Sweeter than Birdsong (30 page)

I do not expect you will respond to this letter. I realize you have considerations that are beyond your control. But I hope you will accept this, and read it, and know that I am humbly

Yours,
Ben Hanby

December 27th, 1855                   50 Grove Street

My dear Miss Winter,

For propriety’s sake, I have delayed as long as possible in writing to you again—that is, all of two days. But even as I write the word “propriety,” I scoff at myself. Propriety has nothing to do with this letter. Instead, I am motivated only by my hope that you may continue to think of me. I was overjoyed to hear that you had accepted my first letter. Miss Lawrence tells me you were reluctant, but I am grateful that you showed compassion for my desire to write to you.

A new year approaches. Who knows what it may bring for each of us? I have been composing two songs. One of them is dedicated to Nelly and relates the story of her life—I have been attempting to write it for years, but at last it seems to be taking shape. The other song is inspired by you, though the melody cannot hold a candle to the real presence it attempts to suggest.

Writing makes bearable my longing to speak with you, but I am still pursued at every turn by the vision of you as I last saw you, radiant with gentleness and beauty. There were many things I wished to say to you. But I presume too much.

The moments are bleak indeed when I think we may never be permitted to resume our friendship. But I refuse to accept that future, for it would be as dismal to me as a life behind bars. This temporary prohibition from your company is trial enough.

Through that trial or any other, I remain faithfully

Yours,
Ben Hanby

December 28th, 1855                   71 Northwest Street

Mr. Hanby,

I cannot deny that I was pleased to read your letters, but I am conscience-stricken by my decision to accept them from Cornelia. As you know, my mother has forbidden me to associate with you, and though an exchange of letters does not violate that instruction, it certainly violates the spirit in which her command was intended.

Regretfully,
Kate Winter

December 30th, 1855                   50 Grove Street

My dear Miss Winter,

I do not blame you if you are angry with me for writing to you in direct disobedience to your express wish. Nonetheless, I must risk your anger, for I fear if I do not, I will risk much worse.

To say I was downcast after receiving your letter would be insufficient. I was in the darkest of moods, avoiding all conversation and keeping only my own company to hide my desolate state from any prying eyes or ears.

I know you may be tempted to throw down this letter at any moment, if you read it at all, so I will be very direct. I think there is great harmony between our temperaments. When I am with you, I see you are affected deeply by the suffering of the innocent and you wish to alleviate it, as I do. Even you may not realize that the source of your compassion for others is your own passionate nature. (I expect you may have just cast this paper away from you, but I will continue in the hope that curiosity will drive you to take it up again.)

I will not attempt to persuade you to any course of action, but simply plead that you follow the true inclination of your heart. If that inclination leads you away from me, I must accept that decision. But if there is any atom of you that wonders if I may be correct in the presumptuous things I have written to you, then I beg you not to do what is easy and expected. Instead give me at least some time to find a way to remain

Truly yours,
Ben Hanby

Thirty-One

K
ATE URGED GARNET A FEW STEPS TO THE RIGHT TO
clear the path for Mr. Jones’s horse, a huge gray that must have Percheron in its blood. It had hooves the size of dinner plates and muscular shoulders and haunches that could easily support Mr. Jones’s considerable bulk. He was not a bad rider for a man of his size: one could tell when a rider knew how to sit with balance, even when he was carrying extra weight.

The dogs milled around their handlers, whining and waving their tails. One horse stood in the yard while its gentleman rider mounted its polished saddle. Another horse danced away from a second young man, who had one foot already in the stirrup. He hopped after his horse and jumped up as quickly as he could with an embarrassed glance at the others. The ladies had already seated themselves on their horses, one by one, around the corner, with the aid of the mounting block and a groom.

Mrs. Jones rode up to Kate on a delicate bay horse taller than Garnet. She wore a black hat and riding habit that made her blond coloring more striking. “Good morning, Miss Winter.” She appraised Kate with a glance up to her neat riding hat and all the way down to the hem of her green habit without changing her expression in the least.

