaze, and soon moved to the back porch, away from his scrutiny.
Belle had given Honor another pile of bonnets to work on, but before she began she sat for a few minutes, listening. There were no sounds from the woodshed, but Honor could feel that someone was there. Now that she knew who, and could even name and describe him, she felt a little less frightened. After all, it was he who would be frightened of her.
Belle had been so matter-of-fact about slaves before, but the idea was still new and shocking to Honor. Bridport Friends had discussed the shame of American slavery, but it had merely been indignant words; no one had ever seen a slave in person. Honor was astonished that one was now hiding fifteen feet from her.
She picked up a gray bonnet almost plain enough for a Quaker to wear. The lining was a pale primrose yellow, and she was to sew mustard-colored ribbons onto it, and add a yellow cord drawstring to the bavolet at the back of the neck where the cloth could be tightened and create a small ruff. Though at first Honor was doubtful of the color combination, by the time she’d finished it, she had to acknowledge that the yellow lifted the gray, yet was pale enough not to make the bonnet gaudy, though the ribbon color was more insistent than she would have chosen. Belle had unorthodox taste, but she knew how to use it to good effect.
During a lull in the shop, Belle brought out a tin mug of water. Leaning against the railing while Honor drank, she squinted into the yard. “There’s a snake sunning itself on the lumber,” she announced. “Copperhead. You got copperheads in England? No? Keep away from ’em—you don’t want to get bit by one, it’ll kill you, and it ain’t a pretty death either.” She disappeared inside, and came back out with a shotgun. Without warning, she aimed at the snake and fired. Honor started and squeezed her eyes shut, dropping the mug. When she dared to open them again, she saw the headless body of the snake lying in the grass, several feet from the planks. “There,” Belle declared, satisfied. “Probably a nest, though. I’ll get some boys in there to kill ’em all. Don’t want snakes gettin’ into the woodshed.”
Honor thought about the man hiding there, almost three days now cramped in the heat and dark, and hearing the gunshot. She wondered how Belle came to be involved in hiding him. When her ears had stopped ringing, she said, “Thee mentioned that Kentucky is a slave state. Did thy family own slaves?” It was the most direct question she had dared to ask.
Belle regarded her with yellowed eyes, leaning against the porch railing and still holding the shotgun, her dress hanging off her. It occurred to Honor that the milliner must have an underlying illness to make her so thin and discolored. “Our family was too poor to own slaves. That’s why Donovan does what he does. Poor white people hate Negroes more’n anyone.”
“Why?”
“They think coloreds are takin’ work they should have, and drivin’ down the price of it. See, Negroes are valued a lot higher. Plantation owner’ll pay a thousand dollars for a colored man, but a poor white man is worth nothin’.”
“But thee does not hate them.”
Belle gave her a small smile. “No, honey, I don’t hate ’em.”
The bell on the shop door rang, announcing a customer. Belle picked up her gun. “Donovan’s gone, by the way. Saturday night he always drinks himself silly up at Wack’s in Oberlin—that’s one thing you can count on. Guess he’s startin’ early today. You can stop hiding from him back here if you want.”
Belle Mills’s Millinery
Main St
Wellington, Ohio
6th Month 1st 1850
Dearest Biddy,
It grieves me to have to tell thee that God has taken Grace, six days ago, carried off by yellow fever. I will not go into details here—my parents can let thee
Belle had given Honor another pile of bonnets to work on, but before she began she sat for a few minutes, listening. There were no sounds from the woodshed, but Honor could feel that someone was there. Now that she knew who, and could even name and describe him, she felt a little less frightened. After all, it was he who would be frightened of her.
Belle had been so matter-of-fact about slaves before, but the idea was still new and shocking to Honor. Bridport Friends had discussed the shame of American slavery, but it had merely been indignant words; no one had ever seen a slave in person. Honor was astonished that one was now hiding fifteen feet from her.
She picked up a gray bonnet almost plain enough for a Quaker to wear. The lining was a pale primrose yellow, and she was to sew mustard-colored ribbons onto it, and add a yellow cord drawstring to the bavolet at the back of the neck where the cloth could be tightened and create a small ruff. Though at first Honor was doubtful of the color combination, by the time she’d finished it, she had to acknowledge that the yellow lifted the gray, yet was pale enough not to make the bonnet gaudy, though the ribbon color was more insistent than she would have chosen. Belle had unorthodox taste, but she knew how to use it to good effect.
During a lull in the shop, Belle brought out a tin mug of water. Leaning against the railing while Honor drank, she squinted into the yard. “There’s a snake sunning itself on the lumber,” she announced. “Copperhead. You got copperheads in England? No? Keep away from ’em—you don’t want to get bit by one, it’ll kill you, and it ain’t a pretty death either.” She disappeared inside, and came back out with a shotgun. Without warning, she aimed at the snake and fired. Honor started and squeezed her eyes shut, dropping the mug. When she dared to open them again, she saw the headless body of the snake lying in the grass, several feet from the planks. “There,” Belle declared, satisfied. “Probably a nest, though. I’ll get some boys in there to kill ’em all. Don’t want snakes gettin’ into the woodshed.”
Honor thought about the man hiding there, almost three days now cramped in the heat and dark, and hearing the gunshot. She wondered how Belle came to be involved in hiding him. When her ears had stopped ringing, she said, “Thee mentioned that Kentucky is a slave state. Did thy family own slaves?” It was the most direct question she had dared to ask.
Belle regarded her with yellowed eyes, leaning against the porch railing and still holding the shotgun, her dress hanging off her. It occurred to Honor that the milliner must have an underlying illness to make her so thin and discolored. “Our family was too poor to own slaves. That’s why Donovan does what he does. Poor white people hate Negroes more’n anyone.”
“Why?”
“They think coloreds are takin’ work they should have, and drivin’ down the price of it. See, Negroes are valued a lot higher. Plantation owner’ll pay a thousand dollars for a colored man, but a poor white man is worth nothin’.”
“But thee does not hate them.”
Belle gave her a small smile. “No, honey, I don’t hate ’em.”
The bell on the shop door rang, announcing a customer. Belle picked up her gun. “Donovan’s gone, by the way. Saturday night he always drinks himself silly up at Wack’s in Oberlin—that’s one thing you can count on. Guess he’s startin’ early today. You can stop hiding from him back here if you want.”
Belle Mills’s Millinery
Main St
Wellington, Ohio
6th Month 1st 1850
Dearest Biddy,
It grieves me to have to tell thee that God has taken Grace, six days ago, carried off by yellow fever. I will not go into details here—my parents can let thee
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