Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  The house was silent. She crossed to her bed and knelt beside it. Inserting her hand between the mattress and its rope support, she felt the lump of papers and pulled it out.

  A scrape came from the door behind her. She jumped up and whirled around, hiding her papers in one hand behind her skirt.

  Her mother stood at the door with a suspicious look on her face.

  “What are you doing, Kate?” She sounded like a Grand Inquisitor, and even looked a little Spanish in her dark red gown, with the comb in her hair.

  “Just preparing something for Leah’s birthday.” Kate could not look her mother in the eye. She was not accustomed to telling untruths. It made her squirm, but if she did not, she would fail to protect Ben, not just herself. Still, a lie was a lie.

  Her mother paced toward her with measured steps. “I hope that all continues to be well between you and Frederick Jones,” she said with superficial concern, and sat on the bed next to Kate.

  “Yes, Mother.” Kate turned her head away. She must hope the letters were completely concealed under her dressing gown.

  “I suggest you sort out your feelings promptly,” her mother said. “You don’t have any better suitor, and you won’t have any means to live if you don’t marry well. You can’t expect me to support you if you are so irresponsible as to refuse to marry an eligible and upstanding young man.”

  Kate stared at the bedpost. The mattress shifted as her mother stood and walked around to place herself in Kate’s line of sight. Her pencil-thin, arched eyebrows creased into a line. “Do you hear what I say, Kate?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Kate said again. Her mother began to turn away, then stopped, her glance moving to the bed and Kate’s gown.

  Before Kate could move, her mother leaned over and seized a piece of paper that protruded from under Kate’s skirt.

  “So this is what you are preparing for Leah?” she asked as she scanned the lines. Her face slowly went blank, then filled with fury.

  She continued to read in silence for a few moments. “Stand up,” she gritted.

  Kate could not stand, or her mother would see the rest of the letters beneath her skirt. When she did not move, Ruth grabbed her arm and hauled her up from the bed as she snatched up the letters in a clenched fist. “These are all from Ben Hanby? And all equally—passionate?”

  Kate stood paralyzed.

  “This is how you repay all I’ve done for you, all I’ve given you?” Her mother’s voice rose. “You throw yourself away on some pious musical dreamer who will set you up in a wooden shack and hum tunes while you starve?”

  “I have not made any promises to anyone.” Kate’s voice shook.

  “I should hope not. I had forbidden you even to speak to him.”

  “And I didn’t. Only once, by accident.”

  “So you can look me in the face and tell me you have not violated my instruction?” Ruth asked.

  Kate avoided her eyes. Her mother gathered the papers together, strode to the fireplace, and tossed them in.

  Kate watched Ben’s words shriveling and burning, thin lines of orange crawling across them and blackening into nothingness. Those might be the last words she ever had from him. She hoped her mother could not see her distress. Heat rushed to her face.

  “I hope you are blushing for your own sins, and for the wrong you have done to a good man who is courting you,” her mother said.

  “I have not deceived Frederick. He has not even proposed to me.”

  “If he does propose, he is a better man than you deserve. If he knew about this—correspondence—he would leave such a deceitful young woman to boil in her own dishonesty.”

  It wasn’t true. Kate did not think she was deceitful. And yet she had accepted the letters when she knew she should not.

  “Let me be very plain, so that you will have no further opportunity for manipulation of my words,” her mother said. “You are to have no further contact of any sort with Ben Hanby, nor with anyone in his family. If you receive a letter from him, you are to deliver it to me immediately. Do I make myself clear?”

  Kate nodded.

  “Answer me!” her mother snapped.

  “Yes, Mother,” she said faintly.

  “I will tell Frederick you are indisposed this afternoon, as you are clearly in no condition to go out.” Her mother glided out into the hallway. She pulled the door closed behind her with a thud. That wooden sound echoed in Kate’s head until it sounded more like a heavy iron door clanging shut.

