Sweeter than Birdsong Page 7

  As they crossed the foyer, a servant opened the front door, and in stepped Kate’s mother, resplendent in her lilac gown, with Leah just behind her. But to Kate’s shock, her father also entered, handing his hat to the servant and waiting to follow her sister in.

  Small wonder her mother did not seem at ease. Her smile was tight and she seemed paler than usual as she greeted Mr. Jones. Kate watched her father closely. He did not seem to be weaving as he walked, nor did she smell any bourbon. It might yet be possible to have an uneventful afternoon here.

  Then Ben Hanby walked in, only ten feet away from Kate.

  She went cold. He must not raise the subject of the musicale. But he would not, after what she had said to him. Her mother had not been at all pleased when Ben greeted her in the window the other morning—she said it was vulgar for Kate to acknowledge him from her bedroom. Perhaps her mother’s annoyance would keep her away from Ben, and that would prevent any unintended revelations about the musicale.

  Behind Ben came a man Kate recognized as his father, Mr. William Hanby, and a pretty, middle-aged woman who must be his mother. The Hanby men handed their hats to the servant. Why had the room gone quiet?

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hanby!” Mr. Jones’s voice boomed through the room. He strutted over to them, carrying his extra weight like a suit of armor. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones.” Mr. Hanby extended a hand after a moment, and the two men shook hands, though they looked wary. Mr. Hanby’s square shoulders and midlife good looks contrasted sharply with Mr. Jones’s bulk.

  Ben Hanby was a little taller than his father, she noticed, though they both had the same dark hair and deep-set eyes.

  “Ben, come join us! We’re going to the pond,” Frederick said.

  Ben nodded and walked over to them.

  The maid brought out a sack of old crusts and Cornelia dropped back to walk with Ben. The party moved through the glass doors and down the wide steps behind the house. A number of guests of all ages strolled across the lawn, the women’s dresses like bright flowers in the afternoon sunlight. Cornelia’s parents, her two young brothers, and the Bogler girls stood near the house, gazing at the fertile fields that rolled up the hills of the estate. Mr. Lawrence plucked a daisy from a trellis that shaded his wife, Ida.

  “Hello, President Lawrence,” Frederick said. “Enjoying the view?”

  “Wonderful,” he replied, handing his wife the daisy without losing a whit of his customary calm dignity. His hair was overcast with gray but retained a faded trace of the auburn hue he had passed down to his children. He did not seem as intimidating, divested of his scholarly robe.

  “We’re going to feed the ducks,” Cornelia said. “Would you like to come with us?”

  The Lawrences agreed, as did the Boglers. Soon a host of would-be duck-feeders headed down to the pond.

  Kate released Frederick’s arm when they arrived at the water’s edge. Touching him unsettled her, though it was not unpleasant. She busied herself with feeding the smallest ducks.

  “The ducks are lively.” What an absolute dunce she was. The ducks are lively.

  But Frederick smiled at Kate and handed her another small piece of bread. “They’re inspired by your beauty.” He laughed, which made it more bearable.

  Kate took the bread from his warm hand. They’re inspired by the bread. By the time she gathered the nerve to consider saying it aloud, the moment was past. It was beyond comprehension how Frederick could enjoy her company when she was utterly without conversation. But he continued to smile and say entertaining things about their courses of study.

  He stayed only a step away from her, but Ben joined them on her other side as they stood at the pond’s edge. Cornelia was still deep in conversation with her parents, halfway around the pond.

  Kate fought her rising dismay. The prospect of speaking with two of them at once was so daunting that she wished to be somewhere else—almost anywhere else.

  Frederick and Ben tore chunks of bread for her to throw to the birds. Both young men seemed to be tearing bread more and more rapidly. She had trouble keeping up with the morsels being tendered to her from either side. Frederick had a hint of a smirk on his face, belying his air of studied nonchalance. Ben was determined and quiet.

  “My friend,” Frederick said to Ben, “when I invited Miss Winter to the party, I intended to keep her all to myself, in a most unfair way.” He smiled at Kate and handed her another small piece of bread.

