Lovelier than Daylight

by Rosslyn Elliott

  A few ruined barrels of beer were not news for Johann—not yet, anyway.

  His father put a hand on Corbin’s shoulder. “I will replace those barrels for you free of charge. But you will have to be careful and keep watch, because I cannot do such a thing more than once.”

  “That’s neighborly of you, Mr. Giere. Much obliged.” Mr. Corbin’s tobacco made a lump in his cheek when he spoke.

  “I believe in freedom, Mr. Corbin. And law. They cannot drive you out of a legal enterprise by criminal force, not in America.” Johann’s father turned to Heinrich. “How is the new brew?”

  “Even better than the last,” Heinrich said.

  “Then let’s send some off with Mr. Corbin.”

  Johann hoped Corbin wouldn’t spit on the floor. It was unmannerly to chew indoors without a by-your-leave, even in the brewery. But then, he had no reason to expect Corbin to be a gentleman.

  Heinrich walked to the double doors and yelled in German to the floor hands. They rushed in, shirtsleeved and suspendered, carrying barrels at top speed. His father looked on, smiling, as they chided one another in German.

  “If you’d like,” Johann said, “I can assist Mr. Corbin in taking the beer to Westerville.”

  “Danke, son. It’s still as heavy as it was the first time.”

  And even more likely to cause trouble—and news.

  He needed to get his wallet for the journey. It wasn’t the first time he’d been glad they lived only two streets away from the brewery. His mother stood with her back to him at the baker’s table in the large kitchen, a line of Rouladen forming beneath her hands. Johann watched her nimble fingers pick first a strip of bacon, then onion, and pickles from a jar. She piled them in the center of the steak, rolled it into a log shape, and tied it with a string.

  He made his face very sad. “Rouladen, and I am not coming home for supper. And I am hungry. Life is hard.”

  “You poor boy.” She clucked her tongue. “Whatever will you do?” She shot him a merry look through her veneer of cynicism. Her apple-cheeked face was rounder and heavier than ten years ago, but she wore it well in her neat lace-collared blouse and apron.

  “If you don’t save me one, I’ll be inconsolable,” he said.

  “I’m sure Lotte will make you some if she hears you love them.”

  He shut his mouth quickly. In any conversation with his mother, it was only a matter of minutes before the charm, beauty, and talents of her best friend’s daughter, Lotte, came to the fore. He would make no comment and hope the Lotte spell dissipated.

  “Lotte is the best young cook I know,” she said.

  He sighed. “I must get my bag and go.”

  “Where?”

  “On an errand for Vater.”

  “I will have pity on you. There are some Broetchen in the pie safe.”

  “Danke.” He flipped open the door and seized one of the soft rolls. His mouth watered. Their soft, doughy sweetness was unmatched: his mother bought them from Kaufman’s Bakery, who were the acknowledged kings of Broetchen, as good as any in Germany, his father said. He tucked it in his bag for the ride to the station. “Where are the girls?” He thought his two sisters would have been at home helping his mother.

  “At the Turnverein.”

  Ah, that made sense. The girls had been spending more time at the social athletic club lately. Perhaps it was a sign of growing up and wanting to be around the young men. And with his mother as matrimony-minded as she was, she would prefer them to be out husband-hunting.

  He walked out with bag over his shoulder and wished his mother good-bye. If they had the wagon loaded by now, he and Corbin could make the afternoon train. But he would not sit with Corbin if the man insisted on traveling in the smoking car. A businessman met his obligations, but stewing in foul-smelling cigar smoke was not one of them.

  “We’re just in time to catch the next train,” Uncle Will said. He offered Susanna his hand and she descended from the horse car, her skirt sweeping through the dust around her boots. It was still so hot, as if Ohio’s mild climate had been swept away by a fiercer summer from the west. The fabric on her shoulders scorched in the sunlight while she slowed her pace to match her uncle’s.

  The train stood in the station, huffing to catch its breath, proud of its dark-green exterior and gilt filigree trim. The whistle blew.