  Thirty-Four

  IMPATIENCE JABBED AT BEN, DEPRIVING HIM OF appetite even though the smell of his mother’s cherry pie rising from the plate should have made him ravenous. All he could think about was getting word to Kate about Frank. She must be so worried—they had arrived only an hour ago on the stage. He needed to get away from the dinner table and speak to Cornelia.

  But first, he did want to hear what John Parker had to say.

  John had come to town on his way north, so of course Ben’s mother had asked him to stay for dinner. Over potatoes and ham, he talked with Ben’s father about abolitionist orators. The subject was not one to fascinate Lizzie and Willie, but John was such an imposing figure that even the littlest Hanbys stayed quiet for a while when he was around, content to watch him and listen to his rich, low voice. He sat at the head of the table in a chair, as it was completely out of the question for his long limbs to fit on one of the benches. Ben’s father sat to his right, and his mother on his left. Ben sat at the foot of the table. His attention to the conversation was impeded by little voices piping at him. Lizzie and Willie could only restrain themselves for so long.

  Twilight was falling. Ben’s mother rose and lit two lamps to brighten the kitchen. Now Amanda cut the cherry pie made from the winter preserves in the cellar, and Jenny handed plates around the table. The tart but sweet dessert kept Lizzie and Willie busy a few minutes longer, though they squirmed on the bench as they ate. Anna had already taken Samuel to play upstairs. No toddler could be still for half an hour, no matter how impressive the guest.

  John Parker finished his pie.

  “Excellent, as always,” he said.

  Ben’s mother murmured her thanks.

  The big man pushed his chair a few inches back from the end of the table, making a scraping noise. “I have some news,” he said. His face took on a pronounced stillness that drew every gaze to him.

  “Perhaps the children wish to go play,” he said.

  “Of course.” Ben’s mother nodded toward the steps in the way that told Amanda and Jenny it was time to take Lizzie and William upstairs.

  As soon as the little ones were gone, John continued in a low voice. “I told you I am on my way north. I’m going to see Frank. The news I have for him must be delivered in person.”

  It could not be happy news, not with the somber way he spoke. Ben’s mother turned pale.

  “I met recently with a friend from New Orleans who had come up to meet with Mr. Garrison,” John Parker said. “This friend of mine is a wealthy planter who had a change of heart on the slavery issue after he fell in love with a quadroon years ago. He has been watching the New Orleans slave auctions for me ever since Nelly and her baby were sold down south. I had heard from another informer that they had been sold to one man for several months, but he passed away and his estate and slaves were sold, which sent them back to the auctions. My informant told me they were headed down New Orleans way.”

  John paused, but no one moved or spoke.

  “By going down to the saloons and buying drinks for the slave-running crews, my planter friend found Nelly. He got her slave-master to point her out in the crowd at the slave market. She was together with her baby, but they were dying.”

  His mother took a sharp breath.

  “Cholera had struck the market, which was packed and filthy,” John said. “They were quarantined with scores of others.

  She was too weak to stand, and my friend was not permitted to approach her, nor could he have done so
without attracting notoriety. But later, he obtained these from the slave-trader on some pretext.” He reached in his breast pocket and retrieved folded papers. He opened them up and handed them to Ben’s mother. “I’m sorry. There can be no mistake.”

  She put them down on the table.

  Certificate of Death. Ben could read it from across the table in the black ink of the heading. Nelly’s name was written beneath.

  His mother’s ashy face acquired a green tinge. She jumped up and ran out the kitchen door, which banged behind her. His father strode after her, caught the door as it rebounded, and followed her out.

  Ben, Cyrus, and John sat in silence.

  After a minute or two, Ben heard his mother sobbing outside, though he couldn’t make out the words his father murmured to her.

