Sweeter than Birdsong (34 page)

While his mother went through the motions of taking down cups and saucers, his father came back to sit with them.

“I think it would be fitting,” he said, “for us to spend some time this evening remembering Nelly and her daughter, and praying for Frank.”

At the mention of the baby, his mother sniffled again.

His father paused but didn’t draw attention to it. “We’ll pray not only for Frank but for all others who loved someone who died in that market. And we must pray for the eternal souls of the slavers who cost them the life and freedom that only God should give and take away.” His voice was rough with sorrow. “We will pray in a few minutes. The little ones will be in bed, and Amanda can join us. Let’s go into the parlor.” He stood. They all shuffled after him, leaving Ben’s mother to the privacy of the kitchen.

In the parlor, silence still reigned. The men sat down. His father handed John a newspaper and took up a Bible himself. Cyrus followed their lead, picking up his book for Latin class.

The music eased into the air. The pain in the room lost some of its terrible edge—not much, but the ache became as much as he could bear, instead of more.

Ben was too wracked to read. He crossed to the piano, as glossy as it had been the day it arrived a year ago. Seating himself on the bench, he let his fingers pick out the opening notes of a melancholy sonata.

He hoped the music might comfort his mother in the kitchen. Could he ask Kate to take on the same kind of burden that his mother had borne for years? Some might think it utterly selfish of him to even consider bringing Kate into this way of life where she would suffer the sorrows his mother had known. The thought hung heavily on him, lingering in the last notes of the sonata as he let it fade.

He shifted into a different melody, a simpler one. He did not sing the song aloud, unwilling to disturb the others at such a solemn moment, but the words ran through his mind.
“Oh my poor Nelly Gray, they have taken you away . . .”

The time had come. Tomorrow he would finish the song, and he would send it to the big music publishing company in Chicago.

He doubted they would publish it, but he had to try. For Nelly, the baby girl, and Joseph, and all the others lost and beyond his help. The song must tell the story of what was happening to them.

He played the melody slowly, pausing after each phrase, as if his passion alone could propel the song into print.

Perhaps music could succeed where words had failed.

Thirty-Five

I
N ALL OF RECORDED HISTORY, A PIANO LESSON HAD
never caused such a moral crisis. What if Kate went to her lesson with Cornelia, only to find that her friend had once again arranged a surreptitious visit from Ben?

Her solitary walk out of the house was slow. It would have been better if she had forgotten the lesson.

If she went, she could see Cornelia and hear from her friend more of what had happened to the Hanbys, if Cornelia was privy to any details. Then again, she was wary of Cornelia’s scheming. Kate longed to see Ben, but she could not live with herself if she became a habitual breaker of her word. She passed under the graceful boughs of the trees in the quadrangle.

There was not a living soul she could ask for advice. But she knew Ben would ask God.

She closed her eyes.
God
,
please help me. I don’t know what’s right. I don’t even know whether or not to go to my lesson. Tell me what to do
.

No words answered in her head. But neither was there silence. Instead came a feeling of—someone waiting.

How was that any help? Was he listening? And if so, why wouldn’t he give her some sign of what to do?

And then words ran through her mind—like her own thoughts, but at the same time, unlike them—
Love and honor should not conflict with one another
.

That was not an answer!

But the idea refused to dissipate, floating in the back of her mind.

Was it wrong to go if Cornelia might arrange for Ben to be there? Her mother’s violent objection to Ben did not seem reasonable or fair. Kate should not reject a man who might not be wealthy, simply because he devoted himself to serving God. Surely there could be worse qualities in a husband. Did that mean her mother was wrong for forbidding her to see Ben? And if so, was that any excuse to defy her?

Kate walked faster. She didn’t know. She could only do the best she could. She would go to the lesson, but if he was there, then she would leave.

She cut across the lawn toward Cornelia’s home. Cornelia answered the door with a warm smile. Her light blue dress perfectly complemented Kate’s green one. Her auburn hair framed her face, drawn into a neat, shining twist at the nape of the neck.

“I love your dress,” Kate said. “It’s another French one, isn’t it? They’re so beautifully made.”

