Sweeter than Birdsong (27 page)

“Certainly.” He inclined his head, a little stiff, and offered Kate his arm again. His mother followed them as they proceeded down the hallway. Through the glass double doors to their left, Kate saw the white bulk of Mr. Jones sitting behind a desk, like a great caterpillar ensconced in the woody heart of a tree.

“I will rejoin you soon,” Frederick said in a low voice, and with a bow, withdrew through the doors and closed them.

“Come, Miss Winter. The library is much more congenial than that gloomy study my husband frequents.” Mrs. Jones led her to the next door on the left, which opened into a warm room lit by a wavering fire behind a black iron screen. Red wallpaper accented the dark walnut shelves full of books that stretched from the fringes of area rugs to the crown molding that edged the ceiling. Kate’s spirits lifted at the sight. “What a lovely room.”

“Thank you.”

The faint echo of the front doorbell came down the hall.

“If you don’t mind,” Mrs. Jones said, “I’ll leave you to browse our reading selections. More guests are arriving.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nothing would delight Kate more.

Mrs. Jones went out and the sound of her skirt and heels receded. Kate walked to the nearest shelf and gazed upward. So many books, hundreds. Her own family library only contained fifty volumes, and she did not use it often because it was situated in her father’s study. Here were Homer, Caesar, Josephus, Aristotle, Plutarch, Ovid—all covered in deep-dyed leathers of blue, green, and brown. Tomes of natural history and American records. A
Webster’s Dictionary
. She ran her fingers along the spines, tingling with the pleasure of the masses of titles, the pristine condition of the bindings with their gilt lettering.

A murmur of voices emanated from somewhere behind the books. It grew louder as she walked toward the far corner of the room and a closed door that must lead to the adjacent study. Now she recognized Frederick’s voice. “. . . shouldn’t interfere.”

She should go stand on the other side of the library. Eavesdropping was wrong.

“. . . but Ben won’t refrain. You know he won’t,” came Mr. Jones’s voice in reply She halted in midstep.

“Father, is that really our concern? He’s in Rushville.”

They were speaking of Ben Hanby. An intuition held her in place. She moved a step toward the closed door, where the sound of their voices trickled around the door frame.

“We still have many friends in Rushville, Frederick. And Ben is teaching the children of the town—I fear he’ll teach them abolition. He is his father’s son. What else does Hanby preach but divisive politics?”

“Ben is my closest friend. He is honorable, and you have said so yourself.”

A thump of his fist on the desk made her start. “Son, don’t contradict me—this is hard enough as it is! Why do you think Ben refused our offer of the clerkship? Perhaps he didn’t want to stop his illegal activities—there’s no other reason a man would refuse such an opportunity. His refusal lends credence to the rumor that the Hanbys run fugitive slaves across the state, though I don’t want to believe it. I can forgive Ben, who is a good boy led astray by his father. But I can’t let him go teach there without warning my friends, just in case. They must keep watch on him. These are children he’s teaching, and early impressions sink deep.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need you to send a letter to Ben tomorrow, advising him subtly to be wise in his conduct. And I’ll send a letter of my own to Mr. Lefort.”

“I don’t think Ben will teach the children anything he shouldn’t, sir, but I’ll do as you wish.”

“Do you believe in the Union, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad. Then humor your old man in this. And go enjoy your party.”

“Thank you, sir.”

She heard the door of the study open and hurried to peruse the opposite wall of the library. Her dismay made the book titles dim and irrelevant to her. What would happen to Ben?

“Miss Winter.” Frederick stood at the library threshold. “Do you like our collection?” He came in.

At that moment, his mother appeared in the doorway behind him and dazzled both of them with her all-occasions smile. “Miss Lawrence and the other young ladies are here, and some young gentlemen are arriving, I believe.”

“Then we will join them.” Frederick shrugged off the shadow on his face and his good nature reemerged like a cork popping to the surface of a pond. “Miss Winter, if I may?”

All of the Philomatheans and Philalethians would attend tonight except for the two Hanbys. Ben was out of town, of course, and Frederick had made it clear that he wouldn’t invite Cyrus, out of consideration for her feelings.

