Lovelier than Daylight

by Rosslyn Elliott

  “Agreed,” the president said. He was younger than her uncle, a solid, middle-aged man with brown hair and old-fashioned side whiskers. “It can only hurt the college’s reputation further if there is arson or scandal—Westerville must remain a peaceful, safe town.”

  “Not to mention the danger to anyone in the saloon.” Reverend Robertson set his teacup down. “Driving out Corbin is all well and good, but not in a hearse, please.”

  A subdued ripple of chuckles ran through the room.

  “I have another suggestion.” Professor Hayworth tried to straighten his age-curved back against his chair. Bent or not, he was still impressive with his learned air and his rumble of a bass voice. “Corbin won’t leave unless he is compensated—he won’t be willing to take the loss. But if we offer to buy out his stock, then he will get his capital back to go elsewhere.”

  “I hate to throw good money to a peddler of ruin,” one of the other ministers said.

  Her uncle walked to the mantel to turn up the lamp, dispelling some of the gloom from the corners. “Still, buying him out may be our best chance to avoid a worse alternative.”

  The minister groaned.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have material resources to contribute to that effort.” Her uncle’s humble statement paradoxically gave him even more gravitas. “But I’ll go present the offer to Corbin, should we elect to do so.”

  “I’ll pledge half of the money,” the college president said.

  “Mrs. Hanby, may I borrow a sheet of paper?” Professor Hayworth removed the stub of a pencil from his lapel pocket. “And please accept my compliments on the fine tea.”

  Aunt Ann tore a sheet from the kitchen ledger to give to the professor. He scratched figures. “Give me a moment, gentlemen, while I estimate the cost of Corbin’s goods.”

  The general conversation proceeded to planning and money contribution, until finally, the men chose her uncle and Professor Hayworth to present the offer to Corbin.

  “No time like the present,” her uncle said.

  “I agree.” Professor Hayworth stood and took his cane from the wall. “Not a moment to waste to keep this affair from escalating.”

  The men tramped out of the house, wished one another good-bye, and headed home through the deep night. Her aunt kissed her uncle on the cheek as he took a lantern and followed the professor outside.

  When they had gone and silence fell once more, her aunt walked to the stairs. “Don’t stay awake too long, Susanna,” she called softly over her shoulder. “And don’t fret. Your uncle is good at calming angry men.”

  Susanna seated herself in the rocking chair at the window and watched the lantern lights recede up State Street.

  It wasn’t fear for her uncle keeping her awake. She had faith in him. Nor was it even the faint smell of gunpowder setting her on edge.

  She had more pressing concerns than the saloon. The day after tomorrow, they would go back to Columbus and see the children, bring them food, and reassure them. And on this visit, she must find out more about Rachel’s whereabouts. If she did not, her time with the children would run out all too soon.

  Twelve

  SOMEONE KNOCKED AT THE FRONT DOOR. IT WAS only eight a.m.—who could want them at this hour? Aunt Ann raised her eyebrows at Susanna and wiped her hands on a towel before removing her apron and walking down the hall. Susanna trailed a few steps behind.

  Perhaps it was Corbin, reconsidering after further reflection. She hoped so. Her uncle had been quite downcast the night before last, when he returned from his midnight meeting and told them of Corbin’s vehement refusal of their offer to buy out his saloon.

  Aunt Ann swung open the door to reveal the face of a male stranger who wore a badge. “U.S. Marshal, ma’am. I have a message from Columbus.”

  The blood drained from Susanna’s face. Lord, not something about the children.

  Her aunt scanned the paper he handed her and also went pale.

  “What is it?” Susanna could hardly get out the question.

  “It’s a warrant for Will’s arrest.” Aunt Ann’s voice quavered.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. It may come to nothing. Just an arraignment— there may not even be a trial.”

  “But what has he done?” Susanna asked.

  “Incited a riot, according to the charge. But it’s not just him—there are six others too.”

