The fire threatened to go out, casting deep shadows under Mr. Winter’s heavy brows. He looked like a soul in torment. “I am telling you that I do not have the right to speak for either my daughter or my wife. My sins have lowered me in their eyes, and with good reason. My wife must decide on your question.”
“Sir . . .” Ben hesitated. “You seem quite well today. Different from when I last saw you.”
“You mean because I am not drinking. Yes. I am attempting to reform.”
Ben could not tell if it was bitterness or pain that spurred Mr. Winter’s dry riposte.
“I am going to see your wife, sir. In Philadelphia.”
Mr. Winter stopped as if contemplating something deep in his soul. “Then I would like you to tell my wife and daughter something.”
“Yes, sir.” He almost dreaded to hear it.
“Tell them they may return without fear of harm, ever. That if the bottle ever masters me again—and I hope and pray it will not—that I will leave them here and never return.”
There was no polite response to such a thing—it was not a sentiment commonly expressed in parlors. And so Ben would not treat it so, with mumbled pleasantries and excuses. He would treat it as a man should. “I will tell them, sir. And I respect your intention.” He stood and extended his hand once more. Mr. Winter creaked to his feet and shook Ben’s hand in farewell.
The maid let him out and Ben walked down the steps, glad to be out in the crisp, open air on the field of snow that covered Northwest Street.
What could Mr. Winter mean by a return without fear of harm? Had the hand he just shook ever been lifted in violence against Kate or her mother? Ben grimaced and wiped his hand on his trousers before he realized what he was doing. But whatever had gone before, a repentant man should not be shunned if he could keep to his resolve.
He would bring Mrs. Winter the message, along with his own. He would simply have to pray that Kate would not be returning to this house for long, and that if Mrs. Winter and the younger sister did, Mr. Winter would not fail them again.
Forty
KATE ARRIVED IN THE DINING ROOM THE NEXT morning to find the table set with silver, crystal, pastries, and fresh fruit. An Irish maid in crisp black and white curtsied to her.
“Good morning, miss. Mrs. Cadwalader should be down any minute.” The maid whisked herself away to the kitchen.
Kate wore her best blue morning dress, but still felt shabby in the formality of her mother’s family home. Her mother had said they would go shopping after breakfast. It would have been wonderful to be here in the city, with a thousand shops to explore, had her mother’s response to Ben Hanby not rained ash on everything. Columbus was just a rural village compared to the magnificence of Philadelphia, but even such urban splendor was bound to be lost on Kate now.
“Good morning, Kate,” Aunt Mary said, rustling gracefully into the room and taking a seat across the table. She wore an exquisite maroon dress embroidered with intricate leaves and flowers. She selected a croissant from the small mound on the crystal platter and offered it to Kate. “Do you care for pastry?”
“Thank you,” Kate said, and began to butter it. How would she pass all this time with someone she didn’t know?
Fortunately, her mother walked into the dining room at that moment, her hair impeccable. Apparently she did not always need Tessie to arrange it for her.
Aunt Mary offered her some breakfast as well. Kate could not stop sneaking glances at her aunt. She was so like her mother, even in some of the words she chose. But so much softer.
Aunt Mary filled her mother’s teacup. “I’ve been in to see Mother this morning. She’s still not able to speak. I’m sorry, Ruth.”
“You’re not responsible for her illness.”
“I know, but I believe she has many things she would like to say to you.”
“Such as?” Kate’s mother sounded very satirical.
Kate was embarrassed on her behalf. They were guests in this house, no matter what had gone before.
Mary dropped her head. “Those are words she must say herself.” She spoke gently and took her time cutting a pear into even slices before speaking again. “I hope you will give us the pleasure of entertaining you until she recovers the power of speech.”
“Do you think she will?”
“I am sure of it. She had a spell like this before, and it only lasted a few days.”
A loud rap at the door interrupted their conversation. They heard the manservant answering and a woman’s voice. Then a young woman walked into the dining room.
