Lovelier than Daylight

by Rosslyn Elliott

  “You will sleep in the upstairs room,” Uncle Will said. “We’ll show you later.”

  “First I’ll make something to eat,” her aunt said. She moved to the kitchen table, her blue gown rustling behind her. Even after bearing eight children, she was still small and graceful.

  “I’m going out to the barn,” Uncle Will said. “If we plan to go to Columbus tomorrow, I should finish the bridle tonight and get it to the store.” The door clapped against the frame behind him.

  Her aunt mixed flour and water, then rolled dough into dumplings the size of grapes. Susanna paced around the kitchen in search of some task, past a rack of utensils and a neat row of tin canisters. Even in this orderly room, everything seemed wrong to her, out of kilter. For months she had looked forward to the serenity she would find in her studies here at college as she explored the miraculous, perfect design of botany. Instead, all was violently uprooted, her family torn apart and scattered without reason or answers. But she could not simply cease to function. “May I help you with something?” Her own voice sounded strange to her, uncertain.

  Her aunt wiped her hands. “Why don’t you go to the barn and talk to Will while I make supper? He would be glad of the company. He works out there alone so often.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” In a way, it would be easier to talk to her uncle than to her sympathetic aunt, whose kindness might draw out more pain from the depths where she could feel it lurking.

  Outside, the whitewashed door of the barn stood open. The muted gray of the afternoon light fell on Uncle Will’s bowed white head as he sat on his saddling bench. But there was nothing in his hands. They were clasped together and his eyes were closed. She stood and let the peace of his prayer wash over her in the quiet.

  He looked up. “Come in.” He indicated a stool for her not far from his own seat. “After supper we’ll walk over to the telegraph office and see if we can wire the Hannah Neil Mission.”

  She took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll find the children. Don’t worry.” He placed a piece of cream-colored leather on the bench in front of him and turned to select a tool from the table. “You and Rachel have always been fond of flowers.”

  What prompted that? Her chest constricted at the memory of the ruined blossoms in her sister’s garden. She did not trust herself to speak.

  Uncle Will began to tap a hammer against his chisel, carving up tiny curls of leather around its blade.

  His knuckles were swollen with rheumatism, though his hands still looked strong. Working the leather for hours must make him sore. But he did not seem to mind.

  After a few minutes of tapping, he set down his tools and pulled one leg over the bench to stand up. He crossed to her and laid a circle of leather in her palm. Embossed in the creamy surface, a bell-shaped blossom hung from a stem as if suspended in the air.

  She traced its delicate lines. “A snowdrop?”

  “My father-in-law’s design, passed down to me and then my sons.” Uncle Will’s brown eyes were deep under his whitened brows. “A symbol of hope, Mr. Miller always said.”

  She tucked the leather circle into the hidden pocket of her skirt but kept her fingers closed around it, feeling its smooth lines.

  The mention of her cousins jogged her memory. “Where’s Cousin Samuel?” Her uncle’s youngest son usually resided in town. “I know he’s traveling, but Mother didn’t say where.”

  “He’s investigating business in Alabama. He’ll return in a few months.”

  Her uncle had other sons too: Willie had become a doctor and moved away, and Ben and Cyrus—well, she wouldn’t open that old wound.

  “And we’ll go to the telegraph office after supper?” she asked. A plan brought clarity, gave her something solid to grasp.

  “To be sure. Shall we go in and eat?” He offered her his arm and they walked toward the house.

  “I should also write a letter to my parents and mail it,” she added.

  How would she tell her parents what George had said? She would not defame Rachel with his lies. And she certainly couldn’t tell them about their grandchildren yet—it would break their hearts. On second thought, she’d better delay that letter to her parents until she had some better news to mix in with the bad.

  And she prayed that would be very soon.

  Four

  “WESTERVILLE! FIFTEEN MINUTES HERE! ” THE CONductor cried.

  Johann jumped down to the platform. That should be plenty of time to unload the barrels, especially if the porters and Corbin helped.

