Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  Aunt Mary came down the stairs, her cream skirt ruffling after her like foam against the carpet. “Kate, you know that song? It’s lovely. I heard a friend’s daughter play it the other night.”

  “A song from Godey’s.” That must explain it. Nothing spread as fast as a tune in Godey’s.

  “It’s called ‘Darling Nelly Gray,’ isn’t it? I’ve seen mention of it in the papers.”

  “In the newspapers?”

  “Oh, it’s all the rage, apparently.”

  Kate kept quiet, wondering.

  “I have good news,” her aunt said. “Arthur procured some tickets for Uncle Tom’s Cabin this evening, as our last outing together. I am sorry you must leave, but at least we may offer you this one big-city entertainment first.”

  “Thank you.” That penetrated even her Ben-induced fog. Uncle Tom’s Cabin, her one and only chance to see it. How kind of Arthur and Georgia—they had known Kate would love to go.

  Her mother spoke from behind, startling her. “Mary, would you mind if I took the carriage to the shops this morning?” She must have come down silent as a ghost on the stairs. She still looked pale.

  “Not at all. Would you like me to accompany you?”

  “No, thank you. I have some purchases that I must make in private.”

  “I understand.” Aunt Mary lowered her voice to a discreet murmur and stepped closer to Kate’s mother. “But please don’t feel that you must buy us parting gifts. We are family, and you are welcome here at any time.”

  Kate’s mother nodded, turned, and hurried back up the stairs, saying over her shoulder, “I will be down in ten minutes to leave if your carriage can be ready.”

  “Of course.” Mary crossed to the bell pull on the wall and rang for the servants, though it did not make a sound in the parlor.

  “Kate,” she said when she returned, and the last footsteps had faded on the stairs. “Will you play the song one more time? I do love it.”

  Kate began again, and this time dared add the left hand to bring in the harmonies. It was soaking in Ben’s presence, calling him back to her mind and heart, remembering joy that overcame the old sorrows of this house.

  She did not mind if she played it fifty times. But her aunt might find it strange.

  Forty-Three

  BEN UNFOLDED KATE’S LETTER AND READ THE ADDRESS again, though he had committed it to memory on the train: 119 Walnut Street.

  “119, please,” he said to the hackney cab driver.

  “Yes, sir.” The houses of Walnut Street passed by in restrained elegance as the horse trotted on. The cab stopped. Ben climbed down. “Wait here, please.” The driver nodded, accustomed to well-dressed gentlemen who paid at the conclusion of several errands.

  He had donned his clean coat, shirt, and tie and taken care to look as gentlemanly as he could. The hotel valet had cleaned his hat so it gleamed. But his neat appearance did not ease the hammering of his heart. He rehearsed his speech in his mind, then stepped up to the door and rang.

  A middle-aged man in servant’s livery answered. “Good evening, sir.”

  “I seek Mrs. Isaiah Winter, whom I believe to be a guest here. It is a matter of some importance.” He handed his visiting card to the servant.

  The card disappeared into his hand and he opened the door. “Please come in.”

  Ben stepped over the threshold into the foyer. He noted the molded paneling, the rich wood floor under his feet—signs of the wealth Mrs. Winter wanted for her daughter.

  “This way, sir.” The servant took his hat and ushered him to the left, opening double doors into a high-ceilinged parlor with blue-draped windows, a red medallioned carpet, and elegant mahogany chairs softened by lace doilies. The man closed the doors behind him and left him alone.

  The warmth of the fire soothed his cold face—he approached the snowy white marble hearth and the portrait on the wall above it. The lady in the painting was black-haired and blue-eyed, like Kate. His pulse quickened, outracing the tick of the tall clock to his right with its long brass pendulum under etched glass.

  The doors opened and Mrs. Winter entered. She wore a green silk dress and walked as if she were born to own such a house—and he supposed she was. She stopped six feet away, as if he were a tradesman.

  He would behave as a gentleman nonetheless. Inclining from the waist a few degrees, he bowed to her in the most formal and polite manner possible.

