Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  “Well, I have many duties to resume at home, Mrs. Winter, so I will take my leave.” Mrs. Hanby stood.

  Kate’s mother rose also. “I hope to see you again soon, perhaps at tea with Ida?”

  “As soon as I’m able. Good night, then,” Mrs. Hanby said. Tessie opened the front door.

  “Good night,” Kate said.

  Her mother echoed it, and the door closed behind Ben’s mother.

  She turned. “I’m glad you managed to bring some credit to yourself, Kate.” The familiar coldness returned to her mother’s tone, but at least she seemed to have been jollied into approval of the journey. “What was it, exactly, that took you so far, and for so long?”

  Kate steeled herself. “We had to bring some very poor people to a place where they could receive aid. Food, blankets, shelter.”

  “And were they deserving poor?”

  “Yes, they were.” Now she must tell her mother that they were also fugitives. She hesitated.

  “Good,” her mother said. “Charity should be given only to those who will lead lives of virtue. And of course, I would hardly expect that friends of Ida would associate with any inappropriate persons. So very well. Good night.” Her mother gathered her skirts and stalked back up the stairs, gaze not quite focused, as if the glorious spectacle of Ida Lawrence in her parlor still entranced her.

  Kate stood still. Her mother’s indifference was a stunning relief.

  I have broken my word. I did not tell her everything. Well, I must do so tomorrow.

  But deep down, she knew she would not.

  Twenty

  “PERHAPS YOU SHOULD CANCEL THE MUSICALE.” CYRUS’S familiar voice needled him from the doorway of the recital hall. “We don’t have much time, and it may not be up to your standard.”

  “Kindly leave the directing to me.” Ben lifted his fingers from the piano keys and looked up.

  Cyrus shifted his cello case in his grip and flipped his curly hair back as if to cast off gruff words like chaff. He sallied in. “Where are all the others?” he asked.

  “The rehearsal is not scheduled to begin for another five minutes.”

  Amanda came in after Cyrus, giving Ben a sympathetic glance over their brother’s shoulder. When Ben said nothing, Cyrus headed for a chair and unpacked the cello, while Amanda played arpeggios and tuned up.

  “The Handel, please.” They turned through their music and he cued them into the opening measures.

  “Cyrus, will you please slow down?” Ben tapped his baton on the music rack with metronomic regularity.

  Cyrus screeched his cello’s bow across the strings. “Any slower and we will all fall asleep.”

  Amanda stopped and lowered her violin, waiting with sisterly forbearance.

  Cyrus pointed his bow at Ben like a long, accusing finger. “Besides, why are we playing this piece? Miss Winter hasn’t been here for the two rehearsals since your return. I don’t think she is going to sing at all. We should remove this song.”

  “I’ll make that decision tomorrow.”

  Kate hadn’t wished to sing even before they left for what would become such a fateful mission. Her absence was understandable. “Perhaps I’ll use it as an instrumental piece only.”

  “That would make no sense,” Cyrus said. “The children are pretending to be trees. No one will understand why they are holding out greenery.”

  Ben let his head fall back against the chair, gazing at the plaster ceiling and trying to summon patience.

  “Why don’t you remove the Handel piece, settle the issue, and stop this needless rehearsing so we may move on?” Cyrus’s voice grated like a fishmonger’s call.

  Ben sat up straight and clenched the baton to keep from hurling it across the room. “Will you please attend to your own business and play it? Without that song, the performance won’t have a proper end.”

  “It won’t have it anyway, without the lyrics.” Cyrus thrust his head forward like an angry young goat.

  “Cyrus, let it alone. It’s only an extra ten minutes,” Amanda said.

  “But aren’t the others coming at any moment? And we haven’t marked the dynamics for the Schumann pieces yet.” Cyrus’s eyes glinted through his dangling mop of brown hair.

  “Just do as Ben asks. He has much to do and we should make his task easier.” Amanda raised her violin again, and Cyrus grimaced but brought his bow to the cello’s strings.

  “One, two . . .” Ben gritted it out and set the beat.

