Sweeter than Birdsong Page 9

  Such chaos and hubbub would make it easy to slip away from her companions. She glanced at Mrs. Hanby’s unsuspecting face as the older woman pointed out a shop to Mrs. Lawrence. Ben’s mother might take the blame if Kate disappeared. That would not be fair at all. Kate would have to devise a way to avoid tarnishing the reputations of the Hanbys or the Lawrences. How, she did not know. The plan seemed more complicated now that she had come this far.

  “High Street!” the driver called from above. The coach slid in the mud and the ladies jostled shoulders.

  “I hope Ben is hanging on for dear life up there.” Mrs. Hanby’s tone was light, but she clutched her handbag tighter. Ben was riding with the other men up on top. It would not be seemly for any gentleman to squeeze in among so many ladies.

  “There are handles. But he may be damp when he comes down.” Cornelia closed her book. “Aren’t we almost there?”

  “Yes, the hotel is near Broad and High.” Mrs. Lawrence retied her bonnet. The carriage shuddered to a stop. “You see?”

  Outside, men shouted to one another and thumped the roof as they untied the baggage. The door opened, and Ben Hanby looked in. His face was shadowed in the rainy gloom by the dripping brim of his hat, and his coat clung to his shoulders. He extended a hand to help the ladies out. The older women went first, then Cornelia, who thanked him and stepped down with the grace of a practiced traveler.

  Kate looked down at the step. It would be easy were it not for the width of her skirt and petticoats, and the corset that kept her back stiff as a washboard.

  Ben held up his hand and met her gaze silently. She placed her gloved hand in his steady supporting grasp, and he watched her step down as if alert for the slightest stumble. She found her footing and looked up into his brown eyes. The feel of his hand through their lightweight gloves struck her as different from Frederick’s. Ben’s was leaner, though no less strong—the hand of a craftsman and a composer. But she should not be thinking such things—they did not seem quite proper. She withdrew her hand and looked away. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Neil House stood five stories tall in magisterial gray stone, its name blazoned above tall pillars. A lamplighter passed on the walk with his long pole and ignited a white flame inside the glass. Now Kate noticed a long line of similar flames, unaffected by the drizzle, dancing like fairy lights far down the avenue. She marveled at their eerie beauty.

  Cornelia waited for her at the bottom of the stairs. “Mr. Neil’s hotel is magnificent.”

  “Oh yes.” They ascended together as uniformed footmen passed them en route to collect their baggage.

  “Charles Dickens himself even praised Neil House when he stayed here,” Cornelia said.

  Another footman held the door, and they walked into the foyer under an enormous gasolier, its crystals shimmering in the steady white light.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Cornelia said.

  “It’s extraordinary.” In the clear, powerful light, the black walnut paneling gleamed and the heavy carving of the stair posts towered up fifteen feet before disappearing into the high ceiling of the second level.

  “Ladies, welcome.” A man with heavy sideburns approached.

  “Thank you, Mr. Neil.” Mrs. Lawrence gave him her hand in greeting, then inspected her valise, which the footman had just set by the stairs. She seemed completely at ease in the presence of the most influential man in Columbus.

  “And you must be Mrs. Hanby.” Mr. Neil took the small woman’s hand in turn. “I have met your husband several times. How is Bishop Hanby?”

  “He’s quite well, sir, though I should tell you he does not stand on ceremony. The United Brethren call him ‘Bishop,’ but he prefers the plain ‘Mister.’ If you call him bishop, he fears he will be expected to sashay around in robes and a pointed hat.” Mrs. Hanby’s smile grew impish, and Mr. Neil chuckled.

  “I will remember to address him as Mister Hanby, then.” He spoke to all four of them. “We are delighted to have you. Miss Lawrence, I highly anticipate your performance.”

  Cornelia made a small curtsy.

  A tall, stout man entered the hotel, his boots spattering mud on the mat as he wiped them. It was Mr. Jones, Frederick’s father. How odd.