  “Mr. Benjamin Hanby,” she said, inspecting him from toe to crown.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Winter.” He stood like a private before the general, though he had never imagined a general in dangling diamond earrings and lavender scent.

  “It is a surprise to receive you here in Philadelphia, Mr. Hanby.” Her tone was chilly.

  “I hope you will forgive my unannounced visit.”

  She stared at him without reply. Was Kate here? He could not think of it now—it would not matter if he failed to win over her mother.

  “And your purpose?” she asked, her eyes a steely, unreadable blue.

  He took a breath. “I am here to humbly ask your pardon, ma’am.”

  She continued her cold silence, a perfect portrait of Old Philadelphia so like the oil painting over the fireplace.

  He tried again, ignoring the whispers of failure in his mind. “I have wronged you and your family by pursuing my affection for your daughter in a less than upstanding manner.”

  One of her eyebrows quirked, as if to put an exclamation point on his confession. “And you traveled for days simply to make this apology to me?”

  A twist of nerves brought a rancid taste to his mouth, like an old lemon. Of course he wanted more than just to apologize. He desired to see Kate, craved it so ardently that in a heartbeat’s relenting he would rush through those doors and up the stairs like an uncouth barbarian, to throw himself at her feet wherever she might be.

  But he had not behaved well, and he must accept Mrs. Winter’s verdict, whatever it might be.

  “My husband wrote to tell me you had been to speak with him on a similar subject. He told me he would permit me to decide whether to accept your apology.” She turned away and paced across the room to stand by a curio cabinet, her face averted from him. “My daughter has not been herself lately, Mr. Hanby.”

  He did not know whether to nod or apologize.

  “We attended a ball with her cousins not long ago. She spoke intemperately to a gentleman there. I have never seen her do such a thing.” Her eyes sliced him to ribbons.

  “I can only assume she must have had ample reason, ma’am.” His temper stirred—he must defend Kate. Mrs. Winter seemed so harsh.

  “Do you think it is your influence that has changed her?” she asked.

  “I could not presume to claim such an influence, Mrs. Winter. Your daughter is a woman of deep feeling and conviction. I did not make her so, though I admire it.”

  “But she has not always voiced those strong feelings or opinions you say she possesses, Mr. Hanby. And that is where I am tempted to hold you responsible.”

  “You must do as you see fit, ma’am.” His hopes faded. “Your daughter’s opinions are as intelligent as any man’s, and I would not wish her to keep silent at all times. I am well enough acquainted with her to know that only ignorance or cruelty could provoke her to what you call intemperate speech.” Now his cause was lost. He dropped his gaze to the ornate grid of the carpet and waited to be dismissed. Tendrils of pain and disappointment began to curl around his heart.

  “You are correct, Mr. Hanby. The reason for her outburst was an objection to brutality.”

  He looked up. The middle-aged woman had a preoccupied expression, as if reliving some past scenes in her mind’s eye.

  “I do not wish my daughter to be a silent ornament unable to defend herself or others against cruelty.” Mrs. Winter’s voice caught, but she went on as if nothing were amiss. “I approve of the recent change in my daughter. Sit down, please.”

  An air of unreality made the reds
and blues of the room more vivid as he walked to one of the dark-framed, oval-backed chairs. He waited for Mrs. Winter to sit in another before he seated himself.

  “I don’t know if I understand you correctly, ma’am.” Had she just indicated some positive impression of him, despite the lack of emotion in her face?

  She regarded him as if peering at the innards of a mechanical toy to see how it worked. “I don’t know why you have affected my daughter in this way. But”—she paused, looking aside— “during our time here, Mr. Hanby, I have had ample time to reflect upon the relations of mothers and daughters. And I find myself—”

  The double doors swung open and Kate walked through them, her gaze on several parcels in her arms as she balanced them. “They were all wrapped and ready, Mother,” she said, “so I was able to finish more quickly than I—” She looked up and froze.

  Ben stood, drinking in her startled beauty, her trim figure and flowing skirt, the dark mass of her hair against the curve of her neck.

  Mrs. Winter remained in her chair and addressed Kate. “You see we have a caller.”

