Lovelier than Daylight

by Rosslyn Elliott

  The heat made her dizzier. I will not faint. I will not. Her bodice was soaked and moisture ran from her hairline down her face, as if her whole body wept the tears she could not afford to shed.

  Uncle Will would never let his great nieces and nephews be lost. If he had a spare dime to his name, he would use it on their behalf.

  Light glinted from a tin roof ahead. She was almost to the station.

  Her nieces were so little, Della and Annabeth. And baby Jesse would not remember his mother or his family at all if they gave him away.

  Where was her sister? She dropped her bag with a thump in the dusty track and pressed the heels of her hands hard to her eyes.

  Nothing could be done until she made it back to civilization, which she must do on her own. She hoisted the bag and went on, fixing her gaze on the pitched roof of the tiny railroad station. She would not fail Rachel or the children.

  Two

  “THE NEW YORKER STAATS -ZEITUNG IS LOOKING FOR A good newsman.” Mr. Reinhardt flourished a folded newspaper in Johann’s direction and gave him a keen look over the top of his wire spectacles.

  Johann pretended nonchalance and cranked the great iron wheel of the printing press. The tray slid forward, hesitated, and slid back, imprinting its rows of German letters on first one sheet, then its reverse side. The machine’s regular clack echoed off the walls of the large room.

  “You hear me, Johann?” Mr. Reinhardt raised his voice. The noise of the press was no match for his ripe baritone, heavy with the Bavarian accent of his native land.

  “Yes, sir.” Johann did not look up but continued to run the press. A redheaded boy stood beside the cylinder, peeling each sheet and taking it to the drying rack.

  “And you are not interested?”

  “For what position?”

  “Reporter. Crime.”

  Johann’s head snapped up and he met the older man’s knowing gaze.

  The editor opened the paper and pointed at the back inside page, as if Johann could read it from five feet away. “Ja. They want someone with experience, it says right here. Someone who has written a number of crime articles for a German paper.”

  New York, where presses could take ten sheets at once and print eight thousand sheets an hour. Where men skulked through oyster cellars and opium dens by gaslight, and stories lay so numerous and thick a reporter could wade knee-deep through them every time he walked out of his brownstone. The Mecca of every newspaperman’s dreams.

  Johann brushed it away. “I can’t do that, Mr. Reinhardt.” He concentrated on the hypnotic swing of the press tray below him.

  “Why not?”

  Some explanations were best swallowed. He kept silent.

  Mr. Reinhardt looked down at the paper through his spectacles and read aloud, “‘Candidates must present a clipping of one self-authored crime article of national significance, a story to rouse the interest of even the most jaded city dweller.’”

  “That’s quite a challenge.” Johann’s interest flared. “Especially for us yokels out in Columbus.” He did love a good contest.

  Mr. Reinhardt chuckled. “I think you should go get a story to win you the position. Take it as a challenge. You can always turn it down.” He folded the paper up again. “I’ve seen your face when we talk about New York. Admit it, you want to go.”

  Johann turned the wheel a few more times. “Very well, I’ll find a story.” He could write something worthy of the prize, if he put his mind to it. The alluring gaslight and shadow of the metropolis stuck in his imagination. Even bustling Columbus was like a small village by comparison.

  The door from the street smacked open and another of the printer’s boys ran in. “Danke, Herr Giere,” the blond boy said to Johann. “Sorry I was so long at lunch.” He rushed over and took the wheel as Johann stepped back to give him room.

  “You’re welcome. I don’t mind taking over for a while. You know I like the press.” Johann turned to Mr. Reinhardt. “I must be going, sir, my father’s waiting.” He grabbed his hat from the peg and headed for the door.

  “Show them what we are made of in the West, Johann!” The subdued roar of Reinhardt’s voice chased him out into the open air.

  “Front Street,” the driver called out, pulling at the reins of his team of horses. The mighty omnibus rumbled to a stop—twenty passengers crowded in the seats, looking surly in the blistering summer heat.

