Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  Kate’s mother glanced from Georgia to Arthur. “I must apologize for my daughter—”

  “Not at all,” Arthur said. “It is we who should apologize for leaving you in the company of that odious person for even one minute. Miss Winter, I hope you are not too shaken. I will take you home if you wish.”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Adams.” She took a deep breath. “I find I am looking forward to the rest of the evening.”

  The music started again in the other room with a swirl of violins. Georgia smiled at her. “Shall we go in?”

  “Yes, please,” Kate said.

  Her mother wore an unreadable expression, one Kate had never seen before. If she did not know better, she might think her mother had been moved by Kate’s outburst. But that was wishful thinking, of course. No telling what her mother would say about her breach of etiquette the next time they were alone. No doubt she would chastise Kate for speaking of politics, and the scene would not be pleasant.

  But Kate was not sorry for it. And she knew, beyond a doubt, what would be the subject of her first public oration at Otterbein.

  Forty-One

  “PITTSBURGH, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! UNION Station!” The conductor pulled open the heavy door between the cars with no trouble and crossed the link. His bent legs kept his balance as well as any sailor’s as he stepped into the next car and vanished from Ben’s sight.

  The air shimmered with the heat of the woodstove down by the door, but here in the middle of the car, Ben had to pull his muffler closer to his neck against the cold. Woodstoves could not combat the drafts from the windows of a wooden box on wheels, speeding across the landscape at twenty miles per hour.

  The train slowed to a crawl past the buildings on either side, but everything was blanketed in white and Ben could not distinguish one from another. The train crept to a halt, with a final jerk to announce its arrival.

  He would stop here before switching to the Pennsylvania Railroad, the last leg of the journey to Philadelphia, the city named for love. Appropriate, on this lover’s mission—though his was certainly not the brotherly affection the name referred to. The image of Kate drove the discomforts of the journey from his mind. His need to see her was so strong that he had dreamed of her face in his restless sleep.

  His traveling case sat beside him on the floor. He hefted it in one hand and headed for the same door the conductor had used. The step down to the platform was steep, but he had taken it several times now on the journey and found sure purchase even in the slush over the bricks.

  He had arrived at the far end and must walk down to the station door. The platform was a study in gray and white, the shrouded snowbanks on either end of the station broken by sooty walkways under the roof. Cold moisture hung in the air like mist or a fine drifting rain. A crowd of passengers disembarked at the end of each car, women stepping down with the aid of the conductor or their male traveling companions. Ben passed the smoking car where a middle-aged gentleman with a gray beard emerged with pipe still in hand, even in his greatcoat. After him, a dark-skinned woman moved into the opening between cars and looked down at the treacherous step.

  Nelly.

  For a moment, it did seem to be her—the same dark hair, heavy-lidded eyes, still face. But when she looked up, her nose was broader and her face rounder than Nelly’s. The painful contraction of his chest did not ease.

  The woman glanced from side to side and grasped the handle beside her. The porters would not help her down, of course, not with so many white passengers on the train.

  Ben quickened his step and made it to her before she took the risk of descending alone.

  “May I assist you down, ma’am?” He held out a gloved hand.

  “Why, thank you, sir.” She accepted his hand, and as she stepped down, he had to catch her elbow to ensure she kept her balance.

  “May I take that bag for you, ma’am?” Her luggage seemed to consist of one threadbare valise she had set on the link behind her to make her descent. He reached in and lifted it down.

  “You are very kind.” Her voice was not like Nelly’s either. It lacked the Southern cadence.

  “You are headed into the station?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I’ll accompany you, as I’m headed there myself.” He slowed his walk to allow her to keep up in her female attire that made slick walkways more precarious.

  Inside the building, the temperature was more comfortable, though the air reeked of stale cigars and wet wool from the overcoats of travelers. “Are you continuing by rail, ma’am?”

  “No, sir, I’m meeting my sister here. Coming to live with my family.”

