Sweeter than Birdsong by Rosslyn Elliott Page B

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.