Lovelier than Daylight

by Rosslyn Elliott

  Her aunt paid for the two small bags of candy for her nieces and nephews. A few minutes later they followed in the Pippen family’s footsteps over the hard lumps of the baked street. The overcast day held in the heat, and the air swelled heavy on the brink of a storm.

  Susanna took a handkerchief from her handbag and blotted her damp brow. “Do the Pippens have enough to eat now?”

  “Yes, though a loaf of bread every now and then helps.”

  “But what about the saloon?” A whisper of headache slid across Susanna’s temples. “Is their father likely to be tempted?”

  “I certainly hope and pray he won’t be.”

  “Well, I will pray the saloon meets an inglorious end and Corbin leaves town.” Susanna took a breath and realized she had unconsciously crumpled the top of her paper bag in her fist.

  “Try not to worry. You have enough on your mind.” Her aunt placed a light hand on her shoulder. “Let God take care of it.”

  “Perhaps he’ll take care of it through the good people of Westerville.”

  “Yes, perhaps.” Her aunt looked preoccupied, rolling the top of her bag of candy as she walked.

  “Some of the citizens seem very determined.” Voicing the idea brought Susanna some relief. She couldn’t object if they stopped Corbin by any means necessary, if it meant they would protect families like the Pippens.

  The Pippen children shook her, in their thin, ill-dressed state. They were fragile, like her nieces and nephews. The similarity hurt her so keenly that she could only bear it with a fierce resolution. If she could not yet help her sister’s children, if she had to bear this torturous wait, at least she could help these little ones. She would help her aunt bring them food and do anything she could to oppose the saloon.

  Her return to the house brought a welcome surprise: Uncle Will took her out to the barn and showed her how to stitch leather.

  “I’ll punch the holes,” he said, “and you can stitch the pieces together. But only until the school term starts in September— after that, it will be too much work for you.”

  She agreed to it, but only to pacify him. Whatever she said now, she would work as long as it took to support the children.

  The double-needle technique took some practice but was not that difficult, especially with the pinprick holes he had already made for her. He pointed out how to get the stitches tighter with more tension, and she redoubled her efforts until he nodded.

  “Very good,” he said. “I can see the Hanby blood in you.” He chuckled. “Have you had your fill of leatherwork yet? It must be getting close to midday.”

  “I’m just getting good at it. Will you go in and see if Auntie needs me? If not, I’ll finish this before lunch.” She indicated the jumbled heap of leather at her feet.

  “Don’t overexert yourself,” he said gently, and left through the propped barn door.

  It took her another twenty minutes to stitch the loops and the “keepers” for the ends of leather straps on the bridle. If she did this type of work for her uncle, he could double his production of harnesses.

  A shadow fell over her. She started and looked up.

  A young man stood in the doorway. “Good day, miss.” He was about her age, with a boyish, freckled face and prominent front teeth.

  “Good afternoon.” She rose in surprise, still clutching the bridle in her left hand.

  “You are a saddler?” His surprise was almost comical.

  “I’m just helping my uncle with something simple.”

  “Your uncle? Then you are a guest here, I assume.” He removed his brown bowler hat and examined her from head to toe with open admiration. Flustered, she hung the bridle on the wall.

  “Will you be staying with the Hanbys for long?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’ll be attending classes at the college.”

  “Then welcome.” He crossed to her and sketched a little bow. “I’m a fellow Otterbein student, Abel Wilson.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Abel.”

  He stood gaping at her for a minute. What did he want?

  His face went rosy, briefly erasing his freckles in a wash of pinkness. “I hope you don’t think too ill of our town, after the ruckus yesterday.”

  “Not at all. I understand perfectly why the town is upset. The saloon is dangerous. And it may ruin Otterbein’s reputation.”

  “Exactly! You understand, then?” He looked as if they had just exchanged the greatest of confidences.