“Good morning, Mrs. Jones.” It was not a pleasure to see Frederick’s mother—or at least, not a pleasure to be inspected like a horse at auction. Perhaps Kate should open her mouth and let the other woman count her teeth. But, of course, she did not.

“Have you seen my son?”

“No, ma’am.” She had forced herself to come this morning, precisely because she dreaded this moment when she had feared Frederick’s mother might treat her as a conniving flirt.

“Well, he will be riding with the men, I believe, so he will not have the opportunity for much conversation.”

Kate’s cheeks burned, even in the crisp air. She was not even interested in Frederick’s attentions. But her protest of innocence spoke only through the blood that rushed to her face, which would no doubt be read as guilt. She must look like a Christmas ornament, with red cheeks and green dress.

A blast from a bugle drew all eyes to Mr. Westerfield, the town founder, in his neat scarlet hunting blazer and black hat. “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to our inaugural Westerville Fox Hunt,” he said. “As your Master of Hounds, I would like to thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

Cornelia pulled her dapple gray horse up next to Kate. “Don’t forget you are riding with the ladies,” she whispered, and smiled. Kate had confided to her about the jumping.

Cornelia’s habit and hat were the proper black for the hunt, like Mrs. Jones’s, but Kate had only one habit and so she had to make do with green. There had not been time to acquire a complete new habit in the two weeks since Mr. Westerfield had announced the hunt. Her mother had asked if she shouldn’t have a new one rushed by a tailor in Columbus, but Kate did not want such effort or expense for a onetime luxury. Especially when she would not even be able to jump like the gentlemen. Much of the joy of the chase would vanish when she, Cornelia, and the other ladies had to ride sedately through gates and wait for them to be opened by whichever gentleman was unlucky enough to earn that task.

“Mr. Brewer, will you accompany the ladies?” Mr. Westerfield asked a young man across the yard. His thin face fell, making him look like Ichabod Crane on his bony horse.

Frederick called out, “I will be delighted to accompany them, sir. No greater honor or pleasure.” He tipped his hat at Kate from where he sat on his horse by the hounds.

Oh, Mrs. Jones would certainly not be pleased. Kate did not look in her direction. Frederick was being gallant, but far better for him to have ridden with the gentlemen and paid no attention to Kate.

Mr. Jones gave his son a knowing look, but not a disapproving one. So. It was only Frederick’s mother who thought ill of Kate, and not both parents.

Frederick reined his own black horse toward Kate and the other ladies. His mount was much like his father’s, though not as large. Still, it towered a whole hand above Garnet, and given Frederick’s own height, they made an imposing pair.

“Ladies,” Frederick said, “good morning, and a beautiful morning because you ride with the hunt.” He touched his hat and smiled.

He certainly was charming. Kate could only imagine his effect on hearts less distracted than hers. Under the circumstances, however, she would rather he stayed away or at least refrained from speaking to her on the hunt.

Mr. Westerfield rallied the whippers-in, who took the pack ahead down the lane. The tan and white hounds ran from side to side with noses sweeping the ground. A cheerful hubbub of voices mixed with hoofbeats and the jingle of bridles as the party followed in pairs, gentlemen first, then the ladies and Frederick.

Frederick trotted up beside Kate and let his horse fall into a tandem walk with Kate’s mare.

“You are an accomplished rider, Miss Winter, on the flat as well as over fences.” He grinned.

“I have ridden a great deal, Mr. Jones.”

“A gentle hand at the reins is a telltale sign.”

She had no reply. She must avoid the thought of his mother glaring at their backs if she wished to be able to converse at all.

“I would like to ride with you one afternoon, instead of always taking the buggy.”

She nodded.

“Excellent. If you’ll excuse me, I must go speak to my father for a moment. I’ll return.”

The haunches of his horse rippled as he trotted past the line of gentlemen to the front, where his father rode behind the dogs.

One of the hounds bayed, then they all joined in the discordant call and ran straight ahead. The bugle blasted, and the horses jumped and skittered on the road as the gentlemen gathered their reins. At a signal from Mr. Jones, the gentlemen’s horses took off at a swift gallop, down the road toward the woods ahead.

