Sweeter than Birdsong Page 3

  “Miss Winter?” The first young man tipped his hat, not at all out of breath, revealing hair the color of bronze. It waved over his strong-planed face. She knew him—he was one of the young men from the literary society.

  “Frederick Jones, at your service. Though you hardly seem to need it, with such daring.” He grinned. “And you know my friend, Mr. Hanby.”

  The dark-haired young man lifted his hat as well, dispelling the shadow it had cast over his deep brown eyes. His thoughtful, quiet manner made him seem every inch the reserved gentleman. In person, he differed from the impassioned young orator she had seen in class.

  The memory of her oratory thundered back into her consciousness. A hot tingle crawled over her cheeks. She must get away before they attempted to discuss it.

  She inclined her head to them. If she remained silent, they might take the hint and ride away.

  Ben Hanby maneuvered his horse to the gate and unlatched it, then cued the white gelding to swing its hindquarters around so he could open it for her. Kate pressed her leg to Garnet’s side and moved her ahead through the opening. “Thank you.” A moment more, and she would be trotting away without further incident. She kept her gaze between Garnet’s ears.

  “I saw you jumping,” Frederick said as she passed within a few feet of his sidelong horse. She looked up to find him smiling at her. “That was admirably done. I don’t know many riders who can keep their seats over four-foot fences.”

  She halted Garnet and stared into Frederick’s greenish-hazel eyes. Easy enough for him to be blithe, with all his friends and no burden of secrets. “I pray you won’t mention it to anyone.”

  “Of course not,” Ben Hanby said. His defined dark eyebrows drew together as if he were making a study of her. “You have our word, Miss Winter. Does she not, Mr. Jones?”

  “To be sure,” Frederick said. His black horse tossed its head, spraying droplets of foam from its bit into the grass. “You see, even Bayard agrees.” He chuckled.

  She must close this conversation—her palms were damp against the braided reins. Her tongue threatened to tie itself for lack of an idea, so she said the only thing that occurred to her. “I understand you will have auditions for your musicale tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” Ben Hanby eyed her, plainly puzzled.

  “I will attend.”

  “You wish to audition?” He seemed pleased. Frederick’s eyebrows rose to his hat brim.

  “Yes.” She was making the conversation awkward by her monosyllables. Of course they would find it amusing that such a shrinking violet would dare to audition. But she would depart Westerville before the musicale took place. Until then, she would go along with her mother’s command and convince her nothing was amiss.

  Enough was enough. She had satisfied the demands of bare courtesy, and her fingers gripped the reins too tightly, as if she could rein in herself instead of her mount. Garnet stepped sideways, sensing her unease. “Good day, Mr. Hanby, Mr. Jones.”

  “Good day, Miss Winter.” Frederick cued Bayard to move away and give Garnet more room.

  “Until tomorrow then,” Ben Hanby said.

  She cued Garnet to walk, then trot, easing into the rhythm of her mare’s gait. Their eyes were on her back—she could feel it. After what felt like an eon, Garnet trotted to the privacy of the tree-lined road.

  If Kate had to bear the torture of a public audition this once, so be it. And she would only sing a few bars, no speaking, no personal words required. She might manage it if she did not look at the audience. She would not think of it any more today—she had only a few minutes remaining to enjoy the peace of the pastel sunshine, the warmth of spring. In the treetops, a bird trilled random notes like a broken flute. A breath of wind stirred Garnet’s forelock.

  She would hate to leave her chestnut mare. She leaned down to stroke her smooth neck, the hair glossy over Garnet’s fine skin as her hooves clopped along the gravel embedded in the dirt road. Should she really leave this creature who trusted her? But Kenny, their groom, would take good care of Garnet, even if no one else in the family was fond of animals.

  Kate would never again have to smell the bourbon wafting from her father’s unconscious form slumped in his chair, or suffer shame at her mother’s will. And Leah would not miss Kate, consumed as she was with her own image in the looking glass. The pain of the truth singed Kate like a lit match, setting her thoughts aflame.

