Sweeter than Birdsong (22 page)

Though this musicale was nothing but a light entertainment, her determination cheered him. Nelly and her baby had not yet been found, and everything else dimmed in the shadow of that fact. But his musicale might at least help this one young woman whom he admired. Should she overcome her fear in this one public moment, she might find herself less paralyzed with shyness in the future.

The performers finished and gathered their belongings. He praised them with sincere pleasure, his soul still uplifted by the sublime Handel song in Kate’s soprano.

She herself had turned to go.

“Miss Winter,” he said.

She paused, her sea-green dress trailing the floor behind her as she looked over her shoulder.

He crossed to stand beside her. “I want to thank you for what you are doing.”

Pink tinged her cheeks and she kept her gaze down, eyelashes dark against her fair skin. “You are welcome, Mr. Hanby. Music makes others glad, if just for an hour. That may be the only moment of joy or freedom some ever find.” She raised her eyes to his. “Such gifts matter. You told me they are from God and should be shared. I am free, and I should sing.” She turned away and hurried after Cornelia’s sable-clad figure to the exit.

He sat down on the piano bench in the now-empty room. The resolve on her face amazed him—what an unusual creation God had made in Kate Winter. He wanted to call back her presence here and breathe in the faint aroma of flowers that drifted from her dark hair.

He looked at his score, running through the sequence of chord changes and ornamentations for the first song. Tomorrow night was full of new promise. He would make it perfect for her.

Twenty-One

I
F SHE TOLD HERSELF ONCE MORE THAT THERE WAS NO
way around it, perhaps the fear would give up and slink away. The odor of polished wood from the stage platform brought back the day of the oration, but she wrenched her mind away from the past. The audience had not even arrived—she must not panic.

The babble of children rose in jolly chaos around her. They gathered clean-faced by the walls in a fair semblance of order, but little boys kept darting out of line only to be pulled back by the practiced hand of Amanda Hanby. The seven-year-old girls whispered, while the five-year-olds stood in a bleary-eyed daze, overwhelmed by the lights and colors.

Flowers clustered in large baskets around the stage, and boughs of greenery rested on the mantel behind it. In the final rehearsal earlier that day, Ben had directed the children in how to use the tree branches during Kate’s solo.

Her solo. Bitterness at the back of her throat threatened sickness. She refused to be ill. Ben caught her gaze and her heart eased for a minute, before flying off into nauseating spirals. If she disgraced herself, she would ruin his work as well.

She must keep her word to Ben and sing. Only once. She could bear it once, to honor Nelly and her baby. Their encounter had changed her. If she wished to oppose the suffering she had witnessed, she would need to graduate from Otterbein. Only as a qualified teacher could a woman influence others outside her immediate sphere—there were few other occupations that allowed females to have any effect on intellectual and moral opinions. Kate certainly could not choose to be a milliner and ignore the cruelty of the rest of the world.

But all her reasoning did not stop the slow churning in the pit of her stomach.

Frederick Jones, splendid in a high white collar and black coat, towered next to the Parrish girls and Cornelia. He bowed in Kate’s direction and took a step toward her.

Ben Hanby reached her side first. “Good evening, Miss Winter.”

She wanted to take his arm as she had in the woods and draw comfort from his faith. But that was out of the question, as they were no longer babes in the woods but a young lady and gentleman under the decorous rule of Otterbein.

He gave her a quick, reassuring smile and turned to address the little ones. “Children, you will sing first, and then at the end of the program, you will perform the tree pageant.” He spoke loudly over their giggling and chatter until they quieted and stopped fidgeting. Their light and dark heads bobbed in the soft glow of lamplight.

“First is ‘Little Boy Blue,’ then ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ then you children will all sit down in the front.” Ben pointed to the space. “Then the younger Mr. Hanby”—he indicated Cyrus—“will read his farewell piece. He will introduce Miss Winter’s song and call you up again to perform, just as we did this afternoon. Does everyone understand?”

“Ye—s-s, Mr. Hanby!” they chorused.

“Who is going to call you up?” he quizzed them.

“Cyrus!” called his little brother and sister, echoed by “Mr. Hanby” from several others.

