Sweeter than Birdsong (29 page)

She threw her small body into his arms. Willie tried to embrace him across Lizzie, so Ben grabbed both of them and lifted them off the ground in a bear hug. He and his mother laughed as he put them down and they jumped around the kitchen.

“That’s enough,” his mother said gently to them. “You’ll injure yourselves if you keep cavorting around like wild animals. Go tell your brothers and sisters that Ben is home.”

They stampeded upstairs.

His mother’s face glowed as she embraced him. He was still unaccustomed to towering over her petite frame.

She squeezed his arms. “You’re home early. Is all well?”

“I’ll tell you this evening.”

She searched him with a look.

“It’s a long tale, best saved for later.” He was unwilling to mar his homecoming with any unpleasant talk.

She raised one eyebrow, but turned back to the stove and picked up her spoon.

Amanda and Anna came down the stairs, with baby Sam in Amanda’s arms and Jenny trailing behind them. “Ben’s home! Ben!” They rushed at him. After many embraces and exclamations, he passed around white candy canes he had hidden in his bag.

As he gave out the last one, Cyrus approached, but remained in the doorway behind the others. His brother’s frame looked more solid than when Ben saw him last. Cyrus finally seemed more like a young man than an overgrown boy. He lingered on the threshold with an uncertain look.

No matter what disaster Cyrus had caused, he was still his brother. Ben stepped around the others and crossed to greet him, hand extended. “Merry Christmas, Cyrus. I’m glad to see you.”

Cyrus took his hand and pulled him close to clasp him around the shoulders with one arm. “Me too, Ben,” he said quietly.

Their mother distracted the young ones by opening the oven and setting the cinnamon twists out to cool. “Oh, Ben, before I forget,” she said, shooing Willie away from the hot pan. “Cornelia told me she would like to speak to you tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind stopping by after worship. It sounded pressing.”

“Probably just about Christmas music,” he said, “but I’ll go.”

Kate walked down State Street. It was Sunday, and the shops were closed. Still, people strolled the streets, enjoying the holiday feel of the crisp, cold air after church. It had snowed again last night—the snow lay thick and even.
Deep and crisp and even
, as in the words of the new carol that everyone was singing this year, “Good King Wenceslas.” She liked it very much herself. She started humming it as she passed Main and turned on Grove.

What had Cornelia meant by promising a surprise? Her friend had given her a small smile and said, “I believe I can do you good, Kate, and I will not be dissuaded.”

So Kate had agreed, and now she was headed to Cornelia’s home to see what this surprise might be.

She shoved her hands deep into the fur muff that covered them. Her mother had given it to her when the freeze set in. The muff’s soft whiteness matched the furry collar of the warm woolen coat that came with it. It was a rare moment of kindness when her mother said, “This collar will look nice with your dark hair, dear.” Kate suspected the coat was simply another tool of matrimonial scheming, but she liked it anyway.

As she picked her way through the deeper snow on Grove Street, she looked up at Cornelia’s home, its windows brightly lit and adorned with green wreaths. The Hanbys’ home just down the road was also warm and festive, with red bows on the porch pillars and pine garlands hanging from the eaves. What a welcoming, happy-looking home. She had not responded to Ben Hanby’s heartfelt letter of apology. Surely he knew that she could not write to a man without her parents’ consent, and least of all to him. In the imaginary letter she had written several times in her head, she had told him she could not remain angry with someone who was so concerned and good-hearted. But she would not be able to tell him so, as her mother had forbidden her to socialize with the Hanbys.

She mounted the steps of the Lawrence home and knocked with the brass-knobbed handle. Cornelia opened the door, in a festive red day dress that flowed to her feet almost as elegantly as her evening attire. “I’ve sent the maid off to do her Christmas shopping. Come in,” she said, easing the door back to allow room for Kate’s skirt.

The parlor was gorgeous in reds and greens, and a six-foot tree stood in the corner as if it were growing inside the house. Popcorn garlands festooned its branches, along with little orange baskets and red ribbons.

“What a lovely Christmas tree,” Kate said.

“Have you noticed how many there are in town this year? It’s so fashionable now in England, since the Prince did it. And once England starts a fashion, then of course we all must follow! But it’s a nice fashion, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” Kate inhaled the piney smell. “As if we’re outside, but without the cold.”

“May I get you some cider?” Cornelia asked.

“Yes, please.”

Cornelia disappeared into the kitchen, and Kate moved closer to admire the tree. Deeper in its branches, gilt walnuts gleamed where they dangled from satin loops.

A knock came at the door and Cornelia hurried back into the parlor and ran to answer it. Kate could not see her greeting whoever it was in the foyer, but she heard the low murmur of a male voice. Booted feet shuffled on the stoop in the familiar sound of scraping off snow.

Cornelia rounded the corner into the parlor. “Please come in,” she said in a bright tone to someone behind her, but she looked very nervous.

And Ben Hanby walked in after her.

He was still as intense and handsome, with his dark hair and deep brown eyes, as Kate had remembered. More so. Their eyes met and everything else grew indistinct to her. She could not look away from him—he was the only tangible thing in the room. He carried an overcoat folded on his arm and wore a dark blue frock coat that accentuated his broad shoulders.

He appeared as transfixed as she. The silence lengthened. Cornelia said something about cider and whisked herself away to the kitchen.

Kate’s face warmed under his gaze. Only one topic came to mind. “I accept your very gracious apology, Mr. Hanby.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He paused as if he too struggled for words.

“Won’t you sit down?” Formal manners would give her a script for the unscriptable.

