Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  A month would give Ben the time he needed.

  “Opportunity knocks, Ben,” Mr. Jones said, quiet for once, and kind. “Choose with care.”

  “I will, sir. And thank you,” Ben said.

  Think of all the abolition cases he might defend, like the man he had met, what was his name? Rutherford Hayes. All the good he could do. And he had always done well in oratory.

  It was like being struck with a mallet on the head. He had never considered this other way—he had never needed to do so, being set on the ministry. And were it not for Kate Winter, he would still refuse to consider it.

  Were it not for Kate Winter.

  The bell jingled again and Amanda came in, neat in her summer hat and flowered dress. “Good afternoon.” She gave them a friendly smile. “Ben, the mail.” She put several envelopes on the counter. The top one jarred him with its familiar writing. It had to be from John Parker. He must read it—he could not wait. “Can you watch the store for me for a little while?” he asked his sister.

  “Yes.” She came around the counter.

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, and picked up the envelope. “I must attend to some correspondence.”

  Mr. Jones flicked his eyes to the envelope, but Ben covered it as he stepped toward the exit.

  Mr. Jones stopped him with a raised hand. “We were just going—we won’t keep you.” He laid his hand on the door handle.

  “And thank you again, Mr. Jones.”

  “My pleasure, son.” He left and held the door for Frederick, who walked out with a good-bye to Ben and Amanda.

  Ben let Amanda have the stool and stood at the counter. He slid a finger under the seal and opened the flap. He hesitated a moment before unfolding it and breathed a prayer for good news.

  Ben,

  We have missed Nelly and her baby on the northern end of the slave market. My informant was ill and unable to watch the Kentucky auctions for a few days. He will redouble his efforts to find where they may have been sold, and report back to us. But it will take time, and there is no guarantee of success. I have sent a letter to our contact in Canada to inform Frank of the news.

  Yours sincerely,

  John Parker

  His heart plummeted and he lowered the letter with unseeing eyes.

  “What is it?” Amanda asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “Mr. Parker sends bad news about the woman we tried to help. The scout has lost the trail.” Amanda was a young woman now, old enough to be party to everything their family did for the Railroad.

  “I am sorry.”

  “We must find her—it can’t happen again.”

  “What?”

  “All of it.” The loss of another fugitive—the separation of a husband and wife—the sale of a human soul for profit. He rubbed his forehead and turned away.

  He must devise a way to get the word to Kate. Even if she were angry with Ben after the musicale, she would want to hear this. But he was certain that her mother would not receive him in their parlor. And with school out of session, he could not plan to encounter Kate between classes.

  But wait—Cornelia had mentioned the other day that Kate was now taking piano lessons from her.

  Cornelia would make a perfect go-between. He would ask her to give Kate the news in a discreet way.

  Twenty-Four

  JULY

  “YOU HAVE IMPROVED.” CORNELIA SMILED AT KATE as they sat together on the piano bench, their skirts spilling off the sides in rich folds.

  “I feel like a child plunking away at the keys,” Kate said. “But at least it will help me in our music class in the fall.”

  “Let me hear the gypsy scale one more time,” Cornelia said.

  Kate ran her fingers up and through the strange, Eastern accidentals. The minor key was a reflection of her mood, trapped as she was day after day in the Winter house with nothing to fill the dreary hours of summer recess. More than once, her resolve had wavered, and she had been tempted again by thoughts of running away, only to be stopped by her vow to finish at Otterbein.

  It was worse than before—she was no longer permitted to ride out alone, but must go with Leah, which meant no secret gallops or jumping. And Leah did not even like to ride, so Kate had seldom been on Garnet’s back in the last few weeks. She had only two respites from the prison of her home: her piano lessons and buggy rides with Frederick on Sunday afternoons. And the latter, of course, were not comfortable, and less so anytime Frederick grew very complimentary and courtly.

  “Excellent,” Cornelia said. “We’re finished. Would you like to stay for tea?”

  “No thank you.” Actually, Kate would like it more than anything, but her mother had stipulated that she return immediately after her lessons. Her mother didn’t like the proximity of the Lawrences’ home to the Hanbys’ residence. All in all, it was probably best, for encountering Ben or his mother would be painful. Every day of July had been a lonely struggle between her wish to forget what had happened and her drive to know about Nelly and her baby girl, especially after the brief, bad tidings Ben had sent through her friend.

  “Have you heard any more news?” she asked.

  “About what Ben Hanby told me?” Cornelia took on a confiding air. “No, I’m afraid not. But he told me that he would communicate anything new as soon as he heard. I believe he was concerned for your peace of mind.”

  “He must have confidence in you to trust you as a messenger.” She yearned to talk about what had happened to Nelly, but dared not confide in Cornelia completely. Ben might have told Cornelia only the two sentences she conveyed to Kate, and that was hardly the whole story.

  “His father and mine have been friends in abolition for some time,” Cornelia said. “Does this mean you are ready to forgive the Hanbys? Perhaps speak to Ben again?”

  Kate rose in haste from the piano bench and walked away to get her straw hat.

