Sweeter than Birdsong (36 page)

Her mother looked at Aunt Mary. “Mother is . . . ?”

“Not well, of course, but hanging on. I believe she wouldn’t let herself go before you came.”

Her mother stared into her teacup, her face still, and sipped her tea. “Do you have children?”

A faint smile brought light to the older woman’s face.

“Four living. Thomas, Georgia, Geoffrey, and Richard. And five grandchildren already. And you?”

“Two daughters, Kate and Leah. Not married yet, but I expect Kate to marry a young man of great prospects soon.”

Kate turned away and stared at a portrait on the wall.

“I’m so glad. I hope our children will all meet one another soon. The family has been too long apart. I am so very sorry for that.”

Kate stole a look at her mother. Her face was stony and she set down her teacup. “I would like to see Mother.”

“Of course.” Aunt Mary set down her own cup and rose.

“Shall I come?” Kate asked.

“If you like.”

It seemed uncaring not to go with her mother, though Kate felt like an intruder as she followed. Aunt Mary’s skirt trailed behind her as she walked back into the foyer and up the long staircase.

The upstairs hall was wide and airy, soft underfoot with the same thick rugs. The dark door at the end of the hall swung open at Aunt Mary’s gentle touch.

Kate walked after her mother tentatively, but her mother stopped a few steps inside the door. In the massive, canopied bed lay a tiny, frail old woman. Kate’s mother stared in obvious disbelief. It must be shocking—what had her grandmother looked like twenty years ago? Beneath the deep wrinkles and colorless hair, Kate could make out the planes and hollows of bone that must have made her grandmother a beauty in her youth. Her eyes were open, aware behind their curtain of sagging flesh.

“Ruth,” she wheezed, a horrible, rasping sound.

Kate’s mother hesitated, then crossed to the bedside and took the sick old woman’s hand. “Yes.”

Kate’s grandmother closed her eyes, the tiniest of smiles pulling at her pursed mouth.

“She can’t speak much,” Aunt Mary said from behind them. “But she will do better tomorrow morning. She is always better in the mornings.”

Kate’s mother laid the palsied hand gently back on the bed. “Then we will speak more in the morning, Mother.” She turned to Aunt Mary, her face strained. “I am very fatigued.”

“I understand. Let me show you to your room. Michael will bring up your bags.”

She led them out, back down the hall, and into another bedroom. Old dolls and toys sat on shelves. Kate’s mother gazed around her and did not speak. An antique bed and cedar chest spoke of years of residence—her mother might even have shared that large bed with her aunt, as she and Kate would now share it for their stay.

“I will leave you to rest,” Aunt Mary said. “Do not hesitate to ring for the maid if you need anything at all.”

“Thank you,” Kate’s mother said.

Aunt Mary retreated and closed the door. Kate walked to the window and looked out. When she turned, she saw that her mother had taken an old wooden horse from the shelf and was cradling it in her arms. Her mother touched its yarn mane, gently pressed it against her heart, and bowed her head.

Thirty-Eight

January 12th, 1856      119 Walnut Street, Philadelphia

Dearest Ben
,

My mother has adamantly refused to allow our engagement. She has not lifted her ban on any communication between us, but instead has asked me to inform you of her refusal via this one letter. As you may have heard from Cornelia by now, we have left Westerville for a journey of at least a month’s time, owing to the fact that my grandmother is on her deathbed. I have never met my mother’s mother, so I cannot feel it as an intimate loss. Nevertheless, my mother has my pity
.

You and I agreed that we would not defy her will, trusting God to make away. I plan to honor that agreement, and I will not write to you again. Our last meeting already seems far away and impossible. Did it truly happen?

I cannot write more of my feelings
.

Kate

January 15th, 1856        50 Grove Street

Darling Kate
,

To say that I am deeply disappointed by your news is inadequate. I do not despair, however. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. I will pray for a change in your mother’s heart
.