  Ben bowed his head. Frank’s face filled his imagination, torn with the agony of his missing wife and baby. Then the dark house of Ben’s boyhood rose to his memory, with the lamplight flickering on the dying man’s face and the scrape of his hoarse voice, saying, “I’ll see my Nelly again.” A tide of regret and sorrow swept Ben back to the table and the reality of her death. She had gone to Joseph, at least, but at what cost to Frank? And she ended her days in filth, with her little girl sick beside her.

  “Why?” Ben spoke the harsh word aloud, surprising himself.

  John regarded him with understanding, but said nothing. It seemed as if they sat forever listening to his mother’s quieter sobbing, then his father talking to her.

  Why did these innocent people die? Why couldn’t he help them? What good could he do, when he and others tried and tried, but the darkness kept rolling in?

  His father finally returned, opening the door and entering before his mother, as if to protect her from their view. Her face was blotchy and her eyes were still wet. She walked over to the stove and puttered with some irons. Although she was no longer sobbing, tears rolled down her face, falling and disappearing into the fabric of her dress. She brought a handkerchief to her nose, pressing it to her face as if it could stop the tears.

  Ben had never seen her so distraught. But she had wept many times because of the Railroad. Sometimes she wept at the awful things that fugitives told them, sometimes because they left so many behind. Or because they were sick and might die, like Joseph. Or sometimes, when his father didn’t come home, she wept while she waited to hear news.

  His father walked to the shelves and took down a can of coffee. He held it out to his mother, asking with a lift of his brows if she wanted it. She took it from his hands and started the routine of putting on the kettle.

  While his mother went through the motions of taking down cups and saucers, his father came back to sit with them.

  “I think it would be fitting,” he said, “for us to spend some time this evening remembering Nelly and her daughter, and praying for Frank.”

  At the mention of the baby, his mother sniffled again.

  His father paused but didn’t draw attention to it. “We’ll pray not only for Frank but for all others who loved someone who died in that market. And we must pray for the eternal souls of the slavers who cost them the life and freedom that only God should give and take away.” His voice was rough with sorrow. “We will pray in a few minutes. The little ones will be in bed, and Amanda can join us. Let’s go into the parlor.” He stood. They all shuffled after him, leaving Ben’s mother to the privacy of the kitchen.

  In the parlor, silence still reigned. The men sat down. His father handed John a newspaper and took up a Bible himself. Cyrus followed their lead, picking up his book for Latin class.

  The music eased into the air. The pain in the room lost some of its terrible edge—not much, but the ache became as much as he could bear, instead of more.

  Ben was too wracked to read. He crossed to the piano, as glossy as it had been the day it arrived a year ago. Seating himself on the bench, he let his fingers pick out the opening notes of a melancholy sonata.

  He hoped the music might comfort his mother in the kitchen. Could he ask Kate to take on the same kind of burden that his mother had borne for years? Some might think it utterly selfish of him to even consider bringing Kate into this way of life where she would suffer the sorrows his mother had known. The thought hung heavily on him, lingering in the last notes of the sonata as he let it fade.

  He shifted into a different melody, a simpler one. He did not sing the song aloud, unwilling to disturb the others at such a solemn moment, but the words ran through his mind. “Oh my poor Nelly Gray, they have taken you away . . .”

  The time had come. Tomorrow he would finish the song, and he would send it to the big music publishing company in Chicago.

  He doubted they would publish it, but he had to try. For Nelly, the baby girl, and Joseph, and all the others lost and beyond his help. The song must tell the story of what was happening to them.

  He played the melody slowly, pausing after each phrase, as if his passion alone could propel the song into print.

  Perhaps music could succeed where words had failed.

  Thirty-Five

  IN ALL OF RECORDED HISTORY, A PIANO LESSON HAD never caused such a moral crisis. What if Kate went to her lesson with Cornelia, only to find that her friend had once again arranged a surreptitious visit from Ben?

  Her solitary walk out of the house was slow. It would have been better if she had forgotten the lesson.