  Her family need not be pierced by barbed words and blasted by liquor-laced rage—if only her mother and father would choose otherwise. But she must not dwell on pointless conjectures. Too many times she had prayed with childish hope for her father’s sobriety, only to hear their voices raised again, he drunk, her mother strident. She could leave behind all the pain, like shedding a pile of old garments on the floor. And she would not look back to those who did not care for her and would not miss her.

  She would pack her valise tonight and hide it in her armoire. The thought of it sitting there, bulging with promise, would help her survive the audition.

  Six

  ONE NOTE AFTER ANOTHER SLIPPED FROM THE PIANO into the room, to expand and ring there. The ivory keys resisted Ben’s fingertips only a fraction of a second before giving way, the tension before each note released from silence into its mysterious opposite, music.

  He should stop and gather his sheet music for the auditions, but the lure of the new song drew him on. Should the melody gather itself like a wave here, or scatter like rain? He tried one, then the other. Not quite right, not yet.

  “Hanby, you mad genius! Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  He twisted on the bench to look for the voice. Frederick stood on the threshold, framed by the yellow wash of light from the hallway. He removed his hat and hung it.

  Ben eyed him, deadpan. “I’m working. But you wouldn’t understand. Now be a good man, and go light the lamps. The ladies will be arriving at any moment.”

  “Very well.” Frederick grabbed the long pole with an easy flip of his wrist and brandished it like a saber ahead of him as he walked out into the hall. “We will give them a bright Philomathean welcome.”

  Ben reached down into the open satchel propped against the bench leg and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Sheet music mixed with his college assignments: Latin, human physiology, higher mathematics. But it was too dark to see which was which and Frederick would be a minute or two in getting the lamps lit. Ben stood and went to the doorway to let the glow fall on the pages. He riffled through the stack, pulling out a page here, a page there.

  Here was one in an unfamiliar hand. To William Hanby, a request for a sermon to be delivered at our abolition meeting, Sunday next. What was this? His father’s paper, gathered in with his own by accident. And here was a piece of paper covered with nothing but Ben’s own scratched notes. Joseph and Nelly . . . taken away, separated forever . . .

  He turned back toward the empty recital hall, papers still sheafed in his hands, his sight drifting beyond the rows of chairs, into the darkness of memory.

  Twelve years ago, in an upstairs bedroom, the light had been just like this: a feeble radiance from the hall that faded his father’s black frock coat to a ghostly gray as he stood over the bed, his back to Ben.

  His father turned. “Ben, come here. I would like you to meet our guest, Joseph Selby.”

  A match flared in his father’s hand as he lit the oil lamp on the bedside table. It threw deeper shadows on the ceiling and revealed the face of the strange man who lay in the bed. His skin was brown, his cheeks gaunt and sharp. He must be a fugitive from across the river. Ben had seen them before, sheltered in his parents’ home.

  The man parted his lips as if to say something, but a cough erupted and jerked his body forward. When he could breathe, he spoke, almost as if to himself. “It ain’t no good. I don’t mind if it’s my time.” His haggard face drew even tighter, so tight it must hurt him. “But it’s gonna be real hard on Nelly. She’s still back there.”

  The notes of Ben’s
song drifted through his head.

  A cloud of light from the lamplighter entered the recital room, and the spirits of the past fled before it.

  “Hanby, stand aside.” Frederick’s friendly order disrupted the reverie, and Ben moved to grant him access to the wall lamps. One by one, the six lamps came to life until the recital hall took on the warm, neighborly glow of a sitting room by night.

  “Ben, you didn’t wait for me.” His brother Cyrus strode into the room, pointing an accusing finger, his hat tilted at a sharp angle.

  “Duty called,” Ben said. “Had you been more punctual, I would have walked over with you. Where else could I find such witty banter, such sparkling repartee?”

  Cyrus laughed. “Nowhere but the Philomathean Society of Otterbein University.” He swept his gleaming hat from his curly mop of hair and held it at his waist with a flourish as he bowed. “Pleased to oblige.” Two more society members came in on his heels, also hastening to remove hats and brush hair back in place.

