Sweeter than Birdsong (38 page)

Kate’s mother spun around the ballroom, her red dress swinging in a graceful arc, dancing with Mr. Cutler, of all people, as if not a day had passed since her debut. Her face was rosy and she smiled and laughed. She must have been a beauty, indeed, when she danced in these rooms as a young lady. Wistfulness touched Kate’s thoughts. If her mother’s heart had never been broken, would she still smile and laugh the way she did here? Or even weep, as Kate had seen her eyes shine with unshed tears once or twice since they arrived.

The cymbals crashed and the dance ended in a fanfare of trumpets. Mr. Cutler led her mother off the floor in Kate’s direction.

“Miss Winter, I have had the pleasure of meeting and dancing with your mother. She is not as fatigued as you, it seems.” He wore a barbed smile, but seemed to be only teasing.

“The musicians are leaving?” Kate asked.

Mr. Cutler laughed. “Only taking an intermission to catch their breath. Perhaps you and your mother will accompany me to the refreshments in the next room.”

“We would love refreshments.” Her mother smiled again, a natural smile warmed by the color in her cheeks, not the social one Kate had seen all these years.

He escorted them into the antechamber where portraits of George Washington and Samuel Powel hung on the walls. A silver punch bowl of immense proportions stood beaded with moisture in the middle of a table covered with fruit and flowers. Where had they obtained such things in late winter? Servants circled the room with trays, offering hors d’oeuvres such as truffles and tiny deboned quail stuffed with crab.

Mr. Cutler offered her a crystal glass full of punch and sipped his own, dabbing the red stain it left on his lips with a white lace serviette. Kate sipped more carefully to avoid the pomegranate’s mark that reddened the lips of punch-drinkers across the room.

“Miss Winter, your cousin mentioned
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
earlier,” Mr. Cutler said.

She turned to face him. He was going to raise the subject again, and she was not as skilled at slipping away as Georgia.

“Yes,” her mother said before Kate could summon an answer. “I am not certain I shall let my daughter go, even though Mrs. Adams is attempting to find tickets.”

“That is very wise. A pack of lies dressed up in sentiment. Divisive and destructive.” His cheeks were reddening to match his lips. Her mother should end this conversation. Kate fidgeted and looked around for Georgia.

“Have you read the novel, Mrs. Winter?” Mr. Cutler asked.

“I have not. I shun politics. I prefer a gracious life.”

“You are an ideal woman.” He lifted his glass. “I toast your femininity.” When he lowered it, he appeared friendlier and his face returned to its normal color. “But I will tell you this. The slaves that woman depicts in her novel do not exist. She attempts to make what is bestial seem human, and thus garner undeserved sympathy.”

This man knew nothing of slavery. He must never have met a slave, or perhaps he had seen them and never spoken to them. Men like him had sent Nelly to her death. Little coals began to light themselves, one by one, in Kate’s mind, like fires of remembrance for Nelly and her baby.

“I am well acquainted with plantation owners,” Mr. Cutler said with self-satisfaction. “The beatings, the atrocities Stowe portrays—well, if they happen at all, they are isolated occurrences, only the rarest situations. And only to the most savage of the creatures.”

Even her mother looked uncomfortable. “As I said, I prefer to avoid politics, Mr. Cutler.”

“Very wise, very wise. In that way you will not be deceived. Slave families are not broken apart routinely, as Stowe implies. The young ones grow up and then often ask to be sold away to find new mates. But they are not like us. Their affections are fickle and fleeting. They cannot sustain any bond, not even between parents and children. They forget one another and find new fancies.”

The coals burst into a full flame. “Really, Mr. Cutler? I must beg to differ.”

Mr. Cutler and her mother stared at her.

“I have known these things to happen, the beatings, the hunting down of innocent people by dogs,” Kate said. “And most of all, I have seen slave families torn apart.” Her calm was almost eerie, belied only by her quick breath. “So I must refute your points. And I find it utterly objectionable for you to say such things at any time, but especially on an occasion such as this one.”

Georgia and Arthur walked up behind her mother and halted in their shining clothing, glasses of punch arrested in midair, eyes wide.