Not all of them would be Kate’s ideal choices for company, but at least Cornelia was here. She took Frederick’s arm and followed Mr. Jones to the parlor.

A noisy buzz announced that all the young people were present, though they had arranged themselves decorously into male and female groups. After a few minutes by the great tapestry in the parlor, Mrs. Jones called them to dinner.

Frederick sat across from Kate, and his eyes lit up every time he looked at her. She couldn’t cast off the lingering worry of his strange conversation with his father. Still, at least no one seemed to be thinking of the musicale.

After a delicious custard dessert, Frederick pushed back his chair and regarded his guests with anticipation. “Let’s adjourn to the parlor and play a game.”

The others agreed to the plan. In a few minutes, they were all arranged in velvet chairs and settees in the large parlor.

“Charades,” one of the young men proposed, his thin face eager for fun.

Kate didn’t want to act things out. But when she softly declined to play, the others promised her she could just be part of the guessing game without having to pantomime.

“Well, we must have five on each side,” Frederick said. “I appoint myself a team captain, and, Rebecca, you can be the other,” he said to Rebecca Bogler, who preened at the attention. “But I will claim the first team member,” he said. “Kate, of course. Come sit next to me.” He patted the empty space on the chaise longue he occupied. Too close for Kate’s comfort, and it wouldn’t have passed at Otterbein, but she did enjoy the feeling of company, as long as she didn’t have to speak too much. It eased the isolation of her own home.

Rebecca winked beneath her blond curls. “Then I must choose a man.” She pointed at the thin-faced one. He crossed the parlor and made a point of sitting at Rebecca’s feet.

“Where we men should always be, eh, Rebecca?” he said.

Frederick chose Cornelia as their next teammate and soon they were all divided into teams.

The first round went well. They laughed as Rebecca pantomimed working at something that seemed to be a bellows, then dramatically raised her hand to shield her eyes and peered across the room.

“A blacksmith!” someone said.

“No!” she said, redoubling her peering actions.

“A train engineer!” the thin young man said.

“No!” Rebecca pumped her imaginary bellows with fury as sand ran through the little hourglass.

“Time’s up!” Cornelia said.

“It was a balloonist!” Rebecca said with mock annoyance.

They all laughed.

“You’ll have to do much better than that, I’m afraid,” Frederick said with glee.

He was next to act out. He assumed a look of comical terror, and Rebecca shrieked with giggles. Kate had to chuckle too, as he pretended to hide behind a chair, shaking violently and chattering his teeth together with a snapping noise.

“A snapping turtle!” Rebecca guessed.

“He’s not on your team,” the thin young man said, laughing.

“A frightened skeleton!” Cornelia said, in the teasing spirit.

The sand ran out.

“No!” Frederick said, grinning at them. “It’s a runaway slave!”

Carried away by the moment, Rebecca and the others guffawed. Cornelia stayed quiet, and Kate looked away.

She should object. But it would be so rude. Here she had hardly said a word, and she thought to criticize her host?

But she was ashamed of her silence nonetheless. Mrs. Hanby would not have placed politeness above principle.

As the laughter faded, Frederick looked uncertain. “Miss Winter, will you help me retrieve something from the library? We will return immediately.”

Her cheeks burned. Mrs. Gourney would not approve. But she stood. He was a gentleman, and she would not embarrass him by noting the impropriety of it.

He did not offer his arm, as if conscious of his transgression against manners.

Once they were down the hall and out of earshot of the others, he turned to her as they walked. “Please accept my apology for my part in the charades.”

She summoned her courage. “I must tell you,” she said in a low voice, “that I do not think fugitive slaves are a subject for humor.”

“I know, I know. I chose the first thing that came to mind. It was in poor taste.”

“I don’t mean to be rude. I appreciate your hospitality tonight.”

“It’s always a pleasure for me to entertain guests, but especially you.” He spoke softly as well, and more intimately than he had before. She gazed ahead, mute as usual.

They were doing nothing wrong. Frederick had always been respectful to her, and she had no reason not to trust him.

He led her back into the small library, where she stood uncertain in the center while he stepped toward the fire, then turned to face her.