  Mrs. Hanby stared and grew still, but the Lawrences seemed unaffected.

  “Mrs. Hanby.” His voice was as loud and unrestrained as it had been in his own house. “Imagine seeing you here. Where is Mr. Hanby?” He walked over to stand near her.

  Mrs. Hanby remained polite. “He is at home, tending the saddle shop. Mr. Jones, do you know Mr. Neil?”

  Mr. Neil smiled and the two men shook hands. “Mr. Jones and I are well acquainted. Welcome, Daniel. If you will excuse me, I’ll show these ladies to their rooms. They will want to rest before supper.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Jones backed away and gestured for his footman to precede him up the stairs.

  He looked at them over his shoulder as he left. Something in his expression reminded Kate of the fox who had just stolen the cheese.

  Ben staggered under the weight of Cornelia’s small trunk as it fell off the top of the stage and into his arms. Her concert gown must be made of solid gold. She had asked him not to let this trunk out of his sight, as it contained her sheet music. He had assured her he would personally deliver it to her room, though she had protested such care was unnecessary.

  He hefted it between his arms, straining to balance the slippery leather in the rain. Finally he found the handle and took Miss Winter’s valise in his other hand. Every step up the Neil House front steps was precarious. He could manage it, but he was glad none of the women were there to see him work so hard. Ben’s lean build was made for running, not herculean weightlifting feats.

  Two more stairs and he crested the top. At the hotel door, a footman offered to take it from him. He refused. He had said he would carry it himself, and he would not go back on his word.

  Once through the main door, he had only to carry the trunk and valise up the marble stairs, one flight, he hoped.

  “To which floor did the ladies before me proceed?” he gasped to the footman.

  “The fifth, sir. Rooms 30 and 31. And I believe you will stay in Room 32, sir.”

  Of course, five floors. He renewed his grip and started up the first flight of stairs.

  By the third floor, the handles were sliding from his fists. He lowered the cases onto the stairs for a breather.

  “Mr. Hanby.”

  He knew that drawl. Descending from the landing above came the gray-haired Southerner, surprisingly light on his feet for a large man.

  “Good evening, Mr. Jones. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Frederick told me about your traveling plans when he came home from class the other day. When I discovered Miss Lawrence would be performing, I decided to combine it with a trip to see my old friend Neil.”

  “I’m sure she will be delighted to have you in the audience.” Ben took a deep breath, his legs tense from the climb.

  “Frederick is with me. He went to the livery to supervise the horses, but he will join us later.”

  “That is good news, sir.”

  “You young bucks might take in the sights of the town. I know he prefers your company to that of any other young friend.”

  “Thank you, sir. I have a high regard for him as well.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you.” Mr. Jones continued his descent, his expensive coat perfectly suited to the rich décor around him.

  Ben reached the top floor, his overburdened arms straining the seams of his coat and shirt. Next time he would refrain from promises about personal delivery of luggage.

  Just as he reached the end of the hall, the oak door with the brass plate numbered 30 swung open, and Miss Winter stepped out. She stared at him, her blue eyes widening under the brim of her hat.

  Miss Lawrence’s face appeared over her shoulder, feather-bonneted and equally astonished. “Mr. Hanby, you shouldn’t have!”

  “It
’s not heavy,” he stated in obvious contradiction to the facts. He bit his lip as he lowered the trunk once more to the ground. “I promised I would see it safely to you.”

  Miss Winter moved out into the hallway to clear the doorway. Miss Lawrence moved back, and Ben slid the trunk over the threshold.

  “I’m sorry you went to such effort on my account,” Cornelia said. “But thank you, Mr. Hanby.”

  “Of course.”

  The girls dragged the trunk in. Their labor was the price of his chivalry—a porter could have crossed that threshold and carried the trunk in, but a young gentleman could not.

  His mother sidled around the girls to draw near Ben. “Here is your key.” She pressed a key etched with the number 32 into his hand. “May I speak with you in private for a moment?”