He looked around for a place to put his coat. The coat closet was just behind her, in the nook between the parlor and the kitchen. “I’ll take that for you,” she said, as her mother had taught her she should in the absence of a servant. She shyly approached and reached for the coat.

As he tendered it to her, their hands touched beneath the folded material. She grasped the coat and stepped back quickly. That light touch from his hand rippled through her with such force that she wavered in her path to the coat closet.

When she returned, he stood waiting for her to seat herself. She should not be here—what would her mother do, if she knew? But her entire person would resist going out that door, and the fascination of the present moment overwhelmed any dire future.

She sat down and arranged her skirts on the red chaise longue. He took the nearest available chair, which was several feet away from her.

“Your teaching was enjoyable?” she asked.

“The children, yes. The parents, not always.” He smiled. “Teaching is not a vocation for the weak.”

It stung, though she knew he had not meant to refer to her. “I am too aware of that. I would like to teach someday. But thus far, at least, I have not shown myself to be strong enough.”

“I apologize—I did not mean to offend you. And you are not weak.” The concern in his eyes drew out the hurt from inside her, like a poultice on a snakebite.

“You are not to blame if I do not prove to be capable of teaching.” Her fingers knit together in her lap.

“You wish to teach? But why shouldn’t you?” His furrowed brow softened as interest sparked in his eyes. “You are brilliant in academics. And you have shown exemplary compassion for others, which is a teacher’s most necessary gift.”

“But I have not successfully spoken to a group in public. And you witnessed the lamentable results of my attempt to sing.”

He stood up and walked to the window. “I shouldn’t have coerced you to sing.” The fabric of his waistcoat tightened over his shoulders.

“You didn’t coerce me. I wanted to try, but I wasn’t able to do it.”

“You would have succeeded, had it not been for Cyrus.” He gazed out the window as if he did not want her to see his emotion, but it was clear even in profile.

Her face burned. She must change the direction of the conversation. “I’ve been attempting to steady my nerves with practice, and perhaps I will be able to speak someday. I sometimes think that’s what heaven wants of me. But if that were so, speaking would not be so difficult. I wish I knew.” Her words ended like a question, though she had intended to sound confident. But if she could speak of spiritual matters to anyone, it would be Ben Hanby.

He turned with a look of surprise, then crossed the polished floor to return to her. He pulled his chair closer with an impatient flourish, as if to throw off the constraints of the rules. He seated himself and his dark eyes searched hers. She felt an odd sensation almost like the lightness of being airborne on Garnet.

“I am learning to be slower to speculate on what God wants,” he said. “Only time can show us his plan. Some trials are meant to temper us, not to turn us away from our paths.”

“But how do we even know which path to begin?”

“I don’t know if I have that answer.” His knees were a foot from her skirt. The breathing reality of his skin, his eyes, his lashes when he looked down, was overwhelming her senses.

“In my own life,” he said, “I’ve chosen what appeared right and good, after prayer. And I will pursue it with all my heart.” Something in his tone changed, as if he spoke on more than one level, and it stirred her.

She thought of what they had shared on their journey. “I would like to help others, as you and your family do.”

He went completely still. The air was charged with what had been spoken and what remained unsaid.

“You will bring me to my knees.” He said it almost in a whisper.

What did he mean? The riot of her feelings coalesced into a more familiar panic that drove her to her feet and around the back of her chair so it stood between them as a makeshift wall.

What about her mother’s instruction? She had never spoken so freely to a man in her life. She did not seem to be in command of herself. And yet he was a gentleman to his core, and would not press her when she was so flustered.

But she was not as honorable as he, to stay so long in contradiction of her mother’s will. She could not respect herself if she became deceitful, and neither was it fair to him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hanby.” She clutched the back of the chair for support. “I must take my leave.” She kept her tone as even as she could to hide her dismay. “This will sound terribly rude, but my mother has asked me not to associate with you.” Her voice shook on the last words and betrayed her.

Hurt sprang into his eyes. He got to his feet. With only a hint of diffidence, he approached and extended his hand in a courtly way to her. She could not be rude to him again. She complied and placed her ungloved hand in his, the pressure and warmth of his palm against hers making her weak in the knees.

“I am determined,” he said, gazing into her eyes and moving closer, “that this will not be our last conversation this winter. One way or another. I promise you that.” And he bowed slightly over her hand, and for an awful and blissful moment, he seemed about to violate every possible rule of propriety by kissing the hand of a woman he was not even courting. But, with visible effort, he loosened his gentle hold and straightened up.

“Please don’t leave on my account,” he said. “I live next door to Miss Lawrence. But you have a longer walk, and it’s snowy. Stay with her.” He walked to the closet, took down his coat again, and headed out of the parlor. He glanced back at her only once without a word. She heard the front door open and close.

Something had been mended and strengthened, and would not easily be torn apart again.

Thirty

December 25th, 1855                   50 Grove Street

My dear Miss Winter
,

In the absence of another acceptable means of communicating with you, I have chosen to write. Miss Lawrence has promised to convey this letter to you at your next piano lesson.

It has been a happy Christmas Day here at the Hanby home. My little sisters and brothers make it very merry for all of us with their squeals of delight at the gifts. It is a simple celebration for us, but deeply -felt, as we remember the joyous miracle that took place in the stable at Bethlehem. But our prayers are with Nelly and her baby, for there is still no word from John Parker. Do not give up hope. Mr. Parker is a determined and resourceful man.

It is late now, very late, and I am alone in the parlor, with only the sound of the wood popping in the fire. I wonder whether you may have thought of me at all, as I have thought of you so often since our most recent conversation.