Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  “What in the world could be keeping them so long?” she demanded as she checked outside once more.

  The women exchanged glances across the paper-strewn table. Mrs. Cutter asked, “Who, dear?”

  “The men!”

  “Why, they are not due back for another hour,” Beatrice Cutter explained.

  Abigail crossed the parlor to glare at the mantel clock. “I’m sure this wretched timepiece has stopped!”

  “It has done no such thing,” Mrs. Cutter clucked. “I wound it myself this very morning, and I can hear it ticking cheerfully from where I sit.”

  “But . . .” Abigail spun about and returned to her place at the table, although her attention obviously was elsewhere.

  The women resumed their work. Mrs. Cutter finally declared, “I do believe we have made as complete a list as is possible for the time allotted.”

  “How they could have included thread and scissors and then forgotten sewing needles is utterly beyond me,” Erica noted with a chuckle.

  “They are three men and a great swath of male clerks, all of whom assume they know everything there is worth knowing,” Mrs. Cutter replied crisply.

  Abigail sighed and looked once more at the clock. “Oh, why does time choose this day of all days to slow to a crawl?”

  Beatrice rose from her seat and crossed to the front window to peer out herself. “Won’t you tell me what is troubling you?”

  “I can’t!”

  Mrs. Cutter approached as well. “Well, why not, my dear?”

  “Because . . .” The young woman’s expression held frustration. “It is not my place,” she finished lamely.

  The women exchanged astonished glances. These were not words they expected from Abigail.

  When Abigail spoke once more, it was to her own reflection in the windowpanes. “He has to do this himself.”

  “Whom are you speaking of, my dear? Young Abe?”

  Abigail might have nodded, or it could have been a shiver. “We talked and talked. If I am going to always say what he is too shy to tell, how ever can he learn confidence in his own abilities?”

  Lillian reached for Abigail’s arm. “Come sit with me by the fire.”

  Abigail permitted herself to be led over to the settee. “It’s his plan. Not mine. All I did was, well . . .”

  “You have urged Abe to speak with the others about some idea of his?”

  “He didn’t want to at first. But I insisted. Abe has agreed to talk this through, but only if I am present.” She looked back at the clock. “The hands have not moved at all!”

  “They will be here soon enough,” Lillian assured her. “You have done all you can. Now the task is to put your mind upon something else.”

  Abigail stared at her. Finally she asked, “Is it true what I heard at dinner after church on Sunday, that you sing?”

  Now it was Lillian who felt time freeze to a halt. “I used to,” she finally said cautiously.

  “But why do you not sing anymore?”

  “Abigail,” her grandmother quietly admonished.

  “No, it’s all right.” Lillian copied Abigail’s position, with her hands clenched tightly in her lap. “I promised myself I would harbor no more secrets in this house.”

  “I’m sorry,” Abigail said, contrite. “You really needn’t—”

  “I sang in taverns for my keep. After I ran away.”

  For the first time that morning, Abigail’s attention was drawn from whatever lay beyond the sun-drenched curtains. “You ran away?”

  “Twice. The second time I did not return to the loveless home where I was raised by people who might have been relatives; I’m not really certain. My late husband, the count, found me singing in a theatre. He fashioned a new past for me out of myths. That is the short version of a long and tawdry tale.”

  “But . . .” Abigail had difficulty deciding which question to ask first.

  Mrs. Cutter used the moment to interject, “My dear, perhaps it is not right for us to pry.”

  “But I want to know. . .”

  Before the older woman could object again, Lillian said to Abigail, “Ask what you will.”

  “Why did you stop singing?”

  “Because my late husband so wished. He claimed it was for fear someone would hear my voice and recognize me for who I really was. But I often wondered if perhaps there was some other reason. He was a very furtive man, you see. He loved owning possessions in secret. He kept paintings in a vault, portraits I never even knew we owned, which now hang in the offices of Simon Bartholomew.”

  “That wicked man,” Erica Powers murmured.

  “Perhaps my late husband merely wished to count my singing as yet another possession that was his and his alone. In truth, I had little desire to sing. It was part of a cheap and dismal past, one I was happy to leave well behind.”

  “But if you sang in a theatre, you must have a nice voice.”

  Lillian smiled through the sorrow and the memories. “They once called me the Siren of Manchester.”

  Abigail clapped her hands. “Oh, sing for us now!”

  “Not if she does not wish,” Mrs. Cutter hurried to say, but her eyes shone with excitement.

  “None of the songs I knew then would be fitting for this home,” Lillian replied.

  “But what about a hymn? You know some of them, don’t you?”

  “Some, yes. From my early childhood.”

  “So they must bring back many memories. Is it too awful for you?”

  “No, actually, my fondest memories of the early years are of my singing. But I don’t recall many hymns well after all this time. Certainly not well enough to sing without accompaniment.”

  Mrs. Cutter offered, “There’s the pianoforte in the back room. But it hasn’t been played, oh, since before my husband became ill. He did so love his music.”

  Abigail offered, “Abe plays.”

  Mrs. Cutter exclaimed, “I don’t recall ever hearing of this.”

