Sweeter than Birdsong (10 page)

She avoided looking at the others. But when she reached for her lemonade, she locked gazes with Ben Hanby’s mother, whose soft brown eyes were full of sympathy. Wanting to hide, Kate turned away. But that was no better, as she found Ben looking at her too.

Now she must say anything she could to distract him. “You don’t seem yourself this evening, Mr. Hanby.”

“I apologize. My mind is on other things,” he said. The noise of the other guests had risen around them, and the din of talk and clatter of utensils against plates sheltered his response from other ears.

“Oh no, I don’t mean to criticize.” She stumbled over her words. “I am always poor company, or I would have drawn you out already.”

“Miss Winter, I am happy to sit at your side whether you speak or not.”

She dropped her gaze and rearranged her food on her plate with her heavy silver fork.

He lowered his voice. “Have you thought further on what I said, about God’s gift in your singing, and whether you might share it?”

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Frederick’s voice floated over her shoulder and she turned back toward him. She took a breath and hesitated.

“Theology.” Ben Hanby spoke across her, his face sober. “But I should not be boring so lovely a lady with the topic.”

“Indeed not. So then, Mr. Hanby, tell us about your musicale instead. When shall we perform it?” Frederick was blithe, his hazel eyes merry as he led them to conversational armageddon. He only meant to be a good host and spur talk among the company—she could not blame him.

She didn’t dare glance at her mother.
Please, please. Let them all be tactful on this subject
. Her hands clenched together under the tablecloth.

“Mr. Jones, an excellent meal.” Her father’s voice was noticeably slurred. “Is your cook a slave woman? They have a reputation for excellence, I understand.”

All three Hanbys looked at him together, as if pulled by an invisible puppeteer.

Mr. Jones stopped in midsentence of his conversation with Kate’s mother. A hush fell.

“Of course, she’s not a slave now that we live here,” Mr. Jones said. “But she cooks just as well as she did in Kentucky.” He picked up a carafe and poured Kate’s mother some more lemonade.

No one spoke. Kate glanced at Frederick. He reddened as he stared at his plate.

“You a Southern sympathizer, Jones?” Her father blundered on, oblivious. He flourished his glass as if participating in a vast joke. Even Daniel Jones paused in the awkward silence. It was not done at all, to mention slavery and politics in mixed company, at dinner. Her mother leaned over to him and whispered something.

“No, I’m not ready to go home. I’ve barely tasted the meal.” Her father brandished his fork in his left hand and stabbed a chunk of meat. He missed his mouth on his first attempt to shovel it in.

Kate looked at the gorgeous floral centerpiece, her face throbbing with the sudden rush of her pulse. Her father was too awful and mortifying to watch.

President Lawrence cleared his throat and addressed Frederick. “How are you enjoying your studies thus far?”

“Very much, sir,” Frederick said. “Particularly rhetoric.”

“Now that’s a young man after my own heart,” Mr. Lawrence said. “I love to read the old orators.”

From there the discussion moved on, and something like peace was restored to the room as Kate’s father held his tongue. But an undercurrent of tension remained until everyone finished and the maids cleared the plates.

In the buzz of conversation, Mrs. Hanby stood, walked around to Kate’s parents, and leaned down to say something to them.

Kate’s father stood, clutching the top of his chair for balance. Her mother also rose next to him.

Mrs. Hanby smiled winsomely at Kate’s father. He looked flattered. Mrs. Hanby took his arm and made it look as if he were supporting her, rather than the other way around. Kate’s mother took his other arm, and they headed out of the dining room to the foyer. Whatever Mrs. Hanby had said, it had worked. Kate wanted to throw herself on her knees and thank Ben’s mother as the three left through the front door.

Mrs. Hanby returned alone. Kate melted nerveless into her chair, finally able to listen to whatever Cornelia had been saying about Otterbein.