  Corbin stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle that drew every gaze on the platform. A driver with a heavy wagon noticed Corbin’s wave, sat up straight, and clucked to his mules. They plodded up within a few yards of the train, placid, accustomed to the strange steel monster huffing beside them. “You looking to haul freight?”

  “Just to State Street.” Corbin agreed to the fare and he and Johann transferred the beer barrels, boxes, and luggage onto the wagon. When they were seated amidst the load, the driver looked back at Corbin. “You said the Widow Clymer’s building?”

  “That’s right.” Corbin sounded smug.

  The driver slapped the reins, and the mules heaved against the yoke. The wagon lurched and Johann grabbed a leaning bottle in a crate as they rolled down the road.

  The driver twisted to look over his shoulder at the cargo. “And what brings you to Westerville, mister?” he asked Corbin.

  “I’ll be opening a drinking establishment.”

  The driver’s gaze snapped up to meet Corbin’s. “In town?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  The driver pursed his lips and sent an exaggerated breath through them. “That’s why you have the barrels?”

  “Exactly.” Corbin stared ahead as if daring any man to stand in his way.

  “And will it be a beer hall, like the Germans do in Columbus? Lager and ale?”

  “It’ll be an American saloon. Sure we’ll have lager, but we’ll offer fine whiskey and gin too.”

  The driver’s eyes widened and he turned back to his mules. The silence lengthened as they drove to the genteel shops on State Street. The wagon halted.

  The driver pointed at the oak door and glass windows beside them. “That’s Widow Clymer’s place. Guess you’re renting it.” He sounded none too pleased and jumped off the wagon to secure the mules. “Well, get your goods and go. I’m going to get an earful from my neighbors for bringing you in with that load.” He folded his arms across his chest and stood next to the hitching post.

  Shoppers moved in and out of the stores, crossing the street in the afternoon’s gray haze. The door of the apothecary’s shop opened and an elderly lady emerged, attired neatly in a cream dress and hat, her back straight. Only the fading of her coloring and the caution in her step gave away her advanced years.

  Poised to cross the street, she stopped, her gaze riveted on the beer barrels. A young woman rushed out of the store and almost collided with her.

  “I’m sorry, Auntie. Are you all right?” Receiving no response, she edged around the older woman and eyed the wagon. “Is something the matter?” She was pretty, her brown hair curling long in the back beneath her straw hat.

  “What is it, Ann?” A man with an abundance of pure white hair used a cane to step up beside the elderly lady, then followed her gaze. “Ah.” His face was still strong, under the marks of age, and he regarded the beer barrels with careful deliberation. He crossed a few steps toward their driver and shook his hand. “Noah, I haven’t seen you this week. What’s this?”

  “I ain’t responsible. I didn’t know what they had planned until we’d already pulled out of the station.” The driver took out a plug of tobacco, shoved it in his mouth, and chomped it with disgusted verve. “I may be from Blendon, but I know this’ll be trouble. Don’t tell anyone it was me that brought him.”

  Johann had moved to the back of the wagon and lowered the tailgate. “Corbin. Let’s unload.”r />
  “Is that beer?” the older lady asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the driver.

  Corbin and Johann levered the first barrel off the wagon and hauled it to the door.

  “Wait,” Corbin said, and lowered his end to the ground as Johann stood it upright. Corbin reached up over the door frame and retrieved a key. Widow Clymer must have told him where to find it. The lock turned with a click and Corbin shoved the door open. “Roll that on in, Mr. Giere.”

  “Giere.” The old man with the cane said under his breath, looking curious. “A German name, and that of a Columbus brewer, if I don’t mistake myself?”

  A flush burned up Johann’s ears and to his cheeks. Too often such questions were followed by insults about godless foreigners who drank on Sundays. He heaved the barrel just inside the door and started for the wagon again. Corbin could get it to the cellar himself.

  “They’re opening a saloon, Mr. Hanby.” The driver’s tobacco bulged in his cheek when he spoke. “Right here in the Widow’s building.”