She looked like Kate, only a few years older. The same dark, wavy hair, piled artlessly atop her head, the same vivid blue eyes, and the same fair complexion. Kate felt a clutching at her heart. This was her family.
Mary rose, delight radiating from her smiling face.
“Ruth, this is my daughter, Georgia Cadwalader Adams. Georgia, this is your aunt, Ruth Morris Winter.”
Kate’s mother extended her hand politely, but Georgia drew her into a warm embrace. “Aunt Ruth! I am so glad you could come! How wonderful to meet you.”
Kate watched in silent fascination. She did not think she had ever seen her mother embraced. Her mother looked slightly shaken but covered it well. “Thank you.”
“You will have to come over and meet your great-niece and -nephew as soon as you have a moment.” Georgia’s smile broadened in welcome as she turned to Kate. “And you, my twin!” She almost crowed in delight.
Kate could not help but smile despite the heaviness in her heart. “I’m Kate. We must be cousins.”
Georgia gave her a warm peck on the cheek. “Kissing cousins!” She laughed, and Kate had to chuckle too, both taken aback and pleased.
“Mother,” Georgia said, “I have a surprise for us. Dear Arthur has procured us extra invitations to the charity ball tonight.”
Georgia reached out to touch Kate’s mother’s arm. “Would you like to come with us, Aunt Ruth? Please do! Arthur would love to meet you, and my brother Geoffrey is bringing his wife too.”
“I didn’t bring an evening gown with me.”
“But you are welcome to wear one of mine,” Mary said. “We look to be still of a size.”
“And you may wear one of mine!” Georgia said to Kate. “I will bring it back with me.”
“I suppose we can go,” Kate’s mother said.
“Wonderful!” Georgia clapped her hands.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Ruth Winter said, “I plan to go on a shopping expedition today, so I’ll need to leave soon.”
“Oh, I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind,” said Mary. “I have some things to buy too. And I would enjoy the opportunity to hear more about my nieces.”
Kate’s mother looked as if she wished that her sister would not come along, but she could not say so. “Very well.” She headed for the stairs.
Kate smiled at Georgia. She had a cousin, and she liked her already.
The ballroom of Powel House was in the fashion of the previous century, sculpted white molding over the fireplace all the way to the ceiling. The musicians clustered along the wall, strings, woodwinds, and brass, with a large drum and cymbal.
“May I confess something?” Kate said to Georgia under the cover of the swirling music.
“Of course.” Her cousin smiled.
“I have never heard so many instruments play together at once.”
“Really? But it’s only a chamber orchestra.”
“I know. I am a country mouse.”
“You do not look like one. You look like a belle of Philadelphia, and you will probably receive dance invitations by the dozen.”
“But I do not know how to dance.”
“Never fear. You will not have to dance if you do not wish it. This is no great affair, just a run-of-the-mill ball to raise support for a local orphans’ home.”
“Only in this city could there be such a thing as a run-of-the-mill ball.” Kate smiled, and her cousin laughed.
“Oh, I’m sure I will.”
The violins shimmered into a rest, and the flutes picked up the melody over the rhythm of the cello and double bass. How Ben would love this glorious music. It might be one of the Lanner waltzes Cornelia had played for Kate on the piano, but it sounded so different with the rich textures of the orchestra. She would be quite content to listen all evening.
“Mrs. Adams, you have a lovely guest, I see.” A young man bowed to Georgia and smiled at Kate.
“Mr. Cutler, this is my cousin from Ohio, Miss Winter.”
“A delight.” His brown hair was short, but swept forward in the current style to wisp near his face. He was handsome, she supposed.
“Would you honor me with a dance this evening, Miss Winter?”
Kate hesitated.
“My cousin is not ready for dancing yet, Mr. Cutler.” Georgia rescued her. “She is still fatigued from the journey. But she is a lover of music, so I asked her to come sit with me and enjoy the evening.”
“Ah. The orchestra is excellent.” He seated himself next to Kate. “I am also a lover of music, Miss Winter.”