  “Certainly.” He turned, unlocked the door of his room, and held it for her. After he had come in, she turned to him. “Mr.

  Jones is here,” she said, her expression neutral.

  “Yes, and Frederick too. I’m sure they will make our visit merrier.”

  His mother did not respond. Something seemed amiss, but then again, it was the last week of May. She might be merrier once the entertainment began.

  “Does something about Mr. Jones disturb you?” he asked.

  “Nothing worthy of mention.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Your father told me before we left that you were planning something with John Parker, though he didn’t know what it might be. I assume it’s Railroad business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you discuss any of it with Frederick?”

  “Mother. Of course not. If I haven’t told Father, I certainly wouldn’t tell another student.”

  “Very well.” She still looked pensive. “Please tell me what it is. It’s too worrisome not to know, especially with our responsibility to Miss Winter.”

  She would not like it, but he didn’t wish to cause her needless anxiety, so he had better confess. “I am going to find Nelly.”

  She looked at him hard. “Joseph’s Nelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how do you know she is still alive?”

  “John Parker is investigating for me across the river.”

  “Across the river! So you think you will go into Kentucky and get her?”

  “Yes. But it won’t be that easy.”

  She skewered him with a motherly look.

  “John tells me,” he said, “that the border plantations have been using decoys to offer escape to slaves, then whipping or mutilating those who try to run as examples to the others. So if Nelly is there, I must convince her I’m not a decoy, but a genuine Railroader.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  He reached into his inside lapel pocket and produced the miniature basket. “Remember this?”

  She took it from him and opened the little latch. “Nelly’s hair.”

  “And, more importantly, the basket Nelly made for Joseph. She will recognize it and know I am no impostor.”

  She sighed. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you this is ten times as dangerous as conducting fugitives in Ohio.” She touched his arm. “I do want you to follow your conscience. At least you have John to help you.” She brushed off the front of her bodice. “I’ll see you at supper in an hour.” She left the room with a soft rustle of skirt followed by the click of the door into its frame.

  Something about the Jones family unsettled his mother. But Frederick was a good friend, and Ben had no reason to think anything covert lay behind his presence. The very notion was ludicrous. Frederick had never shown one whit of interest in discussing slavery or abolition.

  But on that note, he must remember to go down and speak to the desk clerk before dinner. A letter from John Parker might arrive here at the hotel, and then he and the others would have to part company.

  Twelve

  THE GASOLIER KATE HAD ADMIRED EARLIER WAS SO bright that it left no kind shadow to shelter her from the gaze of arriving guests. She inched backward toward the wall of the foyer as if she could sink into the frieze of the walnut paneling and become one of its carved wooden figures, still and lovely. But her sea-green gown would not allow such camouflage.

  “Miss Winter, come up with us.” Mrs. Hanby smiled and gestured upstairs at the retreating satin-clad backs of the women who had alighted from their carriages moments ago.

  Kate lifted her silk hem to clear the steps and followed them up.

  Once inside the dressing room, the strangers doffed their light hoods. A chamber maid scurried around offering heated irons to repair rebellious locks. A gust rattled the window beside Kate, but the wind’s knocking faded in the rising hubbub of female conversation.

  Mrs. Lawrence had introduced Kate to all of the women as they entered, but she could not remember a single name.

  “Do let me have that iron when you are finished, Mary.” The woman with hard-drawn eyebrows spoke with the flat nonchalance of one who is always obeyed.

  The plump woman in carnation pink handed it over without a murmur and turned to Mrs. Lawrence. “We are eager to hear Miss Lawrence play, Ida. And what a pleasure it must be to have her back with you!”

  Ida Lawrence gleamed in her full scarlet dress. “Oh yes, Mary.” Her countenance grew equally bright. “I have hung on Cornelia’s every word and gesture since her return. There’s no stopping a mother’s fondness after two years’ absence.”