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Ben said. “Then you fine literary gentlemen won’t mind arranging the chairs for our musical gathering. Posthaste. Six on the gentlemen’s side, seven on the ladies’.”

  “Seven? But I thought there were only six in our sister society.” Frederick lifted a chair and carried it to one side of the room, facing the piano. Cyrus and the others followed suit.

  “You don’t think we would be permitted to entertain them unchaperoned, do you?” Ben raised a brow at Henry. “Mrs. Gourney makes seven.”

  They arranged the chairs just in time as the lighter voices of women floated down the hall.

  “Quickly now, a receiving line of sorts.” Frederick took a place on the men’s side of the hall and the others hurried to stand shoulder to shoulder, Ben taking his place last in the spot closest to the piano.

  Mrs. Gourney was first to appear in the doorway, trim in her straw hat, her head held high, an example of conduct for all her lady students. Otterbein’s lady principal created a model for how a lady student was to behave. So few colleges in the nation had students of the fair sex, and thus the rules must be strict. Ben understood why, though Cyrus complained of his limited opportunities for conversation with the pretty ones.

  The young ladies filed in after Mrs. Gourney and took their position in line across from the men. Each carried a satchel hung neatly from one shoulder—the badge of her unusual scholarly pursuits. The depth of their minds intrigued Ben—they were every bit as well read as their male counterparts.

  “The ladies of the Philalethian Literary Society bring their regards to the gentlemen of the Philomathean Society.” Cornelia Lawrence’s auburn hair was covered by a smart black hat, but her crisp enunciation would have revealed her identity to anyone on campus.

  “And we gentlemen of the Philomathean Society are incomparably graced by your presence,” Frederick replied. He relished the flowery language of ceremony, and so he had been elected to speak for the gentlemen until the rehearsal started.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones.” Miss Lawrence turned to address the room at large. “We now introduce to you our newest Philalethian, inducted since our last gathering. Miss Winter, will you step forward.”

  The black-haired girl moved a foot or two out from others in the line. A flush passed over her pale, translucent skin, and she kept her gaze on the lamps above the gentlemen’s heads. Her eyes were a bright, almost royal shade of blue. Waves of dark hair set off her face like a sculpture, and her stillness increased the effect. Ben felt sorry for her—they should not subject her to scrutiny, not with her painful shyness.

  Miss Lawrence smiled with a lift of her chin. “I know you gentlemen are all aware of Miss Winter’s intellectual achievements.”

  The target of the compliment grew two pink spots in her cheeks and looked at the floor.

  “We have been pleading with her to join us for some time,” Miss Lawrence said. “And now that she has agreed, she will be a star in our Philalethian firmament, no less bright for her quiet demeanor. You gentlemen will need to look to your laurels, particularly in Latin.”

  It was true. All the students knew that Mary Kate Winter led their class in academic studies, but few had ever heard her speak. Ben had been surprised to hear even a few words from her yesterday, awkward though she may have felt. She had always been a rarefied and enigmatic creature, notable for her beauty, but likely to be forgotten when not in sight. Except by Cyrus, who would occasionally let out a heavy sigh and proclaim the gloriousness of her aspect, or whatever happened to spark his adolescent muse.

  Miss Winter fell back into line, her eyes still downcast. Miss Lawrence resumed her stance as proud leader of the Philalethians, holding the gold-painted cane in her left hand. “And we are now ready for our joint musical endeavor.”

  Frederick nodded toward Ben. “Mr. Hanby, the floor is yours.”

  “Or the piano bench, as may be,” Ben said. He had no intention of playing Philomathean throughout the entire audition—it would be exhausting—so he moved without ceremony to the piano and arranged his sheets on its music stand.

  He straightened and turned to face them. “Welcome, all, and thank you for supporting the college’s first musicale.”

  A smattering of applause surprised him. Cyrus and his two cronies clapped their hands, mock-serious faces betrayed by occasional smirks. Ben frowned. They should not act so childish in the presence of ladies.