  Johann and Corbin wrestled another barrel to the ground. The white-haired gentleman pondered in silence, offering his wife his free arm, while she in turn held the arm of the young lady. All three looked as if they could be from the pages of a magazine—the perfect elderly couple and their beautiful companion. And the young lady was arresting indeed, with her large green eyes and delicate features. She had the ethereal look of a creature not quite of this world, as if she might float away like dandelion fluff in a summer breeze.

  Corbin set his jaw and shouldered forward into the new saloon. Johann followed with a crate, uncomfortable as he passed the three bystanders.

  When he deposited the crate and headed back for more, the wagon driver spat his tobacco juice again. It spattered on Johann’s shoe. He should take that driver by the scarf around his neck and teach him some manners. But his father’s wishes came first, and that meant gentlemanly behavior no matter what.

  “They’ve got whiskey and gin as well as lager,” the wagon driver said.

  Johann was only a foot from the young lady and saw horror splash across her face at the mention of strong drink. He kept his steady pace. He did not enjoy disturbing young ladies, even if they were a little too fussy in their sentiments. No need for such outrage over a man’s glass of lager on a Sunday afternoon.

  “I wish you would not, sir.” The young lady spoke straight to Johann.

  Why was she so vehement, with her small fists knotting into her skirt? It looked as if he should fear an attack from this willowy creature. He ducked his head to hide a smile.

  “It is not a subject for mirth.” She took a step forward, her jaw clenched.

  “Indeed not, miss.” Now it was not so amusing. What kind of hornet’s nest would Henry Corbin stir up, in a town where women became pugilists at the sight of a beer barrel? “I’m afraid I’m not responsible for Mr. Corbin’s decision to locate his establishment here,” he told her. “I simply fulfill his order, as my father wishes.”

  “Then, if you are a gentleman, I hope you will consider a lady’s appeal. Supply other towns with the devil’s brew if you must, but not our town.” Her voice rose, and the elderly woman laid a hand on her arm.

  “There, Susanna, let’s be about our own business.” The white-haired lady tried to lead her charge away, but neither the girl nor the old man moved from where they stood.

  “I think you should consider what my niece says, both of you.” The old man scrutinized both Johann and Corbin as they set the last barrel down. “Let us talk like reasonable men, no need to shout at one another. I’m William Hanby. And you are?”

  “Henry Corbin. And this is Johann Giere assisting me.”

  “Allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Hanby, and my niece, Miss Hanby.”

  Johann tipped his hat, conscious of his dust-covered face and arms. Mr. Corbin did not offer the same courtesy.

  “Mr. Corbin,” Mr. Hanby said. “I hope we’ll have the opportunity to discuss your decision further. I can promise you I’ll keep my head, which is why you may wish to come to me rather than some of my fellow townsmen.”

  “Ain’t much to discuss.”

  “Well, we shall see.” Mr. Hanby nodded. “A good day to you.” When he tapped his cane on the wood and pivoted, his wife took his elbow. The young lady followed them, with a last glare at the wagon.

  Down the street heads were turning. Fifty yards away a small cluster of men spied the wagon and headed their way.

  If Johann did not leave quickly, he would be ruined as a potential reporter of this event. He must not be seen or they would think of him as an enemy and refuse to tell him anything for the paper. “Well, we have the barrels moved in for you, Mr. Corbin. And I must be getting back.”

  “Right, then. I’ll come back to the brewery in a week to pick up more.”

  “Good luck.” Johann ducked into the alley behind the Clymer building.

  He made his surreptitious way to the station, sweat gathering on his neck in the late afternoon heat. Sometimes these coats were a bother in summer. It would be easier to go about in shirtsleeves, but no German businessman would chance being mistaken for a wage laborer. There was enough disrespect as it was from the so-called real Americans. Never mind that Johann was as native-born as any of them, with nothing to distinguish him from other young men whose fathers happened to immigrate from England or Sweden.