  The door of the recital room swung open. Frederick Jones took in the rehearsal in progress and swung across the floor with easy strides to take a seat and observe. Ben kept the count silently and listened for any variation in tempo. That was better. Sometimes he thought Cyrus wavered in his rhythm just to annoy him.

  His peripheral vision registered the entry of the other students. Mrs. Gourney led the young ladies in, and the other young men followed. By the time the Handel wound to its close, they were all assembled.

  He should try to be gracious to his company of volunteers, no matter how low he himself felt or how much he might wish to cancel the performance. Kate’s number would have unified the whole artistic effect by bringing the children together with the lovely music in an act of blessing pointed up by the lyrics. Ben would never admit it aloud, but Cyrus was correct when he suggested cutting the number rather than doing it without a soloist. The music alone would be confusing without the words. But Ben didn’t need Cyrus to tell him his efforts were meaningless without Miss Winter. He could see it quite plainly himself, thank you.

  No one else had the correct sound or range for the song, and Kate hadn’t responded to Jenny’s summons to rehearsal for the last week. And the bleakness of Nelly’s loss smothered his soul and made him want to do nothing at all. He went forward on sheer stubbornness to finish what had turned into a disappointing ordeal.

  “Thank you for your promptness.” He addressed the performers in their separate male and female rows.

  Was it his imagination, or did they look as dispirited and uninspired as he? If so, it was not their fault. The responsibility lay with him, as leader.

  He summoned what little cheer would come. “Let’s begin by performing it as we will tomorrow evening, straight through without interruption. A dress rehearsal, except for the children. We will add them tomorrow afternoon.”

  The players nodded and took their places. The read-through progressed. Ho-hum. No one wished to be here, apparently. He wouldn’t even speculate on why: it would lower his spirits even further.

  Cyrus reached the end of his reading, which preceded the final number, the Handel. “And thus,” his brother said, “we close with the greatest and most lovely mystery of childhood, a mother’s love, the blessing that never ends.” Cyrus’s gaze threw off sparks when he looked at Ben. “Oh august director, are you quite certain you wish us to play the concluding piece now?”

  “Yes.” If Ben said more, he might regret it.

  “Even though Miss Winter does not appear to be singing for us?” Cyrus needled.

  “Play it.”

  “It makes no sense.” Cyrus threw his hands up in a shrug.

  How dare he make a scene in front of the others? Ben’s temper flared.

  The door opened again.

  Miss Winter stepped in, her blue eyes flicking across the faces that turned to her. With her mass of black hair, delicate wrists, and full, light skirt, she was like an ivory-skinned nymph who might flee to the protection of the woods.

  He stared, their private walk recurring to him like a dream, the feel of her hand on his arm.

  “I apologize for my absence this week, Mr. Hanby,” she said. Something in her intonation was changed. And he could hear her from ten feet away, though she was still not loud by anyone’s definition.

  “Do you wish me to sing?” she asked.

  “Very much.” Warmth suffused his neck. He must watch his tone in front of the others. “Are you willing, with only a day’s rehearsal?”


  “I have some familiarity with the song now.”

  Their last meeting and rehearsal seemed an eon ago. “Ah yes. Then please come in and let’s rehearse.” He would be all business. “You remember your entrance for the piece? Four measures in.”

  She nodded. Cyrus went to his chair with a mollified expression and leaned the cello against his knee.

  Ben handed Kate the music. She was a better sight singer than she had admitted, and did well even when they moved past the opening of the piece. Her voice was just as lovely as before. When she finished, wonder lingered on every listener’s countenance. And when they ran through the complete musicale again after her number, all the readers and Frederick seemed to acquire new vigor and perform with spirit.

  He did not know what had changed Kate’s mind. Stage fright still drained her cheeks of color and made her hair look even blacker by contrast. But for some reason he could not fathom, she had decided to sing despite the fear.