  “It’s like everything else. He loves to play but he won’t when others might hear him. His mother was a musician. The old pastor where he lived used to give him lessons. He plays sometimes in the church, but only when it’s empty. He says it draws him close to the family he once had.”

  Mrs. Cutter glanced out the front window. “Here they are now.”

  “Finally!” Abigail sprang from her seat and hurried to the front door.

  “Steady, my dear,” Lillian said quietly. “Steady.”

  “Yes, of course. You are right.” She forced herself to take a step back into the front parlor.

  Lillian walked over to join her. As the front door opened and the men entered, she said, “You are showing restraint.”

  “Oh, Lillian, I wish that were so!” Abigail’s face was pale.

  “Much as you would like to ‘help,’ you are leaving Abe to chart his own course.” Lillian patted her arm. “I am proud of you.”

  Before Abigail could respond, Abe entered the room, looking rather terrified. His dark gaze fastened upon Abigail with desperate appeal.

  Lillian walked over and placed herself directly between him and Abigail. “Good morning, sir. I was wondering if I might ask your assistance.”

  Abe forced his attention to her. “Of course, Mrs. Houghton.”

  “I am nearly petrified with fear, you see.”

  His gaze focused more intently upon her. “Ma’am?”

  “They have asked me to do something which frightens me utterly.”

  “Really, my dear,” Mrs. Cutter protested. “You mustn’t feel pressured.”

  Lillian held Abe fast with her gaze. “You see, Abe, I have not sung in more than fifteen very long years. Now it is time. And I am very nervous about this. I was wondering, well, might I please lean upon your strength and skill at the pianoforte?”

  “Y-you wish me to accompany you?”

  “I could not do this alone,” she replied simply. “It would be beyond me. As it is, the thought of singing in front of anyone
, even more before these new, dear friends, leaves me scarce able to stand.”

  She held out her hand. “What I am asking, Abe, is if you would please be strong for me.”

  Now that the moment was actually here, she was in fact as weak with fear as she had professed. The pianoforte was contained in its own little alcove off the rear parlor. To protect the surface, a tapestry had been used as a dust cover. The silver candlesticks were removed and the tapestry folded and set aside. A chair was brought from the dining room. Abe seated himself and ran his fingers down the keyboard. Lillian noticed two notes that were flat, but the instrument’s sound was not displeasing. Abe signaled a similar conclusion by nodding at her, but seemed to be ignoring the rest of the room entirely, as she was doing. Perhaps Abe felt the same way as she, that by intently holding each other’s gaze they were able to keep out the almost overpowering sense of anxiety.

  “What song have you selected, ma’am?”

  “I’m not sure—I suppose one of the hymns I sang as a little girl, though I can scarce recall the titles, much less the melodies. Perhaps you might suggest a tune you know?”

  Abe thought a moment as his fingers continued to test the keys. His touch was sure, his hands very strong. There was a rustling sound as the others found chairs and settled down. But neither of the performers looked over at the group.

  Mrs. Cutter slipped in and set a hymnal upon the stand above the keys. The woman’s appearance within Abe’s range of vision caused him to falter, and he hit his first wrong notes.

  Lillian turned her back entirely to the room and set her hand upon his shoulder. Their gazes remained locked. This is just you and me, she said with her eyes. It was the only way she could continue. For a moment, she wished with all her heart that she had never started upon this foolhardy course. But she was not doing this for herself. She must seek to show her gratitude to these good people with the little she had at her disposal. And help Abe’s confidence through it also. Lillian took a very deep breath. No more lies. No more secrets.

  Abe seemed to draw strength from her silent determination, or perhaps it was the genuine fear he saw in her face. For he straightened in his chair and said, “How about this, ma’am?”

  His fingers began playing a melody that she recognized in an instant. “Of course! I used to be very fond of that one!”

  “Let me find the words for you.” He reached for the hymnal and turned swiftly to the page. He then returned to the keys.

  Lillian began humming softly to test her voice. The hymnal granted her an excuse to keep her back turned to the room. Abe played well enough to avoid hitting the off-tune keys any more than absolutely necessary. He moved the bass down one octave and fashioned his chords minus the worst key. He played the melody through twice. Gradually Lillian allowed her voice to gain in strength. By the third round she was humming almost at a strength to match his playing. She looked up from the notes and nodded.

  Abe paused for two beats, long enough for her to draw a full breath, then began.

  She sang,

  “Crown Him with many crowns, the Lamb upon His throne;

  Hark! How the heavenly anthem drowns all music but its own.”

  The memories were a force as strong as the music itself. She sang and seemed to become two people. One stood with her back to the room and studied every word, every note, every breath. It might be more than fifteen years, but the lessons she had learned were with her still. She heard the accuracy in her voice—and the weakness. Her throat was constricted somewhat, and her notes were too reedy. But the clarity was there, and the slight hint of bell-like power.

  But there was another person there inside her, a little child of seven, who could scarcely contain herself with the joy of singing again.

  “Crown Him the Lord of peace, Whose power a scepter sways

  From pole to pole, that wars may cease, and all be prayer and praise.”