Her mother eyed her from across the room, where she and Aunt Mary had gone to remember old times with some childhood friends. At least Kate’s mother was too far away to even guess at the content of their conversation. That would stifle some of the matrimonial speculating that was undoubtedly beginning in her mother’s brain.
“And do you happen to know the composer of this piece?” Only belatedly did she realize she was conversing with a strange young man. The music had distracted her. Her tongue grew clumsier and her head emptied.
“Lanner, I believe.”
Kate fumbled for more sentences. To her surprise, it was not difficult to find more. Here in the city, she had numerous questions to ask. “Have you heard other orchestras here?”
“Yes, several good ones. But I prefer my music in the opera, or even in the theater.”
He had captured Georgia’s attention. “Indeed, Mr. Cutler? I did not know that. I’m surprised we have not crossed one another’s paths more often. Arthur and I love the theater. Do you frequent Chestnut Street?”
“Usually. Not of late, however.”
“Yes, tickets are scarce for Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Splendid production, however.”
“That’s in the eye of the beholder.” Mr. Cutler’s expression grew dark.
“Oh, look, Arthur is coming now.” Georgia rose to her feet, tiny beads sparkling on her gown. “Miss Winter, let us go to him. He had someone he wanted to introduce. If you will excuse us, Mr. Cutler.”
He stood as Kate did and bowed. He did not seem in a good humor.
“Why is he so vexed?” Kate murmured to Georgia as her cousin took her arm and headed for her husband.
“My mistake. I should not have mentioned Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Passions are running too high on slavery and the Union.” They reached her husband. “Arthur, you said you would like Miss Winter to meet someone?”
Her husband appeared confused, then regained his poise. “Oh yes. Come with me.” He offered an arm to each of them. It seemed like a dream that Kate had joined this glittering train of women and the elegant company of dancers out on the floor. Her mind and body were present, but her heart had sent its regrets and was back in Westerville, of all places.
Nothing stirred her but the music, and as soon as the introductions to various persons were finished, she turned to Georgia. “Please, you must go out and enjoy the dance. I would be just as happy sitting by the wall and enjoying the concert.”
“But I cannot leave you alone, nor do I wish to.”
“But what will Arthur do?”
“He can manage for himself—he is quite the conversationalist, aren’t you, dear?”
Arthur smiled. “I have been known to enjoy a good talk.” He bowed a fraction and walked over to the gentlemen.
Kate was glad that Georgia stayed with her all evening, as several gentlemen requested dances. Her cousin fended them off on Kate’s behalf with gentle excuses of travel fatigue.
Kate’s mother spun around the ballroom, her red dress swinging in a graceful arc, dancing with Mr. Cutler, of all people, as if not a day had passed since her debut. Her face was rosy and she smiled and laughed. She must have been a beauty, indeed, when she danced in these rooms as a young lady. Wistfulness touched Kate’s thoughts. If her mother’s heart had never been broken, would she still smile and laugh the way she did here? Or even weep, as Kate had seen her eyes shine with unshed tears once or twice since they arrived.
The cymbals crashed and the dance ended in a fanfare of trumpets. Mr. Cutler led her mother off the floor in Kate’s direction.
“Miss Winter, I have had the pleasure of meeting and dancing with your mother. She is not as fatigued as you, it seems.” He wore a barbed smile, but seemed to be only teasing.
“The musicians are leaving?” Kate asked.
Mr. Cutler laughed. “Only taking an intermission to catch their breath. Perhaps you and your mother will accompany me to the refreshments in the next room.”
“We would love refreshments.” Her mother smiled again, a natural smile warmed by the color in her cheeks, not the social one Kate had seen all these years.
He escorted them into the antechamber where portraits of George Washington and Samuel Powel hung on the walls. A silver punch bowl of immense proportions stood beaded with moisture in the middle of a table covered with fruit and flowers. Where had they obtained such things in late winter? Servants circled the room with trays, offering hors d’oeuvres such as truffles and tiny deboned quail stuffed with crab.
