“You look quite lovely just as you are.” Kate smiled at her.
“I’m Jenny Hanby.”
“I remember you,” Leah blurted, jumping to her feet. “We were in class together at the academy.” The younger division of Otterbein held more students, and they did not always become well acquainted with one another.
“Yes, we were.” Jenny Hanby had an open, curious face and hair simply styled in a braid down her back, so much more becoming to a young girl than the fussy ringlets Leah preferred. She turned to Kate. “I have a message for you, Miss Winter.”
The front door opened and Kate’s mother entered the house, her face weary before she noticed the visitor and brightened into social artifice. “Good afternoon.”
“Mother, this is Miss Jenny Hanby.”
“I’m sorry to disturb your family, Mrs. Winter.” The girl bobbed a curtsy. “But I have a message for Miss Winter.”
Oh, this might be unfortunate. For Jenny would only be bringing a message from the director of the musicale, her brother Ben.
“Thank you for coming.” Kate’s mother gave Jenny a smile too brittle to convince.
“You’re welcome, ma’am. Ben . . .”
Kate held herself immobile. She must not react.
“My brother Ben wishes to ask Miss Winter if she will be kind enough to accompany me to a rehearsal for her singing part. He is practicing in the recital hall with my sister and brother.”
A rehearsal. So Kate would not get away with one grueling audition, which she had barely managed. The torment of the stage would go on until she left town.
Her mother burst into a genuine smile that wreathed her face in tiny wrinkles across her cheeks. “But of course she will come. Very good, Kate. Off you go. Get your hat.”
Her mother’s rare unguarded pleasure was almost enough to lift Kate’s spirits. But not quite, not when Kate must still march down to a horrible rehearsal like her mother’s personal marionette. She envisioned herself jerking on the puppet strings and then reaching up a jointed hand with a little pair of silver scissors. Snip, snip. It would not be long now—with the threat of more rehearsals, she might have to slip through that iron gate and take nothing but her sheer will to escape.
The sound of a violin seeped out of the college building before Kate reached the main door. She followed the ascending notes to the recital room. The music soothed the throbbing in her head and steadied her nerves.
She slowed her steps as she neared the room. Around the edge of the half-open door she saw the back of a young woman who played the violin, her chin pressed to its base as her bow glided over the strings. Beyond her, by the wall, a young man with wild, light brown hair removed a cello from its case and set it on the floor. He rested the long wooden bow on his shoulder like a soldier’s rifle, then hefted the cello in one lean arm to walk toward the girl. That was Ben Hanby’s brother—she remembered him from the audition. And the girl must be their sister.
She stopped in the shelter of the door. She could still turn around and walk away before Ben saw her.
“We have a fair visitor,” Ben’s brother announced with relish as he seated himself in his chair and positioned the cello against his trouser leg.
Now she would look a fool if she did not enter, thanks to that rather discourteous greeting. She laid her hand on the door but it pulled away from her fingers as someone opened it wider from the other side. She looked right into the serious brown eyes of Ben Hanby. His dark hair was mussed, as if he had been ruffling it unconsciously while concentrating on his music.
A fractional pause gave away his surprise. “Good afternoon.” He made a slight bow, then smiled as if she had brought him a basketful of gifts instead of a bundle of nerves. Extending his arm to invite her in, he stepped back with an old-world courtliness that made her blush.
“Would you like to sit?” He brought a chair from the wall and positioned it a few feet from his own. Then, with a subtle glance at her, he slid her chair farther away to comply with Otterbein standards of decorum. His own awkwardness lessened the burden of hers. She seated herself and he took his own seat, still watching her.
She should mouth pleasant phrases, but her tongue refused to obey the feeble requests of her brain.
Ben seemed to sense her discomfort. “Perhaps you would like to hear us play? Your voice will be beautiful accompanied by the strings.” His attention both drew her in and disconcerted her—it was so complete, as if she were a person to be respected and her thoughts of importance. He turned to include the others. “You may remember my brother, Mr. Cyrus Hanby. This is my sister, Miss Amanda Hanby. Amanda, this is Miss Winter.”
Kate’s greeting in response was too soft—even she herself heard it more as a vibration in her head than a voiced answer.
“We play very well,” Cyrus said. He sawed his bow against the cello strings and a series of tuneless shrieks came from the tortured instrument.
A smile hovered inside her, but the thought of having to sing shattered it. She mustered her will for the inevitable.
Ben rose to his feet. “You will need the music for Miss Winter’s song.” He turned to the end of the score on the lyre-shaped music stand in front of his brother. “Here it is.” He carefully took his sister’s violin from her hand and plucked the third and fourth string of the violin several times, listening before tightening one with a turn of the screw.
Amanda paged through her music, then held out a hand for the violin again. He gave it to her and she settled it on her shoulder.
“Let’s begin.” Ben raised his hand in the style of a practiced conductor. “One, two—” The last two beats were silent and indicated only by the mark of the rhythm from his precise hand.
Cyrus leaned into his bow. Mellow, rich sound filled the room and soaked into the wooden walls like wine in a cask. The melody the cello played was slow, almost regal, but also full of beauty and generosity, like an echo from a more perfect world. It eased into Kate’s spirit and lifted her away from herself into its loveliness. Amanda’s violin joined in, ascending up the scale in delicate counterpoint to the cello’s lower tones.
Ben waved his hand and his siblings stopped, their bows still poised.
“This is where you come in,” he said to Kate, a look of entreaty breaking through his intense concentration.
“I’m not familiar with the song.” Her throat was tight. She must tell him she would not be singing for him. She could not lie and deprive him of a singer at the last moment by her absence.
“Do you read music?” he asked.
“Not well enough.” A good excuse.
He paused, then picked up the sheet music he had been following. “Then I will teach you the first section. You will see. There could be no better song for the purity of your soprano. In fact, I won’t do it justice myself, but if this is how to persuade you to try, then so be it.” He stepped over to the other side of Amanda, as if to minimize his presence.
So he was also shy, at least in this setting. Improbable as it seemed, this lean, intense young man in a black frock coat and white collar, who could speak to crowds with such confidence— he was reluctant to sing in her presence.
“Lower it by a third.” He nodded to his siblings and the cello began again, with the same lovely phrase that caught at her breath, but in a lower key. After the violin, a beat’s hush fell, and then Ben began to sing.
His voice was as rich as the cello, though infused with the intelligent spirit carried only by a human voice. It floated straight through her reserve and self-consciousness.
Where e’er you walk
Cool gales shall fan the glade
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
THE 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.”
Sweeter than Birdsong Page 5