  Lillian closed her eyes. Only for an instant. She no longer recalled the words from memory, so she could not look away from the music for longer than it took her to sing the line.

  She remembered how the old church smelled. She recalled the scent of dust and incense and age. She remembered how she could make her voice resound off the high rafters, so clearly she could identify her voice among all the others in the church.

  “Crown Him the Lord of love, behold His hands and side,

  Those wounds, yet visible above, in beauty glorified.”

  The meaning of the words had mostly escaped her conscious understanding as a child, but each stanza caught her heart now with its truth and power.

  They finished the stanza, and Abe looked a question at her. She understood and nodded assent. Briefly he permitted himself to escape the bounds of the hymn’s written notes. Lillian felt a thrill run through her being. She knew the man was allowing himself this only because he was caught up in the moment. Here and now, it was only them. Here and now, it was safe to fly.

  Lillian turned partway around to face both Abe and the room. She kept her gaze upon the young man and heard as he moved further afield, experimenting with tone and tempo. She nodded in time to his playing and smiled. It was, in all truth under heaven, a moment of pure beauty. Further than that she need not dwell, not for the moment.

  Abe returned to the hymn’s precise notes and played his way through the last bars of the verse, finishing with a half-step key change. Lillian hummed a pair of notes, preparing herself.

  Abe lifted himself up, the musician’s signal to the singer. Then came the downbeat.

  Lillian opened her mouth and soared away.

  She did not test her outermost limits. The years had brought her a different voice than the one she had known as a young woman. It was vital that she take time to try out its new borders. Even so, the hymn became a platform from which she might take flight. She moved off into the distance, returning only to remind herself and the listeners where she began and what remained her base. Lifting herself away from the years that had kept her silent. She joined once more with the spirit of the bright-eyed little girl and sang to hear her voice echo off distant rafters.

  “Awake, my soul, and sing of Him who died for thee,

  And hail Him as thy matchless King through all eternity.”

  A long silence ensued, filled with the emotions of each listener. Abe and Lillian exchanged glances. They both had won something here. Very different for each of them, yet the same. At least that was how it felt to Lillian.

  Mrs. Cutter was the first to recover. “What an utter astonishment.”

  “An angel,” Erica murmured. “I feel as though I have just heard the voice of heaven.”

  Then all of them were talking at once. The voices were the best sort of applause, the response of an audience that just had to make some noise of their own. Lillian reached over and let Abe take her hand. Together they stood and let the tumult wash over them.

  Reginald rose from his chair and came to embrace her with a spontaneous joy. “My dear, my very dearest Lillian.”

  “I’m so glad you liked it,” she murmured against his shoulder, not in the least awkward about this private moment in a public setting.

  “My dear, I am transported beyond words.” He turned and offered Abe his free hand. “My congratulations, young man.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “It was her singing—”

  “You caused this wooden beast to sing with a voice almost as fine as the lady’s here.” He refused to release either of them.

  Abe flushed with pleasure as Abigail rushed forward to embrace him. “Oh, Abe, that was wonderful.”

  He smiled his appreciation.

  “I have loved that hymn since I was a child,” Abigail hurried on. “Never have I heard it played as well.” Her eyes were filled with unshed tears as she looked at Lillian and added, “Or sung.”

  Abe straightened further, standing as tall as ever Lillian had seen. He said to Reginald, “Sir, I have something I wish to talk to you about.”

  �
��Speak your mind, lad. There is hardly a thing I could refuse you this day.”

  “It has to do with business, Mr. Langston. Perhaps we should seek a more private corner?”

  “Nonsense. We are a family. I may not know much, lad. But I am assured our success stands or falls upon the strength of this family and these friends.”

  The others stepped away until Abe stood alone in the little alcove.

  A pair of glances, first at Abigail and then at Lillian, gave him the strength he needed. “I have an idea for a new business,” he began. “One tied to our plans for Wheeling and the West.”

  “Please proceed.”

  “As you know, sir, there are but two stagecoach companies operating along the new turnpike to Wheeling. Both of these use a coach of old-fashioned design. One that is reported to be extremely uncomfortable for the passengers.”

  “How is it you know this?”

  “I lived next door to the stables for a time, sir. Many a time I heard complaints from passengers. They wouldn’t ride the coach into Washington, much less all the way to Wheeling.”

  Horace Cutter spoke up. “I’ve heard it called ‘cruel and unusual punishment.’ ”

  “There is a new system just developed,” Abe went on. “The coach’s base is strengthened by iron bands, and these bands rest on something called through-braces. These thick pads are made of oxen leather. The system does much to steady the ride.”

  “You’ve ridden in one?”

  “Several times, sir. I’ve also had one of the manufacturers explain the idea. The braces act as a sort of hammock system. The coach swings over bumps like a cradle.”

  “Is the coach as large as the standard build?”

  “The interior is the same—three passengers to a side. But the coach can carry a greater total weight. So the boot, the step at the back, has been extended to carry cases strapped into place with leather bands. And up top the coach is ringed by a low brass railing to hold more luggage.”