“No matter how rare you say these atrocities are—and I do not believe they are—even a few is too many. It is an evil blot on our nation. It is a shameful foundation for what you call the Union, and a union built on shame will not survive.” Fragments of things she had thought since her journey with the Fosters melted and rejoined themselves into articulate speech. “I’ve looked into the eyes of Negroes and seen human souls. Fathers, mothers, and daughters.” Her voice remained steady. “I wonder if I would see the same in your eyes, Mr. Cutler. And if you do not wish to hear the thoughts of others on controversial subjects, then kindly keep yours to yourself.”

Georgia laid a hand on her shoulder. “Well said, Miss Winter.”

“Hear, hear,” Arthur said. They looked stunned but not mortified. Instead, they took positions flanking her and glowered at Mr. Cutler. From the corner of her eye, Kate saw Arthur’s lip curl.

“I see the lady knows her own mind.” Mr. Cutler was scarlet from his collar to his hairline and seemed about to burst his necktie.

“Yes, I believe I do,” Kate said.

“Good evening.” He gave the barest sketch of a bow with a curt jerk of the head and turned on his heel. His coattails flapped as he headed toward the main doors of the house.

Kate’s mother glanced from Georgia to Arthur. “I must apologize for my daughter—”

“Not at all,” Arthur said. “It is we who should apologize for leaving you in the company of that odious person for even one minute. Miss Winter, I hope you are not too shaken. I will take you home if you wish.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Adams.” She took a deep breath. “I find I am looking forward to the rest of the evening.”

The music started again in the other room with a swirl of violins. Georgia smiled at her. “Shall we go in?”

“Yes, please,” Kate said.

Her mother wore an unreadable expression, one Kate had never seen before. If she did not know better, she might think her mother had been moved by Kate’s outburst. But that was wishful thinking, of course. No telling what her mother would say about her breach of etiquette the next time they were alone. No doubt she would chastise Kate for speaking of politics, and the scene would not be pleasant.

But Kate was not sorry for it. And she knew, beyond a doubt, what would be the subject of her first public oration at Otterbein.

Forty-One

“P
ITTSBURGH, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN
! U
NION
Station!” The conductor pulled open the heavy door between the cars with no trouble and crossed the link. His bent legs kept his balance as well as any sailor’s as he stepped into the next car and vanished from Ben’s sight.

The air shimmered with the heat of the woodstove down by the door, but here in the middle of the car, Ben had to pull his muffler closer to his neck against the cold. Woodstoves could not combat the drafts from the windows of a wooden box on wheels, speeding across the landscape at twenty miles per hour.

The train slowed to a crawl past the buildings on either side, but everything was blanketed in white and Ben could not distinguish one from another. The train crept to a halt, with a final jerk to announce its arrival.

He would stop here before switching to the Pennsylvania Railroad, the last leg of the journey to Philadelphia, the city named for love. Appropriate, on this lover’s mission—though his was certainly not the brotherly affection the name referred to. The image of Kate drove the discomforts of the journey from his mind. His need to see her was so strong that he had dreamed of her face in his restless sleep.

His traveling case sat beside him on the floor. He hefted it in one hand and headed for the same door the conductor had used. The step down to the platform was steep, but he had taken it several times now on the journey and found sure purchase even in the slush over the bricks.

He had arrived at the far end and must walk down to the station door. The platform was a study in gray and white, the shrouded snowbanks on either end of the station broken by sooty walkways under the roof. Cold moisture hung in the air like mist or a fine drifting rain. A crowd of passengers disembarked at the end of each car, women stepping down with the aid of the conductor or their male traveling companions. Ben passed the smoking car where a middle-aged gentleman with a gray beard emerged with pipe still in hand, even in his greatcoat. After him, a dark-skinned woman moved into the opening between cars and looked down at the treacherous step.

Nelly
.

For a moment, it did seem to be her—the same dark hair, heavy-lidded eyes, still face. But when she looked up, her nose was broader and her face rounder than Nelly’s. The painful contraction of his chest did not ease.

