Lovelier than Daylight

by Rosslyn Elliott

  Advance Acclaim for

  Lovelier than Daylight

  “Lovelier than Daylight showcases a fascinating episode of American history, interweaving romance, suspense, and historical detail with unusual depth and realism. Skillfully and sensitively told, the story is a beautiful portrayal of God’s redeeming work and of love triumphing over all. Another moving, memorable novel by author Rosslyn Elliott!”

  — Laura Frantz, author of Love’s Reckoning and The Colonel’s Lady

  “With a page-turning plot, endearing characters, captivating prose, and a theme that transcends time and genre, Lovelier than Daylight had moments of such raw honesty I had to stop to fully absorb them. Not only does Elliott know how to tell a compelling story, she knows how to explore a sensitive topic from all angles, which will surely elicit lively conversation among reading groups. An incredibly satisfying ending to a beautiful series.”

  — Katie Ganshert, author of Wildflowers from Winter

  “In Lovelier Than Daylight, Rosslyn Elliott takes her reader by the hand and leads them through the portal of time, back to 1875 in small-town Ohio, where things are about to get rather explosive. Beautiful prose, stunning scenes, dramatic dialogue, and a touch of mystery are carefully woven throughout the story. Elliott tackles the difficult subject of temperance with grace and prowess, careful not to choose sides, but delivers the very clear message that in all things, even where there are no easy answers, God is sovereign. Another delightful read from this wonderful author!”

  — Catherine West, award-winning author of Yesterday’s Tomorrow

  Acclaim for Rosslyn Elliott’s previous novels

  “Elliott gives the reader the gift of high quality historical fiction in the first Saddler’s Legacy book.”

  — Romantic Times review of Fairer than Morning

  “Fairer than Morning is a fabulous debut! Rosslyn Elliott has not so much written a story, but crafted a tale with a dedication to depth and detail equal to that of the artisan she brings to life . . . Rosslyn Elliott is a welcome new voice, almost luxurious. Readers deserve this indulgence.”

  — Allison Pittman, award-winning author of Stealing Home and Lilies in Moonlight

  “Fairer than Morning is a book to savor. As you read this exquisitely written story, the present fades and you are drawn into a tale of cruelty, honor, love and deliverance. When you reach the last page you close the book wishing for more. However Rosslyn Elliott’s characters will go with you, forever embedded in your heart.”

  — Bonnie Leon, author of Touching the Clouds and the Sydney Cove series

  “Rosslyn Elliott weaves a gripping story full of fascinating historical details. She creates realistic and poignant characters who touch your heart with a message of true grace and forgiveness. Fairer than Morning is the kind of book you’ll think about long after you read the last page.”

  — Jody Hedlund, best-selling author of The Preacher’s Bride

  “A novelist to watch! Elliott excels at bringing a by-gone era to life with all of its charm and its flaws. An unhesitating indictment of cruelty and a celebration of the freedom of spirit which can only be found in God.”

  — Siri Mitchell, award-winning author of She Walks in Beauty, regarding Fairer than Morning

  “Elliott follows up her acclaimed debut, Fairer than Morning, with another enchanting, inspirational tale.”

  — Library Journal review of Sweeter than Birdsong

  LOVELIER

  THAN

  Daylight

  Also by Rosslyn Elliott

  Fairer than Morning

  Sweeter than Birdsong

  LOVELIER

  THAN

  Daylight

  Book Three

  THE SADDLER’S LEGACY

  ROSSLYN ELLIOTT

  © 2012 by Rosslyn Elliott

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., 10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130. www.wordserveliterary.com.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Elliott, Rosslyn.

  Lovelier than daylight : a novel / by Rosslyn Elliott.

  p. cm. — (The saddler’s legacy ; bk. 3)

  Summary: “When her nieces and nephews fall victim to their alcoholic father’s mistakes, Susanna Hanby vows to rescue them. In 1875, Susanna Hanby travels to her sister’s Ohio farm—but no one is there. Her sister’s alcoholic husband claims that she has run off and dumped their six children at the county orphanage, and he doesn’t care. Desperate to keep the family together, Susanna seeks help from her uncle Will in Westerville. Johann Giere is heir to a thriving German-American brewery in Columbus. When he helps a saloon owner take beer to Westerville, Johann expects a fight between the new saloon and the driest town in America. He doesn’t expect to meet Susanna, a pretty temperance crusader who wins his sympathy. The small town erupts in gunpowder and fire, but Johann vows to help Susanna rescue her nieces and nephews. Susanna grows to admire him even as she detests his business. He finds her lovelier with every passing day, until they both face an impossible choice between passion and principle. Lovelier than Daylight is a novel of faith and grace inspired by the real Hanby family of Ohio and their role in the Westerville Whiskey Wars”— Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-59554-787-3 (pbk.)