“Very good.”

They began to chatter to one another again.

Ben turned to Cornelia. “Miss Lawrence, will you take the children into the library for a few minutes?”

“Certainly.” She herded them out of the room.

“I’ll send for you when it’s your turn,” Ben assured her as she passed him.

Townspersons began to stream in. Mr. and Mrs. Hanby and the other Hanby children were first to arrive, followed by the Lawrences. And there was Professor Hayworth. Kate avoided looking in his direction—it would only make her more self-conscious.

A steady stream of families poured in: the Westerfields, the Boglers, the Stoddards, the Griffins.

Kate’s mother entered the hall, both wary and proud in her elegant hat. She settled herself stiffly in the back row and motioned Leah to sit beside her. Kate’s father was not with them—thank goodness.

In came Mr. Jones and his small, blond wife. The Joneses wove their way through the crowd. Mr. Jones boomed pleasantries to all as he passed.

A noisy buzz of activity and talk filled the room as more and more townspeople came in, standing in the back when no more seats remained.

It was time for the performance to begin.

She could feel the delight of the audience, their enraptured attention to each moment, from Frederick’s rollicking songs to the readings, which were full of whimsy. But every song and every reading made the inevitable moment draw nearer.

The children sang, ending with “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” their chubby cheeks drawing rib-elbowing and pointing from the doting adults in the chairs.

Cyrus stood and read his piece about motherhood and God’s love, finishing with a dramatic pause. “And now—” He ducked his head as if gathering steam for his introduction, a look of pure mischief on his face. “We have been treated to ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ by our youngest singers, but we move to something more stirring for our finale. I introduce to you Miss Mary Kate Winter, our own ‘Mary,’ and at the piano, her devoted lamb.”

She stood pinned under the regard of the audience, as mouths across the room fell open like so many dead fish. What had Cyrus just said? It could not have been what she thought. But it was, for he had shocked the audience.

He was still speaking. “But shall our musical Mary be won by her musical lamb? That answer must wait for another day.”

What? He had just implied an understanding—or something— between Ben Hanby and herself. In public. Before her mother. In the hearing of the whole town.

She would be sick. She could not sing.

Cyrus gestured to her with a flourish. “For now, let us give Miss Winter our rapt attention as she gives her unparalleled rendition of Handel’s ‘Where E’er You Walk.’” He stepped away from the podium and toward his seat, where his cello awaited.

She stood for one frozen moment, feeling the gaze of the whole room on her. She would not run away and increase the scandal. She would walk up onstage. There, she was doing it. The room was spinning, but she could place one foot in front of the other. She would not ruin Ben’s performance. If she could make it to her place, she might be able to sing.

Cyrus picked up his bow and grinned at her as if nothing were amiss.

Her ears roared. She looked at the faces—so many faces— were they all thinking of what he had said? Blood rushed to her face, making her dizzy. Her bodice felt too tight; she could not get enough air. The room seesawed around her and went dim. She barely felt the thud of her head against the wood. Arms lifted and carried her as her vision faded.

Twenty-Two

B
EN CAME IN THROUGH THE KITCHEN DOOR, CLOS
ing it quietly behind him. It was barely dawn, but there had been business to attend to.

He smelled bacon and fresh bread. “Do you need help with breakfast?” he asked his mother, who was putting a pot of coffee on the stove.

“No, thank you.” She looked up at him and cocked her head. “Why are you dirty?”

He looked down at his clothing. He was smudged with grime, and a few pieces of dried grass ornamented his clothing, leaving green stains on his white shirt.

“Nothing I may discuss.” He brushed off his shoulder and trousers.

“Did our friends go with Mr. Lawrence?” he asked his mother.

Frank Foster and the Abrahams had still been in the barn when he left this morning, but when he returned, the three flowers in the window vase were gone. The flowers were the Hanbys’ signal to one another that there were railroad “passengers” hidden in the barn. If the flowers were gone, that meant the three fugitives were on their way.

“Safely off to Sinai.”

“I wish I had known. I would have gone to wish them Godspeed.”