  “I do not think you have enough food for the ducks. My purpose is strictly humanitarian,” Ben said. He flourished a much larger piece of bread toward Kate, with a keen look at his friend. She glanced back and forth between them, then took the bread from Ben, her cheeks warming under their mutual regard.

  In another minute, they ran out of bread. Kate seized the opportunity to excuse herself and walked as quickly as she dared to Cornelia, far more out of breath than her exertion would excuse.

  “Shall we walk around the pond?” Kate asked her, words tumbling out.

  “Of course.” Together they stepped through the low grass onto a graveled path that swept a graceful oval for promenaders.

  A backward glance revealed that Frederick and Ben had remained at the pond’s edge. The two young men glared at each other for a moment, then at the ducks. Finally, Frederick offered to show Ben the horses. They walked away, seeming to regain their easy rapport as they entered the masculine realm.

  Cornelia and Kate continued their amble around the pond.

  “I’ve hardly had a chance to speak with you this semester.” Cornelia smiled. “Will you walk with me back to the house?”

  “I would like that.” It would be a welcome respite from male attention.

  Cornelia took her hand as if they were bosom companions. Another odd sensation for Kate—she was not accustomed to being touched. But, as with Frederick’s arm, it was not unpleasant. “You know,” Cornelia said as they walked back, “every girl in town would love to change places with you. The Bogler girls were fit to be tied when you were feeding ducks.”

  “I will freely give way to those girls. I found it awkward.”

  “Well, you are certainly making Frederick work for his privilege, as I didn’t see you speak more than two words to him.” The kindness in her eyes made it a gentle joke between friends, not a reproof.

  “I spoke at least four or five.”

  Ben Hanby was also walking back to the house, about twenty yards ahead of them.

  “You did not want to walk with Mr. Hanby before?” Kate asked.

  “It was plain that something was on his mind. He was not diverted by my idle chatter, so I told him I wished to stay and speak with my parents. I do like him, but he is sure to be a minister, you know, and the odds of having a decent living in that profession are miniscule. He may not even be able to marry.”

  “Oh.” Kate did not want to say anything on that subject. Discussing men with another young woman was dangerous territory, as Cornelia might ask her something personal. Though it was strange, indeed, that a young man like Ben, with such talent and an appreciation for beauty, would choose something as alien as preaching. It was an aspect of him Kate could not understand. Why did some people have strong faith and others not? Perhaps it was predestined, as some believed. But it would be comforting to have Ben’s conviction, his belief that God was close enough to hear. If he was not—if he sat somewhere on high letting the earth spin on through evil and suffering to its predestined end—then a voice lifted in prayer was no better than silence, just as her mother claimed. Kate hurried ahead of her friend across the last few feet of lawn and up into the dining room.

  The table was spread with delicious roast meats. There were two giant turkeys and several platters of pork, beef, and venison. Tureens steaming with fragrant corn chowder stood among smaller bowls filled with plump beans and stewed tomatoes. Fresh loaves of bread were sliced and arranged artfully in baskets. It was an impressive display. Her parents had means, to be sure, but t
hey did not entertain, and certainly not on this scale.

  Through the open doors to the parlor, she saw her parents and Leah speaking with Daniel Jones. Kate must be a dutiful daughter or she would hear about her shortcomings later at home. She crossed to her mother’s side.

  Mr. Jones winked at her, but directed his comment to her mother. “I just met your beautiful elder daughter, Mrs. Winter. And I believe my son finds her quite charming as well.”

  Kate blushed, but pleasure lit her mother’s face. Unspoken parental scheming brightened the undertones of her subsequent conversation with Mr. Jones.

  The afternoon was deteriorating. To be the target of so much attention and conversation was painful, especially when her mother could observe it. Her father remained silent and probably appeared surly to the others.

  If Kate left Westerville, she need never again go out in the company of both her parents.

  The rest of the party straggled through the back doors and exclaimed at the feast laid out on the table.

  “Where shall we all sit?” Cornelia asked. There were places laid at the grand table, but despite its size, it could only accommodate one-third of the large number of guests present.

