Lovelier than Daylight

by Rosslyn Elliott

  She cast about the dirt alley for a few pebbles. The window on the third floor, directly above her, was the one closest to where she had seen the girls working. She breathed a silent prayer for protection and cast her handful of gravel up as hard as she could.

  It fell short, bounced from the second-floor window pane, then rattled on the ledge of the first-floor window. What have I done? Is that Mrs. Grismer’s parlor window? She put a hand over her mouth and crouched down as low as she could under the window, flattening herself against the wall.

  The click of a window lock and the screech of wood against wood froze her rigid.

  “Who’s there?” came the voice of the housekeeper above her.

  But after a moment she heard the window close. Perhaps the woman was too heavy to lean far out the window, or perhaps the noise had simply not been enough to prompt such exertion. It could have been a squirrel, after all, scrabbling on the ledge. Or a rat. She shuddered.

  She didn’t move for another two or three minutes, fearful the housekeeper was still by the window. Then she crept over to another patch of gravel by the wall.

  Did she dare? The odds of discovery would be twice as great if she again threw badly. She must throw in such a way that the gravel would not drop straight down. A parabola. She pushed out of her mind irrelevant fragments of geometry and inched farther down the alley to her best guess for the right trajectory. She would have to throw like a discus athlete to make that distance. That she would never do without divine aid. Her cousins had told her she threw well when skipping stones, but only “for a girl.” Help me, help me, please. She took a deep breath, blood pounding in her ears, kept her eyes on the window, and slung the pebbles upward with all her might.

  They clicked against the third-floor window and dropped with a faint patter on the other side of the alley. Victory! But would it matter?

  She would have to stand exposed if any child up there was to have a chance to see her. She stepped away from the wall and strolled down the alley at a snail’s pace, then turned and did it again, praying Mrs. Grismer had ceased to pay any attention to the window or the alley. Still nothing as she gazed up at the empty window. Now what?

  A small, pale face appeared behind the glass. Susanna waved, a small, jerky motion for fear of attracting more attention. She stopped and stared upward, willing the child to remember her, or at least her yellow dress from her previous visit. It might be the first time in her life she was grateful to own only two dresses.

  Then a more familiar outline appeared at the dirty window. Clara! Thank goodness, thank goodness. The young girl held up one finger solemnly in the age-old gesture meaning “Wait.”

  And wait Susanna did, for another fifteen minutes, sequestering herself around the back corner of the building next to a high backyard fence. At last the side door opened and her niece came out with a chamber pot in both hands. With a face that gave away nothing, Clara spotted Susanna and walked down the alley as if the chamber pot were her only mission.

  Susanna held her breath as her niece set down the pot, took a small shovel from her belt, and began to dig a small hole a few yards behind the back fence. Susanna stayed in her place, hidden from the main building, while her niece walked with her back to the orphanage.

  “Auntie! What are you doing here?” Clara whispered. “Don’t come any closer. She might be watching me from the window.”

  “I’m going to find your mother.” Susanna kept her voice almost inaudible, but she could tell Clara had heard. Joy lit her downturned face as she dumped the nasty contents of the pot into the shallow hole and covered it over with loose dirt.

  Susanna murmured, “You must tell me anything your mother said that might help me find her.”

  “I only remember something she said about children not being allowed on some boats.”

  Boats? Had her sister gone down the Ohio River to a different state, or even abroad? But steamboats allowed children, of course, as did transatlantic ships. “Nothing else?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Clara!” a sharp voice called from the house.

  She jumped up with a start and grabbed the pot to return to the building.

  A powerful urge swept through Susanna to snatch her niece and run. Everything in her wanted to shout, “Wait!” She clung to the fence to restrain herself. The sight of Clara’s dress vanishing from view around the corner of the fence was like a blow to the chest.

  She stayed there for a good five minutes after the door thudded closed behind her niece. This was no time for hysterics or self-indulgence. She must think of her task, keep her goal always ahead of her. Any further attempt at contact with Clara today might jeopardize her chances of ever getting them home.

  Boats. She would assume the best, that it was possible to find Rachel and that her sister had not gone far beyond her reach. At least the mention of travel implied that her sister might have eluded George successfully and was still alive. That is, if Rachel had ever made it to the boats, whatever they were.

  The Scioto River could not possibly be the location of those boats: it was practically unnavigable with its treacherous sand bars and the rise and fall of its waters.

  Then the closest possibility would be the canal docks.

  Susanna would have to be a fool to go there unaccompanied— from what she had heard, only one type of woman wandered alone near the docks. She would be placing her virtue and perhaps her life in danger, and if something happened to her, who would find Rachel?

  She could do only one more thing, at least for today. She could pay an errand boy to go to the canal office and hope he was honest enough to make it all the way there. He could post a notice asking for information from any witnesses who might have seen a woman matching Rachel’s description. Susanna could use her uncle’s name on the notice, and his postal address.

  Well then, she would do it. And though it made her want to beat her forehead against the fence, she had little choice afterward but to return to Westerville and solicit her uncle’s aid to make any further progress.

  At least Clara had given her somewhere to begin.