  If she went, she could see Cornelia and hear from her friend more of what had happened to the Hanbys, if Cornelia was privy to any details. Then again, she was wary of Cornelia’s scheming. Kate longed to see Ben, but she could not live with herself if she became a habitual breaker of her word. She passed under the graceful boughs of the trees in the quadrangle.

  There was not a living soul she could ask for advice. But she knew Ben would ask God.

  She closed her eyes. God, please help me. I don’t know what’s right. I don’t even know whether or not to go to my lesson. Tell me what to do.

  No words answered in her head. But neither was there silence. Instead came a feeling of—someone waiting.

  How was that any help? Was he listening? And if so, why wouldn’t he give her some sign of what to do?

  And then words ran through her mind—like her own thoughts, but at the same time, unlike them—Love and honor should not conflict with one another.

  That was not an answer!

  But the idea refused to dissipate, floating in the back of her mind.

  Was it wrong to go if Cornelia might arrange for Ben to be there? Her mother’s violent objection to Ben did not seem reasonable or fair. Kate should not reject a man who might not be wealthy, simply because he devoted himself to serving God. Surely there could be worse qualities in a husband. Did that mean her mother was wrong for forbidding her to see Ben? And if so, was that any excuse to defy her?

  Kate walked faster. She didn’t know. She could only do the best she could. She would go to the lesson, but if he was there, then she would leave.

  She cut across the lawn toward Cornelia’s home. Cornelia answered the door with a warm smile. Her light blue dress perfectly complemented Kate’s green one. Her auburn hair framed her face, drawn into a neat, shining twist at the nape of the neck.

  “I love your dress,” Kate said. “It’s another French one, isn’t it? They’re so beautifully made.”

  “Thank you. Won’t you come in?”

  The house was too quiet. Usually when Mrs. Lawrence was home, she came out of the kitchen or down the stairs to greet visitors in the parlor. But Kate couldn’t hear anyone else in the house.

  “Shall we begin? How did you find the new Chopin?” Cornelia asked, crossing to the piano bench.

  “I was awful at first, but better now.”

  The challenge of the lesson took Kate’s mind off her worries. She struck the last soft chords of an etude and looked at Cornelia.

  “That was very good,” her friend said. “You could even give the last two chords a little more time
to ring.”

  Kate played them again.

  “Oh yes, that’s lovely. I believe that finishes our lesson for the week. Well done.” Cornelia leaned back. “And I have something else for you.”

  Kate took a quick breath and glanced around.

  Cornelia looked uncertain. “I know you may be angry with me—”

  “If Ben Hanby is here, then I must leave,” Kate said.

  Cornelia touched her elbow. “It won’t do any harm to say hello. He told me he must speak with you today.”

  Kate’s resolve wavered. She forced herself up on legs turned to gummy paste. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t.” She walked across the parlor to the front door.

  “Then you may wish to leave through the kitchen,” Cornelia said. “He might be waiting at the front door.”

  Kate whirled and ran back through the parlor and into the wood-beamed kitchen. She pushed open the door and hurried out the back way, down the kitchen stoop, watching her step to be sure she didn’t trip in her rush.

  She ran into Ben. They collided so hard that she knocked the breath out of herself and he tripped backward. By instinct, she reached out for him, grabbing his arms. His heavier weight almost pulled her off her feet, but he regained his balance.

  They were so close, arms entwined, her skirts brushing his trousers. She was conscious of his breathing. Their gazes locked. All she could see was the dark clarity of his eyes.

  She pulled away. “Pardon me.” She laced her fingers together, her heart thumping. “That was careless of me.” She looked back at the steps as if they were somehow to blame.

  “Miss Winter,” he said, “I have news for you.”

  “About Frank?” Let it be good news.

  “Frank is farther north again, out of reach of pursuers.” His eyes were shadowed, in spite of what should have been good news.

  “What is it?”

  He hesitated. “Nelly and her daughter will not be coming back to him.”

  Her heart sank. “Why not? John cannot find them?”

  Pain filled his face. “They became ill—they have passed away.”