Sweeter than Birdsong (25 page)

“You wish to see the end of slavery?”

“Of course, more than anything.”

“And do you think that with your gifts, the best you can do is defend one fugitive at a time, often losing your cases to a biased court system?”

“They say I’m a good speaker.”

“And you are. But is your calling to the law?”

Ben fell silent and began to strike holes in the stirrup leather on the bench.

“Your calling is to the ministry, son. I know it, and I believe you know it, for you have told me so. You mustn’t give that up for what you believe is a chance at earthly happiness. Giving up your calling will never lead to happiness, no matter what you may gain as a result.”

“But the work will be similar, in many ways. Both require the use of rhetoric and careful study of human nature.” Ben struck holes faster, harder.

“It will not be similar. How would you use your musical gifts as a lawyer? There’s no possible way. But as a minister, there are innumerable ways you might use it. The Lord suits a man’s calling to his gifts. I believe there’s a purpose for your ability as a composer.”

“What possible purpose could it serve?” His voice rose. If he lost this debate, he would forfeit his one chance with Kate.

“I don’t know yet. But I believe your gifts are called to a larger battle than simply one legal case after another, or one fugitive after another.”

“You are a fond father and you overestimate my powers.” Ben aimed and struck, aimed and struck. He would finish the whole stirrup leather in a few minutes at this rate. “I couldn’t even save one woman and her baby—John still hasn’t found them.”

“Ben.” His father walked toward him and stopped a few steps away, his deep-set eyes darker in the lamplight of the cellar. “I believe we will see the end of slavery in our lifetimes. And you have a role to play in that struggle that does not involve legal briefs and evenings at the gentlemen’s club.”

Ben positioned the awl and struck very hard, taking his frustration into the blow. Now he had spoiled it—the hole was off center. With a muffled imprecation, he jumped up and threw the leather in the corner. “Why must I be called to this? Why a gift in music, of all things, that will not bring me a living to support a wife! Why a talent for teaching? I am heartily sick of my gifts if they keep me from the thing that is dearest to me!” He kept his voice down with great effort, to a hoarse whispered shout. The girls upstairs must not hear.

“It isn’t your gifts that stand between you and what you think most dear. It’s your passion and your calling. And painful as it is, I must tell you the truth,” his father said with equal conviction, his shoulders tense. “I do not say you’ll never win the woman you love—no matter who she may be. But you must not abandon your mission to do it. If you do, both of you will always regret such a life, only half lived.”

Ben threw the tools after the leather strap, where they clanged into one another and the wall. “I can’t speak of this any further.” He whirled around and strode up the stairs, out through the kitchen past the girls, and down the stoop into the light rain. The spatter of drops against his face could not soothe the pain of having the truth dragged from his own spirit into the light of day.

He could not accept the offer. And by giving it up, he might lose any chance with Kate.

If she wished to learn to speak in public, she had to begin somewhere. Kate stood on the feed box and turned to face her listener.

“On the Purpose of True Friendship,” she said. “An Argument Drawn from Aristotle and Cicero.”

Garnet blinked her moist brown eyes and leaned her neck on the stall door, watching Kate with the peculiar calm of the equine race. The rain pattered on the roof of the barn.

“Can a true friendship spring from self-interest?” Kate asked. Garnet flicked her ears forward and nickered softly.

What came next? Oh yes. She cleared her throat. “Aristotle says self-interest cannot create the highest friendship. The only perfect friendship is between two persons of equally good character who are drawn together by admiration.”

Garnet tossed her head as if agreeing. This wasn’t so difficult. Kate stepped off the feed box and onto the packed earth, to pace before Garnet. “The vast majority of friendships are based on pleasure, not virtue.” She turned to look at the mare. “Oh yes, for you cannot convince me that your equine eye fell upon me without knowledge of the apple in my pocket. And I know your affection for me is predicated in part upon the hope of future such apples.” Kate smiled.

Garnet was losing interest, eyes wandering, ears sideways. Kate flourished her hand in the air to attract her horse’s gaze again. “It is true that certain types of friendship exist between persons who are not equal.” She layered her voice with pedantry, amusing herself. “Parents and children, teachers and pupils. Yea, verily, even between a mistress and her mare.” She waved her finger at Garnet’s muzzle. The mare took a tentative nip toward the carrot-like offering, and Kate snatched it back.

“But the true aim of friendship should be to nurture the same good character which first drew friends together.” Now she was back to the real text of her speech. She should try to imagine Garnet as a human listener. She would envision Garnet as—whom? Professor Hayworth. Garnet’s whiskers were not nearly full enough.

Kate held up both hands in rhetorical emphasis, as she had seen the young men do in their orations. If she could bring some exaggerated expression to her speech now, traces of it might linger when she faced a more frightening audience. “Cicero reminds us”—she raised her arms even higher, as if she spoke to a whole amphitheater—“that solitary virtue cannot rise to the same height as virtue acting in conjunction with an affectionate and pleasing companion.”

“Hear, hear,” a masculine voice said from the barn doorway.

She dropped her hands and spun around. Frederick stood watching her, grinning, handsome in a navy pin-striped linen coat and cream-colored trousers.

“Oh,” she said.

“You spoke very well.” He walked toward her and took off his hat to cradle it in his arm. The sunlight behind him outlined his hair.

“I must look very silly.”

“Not at all—you look charming, as usual.”

The waves of heat across her face could ignite the hay in the loft.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said, smiling. “You’re teaching yourself to speak, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I think it’s a capital idea to practice to your horse.”

She could not respond, rooted there to the straw-littered floor.