“Thank you. Won’t you come in?”

The house was too quiet. Usually when Mrs. Lawrence was home, she came out of the kitchen or down the stairs to greet visitors in the parlor. But Kate couldn’t hear anyone else in the house.

“Shall we begin? How did you find the new Chopin?” Cornelia asked, crossing to the piano bench.

“I was awful at first, but better now.”

The challenge of the lesson took Kate’s mind off her worries. She struck the last soft chords of an etude and looked at Cornelia.

“That was very good,” her friend said. “You could even give the last two chords a little more time to ring.”

Kate played them again.

“Oh yes, that’s lovely. I believe that finishes our lesson for the week. Well done.” Cornelia leaned back. “And I have something else for you.”

Kate took a quick breath and glanced around.

Cornelia looked uncertain. “I know you may be angry with me—”

“If Ben Hanby is here, then I must leave,” Kate said.

Cornelia touched her elbow. “It won’t do any harm to say hello. He told me he must speak with you today.”

Kate’s resolve wavered. She forced herself up on legs turned to gummy paste. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t.” She walked across the parlor to the front door.

“Then you may wish to leave through the kitchen,” Cornelia said. “He might be waiting at the front door.”

Kate whirled and ran back through the parlor and into the wood-beamed kitchen. She pushed open the door and hurried out the back way, down the kitchen stoop, watching her step to be sure she didn’t trip in her rush.

She ran into Ben. They collided so hard that she knocked the breath out of herself and he tripped backward. By instinct, she reached out for him, grabbing his arms. His heavier weight almost pulled her off her feet, but he regained his balance.

They were so close, arms entwined, her skirts brushing his trousers. She was conscious of his breathing. Their gazes locked. All she could see was the dark clarity of his eyes.

She pulled away. “Pardon me.” She laced her fingers together, her heart thumping. “That was careless of me.” She looked back at the steps as if they were somehow to blame.

“Miss Winter,” he said, “I have news for you.”

“About Frank?” Let it be good news.

“Frank is farther north again, out of reach of pursuers.” His eyes were shadowed, in spite of what should have been good news.

“What is it?”

He hesitated. “Nelly and her daughter will not be coming back to him.”

Her heart sank. “Why not? John cannot find them?”

Pain filled his face. “They became ill—they have passed away.”

She turned from him, breathless. She must sit. A few staggered steps brought her to the stoop, but her skirt tangled around her feet and she fell to her knees on the wooden stairs.

“Miss Winter.” Ben rushed to her side. She clutched at the step—its grain seemed so coarse—she dragged in a shallow breath.

He took her hand and assisted her to turn and sit. She clung to his hand, not caring about propriety at all.

“It’s sad. It’s sad.” She spoke through a numb glaze, as if she observed herself from a distance. But the words released something and water welled in her eyes.

Ben sat down next to her. “I am sorry,” he said in a low voice, cradling her hand in both of his.

“Her baby girl too?”

“Yes.” He seemed to understand the realization was slow and awful, and had to be spoken from the head into the heart, word by painful word.

Tears slipped down her face.

“I regret having brought you into such circumstances. I never meant to cause you sorrow. If I could undo it, I would,” Ben said. He pulled out a folded linen handkerchief and offered it to her.

“I would not undo it.” She blotted the tears from her face with her free hand, but her voice was still thick with them. “I cannot wish myself blind. I only wish my eyes had not been opened at the cost of their lives.” Somehow it did not matter if he saw her weeping—he looked as if he were on the verge himself.

“But I cannot stand to see you hurt,” he said. “I love you.” The sweetness of his words stirred into the bitterness of the news like a trail of ink in water. She sat in silence with him, the ache beneath her bodice so great she thought it would split her in two. Time passed, she did not know how long—only that even in the pain, he loved her and she was not alone.

He went to his knees on the step below her and lifted her hand gently in his, bringing the inside of her wrist to his lips. He reached out with his other hand to touch her cheek.

She looked at him, speechless, her soul laid open by sorrow, longing for his comfort.