The Hanbys rose to leave a few minutes later, making their good-byes to the Joneses. Mrs. Hanby was formal and polite when she spoke to Mr. Jones, but as she turned to leave, she caught Kate’s eye and smiled—a lovely smile tinged with sadness. Kate would have to find a way to thank her somehow.

As twilight fell, the outdoor picnickers came back inside the house. Kate listened to the other students chat about the musicale. Thank goodness her parents had departed. As the Boglers pestered Cornelia about their choice of readings, Frederick murmured to Kate, “May I drive you home?”

She paused. That would not be proper, not as darkness drew near.

He must have realized it, for he flushed. “Or perhaps Miss Lawrence has engaged your company already. I have taken you from her for too long.”

She nodded.

Cornelia had overheard, for she turned from the other girls. “Miss Winter, you must drive home with us. I have been hoping for it.”

Saved once again by another woman’s social grace.

“Thank you, Cornelia.”

Kate wanted nothing more than quiet from the ride home with the Lawrences. And, with the exception of a few reflective remarks from Mr. Lawrence on the weather, it was quiet. The Lawrences were too considerate to bring up any but the most innocuous of subjects after her father’s humiliating behavior.

She let herself in the front door of her house, which was darkened for the evening. A muffled noise of raised voices came from the direction of her parents’ bedroom. An oil lamp in a wall niche lit the staircase enough for her to see. She walked up, her skirt whispering behind her. Instead of going to her room, she went to Leah’s. Her sister was sitting on her bed, gray-faced and tense.

“Have they been arguing since you returned?” Kate asked.

“Yes, the same things again and again. It’s driving me to distraction.” Leah did not usually confess such things. It must be the shame of what had happened at dinner—Leah might be adept at hiding her feelings, but tonight had been too much for any fifteen-year-old girl.

“Shall we go downstairs where we won’t hear them?” Kate wanted to put her hand on Leah’s shoulder, show sympathy, but no one did that in this house.

“Very well.” Leah jumped up as if no suggestion could be more welcome. She went to the door with such haste that she outpaced Kate and stepped into the hall before her.

As Kate followed, the door of her parents’ bedroom burst open and her mother ran out, one hand held over her eye, her mouth strained with terror. Her father stumbled after her, his face contorted. He reached out, buried his fist in her mother’s hair, and jerked her head back, spinning her around and to her knees.

Kate froze.

“No!” Leah ran toward him, reaching for his hand.

His eyes were glassy with rage and liquor. His fist slammed into Leah’s midsection. She flew back against the wall with a hard thump, her skirts whipping around her as she slid to the floor. She curled in on herself, clutching at her bodice, her mouth open and gasping for air. Her eyes rolled up and she went limp. Kate’s mother still crouched, hands to her head where the tightness of her husband’s grip threatened to tear her hair out.

“Father.” Kate spoke from where she stood, her voice shaking. “You are not yourself. Please leave before you do damage that cannot be undone.” She held her breath.

His bleary eyes blinked and he paused. He released his grip on her mother, then staggered past Leah and down the stairs. On the first flight, he tripped and had to seize the banister for support. It creaked and held, but his second hand found purchase on a decorative finial and broke it off so it clattered down to the lower level.

He weaved onward, threw himself against the front door, and ran out, leaving it open.

Her mother was already beside Leah on her knees. “Leah,” she said, and stroked her face. Leah’s eyelashes fluttered and she opened her eyes, disoriented, gazing straight ahead as if waking up from a deep sleep.

“Let me get you into your bed,” her mother said.

“I will do it, Mother.” Kate put her arms under Leah. It was not the time for tears or hysteria. She had to be certain Leah was not seriously injured, or else call for the doctor.

She half carried her sister to her bed and laid her down. The quilt was rumpled. Kate pulled it up over her sister’s body.

“I am only bruised,” Leah said. “Go help Mother.”

The clarity of her eyes reassured Kate. She went back in the hall, but her mother was not there. Perhaps she had gone back to her bedroom. Kate walked there and opened the door.