  “A happy occasion.” His smile felt halfhearted. She did look so like Nelly from the side.

  Rows of benches sat along the walls of the station. “Would you like to sit to wait for your family?”

  “That would be fine.” She made her way to the nearest bench and seated herself with care, like a lady. He placed the valise beside her.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Of course, ma’am. Are you certain they will come for you?”

  “Oh yes.” She grinned. “They know what’ll happen if they don’t.”

  He smiled in return. “Good afternoon, then.”

  She focused her attention on the station door to the street. He turned to go and fought off his unease. It seemed an ill portent for his journey, to meet Nelly’s double here. Perhaps God was sending him a message. But he had told Kate he would pursue his path—and her—with all his heart, and so he should, whether his spirits were high or low.

  “Paper! Paper!” a boy called from just inside the door, holding one in his hand.

  “I’ll take one,” Ben said.

  “Very good, sir, the best news in town!”

  He pressed a coin in the boy’s hand and took the paper. The Pittsburgh Gazette, since 1786, read the banner.

  Then this paper had existed long before even his father’s days in Pittsburgh. He folded it in one hand and went out through the station door into a wintry blast of wind.

  Hackney cabs waited outside. He approached one driver who hunched against the wind, and his poor horses looked half frozen as well, leaning into one another. “I’d like to go to a hotel: one without lice in its beds, if I can.”

  “I’ll get you to a good one, sir.” The driver straightened up at the prospect of a fare.

  Soon Ben was aboard under the half roof, and the hackney made its slow way through the snow-covered streets. They were not crammed with coaches and wagons as his mother had described to him. The snow had kept all but the most determined of workers and shoppers indoors. But the shops seemed to be open, judging from the lights inside. There was a glover, a seller of spirits, and a grocer. And what was that sign half covered by ice? Palmer and Sons, Music.

  The cab stopped. “Right there, sir.” The driver pointed the tip of a gloved finger at a large building across the street. “Liberty Hotel. Nice and clean, but not too hard on the purse. And they even have a piano player some nights.”

  “Here you are.” Ben pressed money into the man’s hand and jumped down into the snow, then lifted his traveling case from the luggage rack. As the cab pulled away, he hefted his case in one hand and turned around to head for Palmer’s Music. He could not walk past an entire store devoted to music without investigating.

  The bell rang and he tapped the snow off his boots on the entry mat. No proprietor came out, so he walked farther in, to the spectacle of entire racks of sheet music. The song titles ranked in alphabetical order, scores of them. A cursory inspection showed at least fifty percent must be Stephen Foster’s. The man had genius, no doubt of that. Ben inched down the aisle past “Camptown Races” and toward the Ds.

  Just a blank space in the rack where “Darling Nelly Gray” should appear. No sign of his song.

  Well, he should not have been so vain as to think his song would be in every store in the land. But he had hoped—he had hoped. It had seemed his one chance to
use his gift for a serious purpose. He should not have placed such hope in it, among all the hundreds of songs published each year.

  And why couldn’t he get Nelly’s face out of his mind?

  Head down, he left the store. The proprietor never came out.

  Across the street, the hotel beckoned. He pushed through the gusts of wind and in through the heavy door.

  “Welcome, sir.” A stout woman in cap and apron came out of a back room into the large common area set up as a dining room with trestle tables. Two ladies dressed in travel attire sat in the upholstered chairs by the fire, and several men sat apart from one another at the tables, reading papers.

  “I am Mrs. Pye, the manager. Will you lodge with us tonight?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She told him the price for room and board. He set his luggage down and paid her.

  “Dinner will be served in an hour.” She handed him a key. “We usually have music before, but our player did not arrive. Snowbound, I venture.” She gave a rueful look to the upright piano in the corner farthest from the fireplace.

  One of the middle-aged ladies turned from her contemplation of the fire. “Such a shame, Mrs. Pye. We so enjoyed his playing last evening. My sister is quite crushed. It lifted her spirits so, you see, and she has been melancholy.” And it did seem the other lady was quite downcast, her eyelashes lowered to her cheeks, her face strained.

