Sweeter than Birdsong (21 page)

Ben secured the reins. Kate climbed around the wagon seat and began the process of opening the compartment. Mr. and Mrs. Hanby spoke to one another in low voices. From the corner of her eye, she saw their two forms meld into a tight embrace, Mrs. Hanby’s head resting on her husband’s chest, his bowed over hers as if in gratitude. Kate’s cheeks warmed and she worked harder to remove the panel.

Rondie scrambled out of the hole, while Frank and Horace repressed groans as they dragged their longer limbs out.

“This is Frank,” Mrs. Hanby said, leading her husband to meet the fugitives. “And this is Mr. Horace Abraham and his granddaughter. This is my husband, Mr. William Hanby.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Horace said.

“Delighted.” When Mr. Hanby said it, he looked as if he meant it. He did not ask any questions, but shook the men’s hands. “If you would like to come into the harness room in back, we will arrange it for as much comfort as possible, and I will bring food and blankets. Our daughter Amanda is cooking tonight. I’m only sorry we can’t have you at our table and offer you our beds, but we must be cautious.”

“Of course, sir,” Horace said.

As Mr. Hanby took the small party to the back, Frank’s step was slow and heavy, unlike the lighter pace of the old man and his granddaughter. The burden descended on Kate like a pile of logs. How terrible it must be for Frank to see freedom, but without his family.

“Kate,” Mrs. Hanby said. “We must take you home. But first you’ll need to borrow a crinoline from Amanda, and I’ll repair you to perfect gentility for your mother’s inspection.”

When Kate was washed, her hair pulled up in a neater chignon, her borrowed crinoline in place, and the dust sponged from her dress, Mrs. Hanby walked with her all the way home to Northwest Street. The iron gate was the same as ever, but something in Kate’s world had shifted. It made her want to retire to her room undisturbed and rearrange the underpinnings of her mind.

She had promised Mrs. Hanby she would tell her mother the truth about their mission. That would not be a happy conversation. She should probably wait until Ben’s mother was gone.

It would not do to walk in unannounced, considering Mrs. Hanby was with her. She rapped with the doorknocker.

Tessie came to the door in her white apron and gray dress. Her mouth opened, then she smiled. “Miss Winter, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Welcome.” She curtsied and held the door wide.

“Mrs. Hanby, do come in,” Kate said.

“Thank you, I will for just a moment.”

It was as if they spoke a completely different language under the set script of formal exchange.

Don’t leave me
.

I am here
.

They sat together in the parlor, skirts perfectly arranged as if they had not been wading through mud and brambles last week. Thank goodness the light in her father’s study was out. He might be carousing in Columbus, or even in the tavern at Blendon if he were shameless.

A light tread on the stairs and a whisper of fine fabric announced the arrival that was turning her stomach inside out. Her mother descended with measured steps, coming into view bell-shaped skirt first, then belted waist, unbending midnight-blue bodice, and finally that eerily youthful face with its elaborate coiffure.

As she swiveled toward them, blank-faced, an awful hush descended. Mrs. Hanby and Kate stood to greet her. The bruising on her mother’s face was gone. At least her father had not repeated his assault.

Kate’s mother broke into a social smile. “Mrs. Hanby! Such a delight to see you again. And thank you for bringing my daughter home safely.” She seated herself across from them. “We have missed her, of course, but Mrs. Lawrence assured us it was a good cause. And if Ida vouches for it, I have full confidence. She has been a dear to keep me company in your absence, Kate. And Miss Lawrence is a jewel as well.”

So this was the way of it. Mrs. Lawrence had placated Kate’s mother with visits at teatime, the status and approval she craved.

Mrs. Hanby folded her hands in her lap. “Mrs. Winter, your daughter has shown rare compassion and fortitude in our travels. I have been blessed with her assistance and with the opportunity to get to know her better.”

“That is so kind of you.”