  Uncle Will quickened his step, leading harder on his cane. “We’ll buy tickets from the conductor.”

  They made it to the closest passenger car just in time. The conductor held the last door for them, then climbed in after them and shut it with a twist of the brass handle. Uncle Will paused to get out his billfold while Susanna moved into the aisle and waited for him. While the train stood still, no breeze flowed through the clerestory roof vents and the heat was oppressive. Her uncle really should not pay the extra charge for first class, but she knew he would not let her ride in the lower-class cars with their rough assortment of passengers. He pressed the money in the conductor’s hand, took their tickets, and waved her ahead down the aisle.

  The first-class car was full of passengers, ladies’ straw hats trimmed with black bands or flowers above the seat backs. Men had the wilted look of soldiers after a long march. There were no free seats.

  “Try the parlor seating up ahead,” the conductor called after them.

  Susanna skirted the carved wooden divider with its fancy pillar and stepped into a little salon-style area of the car. Several seats adorned with tapestried cherubs faced one another quite like a room in a hotel.

  Sitting in one of those rich, upholstered seats was the fair-haired brewer’s son they had met in Westerville. He looked up at her from the newspaper in his lap and his blue eyes widened.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, getting to his feet. “Miss Hanby, I believe?”

  She could not remember his name—something German and beery-sounding. And she did not want his attention or his company, no matter how civil he might be. It was worse when people who did immoral things like create intoxicating drinks were also pleasing in appearance, like him. Evil could seem very attractive. The way George had first appeared to Rachel, perhaps.

  “Mr. Giere,” her uncle said from behind her.

  That was it. Gier-a, to rhyme with beer-a. She would not forget again.

  She did not want to sit near him, but it would be ridiculous to brave the swaying platform between cars, especially with her uncle’s cane and bad knees. But she did not have to speak to Gier-a. Perhaps he would read his newspaper and leave her alone. With the sharp memory of the children gnawing her from within, she wasn’t fit to talk to anyone.

  “After you, my dear,” her uncle said, and indicated one of the seats across from the brewer.

  Before any of them could sit, the whistle blew again and the train lurched. Her uncle braced himself on his cane, but Susanna staggered a step toward the young brewer. He reached out reflexively to steady her by the elbow. But she regained her balance and jerked away from his touch. “I am quite capable of standing in a train, thank you.” She sat down, feeling stiff as an angry cat.

  He took his own seat as her uncle also lowered himself into a soft chair. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hanby. I simply did not wish you to fall.”

  “I would not fall, because I am not drunk, you see.”

  “Susanna.” Her uncle’s gentle word did not soothe her.

  “And neither am I,” the young brewer said. “You are very perturbed, Miss Hanby.” He seemed more curious than put off.

  He had not the faintest idea. The sad faces of the children sprang back to her mind’s eye. She stared at him as an ache clear to her bones threatened to make her weep. But she would not.

  “I apologize, Mr. Giere,” her uncle said. “My niece has received a shock recently and may not be quite herself on the subject of temperance.”

  “You do not need to beg his pardon for me, Uncle,” she said, barely keeping her composure. “Instead, he should beg ours, and that of every family torn
apart by strong drink.”

  Uncle Will raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “I hate to differ with a lady,” the young man said, color creeping up from his collar, “but I must point out that my family does not make or sell strong drink, but only lager, which is much more . . . temperate. Shouldn’t that earn us some mercy, Miss Hanby?”

  “None. Lager can be as dangerous as whiskey. I’m sure just as many beer-swilling husbands and fathers have returned home from the saloon to beat their wives or become lazy loafers and fail to provide for their children.” The thought of George with his dissipated, shadowed eyes made her sick.

  Why did she have to meet this young brewery man here and now? A twinge of conscience made her even unhappier. She had never been so rude to anyone before, but the pain had sharpened her tongue, and she did not seem to be able to dull it again.

  Her uncle spoke into the charged silence. “Where are you traveling today, Mr. Giere?”