Mr. Cutler offered her a crystal glass full of punch and sipped his own, dabbing the red stain it left on his lips with a white lace serviette. Kate sipped more carefully to avoid the pomegranate’s mark that reddened the lips of punch-drinkers across the room.
“Miss Winter, your cousin mentioned Uncle Tom’s Cabin earlier,” Mr. Cutler said.
She turned to face him. He was going to raise the subject again, and she was not as skilled at slipping away as Georgia.
“Yes,” her mother said before Kate could summon an answer. “I am not certain I shall let my daughter go, even though Mrs. Adams is attempting to find tickets.”
“That is very wise. A pack of lies dressed up in sentiment. Divisive and destructive.” His cheeks were reddening to match his lips. Her mother should end this conversation. Kate fidgeted and looked around for Georgia.
“Have you read the novel, Mrs. Winter?” Mr. Cutler asked.
“I have not. I shun politics. I prefer a gracious life.”
“You are an ideal woman.” He lifted his glass. “I toast your femininity.” When he lowered it, he appeared friendlier and his face returned to its normal color. “But I will tell you this. The slaves that woman depicts in her novel do not exist. She attempts to make what is bestial seem human, and thus garner undeserved sympathy.”
This man knew nothing of slavery. He must never have met a slave, or perhaps he had seen them and never spoken to them. Men like him had sent Nelly to her death. Little coals began to light themselves, one by one, in Kate’s mind, like fires of remembrance for Nelly and her baby.
“I am well acquainted with plantation owners,” Mr. Cutler said with self-satisfaction. “The beatings, the atrocities Stowe portrays—well, if they happen at all, they are isolated occurrences, only the rarest situations. And only to the most savage of the creatures.”
Even her mother looked uncomfortable. “As I said, I prefer to avoid politics, Mr. Cutler.”
“Very wise, very wise. In that way you will not be deceived. Slave families are not broken apart routinely, as Stowe implies. The young ones grow up and then often ask to be sold away to find new mates. But they are not like us. Their affections ar
e fickle and fleeting. They cannot sustain any bond, not even between parents and children. They forget one another and find new fancies.”
The coals burst into a full flame. “Really, Mr. Cutler? I must beg to differ.”
Mr. Cutler and her mother stared at her.
“I have known these things to happen, the beatings, the hunting down of innocent people by dogs,” Kate said. “And most of all, I have seen slave families torn apart.” Her calm was almost eerie, belied only by her quick breath. “So I must refute your points. And I find it utterly objectionable for you to say such things at any time, but especially on an occasion such as this one.”
Georgia and Arthur walked up behind her mother and halted in their shining clothing, glasses of punch arrested in midair, eyes wide.
“No matter how rare you say these atrocities are—and I do not believe they are—even a few is too many. It is an evil blot on our nation. It is a shameful foundation for what you call the Union, and a union built on shame will not survive.” Fragments of things she had thought since her journey with the Fosters melted and rejoined themselves into articulate speech. “I’ve looked into the eyes of Negroes and seen human souls. Fathers, mothers, and daughters.” Her voice remained steady. “I wonder if I would see the same in your eyes, Mr. Cutler. And if you do not wish to hear the thoughts of others on controversial subjects, then kindly keep yours to yourself.”
Georgia laid a hand on her shoulder. “Well said, Miss Winter.”
“Hear, hear,” Arthur said. They looked stunned but not mortified. Instead, they took positions flanking her and glowered at Mr. Cutler. From the corner of her eye, Kate saw Arthur’s lip curl.
“I see the lady knows her own mind.” Mr. Cutler was scarlet from his collar to his hairline and seemed about to burst his necktie.
“Yes, I believe I do,” Kate said.
“Good evening.” He gave the barest sketch of a bow with a curt jerk of the head and turned on his heel. His coattails flapped as he headed toward the main doors of the house.
Sweeter than Birdsong Page 28