Sweeter than Birdsong (7 page)

The lyrics were a lover’s blessing. Warmth rushed up her neck, and yet the song was comforting in its promise of protection.

Trees where you live
Shall crowd into a shade

His baritone was so honest, as if it sprang from a bared soul. His gaze traveled to her.

Trees where you live
Shall crowd into a shade.

Her face grew hot, and yet she could not look away from the intimacy of his song.

He stopped. His cheekbones had taken a higher color as he turned to the string players. “Well done. Now we shall let Miss Winter show us how it should truly be sung.”

She did not like to refuse his humble request, especially after he had surmounted his own shyness in order to help her. And his dark eyes revealed his sincere desire to hear her attempt the song.

“But I am afraid to be watched,” Kate said.

“Then I will not look at you.” He was not jesting but considerate. “Please, come stand here, and I’ll hold the music for you. Then you won’t have to see any of us, nor will we watch you.” His plea drew her to her feet. She crossed to him and stood at his elbow, keeping her eyes on the sheet music in his hands.

When the music soared, he pointed to the cello line to give her the place. She opened her mouth—and a squeak emerged.

She covered her face with her hands. He would think her such a fool. A familiar chill shuddered over her—no, it must not happen again. She lowered her hands, her heart fluttering.

“You have a lovely voice,” he said gently. “Only remember to breathe. And give it to God, not to us.”

An unusual thought. As if God were listening to something as insignificant as her voice. Ben Hanby was so kind, but her mother would certainly think that a fanatical thing to say. She did not turn toward him. He was unsettlingly close as it was.

“I suffer from shyness myself in singing.” He looked at the music stand, his hair falling over his brow in profile. “It helps to imagine yourself in another setting, a place in which you are completely at ease.”

That would not help, with her life encircled by the walls of her house, the Otterbein college campus, or, at most, the boundaries of Westerville.

But she did have her view from Garnet’s back, her rides through the woods and fields. She envisioned the outdoor scene and summoned the confidence that filled her when she jumped.

“Take a single, slow breath when the violin begins.” He must have given the signal, for Cyrus began to play again and Amanda’s violin joined in, back in the higher key. Kate inhaled as he had instructed, steadying herself, staring at the lines of notes on the staff. Her voice would be strong, like a horse soaring over a fence. She opened her mouth and the song glided out, buoyed by her breath.

Where e’er you walk
Cool gales shall fan the glade.

She sang in her octave, a light soprano. The strings supported her, surrounded her, helped her feel less exposed.

Trees where you live
Shall crowd into a shade . . .

She ended the last phrase, and the string players let their own notes drift across the room into silence.

“Miss Winter, my brother did not exaggerate.” Amanda laid her bow in her lap, a look of wonder on her oval face. “Your voice is sublime. I could listen to you sing for hours.”

Kate lowered her head and muttered a thank-you. Perhaps Amanda was merely as gracious as her brother Ben. But even Cyrus was unusually quiet.

She had waited too long. Now she had done what he wished— he had heard her sing it. She must no longer delay.

“I am sorry, Mr. Hanby, but I must be going.” She knotted her hands together in front of her and stared at her knuckles.

“So soon?” His eyebrows rose. “Well, you sang admirably. We can rehearse again next week. May I escort you to the door?”

“Good day, Miss Winter,” Amanda said.

Cyrus rose and bowed.
“Au revoir.”

Kate had to hide a smile, especially when Ben sent an annoyed look at his younger brother.

He ushered her out of the recital room and followed her into the hallway.

Now she must tell him, whether she liked it or not. It might be her only chance to do so in private. She turned toward him as they walked, her throat drying out. “Mr. Hanby, I must take you in my confidence for the good of your production.”

He stopped in midstride, surprised, and she had to halt next to him to keep her tone low. No one seemed to be around to witness their impropriety of standing unchaperoned in the hall. She must be quick.

“I will not be able to sing in the musicale. You must replace me.”

“But you can. You just did.”

“My fear of the stage is too great. I would ruin it.” It was the truth, or part of it, and it spared her from revealing more. The less said of her family, the better. She must hope he would not reveal a replacement for her yet, so her mother would not hear.

“I believe you can do it.”

“No, I cannot.” Her voice rose above the heightened thudding of her heart. She turned on her heel and hurried to the door and out.

“Miss Winter, please.”

He had followed her into the dim hallway. With a few hurried strides, he stepped ahead of her and turned into her path. She came to an abrupt halt.

“Your voice is a gift from God himself.” He moved so close she could see a pulse flicker in his skin just above the collar. “He made things of beauty to help us through the uglier aspects of life. That is what your voice should do for others. It is not meant to be hidden away.”

She looked at the floor. She could not possibly articulate to him all the reasons why what he had said was not true. And her thoughts on God were far too private to speak aloud, let alone to a man.

“I will not give up hope that you might change your mind,” he said.

She must say something to deter him. She averted her gaze and whispered, “I do not have any courage to spare, Mr. Hanby. I must save what little I have for more serious matters.”

She sidestepped him and hurried on, her boots clicking on the polished floor. He kept pace at the edge of her vision and opened the heavy oak door for her. She rushed down the stairs and fled across the quadrangle without glancing back.

Eight

T
HE HOUR BEFORE DAWN WAS BEST FOR TRAVELING
unnoticed—still dim, but providing enough light to see the road. Ben must ride past the luxurious homes on Northwest Street to get to his destination. No one would be awake except the servants, which was ideal. The fewer witnesses, the better.

His white horse picked its way up the dirt road. Some early riser might step to a bay window and wonder at the shape of Gabriel slipping ghostlike up the street. His hooves made little sound on the packed earth.