“I want you to be my wife, Kate. I’ve thought of little else for months. But I can’t bring you more of this—more death, more suffering.”

“But with you, I might help,” she said. “How many more are there like Nelly? I can’t forget her.” Her lips trembled and she pressed them together to stop it.

He stood and lifted her to him in one fervent motion, his arms around her as she melted into the strength of his embrace, the reassurance and passion that poured from him and circled her shoulders. She breathed in his warm, clean scent in the hollow of his neck, and did not want to move, ever. She drew strength from him, as if she could face any sorrow, even the loss of the baby girl, if Ben would hold her in his arms and walk with her through it. His goodness fell on her like a fragment of heaven, an imperfect mirror giving evidence of something better beyond either of them.

He stepped back and looked her full in the face with dark, intent eyes. “We will be honest with your mother. We won’t hide anything again.” His hands remained steady at her sides. “Will you marry me, Kate? Can you trust that God will make a way for us, if he favors what we intend?”

She felt the purity of his intentions, his compassion, like a tide pulling her toward him. “I don’t know if it’s right to agree, given my mother’s opinion.”

“It can’t be wrong if we are open and conceal nothing from her.”

“But she has already stated her opposition,” Kate said. “And I confess I would be afraid to tell her.”

“You may honor your parents and still plead with them for the righteousness of our cause.”

She crossed her arms, torn.

He moved closer and laid a warm hand behind her elbow. “Kate, please say you will marry me. If God makes a way.”

He looked as if he was holding his breath. She was holding hers as well.

She let out a sigh. “I will, if God makes a way. Which means changing my mother’s mind.”

His face lit up, and he trailed his hand from her elbow to her wrist, brought her hand up to his lips, and kissed it with reverence. A tingle ran up her arm.

“I will never give you cause to regret your choice,” he said, still holding her hands.

“What do we do now?” she asked, shy.

He was serious. “I suppose we must speak to our parents.”

She quailed at the thought. “I will need to talk to my mother alone.” God would make a way, as Ben said.

But it was hard to believe even the Lord himself could change her mother’s mind.

Thirty-Six

S
HE COULD NOT AFFORD TO LOOK WEAK OR CHILDISH.
The glass showed Kate that her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, her cheeks pale. She moved to the washstand and poured some water from the porcelain pitcher into the washbowl. After wrapping a towel around her neck to protect her dress, she cupped the cool water in her hands and bathed her hot face. When she dried off and looked in the mirror, she approved of her altered appearance.

Her mother was in her own bedroom, odd for this time of the afternoon when she would ordinarily go to the homes of other prominent townspeople to visit. But since the arrival of the letter from Philadelphia, she had kept to her room. She had been quiet and withdrawn instead of assuming her usual commanding demeanor. But her mother’s lowered brow and snappish tone did not bode well for her general state of mind.

Kate opened her door and walked along the upstairs hallway. Midway on her short journey, she had to pause and steady herself with one hand against the wall. God would make a way. She continued to the closed door of the bedroom and made herself give three sharp, confident knocks on the wood.

Her mother opened the door. She was clad in a rust-colored day dress, her dark hair pulled back, her white face impassive. “What is it?”

“I must discuss something with you.” Kate kept her chin up and her gaze steady. “May I come in?”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed in irritation, but she moved back to let Kate enter.

Kate seldom went in her parents’ bedroom. There was something uncomfortable about it, with its massive mahogany bedposts, dark green bedcoverings, and a heavy rug that suffocated any sound. It was more like a mausoleum than a place where people slept. Kate crossed to one of the two high-backed chairs placed against the walls. “Would you like to sit?” she asked her mother. “This will take some time.”

Her mother’s eyebrows rose, creating the wrinkles in her forehead that she had managed to stave off for so many years. She glided to the other chair and sat with controlled grace, regarding Kate, daring her to begin.

“You have forbidden me to associate with Ben Hanby.” Quite a feat that she had even managed to say his name in this house without stammering. Her mother’s lips curled in derision, but she still said nothing, her hands folded atop the tiers of her skirt.