  “To Westerville once again, sir.”

  “On business?”

  “Yes, sir.” He looked indecisive, then took a breath. “But to be honest, my heart is in journalism, not in the brewery.” He darted a look at Susanna as if to gauge her response.

  She twisted away to look out the window at the unrolling industrial scenery, the damp hair of her ringlets grazing the back of her neck. She could feel herself teetering on the brink of an outburst. She mustn’t say anything more.

  “Indeed, journalism?” Uncle Will sounded relieved at the change of subject. “And do you work in that profession too?”

  “Not for a salary, sir. But I write articles for the Westbote once a week. Local crime, mostly.”

  “And will you ever leave brewing for the newspaper?”

  He shifted and moved his hat from one hand to another. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “A difficult prospect, with a family business to sustain.” Her uncle was so even-tempered—perhaps working as a minister had made him immune to the shock of immorality.

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Giere fell silent and looked out the other window, then unfolded his paper as if to read. But he stopped in mid-gesture and lowered it again. “I have a personal request to make of you, Mr. Hanby.” He glanced at Susanna again, his gaze a flash of blue that veered back to her uncle at once. “And perhaps you will be willing to honor my request if you know that it’s my opportunity to leave the brewing business.” He looked cautious, or perhaps ashamed? Well, he should be. And he would not deserve credit for repentance until he actually left the business.

  “What do you wish of me, Mr. Giere?” her uncle asked.

  “I go to Westerville not only to do business but to find a story for the paper. If I find it, I may make journalism my profession.” He spoke in a rush, as if to force it out before he could change his mind.

  “I see.” By the lift in his voice, her uncle was clearly intrigued, and despite her inner chaos of feeling, so was Susanna.

  She pinned Mr. Giere with a stare. “And you expect to find this story in Westerville?”

  “In Henry Corbin’s saloon. I don’t think your town will take to it.”

  “I’m afraid you’re correct, Mr. Giere,” her uncle said, a pensive look in his eyes. “Let’s hope Mr. Corbin will go peacefully. But you still haven’t told me your request.”

  “If I’m to find the story, I mustn’t be known to the townsfolk as the brewer’s son. They will not talk to me openly if they see me as an enemy.”

  “Which you are, in this matter,” Susanna said.

  “I’m not the one opening the saloon, Miss Hanby. We aren’t even supplying the majority of his goods. At any rate, I hope you will allow me to do my reporting without unmasking me.”

  “If it leads you out of your father’s profession, then we are bound to do all we can to assist you.” She heard the edge in her own voice, and the young brewer must have too, for he looked away.

  Her uncle sighed. “It’s not my affair, Mr. Giere, and thus, you may conduct yourself as you see fit. I won’t interfere, though of course I won’t lie if I am asked about you.”

  “Of course not, sir,” the blond man said, looking uncomfortable. “And you have my thanks.” He rose, hat in one hand, newspaper in the other. “As my presence is disturbing Miss Hanby, I will take my leave.” With a formal nod, he turned and strode down the car to the end door, then went through to the next car.

  “Susanna.” Her uncle tilted his head in her direction and looked sad.

  “I am sorry, Uncle. I’m not myself.” Tears gathered at her lashes—she hated to disappoint him with her behavior, but her nieces and nephews would not leave her mind. She blinked the water away and bowed her head.

  She felt her uncle’s touch on her shoulder. “Be gentle, my girl. Striking out at others will not help.”

  She knew he was right, that one wrong did not justify another. But she could not be gentle or peaceful with those who made the poison that turned George Leeds into a monster. If Rachel had left her husband, Susanna would not blame her for escaping her suffering. But how could her sister abandon her children? It would be so selfish, as selfish as George’s indulgence in drink. She would not believe it. She would maintain Rachel’s goodness to her last breath.

  The wheels clacked and the train windows rattled, and for a moment she wished George under the wheels of the train.

  A shudder of self-loathing went through her. Lord, Lord, take my thoughts and heal them. Am I really so wicked as to murder a man in my thoughts? Am I not only to lose my family but my kindness too?