  “I’m sorry,” Cornelia said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  No, she shouldn’t have. Kate’s worry for Nelly and desperation for better news had nothing to do with her feelings toward Ben—no one, not even Cornelia, would be privy to the humiliation that was still so raw and painful. And little did Cornelia know that Kate was forbidden to speak to Ben even if she wished it.

  Kate tied the ribbon of her hat and wished her friend a short good-bye, unable to respond to the hurt in Cornelia’s eyes.

  The milliner’s window on State Street was not a place Kate wished to linger. “Leah, let’s go, please.”

  Her sister fumbled with the ribbon around the hatbox that held her new hat. “I want to wear it.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re already wearing a hat.”

  “I could change them. My straw one will fit in this box.”

  “It’s not seemly to change hats in the street.” Being near the milliner’s shop haunted Kate. All the pretty curves, flowers, and ribbons of the hats made her think of her former self-centered plans, but also of Nelly.

  Leah gave up tugging at the ribbon and grasped it in her hand instead to carry the box as she followed Kate. “I’m glad Father hasn’t been home much,” she said. “It’s quieter.”

  “Have you wondered where he is?” Kate had, many times.

  “In some drinking establishment or other.” Leah’s tone was hard, and Kate could not blame her.

  It might be true—it probably was. But it was still sad to think of her father wandering Columbus, perhaps risking his health and his life with total inebriation. What would their lives be like if he stopped drinking? Imagining such a thing was difficult now. But when she was younger, he had not always smelled of liquor. He had given her a riding lesson when she was four or five, walking her around on a horse so large she sat on its back like a table. A year later, he bought her a pony. A huge smile spread across his bearded face as she flung her arms around its dappled gray neck. He lifted her in the air and embraced her with a laugh. But his drinking worsened and the riding lessons stopped. Leah d
id not have the benefit of such memories to counter the terrible ones.

  “Oh dear,” Leah said.

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t find my coin purse.” Leah twisted around as if it would materialize on the ground beneath her.

  “You must have left it at the shop.” Kate sighed. “We’ll have to go back.”

  “Look,” Leah said. She pulled out the lining of the concealed pocket of her skirt. It was torn.

  “Leah!” What would she do next, show her petticoat?

  Her sister ignored her. “It may have fallen out on our way. We should retrace our steps.”

  “Very well.” They turned and scanned the road as they walked back. The little green coin purse was nowhere in sight. They had almost reached State Street.

  “You must have left it on the counter,” Kate said.

  “We shall see.” Leah flounced around the corner onto the main thoroughfare and stopped.

  Ben Hanby stood on the street in front of the milliner’s shop. He leaned down to pick up a small green object from the street and held it up, turning to look in the store window.

  Kate could not move—he appeared so conscientious and good, standing there in his light coat and hat with the coin purse, considering what to do. He turned toward them and halted, the coin purse still upraised. He said nothing.

  The feeling of his arm under her fingertips, his lean, strong artist’s hand, came back to her with a rush. No—she should not want to go to him, speak with him. That way lay nothing but pain. And her mother had forbidden any association whatsoever.

  “Were you looking for this?” He held it out in their general direction.

  “It’s mine,” Leah said quickly, stepping forward to take it from him. But he was not looking at her, instead giving his full attention to Kate.

  His dark eyes held some question she could not fathom. Without a word, she wrenched herself away and hurried in the opposite direction, leaving Leah to catch up as best she could. When she took one surreptitious glance over her shoulder, he was still standing there, looking after her.

  Twenty-Five

  AUGUST

  BEN WOULD HAVE TO MAKE HIS DECISION THIS week—it hovered in his thoughts every hour, filled every quiet moment in the cellar while he was embossing and stitching leather. If he went to Cincinnati, would his choice encourage Kate to speak to him again? Was it her will or her mother’s that had led her to cut him cold in the street? The sting of her silence had not faded even a month later.

  “Bring me that small needle, will you?” Ben’s father stood at the tallest saddle tree, threads pulled taut in his hands from the horn of a sidesaddle. “This one is too large for the holes.”

  They had been working on the sidesaddle for the first half of August, as its complex outlines and three horns required a great deal of measuring and stitching.

  Ben brought the needle over and removed the larger one, then threaded the replacement for his father, whose left hand was still engaged in the second row of stitches.

  His father took the new needle back in his right hand. “Thank you.” He continued the double stitch, without rushing, checking to see that each lay flat and smooth.

  “I’m considering an offer from Mr. Jones,” Ben said. He walked back to the bench, seated himself, and picked up the awl and hammer.

  “Indeed?”

  “Frederick can’t take a clerkship until next summer, so Mr. Jones has suggested I go clerk in his place, in a law office in Cincinnati.”

  “I see.” His father paused and looked at him. “And would this alter your choice of profession?”

  “Yes, should I choose to accept.”

  His father looked back at the saddle and continued stitching.

  “What do you think?” Ben asked.

  “I am surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve indicated to me more than once that you wish to go into the ministry. Your choice is your own, but I hope it will be made with wisdom.”