The conversation bounced back and forth, Mrs. Hanby sincere but formal, Kate’s mother smiling so broadly her face might crack.

“Well, I have many duties to resume at home, Mrs. Winter, so I will take my leave.” Mrs. Hanby stood.

Kate’s mother rose also. “I hope to see you again soon, perhaps at tea with Ida?”

“As soon as I’m able. Good night, then,” Mrs. Hanby said. Tessie opened the front door.

“Good night,” Kate said.

Her mother echoed it, and the door closed behind Ben’s mother.

She turned. “I’m glad you managed to bring some credit to yourself, Kate.” The familiar coldness returned to her mother’s tone, but at least she seemed to have been jollied into approval of the journey. “What was it, exactly, that took you so far, and for so long?”

Kate steeled herself. “We had to bring some very poor people to a place where they could receive aid. Food, blankets, shelter.”

“And were they deserving poor?”

“Yes, they were.” Now she must tell her mother that they were also fugitives. She hesitated.

“Good,” her mother said. “Charity should be given only to those who will lead lives of virtue. And of course, I would hardly expect that friends of Ida would associate with any inappropriate persons. So very well. Good night.” Her mother gathered her skirts and stalked back up the stairs, gaze not quite focused, as if the glorious spectacle of Ida Lawrence in her parlor still entranced her.

Kate stood still. Her mother’s indifference was a stunning relief.

I have broken my word. I did not tell her everything
.
Well, I must do so tomorrow
.

But deep down, she knew she would not.

Twenty

“P
ERHAPS YOU SHOULD CANCEL THE MUSICALE
.” C
YRUS’S
familiar voice needled him from the doorway of the recital hall. “We don’t have much time, and it may not be up to your standard.”

“Kindly leave the directing to me.” Ben lifted his fingers from the piano keys and looked up.

Cyrus shifted his cello case in his grip and flipped his curly hair back as if to cast off gruff words like chaff. He sallied in. “Where are all the others?” he asked.

“The rehearsal is not scheduled to begin for another five minutes.”

Amanda came in after Cyrus, giving Ben a sympathetic glance over their brother’s shoulder. When Ben said nothing, Cyrus headed for a chair and unpacked the cello, while Amanda played arpeggios and tuned up.

“The Handel, please.” They turned through their music and he cued them into the opening measures.

“Cyrus, will you please slow down?” Ben tapped his baton on the music rack with metronomic regularity.

Cyrus screeched his cello’s bow across the strings. “Any slower and we will all fall asleep.”

Amanda stopped and lowered her violin, waiting with sisterly forbearance.

Cyrus pointed his bow at Ben like a long, accusing finger. “Besides, why are we playing this piece? Miss Winter hasn’t been here for the two rehearsals since your return. I don’t think she is going to sing at all. We should remove this song.”

“I’ll make that decision tomorrow.”

Kate hadn’t wished to sing even before they left for what would become such a fateful mission. Her absence was understandable. “Perhaps I’ll use it as an instrumental piece only.”

“That would make no sense,” Cyrus said. “The children are pretending to be trees. No one will understand why they are holding out greenery.”

Ben let his head fall back against the chair, gazing at the plaster ceiling and trying to summon patience.

“Why don’t you remove the Handel piece, settle the issue, and stop this needless rehearsing so we may move on?” Cyrus’s voice grated like a fishmonger’s call.

Ben sat up straight and clenched the baton to keep from hurling it across the room. “Will you please attend to your own business and play it? Without that song, the performance won’t have a proper end.”

“It won’t have it anyway, without the lyrics.” Cyrus thrust his head forward like an angry young goat.

“Cyrus, let it alone. It’s only an extra ten minutes,” Amanda said.

“But aren’t the others coming at any moment? And we haven’t marked the dynamics for the Schumann pieces yet.” Cyrus’s eyes glinted through his dangling mop of brown hair.

“Just do as Ben asks. He has much to do and we should make his task easier.” Amanda raised her violin again, and Cyrus grimaced but brought his bow to the cello’s strings.