  She remained there, clutching the packages, her bright blue eyes huge.

  “Come sit with us,” Mrs. Winter said.

  Kate edged over to another chair, closer to her mother than to Ben, facing him. She sat down very slowly, the packages still gripped in her white fingers.

  “You may give me my purchases.” Her mother extended a hand. One by one, Kate passed over three boxes, each decorated with the subtle patterns favored by expensive merchants.

  Mrs. Winter scoured each box, looking at the neat, fine printing on top. “This one,” she said, and handed it back to Kate.

  Kate had not taken her gaze from Ben, nor he from her. She fumbled at the box and half dropped it in her lap with a self-conscious flutter of the eyelids. “What—?” she broke off. He wanted to cross the parlor and embrace her, feel her breathing presence warm in his arms.

  “You may open it,” her mother said. “I had planned to give it to you privately, but our unexpected visitor has altered my plan.”

  Kate pulled at the ribbon, which fell away from the box. She grasped the edge with her fingertips and pulled the top off. Inside was a folded rectangle of white.

  “Unfold it.” Her mother remained inscrutable and solemn.

  Kate looked around, then rose to her feet to walk a few steps to the table in the center of the room. She set the box on it, took out the fabric, held it by two corners, and let it fall out to its full length.

  It was a large piece of lace, several feet across. The fine gauze in the middle was bordered by a wide swath of delicate floral embroidery. It billowed down from her hands and pooled on the floor.

  What was it? A curtain? At least it was reassuring that Kate seemed equally confused.

  “It’s Irish lace,” her mother said.

  “It’s exquisite, Mother. Thank you.” Kate sounded puzzled.

  Mrs. Winter regarded her for a long moment with a serious look. Kate darted a glance at Ben and shifted back to the lace.

  “It’s a wedding veil,” Mrs. Winter said.

  Kate looked at her, still uncomprehending.

  Ben stood, his heart pounding.

  Mrs. Winter also rose and walked to her daughter to place a light hand on the back of her shoulder. Ben had never seen a tender gesture from her—Kate turned her face away as if unsure whether to run or to accept it.

  “It’s for the day when you marry this young man,” her mother said.

  Kate dropped the lace. It slipped to the carpet like foam on a wave. She looked at Ben, her eyes glistening. He had to swallow hard.

  “You have my consent to marry him. And your father will agree, if I speak to him,” Mrs. Winter said. She turned away and walked to the doors of the parlor. “And now I will leave you to discuss my generosity and discernment, which I’m sure is the uppermost subject on your minds.” The corner of her mouth turned up, and she glided out. The doors shut with a click.

  For a moment, he could not move. When his limbs unlocked, he took a few steps to Kate and took her in his arms. He held her close, then swept one arm under her and lifted her in the air, her skirts piling around his arm and spilling over her feet. A whoop of joy and triumph threatened to leap out of his throat, but instead he spun her around so fast the fabric of her dress swung around them.

  She made a startled sound of protest and then laughed softly. He carried her over by the fireplace and gently set her down on her feet. She was giddy and off balance and threw her arms around him to stay upright, her cheeks curving with her smile.

  Her soft, light embrace sent his pulse pounding—he went still, and she gazed up at him with firelight flickering in the blue depths of her eyes. Her face was so delicate and perfect—he reached a hand to the satin sleeve of her dress and reveled in the firm warmth of her shoulder before satisfying his overwhelming desire to touch her bare skin, where the dress ended at the hollow of her neck. A visible tremor went through her and she closed her eyes for a moment, mingled longing and trepidation on her face. He moved close and gathered her in his arms as she opened her eyes halfway. Her parted lips drew him and he leaned close and kissed her, his heart pounding as he held her so close he could feel hers beating too. She wound her arms around him and ran her fingers up his neck into his hair. The surprise and delight of her response made him grip her fiercely and cover her face with light kisses. She sighed.

  He pulled away and took a steadying breath. There would be time enough for all this, and more.

  They stood arm in arm, a little shy, and watched the fire dance in the grate.