  Johann stepped down to the rutted road and nimbly evaded the swish of a passing carriage. A hundred more paces brought him to the brewery yard, which was lined with wagons yoked to huge horses. His father had invested in the new Norman imports. The dappled grays with round, muscled shoulders and haunches were more than capable of pulling the heavy lager wagons. Still, Father often wished aloud for the cream-colored German draft horses of his youth.

  Johann walked past them, raising his hand to Heinrich, their brewmeister, who stood beside the first team.

  The red-cheeked man waved back with his one arm. “Guten Abend.” Confederate bullets had left Heinrich with an empty left sleeve. But like the other men from German Village who had returned missing arms or even legs, Heinrich worked twice as hard to make up for it. And Johann’s father would never dismiss a workman who had sacrificed his own body for the Union. Not after what the Giere family had lost in the War.

  Johann headed for the thick smell of hops that rolled out the barn-like doors.

  “Johann.” His father stood in the door frame, his blond head ashy with middle age. He pointed upward so his brown linen coat stretched over his muscular shoulders. “You see the new sign?” Up on a ladder, one of the brewery men had whitewashed out the words “Giere Brothers.” On the new white surface, he was painting in the letters “Giere and Son.”

  “You like it?” his father asked, smiling, but with a hint of melancholy. He walked over to Johann, his hat held to his chest. “It can’t stay forever the old way. It is ten years now—we must go on. Fritz would want it.”

  Johann hoped the sharp stab of guilt didn’t show on his face. “It’s good. It’s what Uncle Fritz would’ve wanted.” He patted his father’s shoulder and searched in vain for words, the glamour of New York searing his conscience.

  His father cleared his throat. “A customer needs our assistance.” He gestured back beyond Johann.

  Johann pivoted. Over in the corner by the loading dock, the third team of Norman horses stood at their wagon with several barrels already on board. The floor workers were loading another barrel as a tall, thin man watched.

  “Let me introduce you to him.” His father took Johann’s elbow with affection and swept him across to the visitor.

  “Mr. Henry Corbin, this is my son, Johann, who will be glad to assist you.”

  “Glad to meet you, young man.” The thin man pumped Johann’s fingers in a strong grasp. “A new enterprise, and we’ll take all the help we can get.” His accent was rough, uncultured.

  “A new business, Mr. Corbin?” Johann asked. He was tired, but he must be polite. The Hoster Brewery down the road was a formidable rival, and the Gieres had to keep every customer for their brewery to survive.

  “We’re going to open a saloon in Westerville.” Corbin put his hands on his belt and surveyed the next barrel going on the wagon with a smug expression.

  “We, sir?” Johann asked. “You have a partner?”

  “My wife and I. She and the children will come to live in town later, after I’m settled in.”

  Johann said nothing but raised an eyebrow at his father while Corbin wasn’t looking. Westerville was the most stubborn temperance town in Ohio. Everyone knew it. Even the Hosters hadn’t succeeded in opening the market for lager there.

  His father gave him a slight nod. “Yes, a courageous move. Mr. Corbin will not be unopposed, we all know. But the people of Westerville should have their choice of whether to have beer and gemuetlichkeit. Which means, Mr. Corbin, good fellowship and feeling, to us Germans.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Corbin did not se
em interested in a mouthful of foreign syllables. “I see we’re loaded for the train.”

  Heinrich walked over to the wagon and pulled himself up to the narrow driver’s seat with his single arm. He could not carry barrels easily, so in addition to supervising the brew, he drove every day for deliveries. Mr. Corbin stared at the empty sleeve dangling before him. Heinrich did not look at his passenger, his hearty face reddening.

  “Mr. Corbin, I’m afraid you’ll have to ride with your cargo,” Johann’s father said. “It’s a wagon, not a Pullman car.”

  They both laughed.

  “Pshaw, Mr. Giere. The better to watch over my goods.” Henry Corbin leapt into the back, light as a bird taking wing. A very tall, skinny bird.

  “And, Johann, you will go with them.”