The woman glanced from side to side and grasped the handle beside her. The porters would not help her down, of course, not with so many white passengers on the train.

Ben quickened his step and made it to her before she took the risk of descending alone.

“May I assist you down, ma’am?” He held out a gloved hand.

“Why, thank you, sir.” She accepted his hand, and as she stepped down, he had to catch her elbow to ensure she kept her balance.

“May I take that bag for you, ma’am?” Her luggage seemed to consist of one threadbare valise she had set on the link behind her to make her descent. He reached in and lifted it down.

“You are very kind.” Her voice was not like Nelly’s either. It lacked the Southern cadence.

“You are headed into the station?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll accompany you, as I’m headed there myself.” He slowed his walk to allow her to keep up in her female attire that made slick walkways more precarious.

Inside the building, the temperature was more comfortable, though the air reeked of stale cigars and wet wool from the overcoats of travelers. “Are you continuing by rail, ma’am?”

“No, sir, I’m meeting my sister here. Coming to live with my family.”

“A happy occasion.” His smile felt halfhearted. She did look so like Nelly from the side.

Rows of benches sat along the walls of the station. “Would you like to sit to wait for your family?”

“That would be fine.” She made her way to the nearest bench and seated herself with care, like a lady. He placed the valise beside her.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course, ma’am. Are you certain they will come for you?”

“Oh yes.” She grinned. “They know what’ll happen if they don’t.”

He smiled in return. “Good afternoon, then.”

She focused her attention on the station door to the street. He turned to go and fought off his unease. It seemed an ill portent for his journey, to meet Nelly’s double here. Perhaps God was sending him a message. But he had told Kate he would pursue his path—and her—with all his heart, and so he should, whether his spirits were high or low.

“Paper! Paper!” a boy called from just inside the door, holding one in his hand.

“I’ll take one,” Ben said.

“Very good, sir, the best news in town!”

He pressed a coin in the boy’s hand and took the paper. The
Pittsburgh Gazette
, since 1786, read the banner.

Then this paper had existed long before even his father’s days in Pittsburgh. He folded it in one hand and went out through the station door into a wintry blast of wind.

Hackney cabs waited outside. He approached one driver who hunched against the wind, and his poor horses looked half frozen as well, leaning into one another. “I’d like to go to a hotel: one without lice in its beds, if I can.”

“I’ll get you to a good one, sir.” The driver straightened up at the prospect of a fare.

Soon Ben was aboard under the half roof, and the hackney made its slow way through the snow-covered streets. They were not crammed with coaches and wagons as his mother had described to him. The snow had kept all but the most determined of workers and shoppers indoors. But the shops seemed to be open, judging from the lights inside. There was a glover, a seller of spirits, and a grocer. And what was that sign half covered by ice? Palmer and Sons, Music.

The cab stopped. “Right there, sir.” The driver pointed the tip of a gloved finger at a large building across the street. “Liberty Hotel. Nice and clean, but not too hard on the purse. And they even have a piano player some nights.”

“Here you are.” Ben pressed money into the man’s hand and jumped down into the snow, then lifted his traveling case from the luggage rack. As the cab pulled away, he hefted his case in one hand and turned around to head for Palmer’s Music. He could not walk past an entire store devoted to music without investigating.

The bell rang and he tapped the snow off his boots on the entry mat. No proprietor came out, so he walked farther in, to the spectacle of entire racks of sheet music. The song titles ranked in alphabetical order, scores of them. A cursory inspection showed at least fifty percent must be Stephen Foster’s. The man had genius, no doubt of that. Ben inched down the aisle past “Camptown Races” and toward the Ds.

Just a blank space in the rack where “Darling Nelly Gray” should appear. No sign of his song.

Well, he should not have been so vain as to think his song would be in every store in the land. But he had hoped—he had hoped. It had seemed his one chance to use his gift for a serious purpose. He should not have placed such hope in it, among all the hundreds of songs published each year.

And why couldn’t he get Nelly’s face out of his mind?

Head down, he left the store. The proprietor never came out.

Across the street, the hotel beckoned. He pushed through the gusts of wind and in through the heavy door.