  It wasn’t quite as dramatic as that, but she did have a feeling of kinship with him. “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Wilson. I’ll rejoice to see Westerville rid of Mr. Corbin’s business.”

  “Miss Hanby, I promise I’ll do everything within my power to achieve your wish.” He looked exalted, in a silly but touching way.

  This meeting was beginning to feel awkward. “Are you looking for my uncle?”

  “Uh—yes. My father wants to ask about a harness.”

  Good. Just as Uncle Will had predicted, they would get more business. And now she knew how to help. “If you don’t mind waiting here for a moment, Mr. Wilson, I’ll fetch him from the house.”

  “Not at all, Miss Hanby.” He was dreamy-eyed as she moved past him, reminding her of some of the younger boys from her school at home. She smiled to herself as she walked to the kitchen door. Charming, silly boys. How was it that even in their naïveté, they knew right from wrong, while the German brewer, with years more experience, couldn’t seem to discern it?

  One thing was certain—if she brought her nieces and nephews home, they would never need to be told that decent people should oppose drinking. They had already seen ample evidence of that truth.

  The thought wiped away her amusement at Mr. Wilson, her thoughts smearing into a blur like chalky residue on a blackboard. No good feeling could last—gaiety would always crumble into dust until the children were safe. She did not think she could wait three more days to see them.

  Ten

  THE NOTE LAY ON HIS DESK, ONLY A FEW LINES BUT enough to make his pulse jump.

  I received word from the Staats-Zeitung today. They agree with me about your talent. Now they want to see a crime article. Get one to me by Friday evening.

  –Reinhardt

  Impossible as it seemed, the big New York paper was interested in him. No doubt it helped that German language reporters were scarcer than English ones, but still. He had thought Mr. Reinhardt far too quick to send off that article about the saloon. The last thing he expected was to actually hear back, and so soon. Would he pursue it? The thrill and the challenge were too great to resist. Perhaps Mr. Reinhardt was correct and God intended Johann to be a reporter. Maybe his father would understand—but the unlikeliness of that outcome made his heart sink. He would worry about it later. Odds were still very low that it would happen, even if he wrote the best article he could. So now he needed to find a good crime.

  “Johann, komm hier bitte!” His mother’s voice drifted faintly from downstairs. She might need his help with lifting the sauerkraut barrel, if she had finished packing it—her back sometimes pained her after too much exertion. He laid his pen next to the ink well and left his article drying on the desk.

  When he arrived in the kitchen, Mrs. Thalberg was there at the table, and so was her daughter Lotte, all blond tresses and curved cheeks. He should have been more cautious—his mother had been setting too many such snares lately.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  “Good evening,” Lotte said in almost accentless English, as her mother said, “Guten Abend.”

  “I am going to Hulda’s house tonight,” Lotte said. “I thought since you are going to the Maennerchor, we might walk together, yes?” Her brown eyes sparkled—she had unusual coloring, with her fair hair and dark eyes, and she never lacked for a partner in the waltz or the polka at the Biergarten dances.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said. She was a nice girl, and he would not let her see anything but kindness from him. It was not her fault if thei
r mothers schemed day and night about their future wedding and had probably even planned the wedding dinner. They had given Lotte the wrong idea about him.

  “You’re going to rehearsal soon?” Lotte asked.

  “Yes, in just a minute.” He stared at the cuckoo clock in the hall and wished for the little wooden bird to pop out and create a diversion. Nice as Lotte might be, she had an embarrassing habit of singing to him if they were ever alone. She would pretend to ask for help with her singing technique, but she always chose love songs. She had a nice voice and did not need his help. She just wanted to fix those brown eyes on him and croon in German under the moon. This might be diverting if he had feelings for her, but instead it made him want to move to New York immediately and avoid the whole subject, avoid ever having to hurt her feelings by telling her he was not swept away by passion for her.

  The cuckoo ran out on its platform. “Time to go,” he said.