  “To Westerville?” Johann veiled his surprise, adjusting his summer coat over his shoulders in the sticky heat.

  “Ja. Only an hour at most, each way on the train. You can help unload. Mr. Corbin has qualms about the safety of his cargo.”

  Westerville townspeople would not be pleased. There would be no welcome for a saloonkeeper in that small town dominated by the United Brethren Church and the Methodists. This could get very interesting. Johann gripped Corbin’s proffered hand and climbed over the side to sit between the barrels.

  The new sign above the brewery jumped out at him like an accusation: no more Giere Brothers, only Giere and Son. He whistled a few notes of a waltz to chase away the specter of his dead uncle as the wagon pulled away and onto the bumpy street. How could he deprive his father of his partnership, when his father had already lost his only brother in the War? If only his father had other sons.

  But even if he won the New York job, he did not have to go. He would worry about that later.

  Westerville versus the saloon. It might make a good story.

  Three

  A TRAIN’S WATER CLOSET WAS NOT THE BEST PLACE for a lady’s toilette, but it would have to do. Susanna wet her handkerchief with the water in the tin pitcher and scrubbed at her blanched cheeks to bring back some color. Nothing would disguise her exhaustion, but she must wait to break the bad news until she had at least greeted her aunt and uncle with some semblance of normalcy. She refused to arrive at Uncle Will’s as a hysterical banshee—her sister’s husband would not reduce her to that. She would be calm and precise when she told them, sticking to the essentials. A resolute focus on Rachel’s innocence and George’s lies would allow her to speak without giving way to tears.

  Her uncle and aunt had spent their lives protecting the innocent and weak from the violent and strong—she had every confidence that they would know what to do. She had grown up listening to her father’s stories of their courage and righteousness. If any two people could help, she would choose Will and Ann Hanby.

  The train slowed, and she clutched the edge of the vanity to regain her balance. She stowed the handkerchief in her handbag, slipped through the heavy door, and walked back to her seat just as the train stopped. The ornate wood carving and upholstery were so luxurious she almost hated to leave the train. It would be easier to ride on, as if in a dream, and let everything outside fade. But somewhere her nieces and nephews waited, and they would be scattered to the winds unless she acted soon.

  Thank goodness it was still two months until the start of the college term. Perhaps she could straighten out this catastrophe, find some explanation and reunite Rachel with her children, and then go on to begin college as her parents had intended. She did not want to disappoint them—they thought so highly of her academic abilities. But though study had always come easy for her, she did not really have a passion for most of the classical studies—only botany, and ladies were not often welcomed in science. But she had trusted that her future would become clear to her once she enrolled. Now, with Rachel missing, how could she care about college at all?

  The door clanked and the porter entered, natty in his brass-buttoned uniform. The train was not crowded, and no one else seemed to be disembarking from this car.

  The porter retrieved her bag from overhead. “May I take this to the platform for you, miss?” He might pity her pale appearance—or perhaps the porters were always so polite.

  “Yes, please.”

  Outside, he helped her down to the platform.

  “Thank you.”

  A voice called from yards away, “Susanna!”

  Aunt Ann walked toward her, slowed by age but with a glow on her face that wiped away the creases. It was still a shock to see her hair completely white, but her pretty, delicate bone structure was unchanged, even in her sixties. Behind her was Uncle Will, using a cane to make his way down the platform, his hair still thick but also snow white. Susanna’s father was sixty-five, so Uncle Will must be sixty-seven. As the youngest of all the Hanby cousins, Susanna would easily pass for their grandchild instead of their niece.

  The sight of their dear faces made her pulse quicken. She did not want to tell them. She waved and mustered a weak smile.

  Aunt Ann reached her and laid her gloved hands on Susanna’s shoulders, looking at her from arm’s length like her own cherished child. “You’re so lovely. How you’ve grown up in the last few years! Welcome.”

  “Thank you.” Susanna’s smile broke and fell away.

  “What is the matter?” The concern on her aunt’s face might melt Susanna’s self-control. Uncle Will caught up and rested his cane on the ground, silent, taking in her distress.

