Sweeter than Birdsong (2 page)

Now they would send her away. No one could remain at university without giving orations. She had failed herself and disgraced the small band of young women who had been permitted to enroll at Otterbein.

More cramps seized her chest and abdomen, burning, pinching.

Her dream of graduating from college and leaving Westerville was over.

Two

W
HEN A YOUNG MAN HAD SEVEN YOUNGER SIBLINGS, IT
was only natural that one of them would be a pox on his very existence. Ben supposed he should count his blessings that the other six brought him such joy. But none of the joys had come to the general store today—only Cyrus, the pox himself.

“Do you suppose the college will ask Miss Winter to leave?” Cyrus asked. He picked up a new hat from its box and adjusted it with care over his wild mass of light brown curls. “Rather a scene she made in class yesterday.”

“A gentleman would not speculate on her situation.” Ben picked up a sheet of music and did his best to ignore Cyrus. As his eyes followed the black lines of notes across the staff, he hummed the melody under his breath.

“It would be a shame to lose such a beauty from the college,” Cyrus murmured. “With hair and eyes such as hers, who needs a voice?” Cyrus adjusted the hat to a sharp angle over his brow and gave himself a burning stare in the small looking glass on the wall.

The effect of his seventeen-year-old playacting was not as impressive as he imagined. Ben suppressed his dry comment.

Their father was holding a list of supplies up to the light. “And cinnamon, and ten pounds of flour,” he read aloud to Mr. Bogler, the store owner.

“How’s your trade in harnesses been, Mr. Hanby?” Mr. Bogler lifted a flour sack to the counter.

“Brisk of late,” Ben’s father said. The gray streaks in his dark hair did not detract from his still-vigorous appearance—in his midforties, he could keep pace with men a decade younger. “The railroad has helped. What’s good for Columbus is good for Westerville.”

He folded the shopping list and glanced at Ben. “Are you finished, son?”

“Yes, sir.” Ben kept hold of the sheet music and walked to the front, fishing in his pocket for coins. He would pay for it himself—his father had enough mouths to feed, and Ben’s seasonal work as a schoolmaster paid for his Otterbein tuition and any small luxuries like music.

A man shouted outside, then another. His father stiffened, and Ben followed his gaze outside through the checkered panes of the wide store window.

A small group of black men shuffled down the street, their shoulders hunched. Chains linked their ankles through iron cuffs so heavy they would grind away flesh within a mile’s walk. And from the mud-streaked, bare feet of the slaves, it was clear they had come more than a mile. Behind them strode four white men in broad-brimmed, dusty hats and travel-worn clothing. One propped a long whip over his shoulder as if it were a fishing pole while two others dogged the heels of the slaves. One yelled for them to hurry it up, and the other laughed and shoved the hindmost prisoner forward. He stumbled into the slave ahead, weaved and staggered, then tripped on the chain and fell prone in the dirt. The bounty hunter kicked the fallen man in the belly, hard, again, and he doubled up in pain. Ben’s gut clenched in sympathy.

With three swift steps he made it to the door and grasped the handle.

“Ben.” His father’s call carried a command.

Ben paused, struggled to unknot his clenched fingers—it was too much, he could not tolerate it. He turned his head. “Must we stand here and do nothing?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, son. We’ve spoken about this before.” His father’s deep-set eyes said more, reminded him that they could not discuss such things in public.

The smug expression on the bounty hunter’s face made Ben want to slam his fist against the door. “But they’re taking them right down State Street. Throwing it in our faces.”

“It’s the law, Ben. That’s enough.” Beneath his words lay a warning.

Ben gritted his teeth and walked back to the counter. He grasped the flour sack in one hand, stuffed the sheet music under his arm, and snatched his hat from the courtesy peg on the wall. He jerked the door open and stormed out, gaze averted from the spectacle in the street. Cyrus would have to help his father carry the rest. If Ben saw any more, he could not answer for his actions, law or no law.