Our last meeting will not fade in my memory. If I close my eyes and think of you, I can almost feel you in my arms again, and smell the soft sweetness of your hair. That is all I can do to bear the knowledge that I will not see you again for some time—at least a month’s time, and from what you have written, I suspect it may be longer.

I will wait as long as need be. Please do not forget.

Ben

He could not send that reply. He crumpled it and held its sharp folds imprisoned in his fist.

Mrs. Winter had not given Kate permission to receive a letter from Ben. Any reply he sent would be read only by Mrs. Winter, which would do nothing but harm to his cause. Though it would seem it was a cause already lost. Kate had been gone for three endless weeks.

He rose and let the ball of paper fall into the wastebasket.

“Ben.” His father’s voice called from downstairs, rousing him from his brooding.

“Yes, sir.” He walked out of his room and stood at the head of the staircase.

His father wore a work shirt and held an awl in one hand. “I need to carry a few pieces to the store. Will you assist me?”

“Of course.” Ben descended the stairs and followed his father through the kitchen, sidestepping Lizzie, Willie, and Sam, who circled the kitchen like puppies as his mother stoked the fire. They went through the cellar door and on down.

In the wet cold of the cellar, his father gathered a few bridles, slung a saddle over his arm, and nodded at the two harnesses on the bench. “Will you please get those?”

Ben draped them over his shoulder.

A clatter sounded upstairs and then grew louder as boots thumped down the steps. Cyrus bolted out on the basement floor and skidded to a stop in front of him. “Ben! Look what came in the mail.” He waved an envelope in Ben’s face.

“What? Slow down,” Ben said. “I can’t see it if you push it in my face like that.”

Cyrus steadied the envelope and moved it a few inches farther from Ben’s nose.

Oliver Ditson and Company
was the stamped return address.

“It’s the music company, isn’t it?” Cyrus asked, still breathless from his rapid descent.

His father and brother were watching him.

“Go ahead, open it,” his father said.

The envelope was thick. Ben broke the seal and withdrew a folded sheet lined with musical staves. At the top, in spiky, ornate letters,
Darling Nelly Gray
. And beneath it, almost as large as the title itself,
B. R. Hanby
.

He touched the letters that formed the title. “They’ve published it,” he said to himself.

“Clearly!” Cyrus said. “Now you will be rich and famous.”

Ben checked each page to be sure the lyrics and notes were correct. They were. “I don’t think anyone grows rich by writing songs,” Ben said. “You notice there is no payment enclosed.”

“They’ll pay you,” Cyrus said. “They’ll have to!”

“They won’t pay me much, if it sells modestly and fades away,” Ben said. “That’s what happens to most songs. Writing songs is not a living—it’s a pastime.”

“What about Stephen Foster? He must be wealthy with all the songs he’s sold.”

“He may have made some music publishers wealthy, but I’ve heard they don’t pay well. I didn’t send this song to Ditson and Co. with the hope of making my fortune.”

Cyrus shook it off like a dog shedding water. “I don’t think this song is going to fade away. You just wait and see.”

And with a sprightly hop, Cyrus snatched the music and bounded up the stairs. Ben heard his mother exclaim. But he did not feel the joy he expected. Everything was muffled, as if a muted trumpet had turned a celebratory march into flat hooting.

Thirty-Nine

B
EN BRUSHED THE DIRT CAKED ON THE GELDING’S
hocks and tapped the brush against the bottom of his boot to clean it. Gabriel had a way of dirtying himself even when snow lay on the ground—it was the way of all white horses to find any clump of mud and attach it to themselves.

His father strode into the frosty barn, breath puffing in the morning cold, a bucket of water in one gloved hand. He slid the bolt on the stall and set the bucket in front of Gabriel. Water had to be brought from the house in freezing weather like this.

“A tremendous achievement, son!” He patted Ben on the shoulders, his face alight with joy and paternal pride. He had not ceased to celebrate since the news had come in yesterday about “Darling Nelly Gray.”

“I think this calls for a holiday, perhaps some music in front of the fire, popcorn for the family. Benjamin Hanby, published songwriter.” He grinned.