  Though this musicale was nothing but a light entertainment, her determination cheered him. Nelly and her baby had not yet been found, and everything else dimmed in the shadow of that fact. But his musicale might at least help this one young woman whom he admired. Should she overcome her fear in this one public moment, she might find herself less paralyzed with shyness in the future.

  The performers finished and gathered their belongings. He praised them with sincere pleasure, his soul still uplifted by the sublime Handel song in Kate’s soprano.

  She herself had turned to go.

  “Miss Winter,” he said.

  She paused, her sea-green dress trailing the floor behind her as she looked over her shoulder.

  He crossed to stand beside her. “I want to thank you for what you are doing.”

  Pink tinged her cheeks and she kept her gaze down, eyelashes dark against her fair skin. “You are welcome, Mr. Hanby. Music makes others glad, if just for an hour. That may be the only moment of joy or freedom some ever find.” She raised her eyes to his. “Such gifts matter. You told me they are from God and should be shared. I am free, and I should sing.” She turned away and hurried after Cornelia’s sable-clad figure to the exit.

  He sat down on the piano bench in the now-empty room. The resolve on her face amazed him—what an unusual creation God had made in Kate Winter. He wanted to call back her presence here and breathe in the faint aroma of flowers that drifted from her dark hair.

  He looked at his score, running through the sequence of chord changes and ornamentations for the first song. Tomorrow night was full of new promise. He would make it perfect for her.

  Twenty-One

  IF SHE TOLD HERSELF ONCE MORE THAT THERE WAS NO way around it, perhaps the fear would give up and slink away. The odor of polished wood from the stage platform brought back the day of the oration, but she wrenched her mind away from the past. The audience had not even arrived—she must not panic.

  The babble of children rose in jolly chaos around her. They gathered clean-faced by the walls in a fair semblance of order, but little boys kept darting out of line only to be pulled back by the practiced hand of Amanda Hanby. The seven-year-old girls whispered, while the five-year-olds stood in a bleary-eyed daze, overwhelmed by the lights and colors.

  Flowers clustered in large baskets around the stage, and boughs of greenery rested on the mantel behind it. In the final rehearsal earlier that day, Ben had directed the children in how to use the tree branches during Kate’s solo.

  Her solo. Bitterness at the back of her throat threatened sickness. She refused to be ill. Ben caught her gaze and her heart eased for a minute, before flying off into nauseating spirals. If she disgraced herself, she would ruin his work as well.

  She must keep her word to Ben and sing. Only once. She could bear it once, to honor Nelly and her baby. Their encounter had changed her. If she wished to oppose the suffering she had witnessed, she would need to graduate from Otterbein. Only as a qualified teacher could a woman influence others outside her immediate sphere—there were few other occupations that allowed females to have any effect on intellectual and moral opinions. Kate certainly could not choose to be a milliner and ignore the cruelty of the rest of the world.

  But all her reasoning did not stop the slow churning in the pit of her stomach.

  Frederick Jones, splendid in a high white collar and black coat, towered next to the Parrish girls and Cornelia. He bowed in Kate’s direction and took a step toward her.

  Ben Hanby reached her side first. “Good evening, Miss Winter.”

  She wanted to take his arm as she had in the woods and draw comfort from his faith. But that was out of the question, as they were no longer babes in the woods but a young lady and gentleman under the decorous rule of Otterbein.

  He gave her a quick, reassuring smile and turned to address the little ones. “Children, you will sing first, and then at the end of the program, you will perform the tree pageant.” He spoke loudly over their giggling and chatter until they quieted and stopped fidgeting. Their light and dark heads bobbed in the soft glow of lamplight.

  “First is ‘Little Boy Blue,’ then ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ then you children will all sit down in the front.” Ben pointed to the space. “Then the younger Mr. Hanby”—he indicated Cyrus—“will read his farewell piece. He will introduce Miss Winter’s song and call you up again to perform, just as we did this afternoon. Does everyone understand?”

  “Ye—s-s, Mr. Hanby!” they chorused.

  “Who is going to call you up?” he quizzed them.

  “Cyrus!” called his little brother and sister, echoed by “Mr. Hanby” from several others.