  1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Temperance—Fiction. 3. Ohio—History—1865—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3605.L4498L68 2012

  813'.6—dc23

  2012026507

  Printed in the United States of America

  12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my husband and daughter, with much love

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Afterword: History and Fiction

  Reading Group Guide

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One
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br />   Ohio, 1875

  TALL GRASS AND WILDFLOWERS BLOCKED HER VIEW and stranded her in the middle of the meadow. Susanna’s arms prickled as if someone watched her—but surely no one else was out here in the country on this June morning already hot and breathless.

  Scores of fleabane daisies studded the wall of grass like flat yellow eyes, unblinking. The heavy air pressed from all sides, its stillness broken only by the hum of a wasp that circled above her head.

  Her sister needed her. She must get to the farmhouse as soon as she could. She gripped the handle of her heavy valise with both hands and pushed through the grass, peering for marks of passage to keep her on the overgrown path. Her back grew warm under her bustled polonaise and corset, and her petticoat dampened beneath her skirt. She wanted to lift her curls away from her neck and fan herself, but she trudged on. At least her straw hat kept the sun out of her eyes.

  This summer refused to relent, with its constant liquid heat, harsh as the burn of whiskey on the tongue. Susanna had tasted a sip of whiskey once, at her father’s request. He wanted her to know its flavor so curiosity could never tempt her, even though she promised him drink held no allure for her. Whiskey had done more than enough harm already.

  She would not think of that. She was here to bring companionship and merriment to her sister and her children before she headed off to college in Westerville.

  In her valise she had a surprise that would entertain them for hours—layers and layers of thin paper in seven colors. With it she would show her nieces and nephews how to make something wondrous, exact replicas of the flowers in her botany book. She could not wait to see the joy of creation ease their cares, at least for the few days she was with them. A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. The children would crowd around and ask with bright eyes what was in her valise—they knew there would always be a surprise. She only wished she could give them more.

  A brick chimney poked above the grass, which finally opened to a clearing. Her sister’s house squatted ahead with its familiar, peeling white planks. Rusted farm tools lay by its walls, and the fields beyond bore only a sparse cover of wilting corn. But any neglect was not Rachel’s fault. With a lazy husband and six little ones to feed, Rachel could not go out in the fields and do everything herself.

  Susanna hurried forward, her shoulders aching from the pull of the valise.

  Why hadn’t the children come out to greet her? Clara or Wesley should be out doing their chores, even if the little ones stayed inside.

  She stopped. Something had happened to the flowerbeds. The blooms lay crushed and browned along the foundation of the house. Her throat knotted—Rachel must be so sad. The only color and luxury at the home had come from the flowers she had so patiently watered and weeded. All dead now.

  She set her luggage at the bottom of the stoop, climbed up, and knocked. No answer. She laid a tentative hand on the knob and pushed the door open a crack. “Rachel?” Her call sank into eerie silence. Her stomach hollowed and she gripped the knob tighter. She eased the door open. The small parlor with its threadbare furniture was empty.

  A few steps took her into the dim hallway and back to the bedroom. No one was there. The sheets were rumpled, the quilt hung on the floor, and the baby’s cradle was empty. Something was wrong—her breathing quickened.

  No, she must not panic. Perhaps her nieces and nephews were upstairs, caring for Rachel there. In her most recent letter, she’d mentioned having a mild fever. If she were still feverish, Clara and Wesley would be caring for her, as their father would be of little help.

  The motionless, musty heat of the house gave her a queasy feeling, but she climbed the narrow stairs in the hall anyway. There were two bedrooms upstairs, one for the two older boys and one for the three girls.

  “Clara?” she said into the stillness. Both bedroom doors were open, and an unpleasant odor seeped out. A cold flutter started in her chest. She pulled her handkerchief from her skirt pocket and steeled herself to step up to the doorway. It was too quiet. Clutching the handkerchief to her nose, she edged forward.

  The room was in shambles, and vacant. The odor came from a few soiled diapers strewn across the floor with flies creeping over them. An old quilt lay in a heap on the bed, as if the children had been playing with it. This was not like Rachel at all. Difficult as her circumstances might be, she had always kept her home clean and orderly. Susanna tried to swallow but her mouth was paper dry.