Her mother slumped in a chair, her face wet, her beautiful night dress torn at one shoulder.

“Mother,” Kate said.

Her mother’s eyes opened. “Is Leah recovering?”

“She seems to be.”

“Get out of my room,” her mother said, her tone flat.

“I only want to—”

“Get out.”

“But what—”

“I will not speak to you of it! It’s none of your affair.”

How could it be none of her affair to see her sister and mother attacked? “You must let me help,” Kate said.

“You cannot help!” Her mother’s weary face filled with anger. “I won’t discuss it further. Leave my room.”

Kate walked out into the hall and closed the door with a shaky hand.

If her mother refused to acknowledge it, how could Kate be sure it wouldn’t happen again? Leah or her mother might be more seriously hurt the next time.

A wave of trembling passed over her, and she braced against the wall to keep her balance.

This would not do.

She went to her own bed. Despite the lateness of the hour, she did not sleep for some time, alert for the opening of the front door. But her father did not come home.

Kate must ensure his attack did not happen again, and she must act soon. Possibilities tumbled through her mind like pebbles in a brook, until they all washed away into troubled sleep.

Ten

“B
EN, YOU NEED SOME DIVERSION. YOU SHOULD COME
with us to Columbus. It’s quite an honor for Cornelia to play at Neil House,” his mother said, cradling a teacup between her hands. Mrs. Lawrence’s teacups were silver edged and fine, suited to the expensive elegance of her parlor.

Mrs. Lawrence set her creamer down on the table. “Oh, do come, Ben.”

Her daughter, Cornelia, sat behind them at the glossy grand piano. Her agile fingers drew forth liquid notes that flowed through the drawing room. He let the music ease his unsettled state. Witnessing Kate’s father’s behavior at the social had dismayed him. He could not get the image of Kate’s hurt face out of his mind. No wonder she preferred to remain invisible and unheard.

He should show his support for Cornelia’s music, even though the journey happened to coincide with a more serious purpose. “I would be delighted.”

Cordelia brought the Chopin tune to a soft conclusion and lifted her hands from the keys. “That’s so kind of you, Ben.”

He had hardly recognized her when she stepped off the stagecoach last August. It had been two years since the college president’s daughter left for France. She departed as a lanky girl and returned as a silk-clad Parisienne, her auburn hair shining in intricate coils. She had always been a good pianist, but now she was excellent—by far the best in town, and perhaps the best in Columbus. He might once have taught her to play scales under her mother’s watchful eye, but the tables had turned. This once-awkward miss could now teach him a lesson or two in technique.

She rose from the piano bench, her femininity enhanced by the cut of her green dress. “With your talent, you will notice all my shortcomings.” She smiled as she crossed to their circle of chairs and perched gently on the edge of the blue velvet fainting couch next to his seat. “But I’m nonetheless very glad that you will come.”

“Nonsense.” He smiled. “You know as well as I that there are no shortcomings, not since your return. I can only learn humbly at your feet, Miss Lawrence.”

Ben’s mother reached for a triangle of buttered toast and set it on a plate, then rose to her feet and brought it to him. He was not hungry, but he accepted it.

“We will depart tomorrow and stay a week in Columbus, perhaps two,” his mother said. “After we see Cornelia’s recital, we might even visit the circus.”

How would their family afford it? He would not ask aloud, of course. There were eight Hanby children, after all. His parents had many mouths to feed and small bodies to clothe. But perhaps his father was bending the rules of practicality for his mother’s sake. It was the last week of May.

Mrs. Lawrence lifted her arms in welcome. “You will stay with us, at Neil House,” she said.

The woman had an amazing ability to read others—no doubt key to her husband’s business relationships with many prominent Columbus men.

“Mr. Neil himself has invited us, and he has offered us three rooms,” she continued. “We need a man to escort us, and Teddy is occupied with college business. Your father wants to stay and watch over your brothers and sisters, so you are the obvious choice.”