Three

T
HE DIMNESS OF THE HALL OUTSIDE THE PRESIDENT’S
office did not soften the rigid face of Kate’s mother. Her tight mouth and narrowed eyes augured ill for what might happen once she and Kate returned to the cold formality of the house behind the gate.

Kate sat on the edge of her chair and kept her posture as perfect as the young ladies had been taught. It was habit. She would not win her mother’s approval through proper deportment, especially not after the debacle of the oration day.

Professor Hayworth opened the door and stepped back. “Ladies, if you would be so kind as to join us.” The effort behind his genial tone made it all the more ominous.

Her mother glided past her and onto the dark red carpet with its pattern of blue looping vines. President Lawrence had risen to greet them at his desk. After Kate and her mother seated themselves in the two velvet wing chairs, the president and Professor Hayworth resumed their own seats behind the wide, ebony expanse of the desk.

“Mrs. Winter, thank you for accompanying your daughter this morning,” President Lawrence said.

Her mother nodded without reply.

The college president, Mr. Lawrence, had a kind, open face, clean shaven to reveal ruddy health across his cheekbones. His eyelids drooped at the edges with the onset of middle age, but his eyes were bright. He wore the traditional light black robe over his navy waistcoat and tie. The president took a piece of paper from the drawer below him and laid it on the desk, a lone ivory island in the sea of black. He stared down at it for a moment. “I trust you are aware, Mrs. Winter, that your daughter has a delicate sensibility. It prevented her from giving an oration before her classmates. And orations are required for the completion of an Otterbein degree.”

“Yes.” Her mother pressed her lips into a line.

The sharp smell of the freshly painted walls turned Kate’s stomach. If they wished to be merciful, they would do it quickly and without ceremony.

Professor Hayworth perused a sheaf of papers he held in his hands. “You may also be aware, madam, that your daughter is one of our most gifted students.”

Her mother’s lips twitched but she said nothing, still as a plaster bust beneath her architectural twists and coils of black hair. What had she almost said? Certainly nothing complimentary.

“She is at the top of her class in Latin and Greek, as well as mathematics,” the professor added.

Mr. Lawrence leaned forward, interlacing his knuckles on the desk’s smooth surface. “Because of her prodigious gifts, we are unwilling to dismiss her at this time. Oration is not as vital for a young lady as it would be for a gentleman.”

She must have misheard. They were not going to dismiss her?

“However, we cannot simply ignore the requirements of Otterbein College,” Professor Hayworth said. “And so we wish to give you more time, Miss Winter. After the new year—in eight month’s time—you must be able to deliver an oration to the entire class. Until then, you may present your assigned recitation to me, in the company of the ladies’ chaperone.”

“Do you wish to continue under these conditions?” President Lawrence asked.

Kate murmured, “Yes, sir.”

“Very good.” The president sat back in his chair as if released from a string. Professor Hayworth looked relieved, though his bushy brown beard made it hard to tell for certain.

“Thank you, President Lawrence.” Her mother rose to her feet, a silvery beaded handbag dangling from her wrist against the lilac silk of her dress. She had dressed as if to meet in the Oval Office with President Pierce himself, not with the president of a small college. The gentlemen rose with her and Kate followed suit, stepping forward to allow her skirt its room.

“Kate, you will wish to thank them as well, I am sure.” Kate’s mother flashed her a steel-blue look, then assumed a milder aspect to the men.

Kate lifted her head. “I am grateful to you, sirs.” Her answer was too soft, she knew—they would hardly hear her, and her mother would take her to task for it later. Her words slipped out, artificial, manufactured by her mother’s will, not her own. Perhaps they thought they were kind, but a summer and a semester would make no difference. She had done her best to speak, but her body had refused her will. The faculty’s stipulation would not change her weakness. It was simply a stay of execution.

“You have great promise, Miss Winter,” said Professor Hayworth. “We wish you to fulfill it.”