“I don’t think so, Father.” Ben tried not to sound terse. “I should still go mind the store. The week’s end is approaching. Someone might come in to shop, and we don’t want to miss the business.” Ben walked out of the stall, set the brush on its shelf, and picked up the saddle to bring it into the cellar. It needed cleaning and oiling, to protect it in this cold weather.

“Wait.”

His father’s voice stopped him and he turned to look over his shoulder.

“Are you not happy, Ben?” His father tilted his head. “What is it? Don’t let the lack of money disconcert you.”

“It’s not that, Father. I expected very little money, or none at all, should the song ever be published.”

“Regardless of whether you are paid, it is a very fine song and a noble cause. I think you should allow yourself some pleasure.” He leaned his arms on the stall door.

“I would like to, but I can’t.” Ben broke off in frustration. “Shall we go? I’d like to just get on with everyday business.”

“Hold on. Set down that saddle.”

Ben did, with reluctance. His father came out of the stall and bolted it, then sat down on the bench and tapped it to offer Ben a seat next to him. Ben stayed where he was, on his feet.

“You haven’t been yourself of late, son.” His father’s voice gentled. “Is it the girl, Miss Winter? I know she has left town.”

“I asked her to marry me. She presented the matter to her mother and was summarily rejected.”

“I see.” His father reached out for the hoof pick that lay next to him on the bench and lightly ran it over his palm. Eventually he raised his eyes again. “I can’t claim to be an expert in matters of the heart. But I would like to pass on something your grandfather once told me.”

Ben made no response. His father meant well, but it was unlikely that any snippet of courting advice could alter Ben’s dismal prospects with Kate.

His father scratched the hoof pick on the bench. “When I asked your grandfather if I might propose to your mother, he told me he was very glad I had come to him first before saying anything to her. Apparently some other young buck before me had not extended him that courtesy, and instead tried to use Ann as a go-between to argue his case.” His father smiled, memory diffusing the focus of his gaze.

Ben flushed.

His father straightened up. “I don’t say this to embarrass you, son, but it appears your esteem for this woman is such that her absence deprives you of joy in the publication of your song. In that case, perhaps you need to take action.”

“But I have already made a hash of it.” Ben’s temper flickered, but he quashed it. His past indiscretion could not be taken back by anger and self-recrimination.

“Nothing is ever too far gone for an apology. Nothing. And certainly not a situation like this one. If your grandfather were here, he would tell you to do everything you can to remedy your mistake, to apologize to any you have offended, and to be humble about your flaws before God and man. Or woman, as he told me.” His mouth quirked again, but he wiped it away and returned to his sincerity. “But do not hesitate to also lay out your merits.”

“And have you ever done this?”

“Once. Why else would I have received such advice?” His father’s brown eyes were calm.

“With Mother?”

“I don’t think details are necessary.” His father stood. “We are discussing your current predicament, not mine.” He was firm, but not angry. “I think you should make amends as quickly as possible for not being straightforward with Mrs. Winter.”

“You are right, Father. I see that now. I would not behave so again.” It was hard to admit. “But they are in Philadelphia. They may not return for months. You think I should write to Kate’s mother?”

“I think you should speak to Mrs. Winter in person.”

Ben regarded his father in disbelief. “In Philadelphia?”

“You have time before the new term starts. And I have saved your earnings from your work at the school. They are yours.”

His father had such faith in him? To encourage him to go on a week’s journey, alone, in pursuit of—what? A dream? “Thank you, Father.” He pounded his gloved fists together to bring feeling back to his cold fingers. “But what of her father? I should speak to him as well, and he is here.”

“Yes, you should. Whatever his faults, he is her father. Go to him first. I cannot promise you success, just as your grandfather warned me he could not and would not control his daughter’s response. But if you feel this is the woman for you, you must do everything you can, so you will not have anything for which to reproach yourself in later years.”

“Yes, sir.” A renewed vigor began to seep through his veins, his bones, his muscles. His father had faith in the worth of this mission, no matter how foolish or doomed it might appear to others. If his father had faith, how could Ben not?