They were thirty yards away when Garnet lurched forward and galloped in their wake, her head thrust forward and up as she seized the bit in her mouth. Kate pulled hard at the reins, but the mare’s muscular neck was set against her. The thoroughbred blood was up, and the horse was no longer under Kate’s control. Instead of following the hunt, she ran uphill toward the woods.

The trees ahead rushed closer and closer, and the mare’s speed jarred Kate’s thought into fragments.
Cannot dismount . . . trees may be low . . . Garnet may fall .
. .

All she could do was stay in the saddle and try to survive uninjured. Garnet bolted onto the wide path between the trees, which quickly narrowed. Garnet veered too close to the trees, and the branches reached toward Kate. She flung herself down and clung to Garnet’s neck as twigs scraped her back.

The path twisted and rose uphill, and none of the other horses were in sight. Finally, the uphill gallop took its toll, and Garnet dropped back to a canter. When Kate twitched the reins, the mare trotted and finally slowed to a halt, blowing hard, head lowered, the mania gone.

Kate took a shuddering breath. She was as firm in the saddle as ever. She had escaped harm, though she was now a sack of jelly on Garnet’s back. But she had two choices. She could try to find the hunt party or wait where she was and hope they passed her again in the woods as they gave chase. The ladies would know what had happened, but she had not seen any of the men look back when Garnet bolted.

She waited a few minutes, allowing her breathing to slow. Then she gathered the reins and asked Garnet to walk. The mare obeyed, her instinct to run played out.

Kate guided her through the trees for a few minutes. Which way had she turned in her wild ride? Thank goodness she had missed that particular branch over there while riding too fast to see. The distant cry of the hounds came to her. She must ride in their direction and hope it brought her out of the woods.

More riding through the trees brought the sound closer, until it stopped abruptly. The fox had gone to ground. Good. The riding was exhilarating—or would be, if she were allowed to jump—but the hunting part did not appeal to her.

Garnet walked on until the path ended at the smooth, opaque whiteness of the frozen creek. Now where? She must turn around.

“Miss Winter,” a voice called through the trees.

Frederick rode toward her on his ebony horse, ducking and pushing aside branches that poked at his face. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I am quite well. Garnet has not had enough exercise of late—she lost her head for a moment. But now she is calm.”

“Stop here and we’ll listen for the rest of the hunt,” Frederick said.

“It sounded as if they went to ground over that way.” She pointed.

“Good. Let’s ride there and hope for the best.”

“Thank you for coming after me.”

“Of course.” His glance lingered on her. “I was concerned for you. Your welfare is of great importance to me.”

She must change the subject, now. Something controversial and completely distracting. “Mr. Jones, the game of charades the other evening . . .”

“Yes?” He flushed.

“Are you and your father supporters of slavery? I am sorry to be so direct, but I feel I must know.” An inflammatory question indeed, and thus the perfect diversion.

Frederick sighed. “We support our country, Miss Winter. And the abolitionist movement will lead to secession. My father believes it, and I believe it too. So we must oppose it, and all of its illegal activities.”

“I see.” She looked away, straight ahead between her horse’s ears.

“That displeases you.”

“Yes.”

“If only you knew some of the things I have been told,” Frederick said, almost pleading. “Women have been attacked and property destroyed everywhere that slavery has been cast aside. Even the Negro fugitives on their way to Canada commit crimes, outrages against women and children . . .” He stopped, flushing.

“I do not believe you,” she said. She must keep her temper.

“It is true! I will tell you something in confidence, to help you understand. My father just heard that the marshal’s men in Columbus caught a slave, a fugitive, breaking into someone’s home, to do who knows what evil. Under duress, this slave confessed that the Hanby family had helped him escape from Kentucky to Canada only six months ago. The parents of my closest friend! It grieves me to no end.”

“Pardon me? That does not seem likely.” Thank goodness he could not hear the hammering of her heart. She breathed slowly—she must not show her distress. “Why would the slave come back, if he had escaped?”