  Frederick spoke up as he came through the door. “We have arranged some tables in order for some of us to picnic outside, around the side of the house. Please, come along! The more the merrier. The servants will follow with baskets to bring the meal.”

  As the guests filed back outside, Mr. Jones walked in from the parlor with a genial grin. “Don’t everybody leave just yet,” he said. “Some of us will remain here at this table. Frederick, come back and join us when you have seated our guests. Why don’t you dine with us in here, Mr. and Mrs. Hanby? And Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, Mr. and Mrs. Winter, will you stay, with your families? My wife will be here shortly. She has been supervising the cook and servants.”

  When the four families sat down and the rush of guests subsided, there were twelve at the table, as Cornelia’s younger brothers had asked to go outside for the picnic. Frederick sat to Kate’s right, and to her surprise, Ben Hanby sat to her left. At the foot of the table was Frederick’s mother, whom Mr. Jones introduced as Sapphia. She was petite and blond, as demure in manner as her husband was bluff. She conversed easily with Ben and his parents. At the other end of the table, Daniel Jones spoke to Ruth Winter and the Lawrences about his ancestral home in Kentucky.

  The four college students kept silent. Far too aware of the unfamiliar masculine presence of Frederick and Ben only inches from her elbows, Kate gave her attention to her food, which was excellent.

  “It’s very kind of you to open your new home to guests,” Ida Lawrence said to Mrs. Jones.

  “Yes, and so many of us,” added Mr. Lawrence. “It’s good for the community. We appreciate your hospitality.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  Kate’s father sat a few places away from her down the table, but his wine glass rose and fell with alarming regularity. A manservant came to refill it with the decanter four, five times. She lost count. She could not pay attention to the conversation, so distracted was she by the potential disaster looming a few feet from her. Her shoulders were tense and her back hurt.

  She avoided looking at the others. But when she reached for her lemonade, she locked gazes with Ben Hanby’s mother, whose soft brown eyes were full of sympathy. Wanting to hide, Kate turned away. But that was no better, as she found Ben looking at her too.

  Now she must say anything she could to distract him. “You don’t seem yourself this evening, Mr. Hanby.”

  “I apologize. My mind is on other things,” he said. The noise of the other guests had risen around them, and the din of talk and clatter of utensils against plates sheltered his response from other ears.

  “Oh no, I don’t mean to criticize.” She stumbled over her words. “I am always poor company, or I would have drawn you out already.”

  “Miss Winter, I am happy to sit at your side whether you speak or not.”

  She dropped her gaze and rearranged her food on her plate with her heavy silver fork.

  He lowered his voice. “Have you thought further on what I said, about God’s gift in your singing, and whether you might share it?”

  “What are you two whispering about over there?” Frederick’s voice floated over her shoulder and she turned back toward him. She took a breath and hesitated.

  “Theology.” Ben Hanby spoke across her, his face sober. “But I should not be boring so lovely a lady with the topic.”

  “Indeed not. So then, Mr. Hanby, tell us about your musicale instead. When shall we perform it?” Frederick was blithe, his hazel eyes merry as he led them to conversational armageddon. He only meant to be a good host and spur talk among the company—she could not blame him.

  She didn’t dare glance at her mother. Please, please. Let them all be tactful on this subject. Her hands clenched together under the tablecloth.

  “Mr. Jones, an excellent meal.” Her father’s voice was noticeably slurred. “Is your cook a slave woman? They have a reputation for excellence, I understand.”

  All three Hanbys looked at him together, as if pulled by an invisible puppeteer.

  Mr. Jones stopped in midsentence of his conversation with Kate’s mother. A hush fell.

  “Of course, she’s not a slave now that we live here,” Mr. Jones said. “But she cooks just as well as she did in Kentucky.” He picked up a carafe and poured Kate’s mother some more lemonade.

  No one spoke. Kate glanced at Frederick. He reddened as he stared at his plate.