  “Probably all the ministers in town.” Aunt Ann folded her arms across her bodice and her eyes flashed, making her look younger. “Thanks to Mr. Corbin.”

  “I’m afraid so.” The marshal sounded grave, but Susanna detected a hint of boredom beneath his formality. “Where is Mr. Hanby?”

  “In back, working.” Aunt Ann did not step out of the way.

  “I’ll just go around the house, then, and get him.”

  “No!” Her aunt’s forehead creased and her chin firmed. “Let me tell him. I’ll bring him here.”

  “Don’t tell him to run, Mrs. Hanby. It’ll make it worse.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She didn’t flinch from his gaze. “He has done nothing wrong and has no reason to hide or evade justice.” She turned away, head held high, and walked back to the kitchen. The door rapped against its frame, and a few minutes later Susanna heard the rustle of their passage and the tap of the cane back down the hall. Uncle Will did not look concerned, though Aunt Ann’s face was tight.

  “Are you going to place me in handcuffs?” Uncle Will almost smiled.

  The marshal at last looked ashamed of himself. “No, sir. I see you’re not a risk for flight.”

  “I’ll come quietly.” Uncle Will chuckled, but Susanna saw tears in her aunt’s eyes.

  “Now, Ann,” he said, “don’t take on. It’s nothing. I’ll be back before you know it. In fact”—he looked at Susanna—“don’t interrupt our plan to go to the orphanages. Both of you should pack the children’s food and come with me on the train. No sense in wasting a trip.”

  “They will not be permitted to speak to you on the train, sir.” The marshal sounded apologetic.

  “They’re probably tired of my talk anyway.” He laid a hand on his wife’s back. “Peace, my dear. I’ll meet you at the station.”

  “It reminds me of the last time.” Her aunt’s hand shook as she handed his hat to him.

  “Fifty years ago,” he said. “Ancient history. And this judge doesn’t use floggings.” He took his hat and embraced her. She took his lined face in her hands and kissed him gently on the lips.

  The marshal examined his shoes and cleared his throat. Uncle Will gave her aunt a last squeeze and stepped forward to maneuver himself down the stairs with his cane.

  “Take heart, Susanna,” he called back. “We’ll get it all straightened out in the city.”

  Johann peered left and right out his front door. He had only a few blocks between his home and the streetcar stop, but Lotte had a way of springing out when he least expected to see her. Good, the coast was clear. With hurried steps, he made his way to High Street, looking over his shoulder to be sure no pretty blond girl was pursuing him.

  When the horse car came, he paid the fare and sank into the hard seat. He would get to the Westbote soon, but first he had to run even farther uptown to speak with the police and get their weekly crime report. At Capitol Square he stepped out of the slow-moving omnibus and kept to a brisk walk up High Street. The heat simply would not relent—still no rain for almost a month now. The leaves of the trees on the square were parched. He took off his hat and waved it at his face, but even that slight movement of air was hot and gave no relief.

  A large group of people was approaching from the north, swallowing other pedestrians in their midst and continuing toward him. They crossed the street, causing a few shouts and protests from drivers who stopped their carriages rather than run the people down. There were about two hundred, he guessed. He walked as quickly as he could to intercept them. Now they were only yards away. The handful of men in front were being guided—almost prodded
—by police officers. They were under arrest, it seemed, though not handcuffed.

  The white hair and beard of one of the captives was familiar. Mr. Hanby from Westerville! And the man in the black-and-white collar next to him was the Reverend Robertson from the Presbyterian church there. What were they doing? He had missed some important news, by thunder, and he needed to learn it. They seemed to be headed for the courthouse. By tomorrow, whatever it was would be all over the Dispatch. Well, he would simply have to write a better and more informed article about it.

  The crowd following them looked familiar too. Those were Westerville women, he was sure of it.

  And there, marching with her head high, was the lovely and fierce Miss Hanby, together with her aunt, the petite elderly woman.

  He stepped in line with them. “Good morning, Miss Hanby.”