  His mother grinned at him and then at Mrs. Thalberg. They looked as if they were both about to laugh. He repressed a sigh and turned to hold the door for Lotte. “After you.” She glowed and sailed out, and he gave his mother an exasperated look, where Mrs. Thalberg could not see him. His mother waved impishly. He shut the door harder than he should have.

  They had barely made it out into the street and Lotte had just taken his arm when another call came. “Johann!”

  It was his father, heading in their direction from High Street. He was effusive. “Johann, I just learned there will be a bottling demonstration at the Centennial next year. You will go, won’t you? I can’t leave for so long, but you could go. Oh, hello, Lotte.” His father gave Lotte a quick kiss on the cheek. She might as well have been one of his own daughters, and indeed, all the girls were friends. Good thing Johann’s two sisters had not been home just now, but off at the Turnverein for their knitting club. Had they been in the kitchen with the mothers, there would have been even more elbowing and cackling.

  “If you bring back the latest bottling techniques,” his father said with hope, “we could leap ahead of Hoster and the other brewers in our bottled beer.”

  “Yes, sir,” Johann said. What else could he say? Would he be gone to New York City by then? Even the thought almost paralyzed him with guilt. He had to get out of here—the expectation of his father and the clinging hand of Lotte on his arm were too much.

  “We’ll have to discuss this more, Father, when I return from the Maennerchor.” He managed to sound agreeable.

  “And is the Maennerchor accepting pretty young women now?” His father wiggled his eyebrows. Johann would have liked to shake him if he didn’t love him so much.

  Lotte laughed. “No, sir, I am going to Hulda’s house, and Johann is kind enough to take me there on his way.”

  “A good excuse, son.” His father smiled.

  Johann abruptly averted his gaze. “Well, we must be going if I’m to be on time to rehearsal.”

  His father bid them farewell and passed beyond them on his way to the house, which was gathering the shadows of twilight in its eaves.

  Johann escorted Lotte down the side streets between neat brick cottages tucked under the characteristic pitched roofs of the German settlement. Had his father been able to tell how annoyed he was? He hoped not.

  “I have heard a new song,” Lotte said.

  “Indeed?” A fatal mistake—he should have kept her talking. Now he was too preoccupied by his father to think of an evasion.

  “I will sing it for you, and you can tell me how to sing better.” She composed her face in a serene expression of longing. “Mein Herr, ich kanst nicht leben. . .”

  As they walked down the bricked street, she sang about how she could not love him any more because her love was as high as the moon and as deep as the sea.

  He could not actually squirm while walking, so the impulse turned into an inner twisting of his gut. He would rather be with the angry Miss Susanna Hanby, who thought him a devil, than listen to Lotte serenade him. At least Miss Hanby’s anger had a kind of bracing, truthful quality to it, while this had the sickly sweetness of stale marzipan.

  She finished.

  “Very nice,” he said.

  “Was my technique flawed? I know it must be, to the ear of a singer like you.”

  “I don’t have much training,” he said. “Only what we got under Herr Lang. And perhaps a little from our choir director.”

  She smiled, probably remembering the eccentric ways of their grammar school music master. “But you sing so beautifully, just as you do everything so well.”

  “You’re too kind.” How could he discourage her from such flattery? She deserved a young man who would return her affection, and if she would forget Johann, she would probably find five eager suitors waiting on her. She did not need to abase herself so. “I think your singing is quite good and you do not need my advice.”

  “Thank you.” She grasped his arm tighter and walked so close that her skirts brushed his trousers. He could not move away without being rude—he felt warmth move across his cheeks and counted in his head to take his mind off it. Ein, zwei, drei, vier, fuenf . . .

  He made it to dreiundvierzig before she spoke—of course, it would never be a whole minute.

  “The Hosters are holding a dance next week,” she said.

  The silence was painful. He had better say something. “I . . . I don’t know if I will be in town.” Perhaps some reason would present itself for him to be in Westerville.