  Eleven

  HER NOTE AND ABSENCE MIGHT HAVE CAUSED MORE uproar, except for the new note that had shown up on their doorstep while she was gone. She found it when she got back, lying open on the mantel.

  Shut your mouth, Hanby, if you know whats’ good for you. Stay out of this saloon affair, or we’ll give you cause to regret it.

  “Auntie, what’s this?” She couldn’t conceal her shock.

  “Oh, you weren’t supposed to see that. Will was supposed to put it away.” Her aunt sighed.

  “Who do you think it is?” Susanna asked. The lettering was ugly, aggressive. “Does Uncle Will have any idea?”

  “No.” Her aunt took the paper and crumpled it into her pocket. “We can’t even tell which side it’s from. It could be from whiskey lovers who think Will’s too outspoken against the saloon, or temperance men who think he’s too mild and peaceable about Corbin.”

  “What will Uncle do?”

  “Nothing. He used to get death threats while working with fugitives. It never changed him or silenced him.”

  Later that night, in her room, she heard her aunt and uncle argue. She winced at the intensity of their voices, rising clearly through the floorboards up to her bedroom: the strained hush of genteel people at odds. She had not imagined such a conversation between them—was she responsible for it?

  Her uncle spoke. “If there’s any chance at all, I must go see if I can find Rachel.”

  “But it’s such flimsy evidence, dear. There must be a better way than combing every dock in central Ohio. Especially with all that’s going on in town. You know I love Rachel—I would do anything to have her back. But I don’t want you to exhaust yourself in a fruitless chase.”

  “It’s all we have.”

  “What about the Corbin situation—doesn’t it need your attention? No one else seems to be succeeding in getting him to see reason.”


  “It can wait another day, can’t it?” He sounded weary. No wonder her aunt was concerned for his health.

  Silence fell. She could almost see him rub his brow.

  “I suppose,” her aunt said. “But every day the saloon remains here is another temptation for someone who might not be strong enough to resist.” From the worry in her voice, Susanna knew she must be thinking of the Pippens.

  “Still, we can’t be hasty,” her uncle said. “Or let our emotions rule the day. Too many in town are already drunk on their excessive zeal for temperance.”

  Who did he mean—what was “excessive” zeal? Surely not the ordinary citizens who opposed it. They had every reason to oppose it, and vigorously. Her uncle had always been a stalwart champion of temperance. He had been an example to her, to her whole family. Was his conviction fading? Unsettled, she got to her feet and went to the small table, where she had laid her uncle’s botany book. She didn’t like this inadvertent eavesdropping at all.

  Good, they had lowered their voices to a murmur and she could no longer make out what they said. Well, she would look at the book anyway to take her mind off the whole painful mess and hope distraction would bring on sleep.

  A page of the book rustled as she turned it, now the only sound in the late-night quiet of the house. The candle burned in its old-fashioned holder on her desk. She would buy more candles and lamp oil with her earnings once she started her housekeeping work for the ladies’ dormitory. Without that cleaning position her uncle had obtained for her, she could not have afforded to attend college at all, not even with her meager savings.

  The beautiful floral drawings in the book captivated her: the arc of a petal, the colors bright in one illustration after another. This must have been an expensive book, back when her cousins had to buy it for their studies. And now Susanna would get to use it herself. She could hardly wait to study botany when the semester began in the fall. But would Rachel be here to share Susanna’s excitement at what she learned, her new knowledge of the things they could grow in the garden?

  She closed her eyes and touched the tips of her fingers to her forehead to press away the ache of the sadness. She had to know about Rachel. When she and her uncle next went to the Hannah Neil Mission the day after tomorrow, she would ask the matron if Rachel had given any hint as to where she might be going. Perhaps there would be more than just the cryptic mention of boats.

  She would never sleep if she did not think of something else. She kept reading. Linnaeus, the famous scholar of plants. Oh, this was interesting. He had designed a flower clock, something to do with the daylight and when each blossom opened. Apparently one could plant carefully selected flowers in a circle to mimic a clock face. According to the time of day, as the light grew or faded, the petals of each variety of flower would open in its turn—

  A great clap of thunder shook the whole house and rattled the windows. She jumped so she almost slid off her chair. Wrapping her dressing gown around her, she rushed to the window of her bedroom. There was no lightning across the midnight black of the sky, no moon, no light at all—the inky clouds had covered everything.

  Faint shouts sounded from the north side of the house. The commotion grew louder. Small orbs of light glowed behind gauze curtains and drifted across the fronts of neighboring houses, carried by dark figures.

  “Susanna.” Her aunt peeked in the bedroom door. “Can you see from here? What’s happening? I saw the lanterns.”

  “I can’t tell—just people hurrying up the street.”

  Her aunt raised the window so the sounds from below grew more distinct.

  “The saloon!” one yelled to another. “Corbin’s done something. We should have taken away his guns.”

  “Goodness,” Aunt Ann said. “Perhaps we should go see. I hope no one is hurt.”

  “Yes, let’s go.” Susanna crossed to the old wardrobe, peeled off her dressing gown, and substituted a day dress and light shawl over her shift. In the dark no one would see that she was without a corset.