  “I do apologize, Mrs. Fereday,” said the landlady. “But it can’t be helped, I’m sure you understand.”

  Ben hesitated. “I play a little, ma’am,” he said to the woman by the fire. “Would you like me to stand in for the missing musician?”

  Both Mrs. Pye and the two women straightened up.

  “Oh yes,” said the one named Mrs. Fereday. “Mrs. Ellsing, do you hear? There will be music after all.”

  The other woman regarded Ben with interest, her sagging face not as defeated. “That would be lovely,” she said in a faint voice.

  “Then I would be glad to oblige.” Ben went to the piano. He pulled off his gloves and kneaded his hands together, then lifted the lid over the keys and sat down. “Would you like something cheerful, or a little more stately?”

  “Stephen Foster is her favorite,” Mrs. Fereday said.

  He repressed a wry grin and began the opening bars of “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.” It was good to see the care fall away from the sad lady’s face as the song progressed. The men at the tables had looked up. When he finished with a run up the keyboard, the ladies applauded.

  “Camptown Races!” one of the men called out. He looked like a working man, but did not seem rough, just simple.

  Ben obliged with the jaunty tune. The man started to sing, and another joined in. Mrs. Pye beamed and walked back into what must be the kitchen

  He played for an hour, until he had almost exhausted his popular repertoire. Each new song was greeted with tapping feet and nodding heads. He played every Foster tune he knew, enjoying the camaraderie. The men sang along to several of the Fosters and the other well-known tunes.

  Finally, he was out of well-known songs. Without sheet music, he could not go on. And perhaps it was a good time to stop, as the smells rolling out from the kitchen were making his mouth water and it must be near dinnertime.

  “Oh, just one more, please,” the sad woman said.

  All he had left were his own songs. Well, he did not like to disappoint her. “Darling Nelly Gray” was good enough to be published—he would play that one.

  The chords rang out, and he embellished them to bring out the plaintive quality of the tune.

  The working man called out from his seat, “I’ve heard this one.”

  He had? Then maybe the song had been distributed here after all. Or maybe the man was simply mistaken.

  “But let’s have something happier, shall we?” the man added.

  “Hear, hear,” said another one of the men, seated at the far end of the table, who looked like a supercilious lawyer. He did not look up from his paper.

  “Oh yes, Mr.— What is your name?” asked Mrs. Fereday.

  “Hanby,” Ben said.

  “Mr. Hanby, let’s not end with something sad. Would you mind playing another Stephen Foster for my friend, just to end on a good note? So to speak?” And she giggled.

  “Not at all.” He shoved down his hurt pride. “How about ‘Camptown Races’ one more time?”

  “Oh, perfect.”

  The men grinned and the other woman pressed her hands together in gratitude.

  They were not bad people. They seemed quite decent. It was Ben’s song that was not appealing.

  He was no Stephen Foster. The song would probably sell a few copies and disappear. He resigned himself to the ache of another failure. But he wished it had not been so. The disappearance of the song seemed doubly heavy, because with the song would die away those faces and voices he had known: Joseph, Nelly, her baby. It was as if he had failed them a second time. His music was not strong enough to support their story. He had let them vanish as if they never lived.

  He had lost his appetite.

  Forty-Two

  “RUTH, COME UPSTAIRS.” AUNT MARY STOOD AT THE foot of the stairway in a cream morning dress that frothed over her elbows and slippers. “And you too, Kate. You must go up and see her now.”

  Her mother crossed the rugs to the stairs. Kate followed, disguising her reluctance. She did not want to see her mother in grief—it was like seeing her unclothed.

  Down the dim hallway and into her grandmother’s bedroom they went. There she lay, still inert and apparently unconscious. Perhaps she had lapsed back into oblivion in the short time it took them to come to her. The room’s now-familiar sense of loss shrouded Kate, the feeling of a past emptied and impoverished, of wasted time and stunted love.