  Giving his brother a stern look, he continued, “Some of you are already aware that the children from my Sunday class will present a rural pageant set to some songs by Schumann. I will need at least two singers to accompany them.”

  He stole a glance at Cyrus and hurried on to prevent another round of applause.

  “We will be reading pieces on the subject of Childhood, and one of us may read a short fairy tale for children. Finally, we will have a few musical selections. May I ask who is interested in singing and who in reciting?”

  No one spoke. Perhaps a stronger suggestion would bring forth volunteers. “I would like to hear the singers first.” He walked to the piano, seated himself, and played a few chords. “Any nursery song will suffice. Who will sing?”

  Frederick stood and walked to the front of the room. “I feel a little foolish, but I’ll give it a try. What shall I sing?”

  “Any children’s song you know by heart. Perhaps ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’?”

  Ben’s fingers picked out the opening measures to give his friend the key. Frederick began to sing, “Twinkle, twinkle . . .”

  Giggles rose from the young ladies’ section. They were right—it was amusing to hear a simple nursery song sung earnestly by a strapping young gentleman. Frederick had a light baritone, quite good. He sang through his rhyme and finished with an extra operatic flourish on “How I wonder what you are,” which caused more merriment among the ladies. He grinned in response, revealing white teeth, and sat down to chirps of “Well done” from the girls.

  Chairs scraped as Cyrus and his friend both jumped up, eager to win similar acclaim.

  Ben stopped them with a raised hand. “Perhaps we might allow one of the ladies a turn?”

  Rebecca Bogler rose to her feet and stalked to the piano. Sadly, this was one female voice with which he was all too familiar.

  “‘Green Grow the Rushes,’ please.” She straightened her stocky figure and cocked her blond head at an odd angle. This would not be pleasant. Ben played as quickly as he dared, to hasten the finish of what was about to emerge from her mouth— or rather, her nose, since that was the place where her screechy soprano voice originated.

  “I’ ll give you one-oh!” she sang, a full octave above the one he had intended. He tried to dispel the image forming in his mind, a horrible old witch flying through the sky on a broomstick. He played louder, adding more chords to protect his ears from the voice.

  “Green grow the rushes oh!” She shrilled the melody unbearably high. He banged out a few more bars and brought it to a merciful
close.

  As Rebecca flounced back to her peers, Ben looked at Mrs. Gourney. “Do you have any other young ladies here who sing, ma’am?” Yesterday Kate Winter had implied she would audition, but Ben did not wish to force her hand—he would not ask her aloud.

  The gray-haired ladies’ principal wore her high collar buttoned tightly, but despite her prim correctness, her expression was gentle. She scanned the row of girls. “Mary Kate?”

  Miss Winter stared at the polished floor as if she wished it would split open and swallow her. So reserved a young lady would not sing, Ben was sure of it. Then again, she was not likely to read either, based on her flight from the recital hall the previous week. What was driving her to do something she found so distasteful?

  She rose to her feet and lifted her gaze to his, surprising him again with that blueness, so bold for a silent lady.

  “I would like to sing from here, Mr. Hanby, if you don’t mind,” she said. She stood facing him from the front row a few feet away, her back to the others. Perhaps she was too shy to turn toward them.

  “Of course!” he said. “What will you sing? Perhaps ‘Mary Kate Had a Little Lamb’?”

  Miss Winter looked away and laced her fingers together.

  What an idiotic thing to say. He flushed and adjusted his sheet music.

  “That song will do as well as any other . . .” The end of her sentence faded so he could not make out her last words.

  Ben played the opening bars of the nursery rhyme, finding the notes by touch, watching her. She began to sing.

  Her voice was silvery, and though it was not loud, its tone was so pure that it filled the air of the recital hall. It made him think of Christmas bells, and how his younger siblings looked when they were sleeping.

  He had stopped playing without realizing it. Kate Winter looked at him with surprise as her voice carried the last notes alone into a hush.

  “Thank you, Miss Winter. That was lovely.” It truly was. He must overcome his distraction. “Anyone else?”