  “Very good.”

  They began to chatter to one another again.

  Ben turned to Cornelia. “Miss Lawrence, will you take the children into the library for a few minutes?”

  “Certainly.” She herded them out of the room.

  “I’ll send for you when it’s your turn,” Ben assured her as she passed him.

  Townspersons began to stream in. Mr. and Mrs. Hanby and the other Hanby children were first to arrive, followed by the Lawrences. And there was Professor Hayworth. Kate avoided looking in his direction—it would only make her more self-conscious.

  A steady stream of families poured in: the Westerfields, the Boglers, the Stoddards, the Griffins.

  Kate’s mother entered the hall, both wary and proud in her elegant hat. She settled herself stiffly in the back row and motioned Leah to sit beside her. Kate’s father was not with them—thank goodness.

  In came Mr. Jones and his small, blond wife. The Joneses wove their way through the crowd. Mr. Jones boomed pleasantries to all as he passed.

  A noisy buzz of activity and talk filled the room as more and more townspeople came in, standing in the back when no more seats remained.

  It was time for the performance to begin.

  She could feel the delight of the audience, their enraptured attention to each moment, from Frederick’s rollicking songs to the readings, which were full of whimsy. But every song and every reading made the inevitable moment draw nearer.

  The children sang, ending with “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” their chubby cheeks drawing rib-elbowing and pointing from the doting adults in the chairs.

  Cyrus stood and read his piece about motherhood and God’s love, finishing with a dramatic pause. “And now—” He ducked his head as if gathering steam for his introduction, a look of pure mischief on his face. “We have been treated to ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ by our youngest singers, but we move to something more stirring for our finale. I introduce to you Miss Mary Kate Winter, our own ‘Mary,’ and at the piano, her devoted lamb.”

  She stood pinned under the regard of the audience, as mouths across the room fell open like so many dead fish. What had Cyrus just said? It could not have been what she thought. But it was, for he had shocked the audience.

  He was still speaking. “But shall our musical Mary be won by her musical lamb? That answer must wait for another
day.”

  What? He had just implied an understanding—or something— between Ben Hanby and herself. In public. Before her mother. In the hearing of the whole town.

  She would be sick. She could not sing.

  Cyrus gestured to her with a flourish. “For now, let us give Miss Winter our rapt attention as she gives her unparalleled rendition of Handel’s ‘Where E’er You Walk.’” He stepped away from the podium and toward his seat, where his cello awaited.

  She stood for one frozen moment, feeling the gaze of the whole room on her. She would not run away and increase the scandal. She would walk up onstage. There, she was doing it. The room was spinning, but she could place one foot in front of the other. She would not ruin Ben’s performance. If she could make it to her place, she might be able to sing.

  Cyrus picked up his bow and grinned at her as if nothing were amiss.

  Her ears roared. She looked at the faces—so many faces— were they all thinking of what he had said? Blood rushed to her face, making her dizzy. Her bodice felt too tight; she could not get enough air. The room seesawed around her and went dim. She barely felt the thud of her head against the wood. Arms lifted and carried her as her vision faded.

  Twenty-Two

  BEN CAME IN THROUGH THE KITCHEN DOOR, CLOSing it quietly behind him. It was barely dawn, but there had been business to attend to.

  He smelled bacon and fresh bread. “Do you need help with breakfast?” he asked his mother, who was putting a pot of coffee on the stove.

  “No, thank you.” She looked up at him and cocked her head. “Why are you dirty?”

  He looked down at his clothing. He was smudged with grime, and a few pieces of dried grass ornamented his clothing, leaving green stains on his white shirt.

  “Nothing I may discuss.” He brushed off his shoulder and trousers.

  “Did our friends go with Mr. Lawrence?” he asked his mother.

  Frank Foster and the Abrahams had still been in the barn when he left this morning, but when he returned, the three flowers in the window vase were gone. The flowers were the Hanbys’ signal to one another that there were railroad “passengers” hidden in the barn. If the flowers were gone, that meant the three fugitives were on their way.