  The young lady’s delicate eyebrows rose. “You, sir. What a surprise.”

  Not the friendliest welcome he had ever received. “Is something the matter? I saw Mr. Hanby with the officers.”

  “He has been wrongfully accused and arrested by your confederate, Mr. Corbin.”

  He held up his hands to ward off her words, then said in a low murmur, “Don’t forget your promise, Miss Hanby. I’m not Mr. Corbin’s ally and must not be seen in that light.”

  She looked unrepentant. The elderly lady glanced at him sidelong.

  “If you would be so kind”—he made himself very humble—“as to tell me the charges against Mr. Hanby and the others, I can ensure the Westbote gives a fair account of whether the accusation has any grounds.”

  “We have another errand as well, young man.” White, tense lines grooved the elder woman’s face. “We can’t stay long.”

  She must be beside herself. How sad for a wife of decades to see her husband hauled off like livestock to a judge. He wished he could help in some way.

  “Here are the charges,” Miss Hanby said. “Corbin accuses my uncle and the other preachers of inciting a riot.”

  “That gathering I witnessed on State Street?” He couldn’t help scoffing. Journalistic objectivity aside, that was a laughable claim, if it was indeed Corbin’s intent.

  “I’m not quite sure—it does seem ludicrous to call it a riot.” The young woman tucked a curl behind her ear with a quick, uncertain motion. “But a charge of gunpowder went off the night before last and damaged the saloon. Maybe he intends to draw a connection between the initial meeting and the violence.”

  An explosion—a crime! The Westerville story had just turned criminal. While he had been scanning the mundane headlines in Columbus, he had been missing the exact story he needed: not only a crime, but an unusual one. Was God sending him to New York, as Reinhardt said? The hairs on his neck prickled—if it were true, God was very close indeed.

  Susanna drew her aunt closer and lifted her chin. “And now we must be going. We have much important business.” She fiddled with the clasp of her handbag.

  He might have smiled at the loftiness of her phrase, except for the sadness that shadowed her green eyes and belied the independence of her speech. Her straw hat framed her face in a rural way that would be charming were she merry, but instead brought poignance to her attempt to be strong and worldly.

  “Are you not accompanying your uncle to court?”

  “He has asked us not to—he says our business is more important and nothing will happen today as they are all innocent. I believe him,” Miss Hanby said firmly. “And so I’ll do as he wishes.”

  “Then may I escort you?”

  “You may not.”

  Even half-expecting such a refusal did not remove its jarring effect. Her aunt turned her head away as if to watch the rest of the marchers, but he thought he saw chagrin on her refined face. She was surprised, then, by her niece’s rudeness, which meant that as Johann suspected, such behavior was not typical of the pretty girl.

  “I see,” he said.

  “I wish you did, Mr. Giere.”

  He glanced around, but no one seemed to notice her use of the name. If she were not careful, though, she would ruin his anonymity.

  “Our errand today would not be necessary but for the effects of liquor on my sister’s family.” Miss Hanby’s gaze held an accusation. What had happened to the conscience-stricken, eccentric girl he had quite liked, wielding her scissors among her blue flowers?

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Miss Hanby.” He resolved to kill her with kindness.

  “Young man, will you do one thing for me?” the elderly lady asked, considerably more mannerly than her niece.

  “Gladly.”

  “Will you indicate to me the exact location of the court so we may find my husband there after our business is done?” She looked pale, as if the last thing she wished was to leave her husband’s side. But Mr. Hanby must have a reason for not wanting her there. Perhaps she wouldn’t take it well should things go poorly in court.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He stated the directions for her.

  “Thank you, sir.” The two women swept away without a backward glance. After a minute of gazing after them, he pivoted on his heel and chased down the street after the rapidly receding Westerville delegation.

  Inside the courtroom the atmosphere was charged. People lined up against the walls in tense silence while the judge ruled on several initial hearings and charges. Finally, he called for the delegation from Westerville.