  Forty-Four

  THE THEATER WAS LACQUERED IN RED AND GOLD, THE boxes plush with red velvet. In the dim glow of footlights that barely reached the balcony, Kate reveled in Ben’s nearness. His coat sleeve was only inches from her bare right arm, as a couple could sit only after promises had been made. The fact that her mother had given her ticket to Ben and stayed home made it all the more intimate, with only Arthur and Georgia accompanying them in the box.

  The pale pink satin of Kate’s borrowed gown ran rich and smooth over her chair. Its cap sleeves and scoop neck bared her collarbone in a line of delicate tulle and satin rosebuds—a style that would be daring in Westerville, but the ladies seated in the dark arches of the other box seats wore the same design. She inhaled the unfamiliar but heady aroma of clean, starched linen and masculine skin when Ben leaned toward her. Had it not been for the unusual power of the scenes taking place onstage, she would not have been able to concentrate at all.

  The players onstage held the audience rapt, creating the horrible reality of the death of good-hearted Tom, enslaved to a terrible master: Kate knew it from the novel.

  “I know you can do terrible things,” said Tom to Simon Legree, as the tyrant stood over him with whip in hand. “But after ye’ve killed the body, there ain’t no more you can do.” The slave’s blood-covered face was resolute. Legree raised his whip once more and lashed Tom until he slumped lifeless onstage, then threw the whip on the ground with a careless flourish and stalked off.

  A young man arrived too late to save Tom and stood over his limp form, devastated. “Blessed are they who mourn,” the young man said, almost in tears, “for they shall be comforted.”

  The theater was dead silent. Blessed are they who mourn . . . The face of Frank appeared in her mind’s eye, the sadness of Nelly’s lovely eyes, the laughter of her baby. They shall be comforted.

  She wiped away tears with her handkerchief. Ben sat with his head bowed. The scene closed and the curtains came down. Loud applause turned into cheering and whistling from the men in the pit. Kate blinked and looked around as if waking from a trance as the thunderous ovation continued. Clusters of people stood up in all the boxes on the balcony, applauding. She joined them and Ben rose with her.

  Cheers of “Brava” and “Bravo” went up from the boxes across the way.

  The curtain went up again. The audience qui
eted itself. An actress, dressed in Grecian robes and holding a torch, walked to the edge of the stage. The epilogue, of course.

  The actress had a fine voice, and a noble figure she made, like Liberty herself. “A day of grace is yet held out to us,” she cried. “Both North and South have been guilty before God; and the Christian church has a heavy account to answer. Not by combining together, to protect injustice and cruelty, and making a common capital of sin, is this Union to be saved, but by repentance . . . justice . . . and mercy!”

  It rang to the rafters.

  “It’s all a lie,” a harsh voice yelled from the crowd. “This play is an evil lie, you hypocrites.”

  Another voice joined in, “The Yankee woman needs to shut her mouth!”

  A third cried, “The mouths of them that speak falsehood will be stopped,” to a small chorus of “Hear, hear!” and “You said it, brother!”

  Something flew in the air and bounced off the actress’s chest—she started back and lifted her arms to ward off a few more missiles that began to volley in. It rolled on the ground— an apple core.

  Kate wanted to sob, to tell them it was real, that she had known an innocent woman and child who died, herded like cattle in a pen.

  “Get off that stage,” a man snarled at the cowering actress.

  She straightened in her robes and approached the edge of the stage, face intent, fists bunched. “I will not. This tragedy will not end until every voice cries out!” Boos arose from other men, quarreling voices broke out in the pit.

  More men shouted her down. “I’ll show you a tragedy!” “You’re a traitor to our country!” “Take this, lying mouthpiece of Satan!” A lunch bucket flew up and clanged on the side of the actress’s head. She staggered and stumbled back, then ran offstage.

  This could not be—Kate would not watch it idly. Her face grew so hot and full it felt like she would have a stroke. How dare they torment this woman, assault her for showing the truth and believing it. They were ruining the beauty of the play, staining it, and claiming God was on their side. Kate jumped to her feet and stepped to the edge of the railing.