His mother removed the bacon warming in the stove and brought it to the table. “They must all go to Canada now. The risk of staying is too great. Mr. Lawrence will report back to us when he returns.”

The table was set and breakfast was ready.

“I’ll call the others,” Ben said.

His father’s voice drifted in from the parlor. “It’s all right, Ben, I’ll wake them up.” His father crossed into view, turned on the landing, and headed up the stairs with a spring in his step.

One by one, the children wandered downstairs and assembled in the kitchen. Samuel sat on Ann’s lap. Lizzie and Willie perched on opposite ends of the bench, where they would not be tempted to get into mischief. Amanda and Jenny positioned themselves between the smaller ones and helped serve food from hot plates. Anna sat at the foot of the table, distracted and grumpy looking. She was not an early riser.

“Where’s Cyrus?” Ben’s father asked.

His mother wiped her hands and went to her seat. “He went out to do the stalls an hour ago, but he should have been back by now,” she said.

“Well, I suppose we must eat without him.” His father pulled up a chair. He folded his hands to pray. “Shall we say the blessing?”

The kitchen door opened and Cyrus came in.

His mother froze in the act of folding Sam’s hands, staring at her son. Cyrus was covered in dust and grime. A large bruise darkened the side of his face, which also bore several scratches. His lip was swollen and streaked with red.

He refused to meet anyone’s eyes and limped up the stairs in sulky silence.

Lizzie asked curiously, “Why is Cyrus—”

“Shush!” their mother said. She glanced at Ben with reproof.

He did not care what she thought. “Will you pass the biscuits?” he said to Amanda. He took one and began to butter it, trying not to look too satisfied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father watching him.

“We haven’t prayed yet, son,” he said.

Ben put the biscuit down.

The family bowed their heads, and his father began, “Loving Father, forgive us our trespasses. Help us to remember each day that a gentle word turns away wrath, and that he who lives by the sword shall die by the sword.”

Ben opened his eyes. His father was watching him over the bowed heads of the others.

He returned his father’s gaze without blinking and waited for the rest of the prayer.

“Lord, soften our hard hearts, and help us forgive one another,” his father said.

Small chance of that. He savored again the satisfaction of telling Cyrus with controlled fury that they had a matter to settle behind the barn. Once hidden from view, Ben had said to his brother, “You’ve exposed an innocent and admirable woman to public ridicule. As you can’t seem to behave like a gentleman, I’ll give you a lesson in manners. Defend yourself.”

With resentment and fear filling his face, Cyrus had thrown a wild punch, and the fight was on. The result had led to his inglorious entrance two minutes ago.

His father closed the prayer. “Amen,” the rest of the family echoed.

After breakfast, Ben’s father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Will you take a walk with me, son?” It was not really a question.

They left the house together without speaking. As his father strolled down the road toward the creek, Ben followed a step or two behind. He did not want to have this discussion. They passed Northwest Street.

His father dropped back to walk beside Ben and shoved his hands in his pockets. In the protracted silence, the sounds around them seemed louder—their footfalls, some chirps from sparrows, and the rustle of a squirrel overhead in the branches.

“You seem to care for the young woman who sang last night—Miss Winter, I believe?” his father said.

“What of it? I care for many of my friends,” Ben said. It sounded transparent and juvenile.

“You know what I’m asking you, Benjamin.”

He searched for an answer that was truthful and yet comfortably vague. Nothing sufficed.

His father rephrased. “Do you care for her only as a young friend, or as a grown man cares for a woman?”

He did not want to answer, but it was his father, and he could not refuse. “As a man cares for a woman.” Ben fiddled with the button of his sleeve. It was as awkward as the day years ago when his father explained to him the physical side of love between a man and a woman.

“Then it must have been all the more difficult to hear what your brother so foolishly said last night.”

Ben could not respond, swamped by the return of raw emotion. Would Kate ever speak to him again? Her mother would certainly loathe him now.

His father spoke with compassion. “We can’t always control our feelings, whether they spring from love or wrath. But we mustn’t allow our darker passions to vent themselves on others. I did that once, Ben—when I hated my master above all else. It almost destroyed me.”