  None of the others had come close enough to see him—none but the Hanby family. So his anonymity would be safe if he did not encounter the Hanbys again. And for all anyone knew, the story might be finished tomorrow. Corbin was in town, and so was his liquor. They couldn’t very well force him out. It was all legal. But something about the determined stride of those townsmen down the street promised Johann he would be hearing more out of Westerville soon. And if he did, the Westbote would know before the Journal or the Dispatch, so Reinhardt would be pleased.

  Johann was going to get the news first, even though he might be a part-time amateur and not a professional newsman. All he had to do was steer clear of the beautiful temperance crusader and any more of her ilk.

  Five

  “HANNAH NEIL MISSION FOR THE FRIENDLESS,” UNCLE Will read from the brass plate. “Shall we go up and inquire?”

  “Yes.” Susanna’s palms were clammy. The building was well kept, arching up three full stories to gabled windows, white columns framing its portico. She had imagined a prison, but this was a rich mansion given over to charity. The lawn was neat, the shrubs trimmed. Across the road the enormous estate of the Blind Asylum rested, peaceful in the pre-noon hours. A lone woman crossed the garden path from one wing to another, her bustled skirt neat, her hat just so. Only her white cane gave away her condition as she paced forward without a pause or tremor.

  If a blind woman could forge ahead through her darkness, Susanna could be as resolute. Her uncle had been brave his whole life—she must not let him down. She mounted four stairs to the covered porch, where two rocking chairs sat empty.

  She thought of her sister’s well-worn rocker. Rachel loved to rock her babies and sing sweet bits of songs, for she could never remember the true words. She must sing for them again someday—she could not have left them forever.

  Susanna forced aside the thought and seized the brass knocker. She rapped three times. Uncle Will stood quiet beside her and rested his cane on the woven doormat.

  The door opened and a plain woman in a white cap peered out. “Good morning.”

  Susanna’s question was so large it jammed in her mouth. With a quick glance, Uncle Will seemed to understand.

  “We are seeking some children who may have been admitted here this week,” he said.

  “You will have to speak to Matron, sir. Won’t you please come in?”

  The woman opened the door, and Uncle Will gestured with his free hand for Susanna to precede him. She gathered her skirt to clear the threshold and stepped up into the foyer just as the white-capped woman drifted out of s
ight into a side hallway.

  The air inside was cooler, the ceilings high and elegant. The front parlor appeared just as it would in a private residence, graced with upholstered chairs and a settee by an unlit fireplace. Its gray flagstone invited Susanna to press her flushed cheeks to its cool surface, as she had in her father’s house when the summer rolled around. But even more refreshing to summer-heated skin would be the white marble of this mantel, a luxury that had not adorned her family home.

  “Good morning.” A middle-aged woman in a dark-blue dress with a tailored bodice and neat bustle entered from the hall into the parlor. She held a brown ledger in one hand and moved with erect posture and measured pace.

  “Good morning. You are the matron?” Susanna asked.

  “Indeed I am. Mrs. Loomis is my name.”

  “And I am Susanna Hanby.”

  “Welcome. I understand you seek some children here. Are you a relation?” The matron’s face was gentle and her skin luminous for one of her years.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Susanna took a steadying breath. The air smelled of lavender and a trace of baking bread. “The children are surnamed Leeds, and there are six of them, three boys, three girls. I am their aunt, their mother’s sister.”

  “Yes.” The matron’s forehead wrinkled. She opened her ledger and looked down at it. “I wish I had only good news for you, Miss Hanby.” She spoke softly, as if to cushion a blow. “I have admitted children named Leeds this week.”

  “But that is good news!” Susanna took a step forward, her heart lifting.

  “I have only three Leeds children, not six. I am sorry. We were only able to take the three youngest, into our Nursery Ward. The other rooms were filled to capacity—more than filled, in fact.”

  “Where are they?” Susanna asked. “The oldest—Clara, Wesley, and Daniel?”

  “They have been sent to the Hare Children’s Home. It’s in the central business area at Town and High. Not far, by the streetcar line.”

  Susanna sighed. “I had feared worse. At least they are in Columbus.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Mrs. Loomis closed the ledger and cradled it in her arms. “When you see the Hare Home, you will understand why I would have preferred to keep them all here.”