  Kate’s mother approached the bed and sat in the chair positioned close to the head, so Kate took the chair on the opposite side and waited in silence. Her mother touched the thinning hair, where her grandmother’s scalp was showing through. “She always had beautiful, thick hair that I asked to brush when I was a little girl. I always wondered why she didn’t wear it long, in all its magnificence, until she told me one day that grown ladies didn’t do that.”

  Kate kept quiet, awash in the memory of begging to brush her mother’s hair, when she was only four or five. How she had adored her mother then.

  “Mary thinks the end has come.” Her mother spoke in a low, unemotional voice. “It won’t be long now for Mother. And still no word from her. It would make it so much easier, somehow.”

  The shiver of pain and pity that assailed Kate so often in this home returned.

  Would Kate one day have to sit at her mother’s bedside, with so many questions unanswered and so many old hurts? Perhaps her mother also thought this, as they sat there in the loaded silence. Kate could so easily see the estrangement building and dividing her from her mother as history repeated itself.

  Her mother lifted her hand and stroked her grandmother’s head. She must have suffered too. And inexplicably, a long-forgotten line sprang to Kate’s mind: Though a mother forsake her child, he will not abandon you. What was it like, to be a child completely forsaken, and without the comfort of a real faith or even a tender marriage? The emptiness in her mother’s face was giving way to a living pain that hurt to witness.

  Then her grandmother’s eyes opened. She appeared more cognizant of her surroundings than she had seemed since their arrival.

  “It is Ruth,” her mother said. “I am here.”

  Her grandmother nodded her head just a fraction of an inch.

  Her mother took her grandmother’s limp hand. “I forgive you, Mother.” Her eyes grew wet, and tears ran down her cheeks. Kate wanted to look away but could not. Her love for her mother stirred and awakened like a bear after winter—hungry, angry, pained from long absence. She wanted to comfort her, to tell her she was sorry for that lonely young woman who had been cast out by those who should ha
ve rallied around her.

  It seemed to Kate that her grandmother’s hand moved ever so slightly, as if she had squeezed her mother’s hand with fading strength.

  “I understand,” her mother said. And they sat there until her grandmother closed her eyes again.

  Kate wanted only to flee before she wept. She rose without speaking, left the bedside, and went downstairs, walking back into the parlor, finding comfort in its rich warmth. She wandered around, peering into the cabinets. That porcelain statue had come from Thailand, but where had her grandparents acquired the three miniature ivory carvings? Perhaps Aunt Mary would tell her.

  A copy of the new Godey’s lay on the table. Kate picked it up, leafing through it, seeking anything to take her mind off the sadness. Godey’s was her favorite, for its historical features and the engravings. As she flipped the pages, she saw the usual printed page of sheet music. A song in every issue, the cover always promised.

  “With the permission of Oliver Ditson and Company,” it said, “and in response to requests from our readers, Godey’s presents ‘Darling Nelly Gray.’”

  She read the lyrics. Then she saw the name under the title. B. R. Hanby. Surely not. She read the name again in disbelief. But who else could it be?

  She went to the piano and sat down, skimming the first line, laying her fingers on the keys, reminding herself of the sharps and flats. She began to play the melody only, which was quite easy after her practices with Cornelia.

  Oh my poor Nelly Gray, they have taken you away,

  And I’ ll never see my darling any more;

  I am sitting by the river and I’m weeping all the day,

  For you’ve gone from that old Kentucky shore.

  It was the song for Nelly, the one he had mentioned in the letter. And it was a beautiful song, haunting, as if she should remember it from some other time and place. He had published it—bittersweet pleasure on his behalf dripped through her with every line she played. The chorus was as good as the verse, the lyrics touching. She played through all four verses, and by the time she finished she was singing the chorus, under her breath, so no one could hear her.