“One, two . . .” Ben gritted it out and set the beat.

The door of the recital room swung open. Frederick Jones took in the rehearsal in progress and swung across the floor with easy strides to take a seat and observe. Ben kept the count silently and listened for any variation in tempo. That was better. Sometimes he thought Cyrus wavered in his rhythm just to annoy him.

His peripheral vision registered the entry of the other students. Mrs. Gourney led the young ladies in, and the other young men followed. By the time the Handel wound to its close, they were all assembled.

He should try to be gracious to his company of volunteers, no matter how low he himself felt or how much he might wish to cancel the performance. Kate’s number would have unified the whole artistic effect by bringing the children together with the lovely music in an act of blessing pointed up by the lyrics. Ben would never admit it aloud, but Cyrus was correct when he suggested cutting the number rather than doing it without a soloist. The music alone would be confusing without the words. But Ben didn’t need Cyrus to tell him his efforts were meaningless without Miss Winter. He could see it quite plainly himself, thank you.

No one else had the correct sound or range for the song, and Kate hadn’t responded to Jenny’s summons to rehearsal for the last week. And the bleakness of Nelly’s loss smothered his soul and made him want to do nothing at all. He went forward on sheer stubbornness to finish what had turned into a disappointing ordeal.

“Thank you for your promptness.” He addressed the performers in their separate male and female rows.

Was it his imagination, or did they look as dispirited and uninspired as he? If so, it was not their fault. The responsibility lay with him, as leader.

He summoned what little cheer would come. “Let’s begin by performing it as we will tomorrow evening, straight through without interruption. A dress rehearsal, except for the children. We will add them tomorrow afternoon.”

The players nodded and took their places. The read-through progressed. Ho-hum. No one wished to be here, apparently. He wouldn’t even speculate on why: it would lower his spirits even further.

Cyrus reached the end of his reading, which preceded the final number, the Handel. “And thus,” his brother said, “we close with the greatest and most lovely mystery of childhood, a mother’s love, the blessing that never ends.” Cyrus’s gaze threw off sparks when he looked at Ben. “Oh august director, are you quite certain you wish us to play the concluding piece now?”

“Yes.” If Ben said more, he might regret it.

“Even though Miss Winter does not appear to be singing for us?” Cyrus needled.

“Play it.”

“It makes no sense.” Cyrus threw his hands up in a shrug.

How dare he make a scene in front of the others? Ben’s temper flared.

The door opened again.

Miss Winter stepped in, her blue eyes flicking across the faces that turned to her. With her mass of black hair, delicate wrists, and full, light skirt, she was like an ivory-skinned nymph who might flee to the protection of the woods.

He stared, their private walk recurring to him like a dream, the feel of her hand on his arm.

“I apologize for my absence this week, Mr. Hanby,” she said. Something in her intonation was changed. And he could hear her from ten feet away, though she was still not loud by anyone’s definition.

“Do you wish me to sing?” she asked.

“Very much.” Warmth suffused his neck. He must watch his tone in front of the others. “Are you willing, with only a day’s rehearsal?”

“I have some familiarity with the song now.”

Their last meeting and rehearsal seemed an eon ago. “Ah yes. Then please come in and let’s rehearse.” He would be all business. “You remember your entrance for the piece? Four measures in.”

She nodded. Cyrus went to his chair with a mollified expression and leaned the cello against his knee.

Ben handed Kate the music. She was a better sight singer than she had admitted, and did well even when they moved past the opening of the piece. Her voice was just as lovely as before. When she finished, wonder lingered on every listener’s countenance. And when they ran through the complete musicale again after her number, all the readers and Frederick seemed to acquire new vigor and perform with spirit.

He did not know what had changed Kate’s mind. Stage fright still drained her cheeks of color and made her hair look even blacker by contrast. But for some reason he could not fathom, she had decided to sing despite the fear.