Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  Ben paid for his purchases and divided the load between Sally and Stuart. He said his good-byes to Ted and ushered the children back out on the porch. In the street, the boys chased the girls. It took five minutes to restore order and get the children on the road.

  But back at the schoolhouse, the children cooperated, excited about their unusual school day. He sent half of them home, with special instructions. They returned bearing a few decorative odds and ends they had wheedled from their parents: some old but decent green curtains, several samplers cross-stitched with Bible verses, and even an amateur landscape painting. In the meantime, the other children scrubbed the filth from the walls and tables with old rags and buckets full of water. What would not come clean was covered with whitewash by a group of little painters, who followed after the cleaners once the surfaces had dried.

  Day was almost over by the time the work was finished. The children left, tired but thrilled by the results of their labor— a sparkling white building and classroom, still with a crooked front stoop and sagging door, but transformed in the rest of its appearance. Tomorrow, when the whitewash dried completely, they would tack the curtains neatly over the window and hang the painting proudly with the samplers. As the sun went down, Ben surveyed his building with satisfaction. Tomorrow, he could teach here. A pale reddish light glowed through the window, making the classroom seem homey despite the smell of whitewash. Ben looked out the window at the sun setting through the trees. What was Kate doing? The fall term was in progress at Otterbein. Was she studying?

  He gathered his things and headed for his solitary cabin. The last time he saw Kate, on the street in Westerville, her face had gone blank and still. He couldn’t expect her to recover from such a public scene and treat him as if nothing had ever happened. But she had walked away as if he were a complete stranger. He couldn’t stand it. There must be something he could do to help her forgive him. Because if he couldn’t be near her, he certainly couldn’t expect . . . but he would think on it no further. It was bad enough as it was, without dwelling on the complicated mess of desires that lurked inside him.

  He could apply one remedy immediately. When he walked into the cabin, he retrieved a pen, inkhorn, and paper from his small stock of supplies, and sat down to write Kate a letter.

  Dear Miss Winter, he wrote, then stopped.

  How would he send it to her? Her mother would refuse to give it to her, after what had happened. Well, he would send it through Cornelia, as he had passed the message about Nelly.

  Perhaps there was some hope. He began to set words on the page, writing the best apology he knew how to make.

  Twenty-Seven

  OCTOBER

  My dear Miss Winter,

  I am tardy in sending this letter only because my great respect for you convinced me that words were inadequate to express my regret for what happened at the musicale. But I find myself compelled to write to you nonetheless because your happiness is of great import to me. I cannot bear to think of you suffering due to the actions of a member of my family. If my sincere apology can help in any way, I offer it to you wholeheartedly. My admiration for your character increased during the time in which I was privileged to observe your compassion and courage. I hope you will one day find it in your heart to forgive, so we may resume the friendship that began through our mutual love of music.

  Yours,

  Ben Hanby

  She could not expunge the words from her mind—she shouldn’t have read the letter more than once. In fact, she should not have read it at all. Now she was even more distracted than usual, even though she had hidden the letter back at her home.

  “Miss Winter?” Frederick stood with hand uplifted to help her step down from his buggy. The Joneses’ footman stood in uniform at the bottom of the steps to the mansion. Leaves tumbled across the drive in the rising fall breeze.

  She murmured an apology and took his hand to make her descent.

  Frederick escorted her through the broad front doorway, making no attempt to hide his proud pleasure in doing so. The butler took Kate’s light cape and Frederick’s hat.

  Mrs. Sapphia Jones waited in the parlor as if her greatest pleasure was to greet her son’s college friends. Of course, her presence as chaperone was necessary for the party of college students that would arrive soon. She took Kate’s hand and then seated herself in a delicate carved chair. Her silver skirt gleamed like mercury where the lamplight touched it. It pooled around her chair like the base of a statue, an effect enhanced by her blond, symmetrical countenance. “I am enjoying the cooler weather. And you, Miss Winter?” Her gentle voice reminded Kate of Ann Hanby, though it was like comparing a magnolia and a rose. Mrs. Jones was sweeter and more lavish compared to the simple sincerity of Mrs. Hanby.

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Jones,” Kate replied.

  “Frederick,” Mrs. Jones said. “I believe your father wishes to speak to you.”

  A flicker of chagrin touched his eyes before he stood, the dutiful son. “Yes, Mother. And where is he?”

  “In the study. Perhaps you will accompany us in that direction and I will show Miss Winter the library?” Again, the white, soft, perfumed voice. It would be the same in all settings, Kate thought, from parlor to church to funeral home. Perfectly pitched, unchangeable.

  “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

  DECEMBER

  HOW LONG WOULD IT BE BEFORE JOHN PARKER 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.