  “It’s an elemental force,” Madam Eyebrows said, though her air of boredom siphoned all emotion from her words.

  Such sophistication seemed designed to intimidate. If so, it was successful. Kate sidled away past another cluster of women and pretended interest in a curio cabinet while they finished repairing their coiffures.

  “Don’t let anyone frighten you.” Mrs. Hanby spoke softly at her elbow. Her dress was not as magnificent as the others, but its brown silk suited her small figure perfectly with its well-tailored bodice. Despite the fine lines on her face, she seemed younger and lighter than the other middle-aged women. It was hard to believe she had eight children. “I will stay by you all evening, if you wish.” The small woman’s face was gentle.

  Kate did not want to hurt Mrs. Hanby by her flight—the thought made her a little sick. But she could not return to the house in Westerville, and she was the only one who could take Leah away from it. Her sister had sustained enough damage to her character already from their situation—she did not deserve to be abused as well.

  Mrs. Lawrence summoned them. “I believe the gentlemen are waiting for us in the parlor. Shall we join them?” Mrs. Hanby took Kate’s arm and led her in Mrs. Lawrence’s wake.

  The resplendent parlor glowed in the light of a gasolier even larger and more crystal-spangled than the one in the foyer. An ebony grand piano stood at one end, while several dozen chairs had been artfully positioned in small groups for the audience. Mr. Jones wore a black evening coat and white tie like the other gentlemen clustered in the back of the room. He lurked in the corner and murmured with a confiding air to two other distinguished men.

  Ben leaned over the piano and peered beneath its raised lid with an absorbed expression. His appearance had taken a turn for the better since his rather comical appearance with their luggage at their door earlier. She repressed a smile. He should have let the footman help him, but she liked him for the determination that had filled his face as he stood there damp and out of breath in the hall.

  He looked up at her, and she turned away quickly to find a seat. Mrs. Hanby had taken one near the piano, next to Mrs. Lawrence. Kate seated herself, admiring the intricacy of the brocade chair back. Even one chair like this would ornament a family’s parlor, but in this grand room there were thirty or more, all equally beautiful.

  From the right side of the room, a familiar voice greeted others, and she found it was Frederick Jones in his evening attire, his hair shining. He smiled at her, but she dropped her gaze—it would be improper to communicate across the room. Ben’s black
-coated figure passed through the edge of her vision as he left the piano and joined Frederick. They greeted one another and stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the way of friends in strange places. Frederick leaned to mutter something to him and Ben laughed, his eyebrows lifting and eyes brightening. But she should not be watching the gentlemen.

  Mr. Neil walked to the piano, his hair smooth with pomade and his beard trimmed. He addressed them in a resonant bass. “My friends, I am delighted to present Miss Lawrence, who comes direct from Paris to honor us with a piano recital.”

  A polite smattering of applause followed and grew louder as Cornelia appeared in the parlor door. Her gown could have been made for European royalty, black with silver threading in the bodice and tiny silver ornaments hanging from each of its three tiers like an exquisite fringe. Its heavy folds trailed behind her as she rounded the piano stool, nodded to the guests, and sat down. Extraordinary that someone Kate’s own age could be so self-assured. If Cornelia was nervous, she did not show it, her eyes dreamy as she laid her fingers on the keys, palms arched. One lock of reddish-brown hair curled down over her collarbone.

  Then Cornelia lifted her hands and brought them down in a rush of sound, and Kate lost herself in the music.

  Ben stood against the wall to the side of the ladies’ chairs. It was good to have Frederick here—his sense of humor would increase the pleasure of an evening of entertainment.

  The music was entrancing. Ben should let it carry him away, just as Kate Winter was allowing herself to be swept up in the melody’s spirals and dips. Her eyes were closed in her delicate, pale face, luminous as an artist’s Madonna, lifted in a moment of profound peace. She deserved some respite from her cares, and no earthly thing had more power than music to enfold a soul and deliver it from trouble.