  The lawyer for the preachers stood up. “I ask your honor to dismiss these baseless charges immediately. There was no riot in Westerville, and therefore these men cannot have incited one.”

  “But I understand,” the judge said, peering down over the edge of his raised desk, “that there was an explosive set off and damage done to the plaintiff’s property. Where is the plaintiff?”

  Another lawyer stood. “He was unable to leave his business to attend, Your Honor, especially after the losses he sustained from the riot.”

  “Riot?” one of the Westerville folk called incredulously from the back.

  “Order!” the judge said, and banged his gavel. “I understand all you men are employed in the preaching profession. Stand up, please, those accused.”

  The seven men rose, Mr. Hanby leaning on his cane, the younger men more limber but less serene.

  “You men of the cloth, are you persecuting this businessman because he does not share your faith?” The judge’s face grew ruddy.

  Himmel, that was not the most professional question Johann had ever heard from a judge. What could he be thinking, to ask something so loaded? Perhaps the judge was one of the socalled freethinkers, like Robert Ingersoll, who thought everyone should be free of the burden of religion.

  “No, Your Honor, these gentlemen are not persecuting anyone,” the lawyer for the defense finally said, looking stymied. “They committed no wrong and had nothing to do with the charge of gunpowder.”

  “Or so they say.” The judge almost sneered. “I’ve heard about the good people of Westerville and their friendliness to unbelievers. Mostly United Brethren there, are you not?”

  One of the preachers stepped forward. “Yes, Your Honor. But we are Methodists and Presbyterians too.”

  “Birds of a feather,” the judge said. “I am going to set a bond, one hundred dollars for each of you. Or you may serve time in jail until your trial.”

  The preachers seemed aghast, and Johann would have been too. That was a steep bond for men who made the unimpressive salaries of ministers.

  “Well, can you produce the bond? Or shall I have the officers make straight your path to the jail cell?” The judge chuckled.

  The lawyer for the ministers stepped forward. “Your Honor, I have assurances that the bond will be posted.”

  “Then I must see it. Right here.” The judge stabbed at his desk with a hooked finger.

  The lawyer turned to the courtroom. “You heard him, ladies and gentlemen. Those who spoke to me beforehand must now present the bond.”

  One by one, men and women moved away from
the walls and shuffled to the front. One put a bill on the desk, another carried what looked like a bank check. After they had all filed up and back, Johann guessed there must have been forty of them.

  The judge was left hunched and glum over a stack of bank notes and even coins.

  “This seems to be adequate,” he said. “I will have the treasurer make an account before they are released.”

  A ripple of indignation went around the walls. “They are innocent,” a woman said in a voice that carried to the front.

  “Order!” The judge rapped again, hard. “I’ll have you locked up for contempt if you cannot keep order. This hearing is adjourned.” He jumped to his feet and stalked out behind the bench, his black robe flapping around his ankles.

  The officers took the seven ministers out through a side door. Johann tried to follow, but they barred his way with a steely refusal.

  He slipped back down the aisle and out the main doors. He would have to go tell his father that he was going to Westerville this evening. He could check on Corbin, after the news of the explosion. But more importantly, he would be on the watch for whatever came next.

  Thirteen

  SUSANNA RAISED A HAND AND KNOCKED ON THE door of Hare House. The loose knocker from their last visit had now ripped off its screws, leaving blank patches and holes in the gray paint.

  “Yes?” The same suspicious voice greeted them when the door opened a sliver to reveal one small, fleshy eye.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Grismer. I’m Miss Hanby—you remember, the aunt of the Leeds children? We have brought some candy for you to give to them as you see fit.”

  She waited anxiously for some response, then the door swung open to reveal the stout woman in her dirty apron. “Well then, Miss Hanby, you come on in.”

  They walked past her into the crumbling hall, Susanna repressing a shudder.

  Gazing at the grim surroundings, Aunt Ann looked appalled, but after an instant she summoned a cheerful expression. “Mrs. Grismer, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, but you met my husband, Mr. Hanby, recently.”