  Her aunt did not appear perturbed by her makeshift attire. “I must go dress too. I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.”

  “All right. And Uncle?”

  “He told us to go ahead and he’ll follow as soon as he’s decent.”

  They joined the scattered figures converging on the intersection of State and College. Aunt Ann had brought a lantern that cast enough light for their feet when she held it low, though it left their faces dim. Streetlamps were few, as yet, even in the town center. Other lanterns blinked in and out of view along the street as they bobbed in the hands of pedestrians.

  There were thirty or forty people gathered in front of Corbin’s saloon. Susanna peered through the darkness as they approached but did not see anything unusual. There was a musty, strong odor.

  “Gunpowder,” her aunt whispered to her. “And plenty of it. Goodness.”

  The one black iron lamppost on the street near Corbin’s door shed ghostly light on the building. The glass of all the windows was broken, with a few shards still poking angrily from each frame.

  “What happened?” her aunt asked the woman who had waved her fist at Corbin the morning the bells rang against the saloon.

  “Mr. Corbin appears to have had a lesson.” The woman pointed up at the roof.

  Susanna took in a breath. The whole roof had separated from its moorings and sat crooked, though it was still attached to the building.

  “Blew up the roof a good four inches, I’d say,” said the woman with a quick jerk of her chin toward the damage.

  “Was Mr. Corbin hurt?” Aunt Ann looked concerned.

  “No.” The woman contemplated the cocked roof. “He must have been at the other end when the blast went off. And I suppose it’s for the best—we don’t want him dead, just gone.”

  “Well, I’m glad he wasn’t hurt,” her aunt said. “And really, it’s too bad, to damage a fine building like that. Widow Clymer will be very upset when she hears.”

  “A building is worth less than the souls that might be saved if Corbin leaves.” The woman spoke with conviction, and privately, Susanna had to agree.

  Shrill curses rang out through the broken windows. Corbin was no more polite in his language than he had been before. A single faint light moved through the saloon. Then the tall, skinny man leaned his head out the front window and shouted to all the onlookers, “You may have broken the rum bottles, but the whiskey bottles are still here. I’ll be open for business in the morning. I’m an American, and I won’t be pushed around!”

  No one responded. He retreated back into his building and the light continued to bob through it.

  Reverend Robertson stepped out and turned to face the crowd. “Friends! This vigilante behavior is not the answer—we must be peaceful in our protest.”

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  “Permit me to read to you the following petition drawn up by myself and several of the other ministers. We ask you all to stop by and sign it at the Methodist church tomorrow.”

  He unrolled a furled sheet of paper. The boy beside him held up the lantern to the page and the reverend read in a loud voice.

  “We, the undersigned citizens of Westerville, hereby solemnly pledge that we will not patronize any dry-goods merchant, grocery man, physician, lawyer, mechanic, or any other businessman that will frequent, encourage, or furnish aid to a liquor saloon in Westerville.”

  A few spectators clapped. “I’ll sign it!” “And I!” A buzz ran through the little crowd.

  “We’ll sign it, won’t we, Aunt Ann?”

  “Of course,” her aunt said. “Much better to use legal means than vandalism if we wish Corbin to leave.”

  Susanna was not so sure about that. Yes, in principle, but with a man as bent on his own way as Corbin, a mere petition seemed a flimsy thing.

  She was sorry for the old widow who owned the building, but she couldn’t summon any regret that someone had given Corbin a very serious warning. It was worth the ris
k, if he decided to leave and stop endangering the weaker men in the area.

  There seemed to be a lively debate going on among the clusters of townsfolk on the street as to the best way to proceed.

  “Ann!” Her uncle made his way toward them through the gathered people. When he reached them, bearing his own lantern, he was slightly out of breath but still possessed of his dignity. “I’ve asked Reverend Robertson to come meet me at the house. My dear, will you see if you can find the other ministers, plus Professor Hayworth and the college president? Any of them you can find, send back to the house.”

  “Yes, dear.” Her aunt squeezed his hand, with a concerned glance at his tired face, and threaded a path through the crowd.

  “Susanna, do you mind going back to the house and waiting for us there? That way someone will be at the door to receive anyone who arrives before I return.”

  “Of course, Uncle.”

  But as it turned out, her aunt reached home only minutes after Susanna.

  “You should go back to sleep, dear.” Aunt Ann shut the door behind her and hung her bonnet on a wall peg.

  Susanna lit the lamp on the mantel. “I’m not tired, Auntie. Let me get some tea for the guests.” With seven or eight esteemed citizens on their way, it was the right moment to open the special canister of tea. Any help she could offer eased the guilt of having burdened her aunt further by her unexpected trip to Columbus.

  “Very well. Thank you.” Her aunt stepped into the kitchen to get the mugs and Susanna followed. Was her aunt angry with her? She did not seem so, but Susanna felt like an ingrate nonetheless.

  The townsmen stumped in one by one, some looking preoccupied, others alert.

  Uncle Will came last, with Professor Hayworth and the president of the college. Susanna brought them their mugs of tea, which they received with nods or quiet thanks.

  “Gentlemen, I don’t like the mood of some of our citizens,” her uncle said. “This conflict mustn’t go any further.”