“Kate,” he said. His clean-cut, golden face was serious, his eyes catching the flickering firelight. “You know that I care very much for you,” he said.

Her heart jumped and she crossed her arms over her bodice. He must not do this—was this why he had wanted privacy?

“Frederick.” Sapphia Jones stood in the door of the library. “I believe your guests are calling for you in the parlor.”

Thank goodness. Oh, thank heaven for interfering mothers, just this once.

He looked like a schoolboy whipping his hand out of the cookie jar and jumping back. “Yes, Mother. I was simply—”

“I know Miss Winter is an admirer of books. In fact, I did not have a chance to show her some of the best. I will stay with her a moment and then we will join you.”

He nodded again, discomfort tightening his features as he turned. “Pardon me, Miss Winter.” He inclined his head and walked out into the darker hall.

What a horrible situation, humiliating and strange. Perhaps his mother also thought Frederick had been about to propose. She might even have been watching from some alcove as they walked down the hall. But her interruption would mean she objected to Kate. And was that a result of what had happened at the musicale? Kate’s face burned.

“May I join you for a moment?” Mrs. Jones walked in.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We have the loveliest books here. I thought I would show you these in particular. So well made, so helpful.”

Kate crossed to Mrs. Jones, who ran her finger down a shelf close to the fireplace. The older woman took a volume down, sliding it out with a gracefully angled wrist.

“You see?” She handed it to Kate.

A Young Lady’s Book of Manners
.

If Kate had not been so shocked, she might have cried.

“You are welcome to borrow it if you wish.” The same magnolia floweriness marked her voice, but it was sharp and unpleasant, like perfume tasted instead of smelled.

“I believe I have a copy at home, but thank you.” Kate forced it out in a mumble.

“Indeed?” Mrs. Jones’s voice did not rise, but her eyebrows did.

“Excuse me.” Kate hurried to the door and out into the hallway.

There was no reason for Mrs. Jones to dislike her, save for the musicale and Cyrus Hanby’s insinuation. The young people might think nothing of what had been said, but Kate was not to be forgiven so easily by the town gossips.

She kept her head down, and she did not speak for the rest of the evening. She left with Cornelia and did not look at Frederick as she made her good-byes.

Twenty-Eight

D
ECEMBER

H
OW LONG WOULD IT BE BEFORE
J
OHN
P
ARKER SENT
news? Ben sighed and knelt in front of the schoolhouse stove to throw in a piece of wood. The children would arrive soon. He returned to his desk and finished scratching a line or two onto the paper. He would finish the song about Nelly, since he could do nothing else for her until John found her.

The children stomped on the porch, and Ben put down the pen and went to the blackboard. He always began the school day by writing a new song on the blackboard for the children. Today they were singing “Oh Dear, What Can the Matter Be?” so he scrawled the lyrics with quick jabs of the chalk.

He liked to see the joy in their faces when they sang. Even Jimmy joined in with zeal. Ben was sure that music had everything to do with Jimmy’s choice to return to the classroom. Once the ringleader decided to attend, his older friends had come back with him. They all had come in now and seated themselves, half of them talking, the others staring at the lyrics or mouthing them silently.

He tapped his ruler on the desk and, in the hush, started the song. Their light voices lifted in the jolly chorus, “Oh dear, what can the matter be?” The song ended and they looked at him expectantly.

“We can sing one more, then we’ll begin our reading,” Ben said. “Would anyone like to suggest a song?”

A clamor rose from the children. Ben smiled. The littlest ones were always the loudest in wanting to suggest songs, but had difficulty actually naming a song when called upon. “Jenny, do you have a suggestion?” He pointed to seven-year-old Jenny Green to distinguish her from the three other Jennys in the room.

She leaned up against her big sister Selma. Her little face went still in concentration, then she said something Ben couldn’t hear. Selma saw that he didn’t hear her sister’s words. “She said she wants one of your songs, Mr. Hanby.”

“Oh,” he said, pleased. That was the first time a student had asked for one of his own songs, though he had taught them two before. “Would you like to learn a new one?” he asked the class as a whole.

“Ye-e-s-s!” half of them shouted.