“Maybe I can assist you. You were quite at ease before. Now what if I sit here with your horse and you try again?” He went to the plain bench by the wooden wall and seated himself, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, a picture of perfect gentlemanly repose for a lazy summer’s day.

“I don’t know.” Her heart pattered in her chest, faster and faster.

“Come.” His hazel eyes were kind. “I’d be glad to think I had helped. Look at your horse and pretend I’m not here.”

“All right.” She took a breath and gathered her thoughts, staring at Garnet’s forelock. “On the Purpose of True Friendship: An Argument Drawn from Aristotle and Cicero.” She turned to Frederick. “It’s really such a simple topic—I’m ashamed to give it.”

“Nonsense. It’s true and accurate, and that’s enough. Please continue.”

His face was distracting—she could not recall the next thought and stood fiddling with her skirt.

He didn’t seem taken aback. “Maybe you should begin again and avoid stopping. It’s harder to remember if you stop.”

“Or maybe this is foolhardy.”

“No backing down now,” he said. “Your secret practice out here tells me it’s important to you to speak, and that is a fine aim. You have exceptional thoughts, and you should share them.”

“I care little whether I express my own opinions,” she said. “But I would like to speak on behalf of others.”

“Even better. An admirably feminine sentiment. After all, who will intercede for your future children, if not you?”

The intimacy of it made her blush hotter, but he presumed too much. She did not have such feminine goals in mind—in fact, speaking up about people like Nelly would be quite the opposite of what Frederick implied.

Now her mind was focused. “On the Purpose of True Friendship . . .” She launched into the speech and hurried through, not looking at him. Before she knew it, she had finished.

“Brava!” he said. He stood and bowed to her. “You see, you can be quite eloquent. And no need to ever attempt a topic that might be too much for you. All you must do is satisfy the professor’s requirements, and then you never need speak in public again.” He smiled. “Only to servants or tutors, or perhaps a husband.”

She forced herself to smile.

“Are you ready to ride? Your habit is quite smart.” He admired her from hat to boots. “And Garnet is ready, I see.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll lead her out for you.” He slid the bolt and took the reins over the mare’s head. “After you.”

She preceded him out. Strange how in Frederick’s company, she never felt fully present. His attention was flattering and his admiration clear, but he never looked at her as Ben Hanby did, with that close attention that made her feel more solid and real and alive. Instead, Frederick himself seemed larger than life, which made it more difficult to talk to him.

But he had been gracious to try to help her. And now she would get to ride for an hour. He would entertain her with constant talk, and he wouldn’t notice if her thoughts should wander. Her mother approved of him, so she would be mollified for the day. And her father’s opinion would not matter—he was hardly at home. Though he was no longer absent for days on end, he had settled into a regular pattern of returning late at night after the women had retired. She suspected he was sleeping in his study. On the few occasions she had seen him, he was unable to meet her eyes. But if he was ashamed of what he had done, one thing had not changed—he still smelled of bourbon.

Frederick assisted her to mount from the block, then stepped up into his own saddle with strength and agility. As the horses walked out through the yard, a hermit thrush whistled in the trees.

Twenty-Six

S
EPTEMBER

I
T WAS TOO COLD TO GET OUT OF BED. BUT BEN
must get to the schoolhouse well before his students arrived. Rolling out of his blanket to his feet, he grabbed his folded clothing from the plank shelf that graced the cabin wall. He donned his trousers, shucked off his nightshirt, and yanked on his shirt, vest, and coat as quickly as possible. He pulled on low boots over his woolen socks and blew on his hands. It was only the end of September. Imagine how cold it would be next month. He would need to keep a fire banked through the night. A dilapidated iron stove stood in the tiny cabin, but last night he had not wanted to waste the wood to light it.

The town council had told him he would instruct forty students. That was rather a lot, but he would have to make do. They were paying him seventy-five dollars for eleven weeks, which was better wages than most towns offered. At least the hard work would keep his mind off Kate Winter, or so he hoped. He must not dwell on her—as his father had said, if he wanted to see the end of slavery, he had to change hearts. But Rushville seemed a lonely and unlikely place to find God’s plan for his work, especially while Frederick was taking Kate for buggy rides in Westerville.

He picked up his knapsack and checked to be sure his teaching materials were in it, then added his Bible to the heavy load of paper and pencils. With a heave, he balanced the knapsack on his shoulders and pulled the rickety door of the cabin closed behind him.

Frost whitened the short grass as he walked through the trees toward the building. There it was. The one-room school had been a place of fear for Ben as a six-year-old. Mr. Morgan, the schoolmaster, was demanding and hot-tempered. Early in the term, he had given all the students the task of learning the multiplication tables in one weekend. When they returned on Monday, he stood behind each of them holding a long switch as they recited the tables. Whenever a trembling boy or girl made an error, he lashed their legs mercilessly with his switch. Then he mocked them and told them to resume their seats. Ben had memorized with all his might, but twelve multiplication tables in two days was too much for a six-year-old. His legs were covered in red welts by the time he finished. He hid the stripes from his parents, ashamed of his performance.

Ben wouldn’t be bringing a switch to class, that much was certain. Whipping was a barbaric way to educate children. Instead, he would run a calm and orderly classroom, just as he had in Blendon Township—a classroom in which learning was not driven by fear.

The stoop of the schoolhouse sagged to one side, the wood rotted. The door hung from one hinge and dragged on the ground. Once-whitewashed boards had turned grayish brown.

Inside were similar signs of neglect. Four long tables were rough and scarred. At least two of the benches sported broken or missing legs, and cracks webbed the blackboard. What a shame, as it couldn’t be more than a few years old—blackboards were only now spreading through country schools.