Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  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 Lawre
nce. 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.

  I do not expect you will respond to this letter. I realize you have considerations that are beyond your control. But I hope you will accept this, and read it, and know that I am humbly

  Yours,

  Ben Hanby

  December 27th, 1855 50 Grove Street

  My dear Miss Winter,

  For propriety’s sake, I have delayed as long as possible in writing to you again—that is, all of two days. But even as I write the word “propriety,” I scoff at myself. Propriety has nothing to do with this letter. Instead, I am motivated only by my hope that you may continue to think of me. I was overjoyed to hear that you had accepted my first letter. Miss Lawrence tells me you were reluctant, but I am grateful that you showed compassion for my desire to write to you.

  A new year approaches. Who knows what it may bring for each of us? I have been composing two songs. One of them is dedicated to Nelly and relates the story of her life—I have been attempting to write it for years, but at last it seems to be taking shape. The other song is inspired by you, though the melody cannot hold a candle to the real presence it attempts to suggest.

  Writing makes bearable my longing to speak with you, but I am still pursued at every turn by the vision of you as I last saw you, radiant with gentleness and beauty. There were many things I wished to say to you. But I presume too much.

  The moments are bleak indeed when I think we may never be permitted to resume our friendship. But I refuse to accept that future, for it would be as dismal to me as a life behind bars. This temporary prohibition from your company is trial enough.

  Through that trial or any other, I remain faithfully

  Yours,

  Ben Hanby

  December 28th, 1855 71 Northwest Street

  Mr. Hanby,

  I cannot deny that I was pleased to read your letters, but I am conscience-stricken by my decision to accept them from Cornelia. As you know, my mother has forbidden me to associate with you, and though an exchange of letters does not violate that instruction, it certainly violates the spirit in which her command was intended.

  Regretfully,

  Kate Winter

  December 30th, 1855 50 Grove Street

  My dear Miss Winter,

  I do not blame you if you are angry with me for writing to you in direct disobedience to your express wish. Nonetheless, I must risk your anger, for I fear if I do not, I will risk much worse.

  To say I was downcast after receiving your letter would be insufficient. I was in the darkest of moods, avoiding all conversation and keeping only my own company to hide my desolate state from any prying eyes or ears.

  I know you may be tempted to throw down this letter at any moment, if you read it at all, so I will be very direct. I think there is great harmony between our temperaments. When I am with you, I see you are affected deeply by the suffering of the innocent and you wish to alleviate it, as I do. Even you may not realize that the source of your compassion for others is your own passionate nature. (I expect you may have just cast this paper away from you, but I will continue in the hope that curiosity will drive you to take it up again.)

  I will not attempt to persuade you to any course of action, but simply plead that you follow the true inclination of your heart. If that inclination leads you away from me, I must accept that decision. But if there is any atom of you that wonders if I may be correct in the presumptuous things I have written to you, then I beg you not to do what is easy and expected. Instead give me at least some time to find a way to remain

  Truly yours,

  Ben Hanby

  Thirty-One

  KATE URGED GARNET A FEW STEPS TO THE RIGHT TO clear the path for Mr. Jones’s horse, a huge gray that must have Percheron in its blood. It had hooves the size of dinner plates and muscular shoulders and haunches that could easily support Mr. Jones’s considerable bulk. He was not a bad rider for a man of his size: one could tell when a rider knew how to sit with balance, even when he was carrying extra weight.

  The dogs milled around their handlers, whining and waving their tails. One horse stood in the yard while its gentleman rider mounted its polished saddle. Another horse danced away from a second young man, who had one foot already in the stirrup. He hopped after his horse and jumped up as quickly as he could with an embarrassed glance at the others. The ladies had already seated themselves on their horses, one by one, around the corner, with the aid of the mounting block and a groom.

  Mrs. Jones rode up to Kate on a delicate bay horse taller than Garnet. She wore a black hat and riding habit that made her blond coloring more striking. “Good morning, Miss Winter.” She appraised Kate with a glance up to her neat riding hat and all the way down to the hem of her green habit without changing her expression in the least.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Jones.” It was not a pleasure to see Frederick’s mother—or at least, not a pleasure to be inspected like a horse at auction. Perhaps Kate should open her mouth and let the other woman count her teeth. But, of course, she did not.

  “Have you seen my son?”

  “No, ma’am.” She had forced herself to come this morning, precisely because she dreaded this moment when she had feared Frederick’s mother might treat her as a conniving flirt.

  “Well, he will be riding with the men, I believe, so he will not have the opportunity for much conversation.”

  Kate’s cheeks burned, even in the crisp air. She was not even interested in Frederick’s attentions. But her protest of innocence spoke only through the blood that rushed to her face, which would no doubt be read as guilt. She must look like a Christmas ornament, with red cheeks and green dress.

  A blast from a bugle drew all eyes to Mr. Westerfield, the town founder, in his neat scarlet hunting blazer and black hat. “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to our inaugural Westerville Fox Hunt,” he said. “As your Master of Hounds, I would like to thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

  Cornelia pulled her dapple gray horse up next to Kate. “Don’t forget you are riding with the ladies,” she whispered, and smiled. Kate had confided to her about the jumping.

  Cornelia’s habit and hat were the proper black for the hunt, like Mrs. Jones’s, but Kate had only one habit and so she had to make do with green. There had not been time to acquire a complete new habit in the two weeks since Mr. Westerfield had announced the hunt. Her mother had asked if she shouldn’t have a new one rushed by a tailor in Columbus, but Kate did not want such effort or expense for a onetime luxury. Especially when she would not even be able to jump like the gentlemen. Much of the joy of the chase would vanish when she, Cornelia, and the other ladies had to ride sedately through gates and wait for them to be opened by whichever gentleman was unlucky enough to earn that task.

  “Mr. Brewer, will you accompa
ny the ladies?” Mr. Westerfield asked a young man across the yard. His thin face fell, making him look like Ichabod Crane on his bony horse.

  Frederick called out, “I will be delighted to accompany them, sir. No greater honor or pleasure.” He tipped his hat at Kate from where he sat on his horse by the hounds.

  Oh, Mrs. Jones would certainly not be pleased. Kate did not look in her direction. Frederick was being gallant, but far better for him to have ridden with the gentlemen and paid no attention to Kate.

  Mr. Jones gave his son a knowing look, but not a disapproving one. So. It was only Frederick’s mother who thought ill of Kate, and not both parents.

  Frederick reined his own black horse toward Kate and the other ladies. His mount was much like his father’s, though not as large. Still, it towered a whole hand above Garnet, and given Frederick’s own height, they made an imposing pair.

  “Ladies,” Frederick said, “good morning, and a beautiful morning because you ride with the hunt.” He touched his hat and smiled.

  He certainly was charming. Kate could only imagine his effect on hearts less distracted than hers. Under the circumstances, however, she would rather he stayed away or at least refrained from speaking to her on the hunt.

  Mr. Westerfield rallied the whippers-in, who took the pack ahead down the lane. The tan and white hounds ran from side to side with noses sweeping the ground. A cheerful hubbub of voices mixed with hoofbeats and the jingle of bridles as the party followed in pairs, gentlemen first, then the ladies and Frederick.