  “Oh.” She sounded like a little girl who had dropped a lollipop in the dirt.

  “I’m sorry.” He hated to see her so crestfallen—he must find a gentle way to let her know he was not the man for her. Polite neutrality had not worked as he hoped it would.

  “There is Hulda’s house.” She pointed out one triangular roof in the row.

  He guided her in that direction, still conscious of her skirt brushing his leg.

  When they reached the bottom of the stoop, she stopped without releasing his arm and turned to face him, too close, her dark eyes adoring. “I’m sorry our walk was so short. I always enjoy your company.” She tilted her chin up.

  Meine Guete!—she wanted him to kiss her. What should he do? He mustn’t seem startled—that would hurt her feelings. He froze for a moment, then patted her arm and stepped back. “You’re a good girl, Lotte.”

  She cast her eyes down and then bravely looked up again and mustered a smile. “Thank you for escorting me.”

  “Gute Nacht.”

  “Auf Wiedersehen,” she said, and climbed the stoop.

  He wanted to run but disciplined himself to keep his steps to a quick march. In only five minutes he made it up the street to the Maennerchor building and slipped in the door. He could hear the men singing in the great room at the end of the hall.

  He would just have to pray for an answer, a clear direction that would not gravely hurt either Lotte or his father. Perhaps Westerville would be the answer for both. If that little group of young men at the church vented its illegal impulses toward Corbin, Johann might get that criminal story from the saloon clash. And New York would not contain any matchmaking mothers. But then he would miss his family dearly. And his father would never recover from losing Johann as a business partner.

  The men’s voices rose, tenors strong like trumpets, basses like the drums beneath in their deep power. With a sigh he let his uneasy thoughts float away into the music and walked into the room already singing.

  Dear Uncle and Auntie,

  I have gone to Columbus. Don’t worry, please—I will be careful. I will return this evening with some news of Rachel, I hope.

  Fondly,

  Susanna

  Distant shouts of street vendors drifted to her hiding place, along with the crack of driving whips and the occasional rumble of wagons. She lingered in the shadow of the orphanage’s gray wall, her hat tilted low.

  By now her aunt and uncle would have found the note on her bed—she hoped they would not be too upset. She had no
other choice. She could not wait idly in Westerville and let precious time slip away. And since George had refused to claim his children, finding Rachel was her only chance.

  Here at the Hare Home, she could try to gather more information about her sister from the older children. But her uncle was right to warn her that they could not return here too soon, in case the greasy housekeeper became suspicious of their intentions. To Mrs. Grismer, they must take care to seem only like distant family members easing their consciences with occasional deliveries of food.

  Susanna would have to remain out of sight and hope she was early enough to catch the boys headed out to work.

  Minutes passed, her heart thumping faster every time a pedestrian clumped by. She should not be so nervous. Even if some stranger asked what she was doing, Mrs. Grismer would be none the wiser to her presence on the street. But the long solo journey by train had weighed heavily on her. Her uncle would not be happy that she had used a little of her tuition money on her fares, and her aunt would be very worried at the idea of Susanna wandering unaccompanied through strange city streets. She was not accustomed to being anything less than forthright, and it nagged at her conscience, especially after their kindness to her.

  A din from the street made her jump, but it was only a vendor’s cart passing with a clatter of iron wheels. She must have been waiting nearly an hour by now. Would she have to sneak into the building? She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Trying to appear casual, she climbed the steps, laid her hand on the iron door handle, and pulled.

  Locked. It would not budge despite her best efforts. A figure passed by on the street and she froze. When the man did not look her way, she let out a breath and hurried back down the stoop to seek its partial cover from any prying eyes.

  If she could somehow let the children know she was there, perhaps they could make an excuse to come out. Even if Wesley and Daniel were out working, Clara would be there. As the oldest, she was most likely to know more about Rachel anyway.