  “You a Southern sympathizer, Jones?” Her father blundered on, oblivious. He flourished his glass as if participating in a vast joke. Even Daniel Jones paused in the awkward silence. It was not done at all, to mention slavery and politics in mixed company, at dinner. Her mother leaned over to him and whispered something.

  “No, I’m not ready to go home. I’ve barely tasted the meal.” Her father brandished his fork in his left hand and stabbed a chunk of meat. He missed his mouth on his first attempt to shovel it in.

  Kate looked at the gorgeous floral centerpiece, her face throbbing with the sudden rush of her pulse. Her father was too awful and mortifying to watch.

  President Lawrence cleared his throat and addressed Frederick. “How are you enjoying your studies thus far?”

  “Very much, sir,” Frederick said. “Particularly rhetoric.”

  “Now that’s a young man after my own heart,” Mr. Lawrence said. “I love to read the old orators.”

  From there the discussion moved on, and something like peace was restored to the room as Kate’s father held his tongue. But an undercurrent of tension remained until everyone finished and the maids cleared the plates.

  In the buzz of conversation, Mrs. Hanby stood, walked around to Kate’s parents, and leaned down to say something to them.

  Kate’s father stood, clutching the top of his chair for balance. Her mother also rose next to him.

  Mrs. Hanby smiled winsomely at Kate’s father. He looked flattered. Mrs. Hanby took his arm and made it look as if he were supporting her, rather than the other way around. Kate’s mother took his other arm, and they headed out of the dining room to the foyer. Whatever Mrs. Hanby had said, it had worked. Kate wanted to throw herself on her knees and thank Ben’s mother as the three left through the front door.

  Mrs. Hanby returned alone. Kate melted nerveless into her chair, finally able to listen to whatever Cornelia had been saying about Otterbein.

  The Hanbys rose to leave a few minutes later, making their good-byes to the Joneses. Mrs. Hanby was formal and polite when she spoke to Mr. Jones, but as she turned to leave, she caught Kate’s eye and smiled—a lovely smile tinged with sadness. Kate would have to find a way to thank her somehow.

  As twilight fell, the outdoor picnickers came back inside the house. Kate listened to the other students chat about the musicale. Thank goodness her parents had departed. As the Boglers pestered
Cornelia about their choice of readings, Frederick murmured to Kate, “May I drive you home?”

  She paused. That would not be proper, not as darkness drew near.

  He must have realized it, for he flushed. “Or perhaps Miss Lawrence has engaged your company already. I have taken you from her for too long.”

  She nodded.

  Cornelia had overheard, for she turned from the other girls. “Miss Winter, you must drive home with us. I have been hoping for it.”

  Saved once again by another woman’s social grace.

  “Thank you, Cornelia.”

  Kate wanted nothing more than quiet from the ride home with the Lawrences. And, with the exception of a few reflective remarks from Mr. Lawrence on the weather, it was quiet. The Lawrences were too considerate to bring up any but the most innocuous of subjects after her father’s humiliating behavior.

  She let herself in the front door of her house, which was darkened for the evening. A muffled noise of raised voices came from the direction of her parents’ bedroom. An oil lamp in a wall niche lit the staircase enough for her to see. She walked up, her skirt whispering behind her. Instead of going to her room, she went to Leah’s. Her sister was sitting on her bed, gray-faced and tense.

  “Have they been arguing since you returned?” Kate asked.

  “Yes, the same things again and again. It’s driving me to distraction.” Leah did not usually confess such things. It must be the shame of what had happened at dinner—Leah might be adept at hiding her feelings, but tonight had been too much for any fifteen-year-old girl.

  “Shall we go downstairs where we won’t hear them?” Kate wanted to put her hand on Leah’s shoulder, show sympathy, but no one did that in this house.

  “Very well.” Leah jumped up as if no suggestion could be more welcome. She went to the door with such haste that she outpaced Kate and stepped into the hall before her.

  As Kate followed, the door of her parents’ bedroom burst open and her mother ran out, one hand held over her eye, her mouth strained with terror. Her father stumbled after her, his face contorted. He reached out, buried his fist in her mother’s hair, and jerked her head back, spinning her around and to her knees.