  “I met a man in Cincinnati who defends fugitives from the Fugitive Slave Act. He attempts to win their freedom.”

  “One case at a time.”

  “Yes.”

  His father tied off the row of stitches with a practiced twist and knot. He reached for his pocketknife and trimmed the end. “Do you remember the friend I once told you about, the doctor who lived next door to my master in Pittsburgh?”

  “Dr. Loftin?” The old stories had made a permanent impression.

  “Yes. He came to visit us in Rushville from time to time, after we left Pittsburgh. He once asked us how we felt about making saddles with this third horn.” His father touched the leaping horn. “You know it has increased the stability of the ladies’ seats for jumping during hunts.”

  “Yes.”

  “The doctor didn’t like it. In his practice, he saw many women injured or killed on the hunt when they fell with their horses. The horn ensured they were seated so firmly they could not get out of their saddles.”

  “I’ve read of such things,” Ben said.

  “But the doctor never tried to persuade us against putting the leaping horns on our saddles.”

  “Why not?”

  “He knew the customers wanted it, and he knew they would not agree to adopt a style that seemed less secure. It was a problem that could only be addressed by a change of heart—to be truly safe, ladies must ride astride as men do, and the doctor knew that would take many years—that it might not happen in his lifetime. But he continued to work for the cause, to speak to medical students, to spread the word.”

  “I take your point—you’re drawing a comparison to abolition. But it’s a false analogy, Father. Human beings are not saddles.”

  “That’s true. And I don’t mean to imply that. But I’m concerned that you’re losing sight of your larger calling, in your desire for an easy road to worldly happiness.”

  “What do you mean?” Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “You wish to see the end of slavery?”

  “Of course, more than anything.”

  “And do you think that with your gifts, the best you can do is defend one fugitive at a time, often losing your cases to a biased court system?”

  “They say I’m a good speaker.”

  “And you are. But is your calling to the law?”

  Ben fell silent and began to strike holes in the stirrup leather on the bench.

  “Your calling is to the ministry, son. I know it, and I believe you know it, for you have told me so. You mustn’t give that up for what you believe is a chance at earthly happiness. Giving up your calling will never lead to happiness, no matter what you may gain as a result.”

  “But the work will be similar, in many ways. Both require the use of rhetoric and careful study of human nature.” Ben struck holes faster, harder.

  “It will not be similar. How would you use your musical gifts as a lawyer? There’s no possible way. But as a minister, there are innumerable ways you might use it. The Lord suits a man’s calling to his gifts. I believe there’s a purpose for your ability as a composer.”

  “What possible purpose could it serve?” His voice rose. If he lost this debate, he would forfeit his one chance with Kate.

  “I don’t know yet. But I believe your gifts are called to a larger battle than simply one legal case after another, or one fugitive after another.”

  “You are a fond father and you overestimate my powers.” Ben aimed and struck, aimed and struck. He would finish the whole stirrup leather in a few minutes at this rate. “I couldn’t even save one woman and her baby—John still hasn’t found them.”

  “Ben.” His father walked toward him and stopped a few steps away, his deep-set eyes darker in the lamplight of the cellar. “I believe we will see the end of slavery in our lifetimes. And you have a role to play in that struggle that does not involve legal briefs and evenings at the gentlemen’s club.”

  Ben positioned the awl and struck very hard, ta
king his frustration into the blow. Now he had spoiled it—the hole was off center. With a muffled imprecation, he jumped up and threw the leather in the corner. “Why must I be called to this? Why a gift in music, of all things, that will not bring me a living to support a wife! Why a talent for teaching? I am heartily sick of my gifts if they keep me from the thing that is dearest to me!” He kept his voice down with great effort, to a hoarse whispered shout. The girls upstairs must not hear.

  “It isn’t your gifts that stand between you and what you think most dear. It’s your passion and your calling. And painful as it is, I must tell you the truth,” his father said with equal conviction, his shoulders tense. “I do not say you’ll never win the woman you love—no matter who she may be. But you must not abandon your mission to do it. If you do, both of you will always regret such a life, only half lived.”

  Ben threw the tools after the leather strap, where they clanged into one another and the wall. “I can’t speak of this any further.” He whirled around and strode up the stairs, out through the kitchen past the girls, and down the stoop into the light rain. The spatter of drops against his face could not soothe the pain of having the truth dragged from his own spirit into the light of day.

  He could not accept the offer. And by giving it up, he might lose any chance with Kate.

  If she wished to learn to speak in public, she had to begin somewhere. Kate stood on the feed box and turned to face her listener.

  “On the Purpose of True Friendship,” she said. “An Argument Drawn from Aristotle and Cicero.”

  Garnet blinked her moist brown eyes and leaned her neck on the stall door, watching Kate with the peculiar calm of the equine race. The rain pattered on the roof of the barn.

  “Can a true friendship spring from self-interest?” Kate asked. Garnet flicked her ears forward and nickered softly.

  What came next? Oh yes. She cleared her throat. “Aristotle says self-interest cannot create the highest friendship. The only perfect friendship is between two persons of equally good character who are drawn together by admiration.”