  The boys’ room was deserted, and the bedclothes in equal disarray. A drawer had been pulled out of the shabby dresser and lay upended on the floor.

  She hurried down the stairs, her heels thumping on the wood. She must return to town and ask if anyone knew the whereabouts of Rachel Leeds, George Leeds, or their children. She would not lose her head, she would stay calm. But she gripped the banister with white knuckles.

  She should leave a note for them, in case someone returned while she was gone. A simple desk stood against the parlor wall. She rummaged through its first drawer. There was only a scrap of paper, but it would do. But no ink—perhaps there was a pencil. She opened the second drawer to find it empty.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The breath froze in her lungs and she whirled around.

  George stood inside the door, rank with the stench of stale liquor. He wore no tie, and his shirt and vest were stained and wrinkled. His oily mustache ran down into his beard, which was unhealthy and sparse. It was hard to believe he had ever been a handsome, hardworking farmer who had courted and won her merry sister. But Rachel was not merry anymore, thanks to him.

  “Where are Rachel and the children?” Her voice was taut as a frayed rope.

  “She’s gone.”

  Her vision narrowed to his slack, tilted face. Had Rachel left him? Where would she go, with all her children?

  He blinked at her. “She left. Went off with some other man.”

  “That’s not true. She was ill—she wrote to me.”

  “Maybe she had brain fever, maybe that was her excuse.” His mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. “Guess she wasn’t too sick to ride the train.”

  Rachel. Susanna’s heart contracted. “Where are the children?”

  “She gave ’em to the county.”

  “The county?” She could only repeat it, dazed.

  “To the orphan home.”

  “But why would she do that?”

  “Maybe she didn’t want ’em in the way of her and her new man. And I sure as heck can’t manage ’em. They’re motherless now.”

  “But they’re not fatherless. You let your children go to an orphanage?” She felt her hands shaking and hid them behind her skirt.

  “She didn’t ask me. She left a note. But now it’s done, I’m not going to fight it. And don’t get smart with me, Susanna Hanby. You Hanby women let your looks puff you up, think you’re more important than you are. I could pick you up in one hand, just like your sister. Well, you see how she turned out—nothing but a loose woman.”

  He was full of lies. Rachel had never been vain, even though she was pretty. Her nails bit into her palms. She’d like to dig them into his uncaring face instead. “What orphanage?”

  “I dunno. In Columbus. What, do you think I could take care of all of them, plus a baby? That needs a woman.”

  “No, just a sober, decent man!” She flung herself past him and out the door, stumbling down the front steps. All six children, gone. And what could she do if Rachel had signed them over as wards of the county and George did not want them?

  She seized her valise and hurried away. It could not be true. Rachel would not do such an awful thing. Perhaps he himself had given the children away to the county.

  But George would have no reason to lie.

  Unless he had harmed Rachel.

  No, she must not think of that or she would not make it back to the railway station. Her sister would write to her and all would be made clear.

  She could not bear the whiskey-sodden inhumanity of George.
Anger glowed like a pillar of fire to lead her—she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it blaze. She would find the children. They must not be separated and given to strange families, perhaps unloved and subjected to callous treatment.

  She had told Rachel about George, and so had her parents. If only Rachel had listened and refused to marry a man who drank, none of this would have happened. Of course, when they met, George didn’t drink day and night. He was just a happy-go-lucky, merry farmer who stopped into the saloon at week’s end. But they had warned Rachel, nonetheless, about what the future might hold, and she had not listened.

  Susanna could not think ill of her sister, not after all she had suffered. Certainly not now, when she didn’t even know where Rachel had gone.

  She sloughed off the trembles from her arms and legs and kept walking. Should she go back to Milford Centre and tell her parents so they could get the children back?

  How they would do it, she did not know. Their last savings had gone for the tuition money she needed to go to college in Westerville—money now folded in a tight bundle of bills in her handbag. Her parents were growing old and barely eked out a living from their small plot of land, one cow, and chickens. They would not be able to give any further help—they had already given her all they had. She was a Hanby, and they were sending her to Otterbein, where all Hanbys attended college.

  No, she could not go back—she must go on with her journey as planned. Westerville was only a little way farther down the railroad. Her Uncle Will and Aunt Ann had more worldly means than her parents, didn’t they? Perhaps they could even rally the Hanby cousins to help, though they were spread far and wide now across the country and even on foreign missions.

  She staggered in a pit of dried mud and yanked at her valise to keep her balance. George Leeds had been a good man, once, before the whiskey had ruined him. The whiskey! She would like to put all the barrels and bottles in a pile and burn them.