  “I stopped by to see Rachel on the way.” She took a breath, stopped, and swallowed. Lord, help me. If she did not want to break down, she must hold tight to the fierce burn of anger that had sustained her at the farmhouse with George.

  “What is it?” Aunt Ann’s eyes, usually soft and rich as loam, had marbled into a searching look.

  “Rachel wasn’t there.” She launched herself onward, rushing through it. “George said she went away with another man. And he said she took the children to the county and gave them away.”

  Her aunt’s face drained of color. “Gave them away?”

  “He said the children went to an orphanage. All of them. We must get them back.” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat. Hold fast to the truth, tell them. “And I don’t believe what he says about Rachel. She would never do such a thing!”

  “Of course not,” her aunt said.

  Susanna steadied herself with Uncle Will’s solid presence at her right elbow. “George said the children have been taken to Columbus.”

  “Most likely the Hannah Neil Mission,” her uncle said. His usual mellow tone had tightened, and he eyed the train as if to jump on it like a man half his age. “We’ll inquire there first.”

  Aunt Ann laid a hand on his arm. “Wait,” she said gently. “The children won’t be sent anywhere for at least a few days, and probably a few weeks. Let’s get Susanna to the house and give her something to eat and some tea.”

  The tension went out of his stance, though the lines around his mouth deepened as he nodded to Susanna. “Your aunt is quite right—you need to rest.”

  The last thing she could do was rest. She didn’t even want to eat, with her stomach clamped, her mouth filled with a taste like rusted nails. “Rachel would never leave her children, and especially not for a . . . for a sinful reason.” She bit her lip—she must not worry them further, but the echo of George’s past threats whispered in her memory.

  “My dear, we’ll believe only the best of her. I’m so sorry you had to carry this burden alone on your journey.” Aunt Ann took her hand again and did not let go. Uncle Will waved to the porter, who carried Susanna’s bag after them through the station and set it down beside the road. The train whistled its imminent departure. The clouds had rolled in during her journey—the overcast sky trapped Westerville in airless heat that made even the dust too leaden to rise into the air.

  “Need a ride, Bishop Hanby?” A young man with a mule cart called from across the road. “My father told me to take you at no charge, whenever you neede
d it.”

  “Why, thank you, Jim,” her uncle said. “A ride would be very welcome. But you needn’t call me Bishop—Mr. Hanby is just fine.”

  The young man reined his mule and cart over to where they stood. Uncle Will handed his cane to her aunt, leaned down, and lifted the valise into the back of the cart.

  “And we will sit on the buckboard,” he said to Susanna. “Not elegant, but better than a walk with a heavy load.”

  She nodded as Aunt Ann squeezed her hand in silent reassurance.

  Her aunt was always so kind. Susanna and Rachel had loved their occasional visits to the Hanby home in Westerville. Rachel had a crooked smile that made her pretty face impish, charmed her cousins, and made them strive to amuse her.

  How would she find her sister? She covered her fear with the first comment that came to mind. “Is the new house close?”

  “Just down State Street.” Her uncle’s response was quiet. They had lost their former family home after Uncle Will had guaranteed loans for Otterbein College. When the college almost failed, the Hanby home was taken and sold by Otterbein’s creditors. But her uncle had never shown bitterness—only dedication that a college would survive in Westerville. And survive it had.

  The cart rattled down the road until it stopped in front of a whitewashed frame home, nondescript, with a small barn in back.

  The boy unloaded the valise and brought it to the porch. With a touch of his cap in farewell, he ran to his cart, slapped the reins, and sent the mule trotting back toward the station.

  Uncle Will held the front door open and Susanna went in behind her aunt.

  As she untied her hat ribbon, she took in the changes. Gone were the large, thick rugs she remembered from the other home. Instead, a simple rag rug lay on the scuffed floor. Two old rockers stood by a small wood stove, and two other slat-back chairs were the only other furnishings except for a shelf of books over the mantel. It was a shock indeed. They were hardly better off than her own parents.