That redbrick house ahead on the left was Kate Winter’s house. Few Westerville citizens had both a barn and a stable as their family did, but how Isaiah Winter made his money was a mystery. He was as much a cipher as his daughter.

The arched, white-framed windows on the second story drew Ben’s gaze. Was one of them her room? She had been so enigmatic yesterday at rehearsal, such a study in contradictions. When she sang, the silvery voice issuing from this angelic creature with luminous skin, rich dress, and shining hair had created a moment of artistic perfection. The reverent silence after her song from both Amanda and Cyrus proved that Ben was not the only spectator to feel the mingled power of art and physical beauty. But then came the contradiction—her inexplicable fear, which made her believe she could not share her gift with others. He would never press her to sing against her will, but he was drawn in now, both by Miss Winter’s superior qualities and her inability to express them. Perhaps if he helped her through the musicale, he could free her from the suffocating coils of her phobia.

As Gabriel walked past the iron gate in front of her house, Ben stole another look at the upper windows. A curtain twitched aside. She was there, her head and shoulders visible as if she sat for a portrait. Even in the grayish light, he saw a stillness come over her as she registered his presence on Gabriel. He took his hat in one hand and lifted it to her, bowing his head as a courtesy. A faint smile graced her lips.

Behind her, another face loomed high and proud behind the glass. Mrs. Winter, he presumed. She did not look pleased to see Ben at all and fixed him with an icy stare, her black hair and light skin so like her daughter’s, but hard and cold as a mask. He settled his hat back on his head, the smile dying from his face and warmth suffusing his neck. Mrs. Winter raised a hand and pulled the heavy velvet drape over the window.

He had done nothing of which he should be ashamed, by a simple greeting to a lady of his acquaintance. But Mrs. Winter’s look had accused him as if he were a scruffy Italian serenader asking for coins.

He must keep his mind on his errand, which outweighed the prejudice of a sharp-eyed matron. But he would not return by this road.

A few twists of the rope tied his horse to the tree trunk. Ben stepped over branches flung down by spring storms, careful not to snap any and announce his passage.

He must be quiet now, and approach the dark cabin with alert senses. One never knew who might be watching the free black settlement at Africa Road, and he must not be spotted by hostile eyes. Especially not today, when the man he sought might be inside. He pulled his hat low on his brow to hide his face.

He found the shelter of a tree only yards from the back window. The clearing around the cabin was empty. He could approach.

Something jerked at his neck and lifted him off his feet, knocking his hat off. He fell back, kicked and struggled, clawed his fingers into the rock-hard arm at his throat. He turned his head an inch to the side, all he could manage, the breath whistling in his cramped air pipe. The dark face next to him was familiar. He did not have enough air to speak. Beside his ear, the hammer of a pistol clicked.

He must croak it out. “John!”

The deadly pressure at his throat eased. “Ben?”

Ben staggered up to his feet, gasped in a deep breath, and turned around. “Was that necessary?” He rubbed at the front of his throat.

John Parker’s dark brown, severe countenance did not ease. “Yes. I have fugitives with me.” He uncocked the pistol and shoved it back in the holster under his arm. “Don’t come creeping next time.”

“I didn’t want anyone to see me or follow me.”

John made a skeptical noise in his throat and turned away. “Come in and tell me your business.”

Ben retrieved his hat from the ground and dusted it off, then trailed John around the cabin to the front door. John’s feet were bare—he must have come out in a hurry.

Inside, the cabin was dark. John opened the shutter over the back window, then sat down cross-legged on the floor without losing one whit of his air of command.

Ben glanced at the sleeping forms under a blanket on the bed. “How many do you have with you?”

“Two girls. I’m taking them to Sinai.” Like all Railroaders, John used code to identify his destinations. “One of the freemen gave the girls his cabin, and I bunked with him next door.” John was always careful to preserve the womanly privacy of his charges, no matter what degradation they had known in their captivity.

“I have a question for you.” Ben must get straight to the point—John had no patience for parlor niceties when he was conducting fugitives. “I’m searching for a woman named Nelly. The last I knew, she lived on the Macrae plantation just over the Kentucky line.”

“You want me to find her?” Joseph’s voice remained calm, but his head tilted. It was as close as he came to surprise. He had learned stoicism during his youthful enslavement, long before he bought his freedom and became a successful businessman.

“Yes.” Ben opened the flap of his knapsack and pulled out the miniature basket. He pulled the reed latch through its closure and opened the lid. “See this?” He showed John the curled lock. “This is her hair. Her promised husband left it at our cabin when he died, twelve years ago.”

“So you want me to tell this woman that he died?”

“No, I merely want you to send news if you locate her. I will do the rest.”

“Don’t do anything foolish. You have my assistance, if you need it. If she’s still alive, and still at the Macrae place, it’s across the river from my house.”

“Thank you.” Ben wanted to shake John’s hand, but he refrained. John was not one for effusive demonstrations.

“I’ll send you a letter when I learn anything.” John reached under the bed for his boots and pulled on each with a practiced tug. “Her name is Nelly,” he said to himself, as if to seal it in his memory. He got to his feet and moved across the room, his severe, dark face like that of a general at war. “Girls!” he ordered. “Out of bed!”

Two brown girls emerged from the blankets fully dressed, like a rustle of birds flushed from the ground into the air. They rubbed their eyes.

“We must go,” John said to Ben. “I heard there was a posse on our trail back in Cincinnati, so we have to stay ahead.” He grabbed a pack from a hook as the girls put on shoes. He must have given them footwear, as few slaves possessed such luxuries. John held the door open for them and raised one hand in farewell.