Her mother clutched her silver handbag in one tight fist. “Thank you, Professor. Good day, gentlemen.” She inclined her head and swept out the door in a puff of powdery lavender scent.

Kate followed her down the hall. The tightness of her dressed hair pulled into a dull ache at her temples. She could not bear to go back through their iron-gated yard into the Winter residence, but she had no other place to live.

As soon as their maid Tessie let them in the front door, Kate’s mother sailed across the foyer and threw an order over her lilac shoulder. “Come to the parlor.”

Kate avoided Tessie’s sympathetic look as she trailed in her mother’s wake through the double doors. She had never liked the parlor’s blue-and-white formality, punctuated by spiny-legged chairs and hard upholstery.

Her mother rounded on her, and Kate suppressed a start.

“I suppose we must count our blessings that President Lawrence is so magnanimous.” Dry, papery-fine skin pulled into deep grooves around her tight mouth.

“Yes, Mother.” If Kate did not argue, it would end sooner.

Her mother peered at her. “Clearly, you have a brain somewhere in your head. You do well enough in your studies. So why do you stumble over a simple declamation?”

“I don’t know.” Resentment pricked deep beneath her meek response like a burr under a saddle.

“And you won’t speak to the few eligible suitors I have brought to you.”

“It is not deliberate, Mother. I am not gifted in social discourse.”

“You are too intelligent to be incapable of conversation. Something in you wishes to defy me, Kate.”

“I don’t intend to displease you.” But that hidden spikiness within her belied her polite response. Her mother was so determined to be dissatisfied.

Her mother picked up her embroidery frame from a lace-topped side table, but then set it down again. Her lips drew into a taut smile. “Young Mr. Hanby is directing a musicale for the college, I hear. Is he not holding auditions soon? Mrs. Bogler told me so. I believe this performance would be a perfect opportunity to overcome your flaw. You must audition.”

“Mother, I have proven I cannot speak in public settings.” Kate stared at the parquet below the full hem of her sea-green dress. This did not seem just, to be controlled by the dictates of so many others, never given a choice. She must be very calm, though beneath it all her will thrashed like an animal in a trap. She pressed her hands together and counted in Greek.

“What did you say? I can’t abide this half-audible murmuring of yours.” Her mother walked away a few steps to pretend to examine the clock above the fireplace. “President Lawrence’s daughter will appear in this musicale. And why is that? Because her parents know their daughter must be poised and articulate if she is to make an enterprising match, beyond this small town.”

“I do not have any poise, Mother. I am certain to—”

“Speak up, I tell you!”

“Ruth, you leave that girl ’lone.” Her father’s slurred voice came from his study, at the other end of the parlor behind her mother’s back. Sickly sweet fumes drifted to Kate, as if the bourbon on his breath spread throughout the house.

Her mother turned her head a fraction, like a duchess in her stiff-bodiced gown. “Stay out of it, Isaiah. You’re hardly in a position to judge social niceties. She will do as I bid her and go to the audition.”

Her father’s figure loomed in the doorway, his beard rumpled, a dark, wet stain on his lapel. His reddened eyes fixed on her mother as she fell back a step. “You’ll let her do as she wishes.”

“It is all right, Father. I will go.” Fair or not, it did not matter. She must bring this interview to a close before her parents flew into one of their battles. Her scalp tingled and she took a deep breath. “But I would like to sing instead of read.”

Her mother raised her thin-plucked brows. “Singing is less abhorrent to you?”

“Yes.” If she sang, she might arrange to sing with others and blend into the group. She could avoid a solo performance.

“Ruth, tell her she may sing. Don’t be so hard-hearted.” Her father’s voice was always too big for the room. Liquor must affect one’s hearing.

Her mother stared back at him with cold dislike. “Very well.”

Kate bowed her head. She must not show the struggle inside. “May I go to my room?”

Her mother did not answer, but only jerked her head, as if she had pricked herself with the embroidery needle. Her eyes were shadowed, her still-beautiful cheeks looked pinched.