  Her uncle seemed to sense she was struggling for composure, and he left her to pray and sit in silence for the rest of the journey.

  Seven

  THE TISSUE PAPER LAY IN HER OPEN VALISE, VIVID even in the dim upstairs bedroom. It was too hard to see this reminder of the children every time she came up here. Susanna gathered it up and went downstairs. Looking around, she spied her aunt in the parlor doing some needlework.

  “Do you know anyone who might have a use for this?” She brandished the delicate folds of color toward her.

  Aunt Ann looked up. “That’s lovely paper. Why do you wish to give it away?”

  “Because . . .” She swallowed. “I had planned to use it to make paper flowers with the children.”

  Her aunt stuck the needle in the fabric and laid it on the chair next to her. “My dear.” She stood and approached to lay a hand on Susanna’s back. “You must keep it, for when we bring them home.”

  “How, Auntie? Even if the orphanage would let us, we have no money to keep them, not six of them. I would gladly give my tuition money, but it’s not nearly enough.”

  “Your uncle would never permit that—your education is too dear to him. But he has some other plans that might reassure you. He’s in the barn if you’d like to talk.” She tilted her head. “And it would do you good to get outside, maybe take a walk even.”

  Susanna struggled against a troubling sensation that her arms, shoulders, and face were encased in lead and could barely move—she was overcome. She must be stronger, more like her aunt.

  “I’ll go see Uncle.” Maybe she could store the tissue paper in one of the drawers in the saddlery, at least keep it out of sight.

  When she walked in the side door of the saddlery, Uncle Will was bent over his saddling bench deep in concentration. His hands darted quickly to and fro with the chisel and hammer. At the flash of sunlight from the door, he stopped and looked up.

  “Hello.” His attention went to the paper in her hands. “What’s that you have there?”

  “Something for the children, when they come home.” She forced herself to sound confident. “Is there somewhere I can keep it?”

  “You can just put it on the table. I’ll clear a space in a drawer when I finish this.”

  She did so and turned back to him. “Auntie said I should speak with you. About your plans for the children?”

  “Oh, yes.” He put down the tools, rubbed the creases from h
is forehead, and stood up. “Come look.”

  She followed him to the doors that led to the other half of the barn, where they kept their cow and their one horse. When they went through, she was surprised to find a dark hallway at least twelve feet long, an unexpected space between saddlery and barn. They were below the hayloft, she realized after a moment. Uncle Will opened the door wider to let in more light. He went to a locked door set in the side of the aisle and opened it with a quick twist of a key from his pocket.

  Inside was a large storage area, piled high with boxes and bags. Rows and rows of shelves were crowded with jars.

  “This is food we collect at church to distribute to the needy,” he said. “I asked yesterday if the church would be willing to use these foods to support the children this year, if we brought them to live here. They agreed. After that, we’ll have to trust God to provide, but at least one year is already possible.”

  A little hope flared inside her. “Will it be enough to convince the matron at the Hannah Neil Mission?”

  “I doubt it will persuade her to let us adopt the children.” He closed the storage door and locked it. “But it’s all we have, so we must hold on and pray that Rachel comes back or George retrieves the children and gives them to us. At least we would have a way to feed them.”

  The relief was like a breath of air blown into a sealed vault. “Thank you!” She threw her arms around his neck.

  When she stepped back again, he smiled at her. “It’s really the church we need to thank.”

  “Of course. I’ll write a note to all of them, if you will read it on Sunday.”

  He nodded. “The other part of the plan requires me to increase my leatherworking, particularly in harnesses. The harvest is coming and more teams will need to go out in the fields, so I plan to get their business.” He looked critically at a saddle sitting on a wall rack. “If only I had my father-in-law’s skill, my work would garner a higher price—but I have yet to see his match in saddlecraft.”

  “But you already work so hard.” An idea seized her. “Can I help you?”

  “You will already have enough work of your own with your studies and your housekeeping for the college.”