“I must attend to some work.” Johann rose abruptly to his feet.
His father nodded, sympathy softening his face.
Back at the house, Johann heard his sisters and Mother talking while they worked, but he skirted the kitchen and climbed the stairs. He did not feel up to conversation.
He went straight to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. The chair scraped as he adjusted its position and began to write. Minutes passed and blurred into an indeterminate time, until two sheets were covered in his even, neat handwriting. He dotted the last period and puffed out a breath. He would submit it to Mr. Reinhardt and see if it could be published as an editorial. Perhaps it might prevent more drunkards from ruining their families.
A painting of his family hung on the wall. Uncle Fritz had still been there when that portrait was made. The likeness was good. Johann regarded his own ten-year-old self, staring out of the portrait, a blond boy with no idea what awaited him over the next decade. The older Leeds boy had looked to be about the same age.
He did not know what to do. He bowed his head until it rested on his clasped hands and prayed for guidance.
Thirty-Four
“MR. JOHANN’S NOT HERE,” THE ONE-ARMED BREWmeister told Susanna. “He went home to look over the accounts.”
Now what? A young lady could not call on a gentleman, let alone unescorted. “I must speak with him on a matter of some importance. Is there any way you can assist me to contact him, sir?”
“We have errand boys here.”
“Is there a respectable place nearby where I might tell him to meet me? I don’t wish to disturb your work.” It was humiliating, and her face must be scarlet, but she had brought it on herself.
“Yes, miss.” He pretended not to notice the impropriety, or perhaps they were not quite as strict in the German part of town. “There’s City Park, about a mile south. There’s always lots of folk there.”
“Thank you, that will do admirably.”
He gave her directions. “And, miss, if you don’t mind my saying, you had better pick a place in the park to visit. It’s very large.”
“Do you have a suggestion?”
“The Greek statue. They just installed her a few years back as a drinking basin, south of the brick cottage. You’ll see her near Stewart Street, miss.”
“Thank you—Mr. Heinrich.” At last she remembered his name.
He winked at her. Oh, the mortification.
It was a bit of a walk, all the way down through the South End, but the park was beautiful and green, having refreshed itself since the drought. Tall shade trees towered thirty feet or more on wellkept lawns. She skirted the park until she saw Stewart Street, then turned onto the path toward the brick cottage Heinrich had mentioned. She was glad washing day was yesterday: her yellow dress was still clean and neat despite her travels.
There was the statue, bronze and graceful in a Grecian drape above a hollow basin. And standing next to it was Johann, in a cream linen coat and casual tie that made him almost as elegant as the statue.
How had he arrived so quickly? She looked around, her heart pounding. There should have been more time to prepare. She should have been the one serenely awaiting him by the statue.
Ten yards away, behind him, she glimpsed a dun horse standing tied to a hitching post. So that was how he had done it.
She forced herself not to falter, to keep a steady pace toward him, even though her palms had begun to moisten.
A good six feet away she halted, placing the statue between them like a mediator.
He still bore a trace of hurt, a careful expression in his blue eyes. He took off his hat, giving his gold-brown hair its usual slightly disheveled charm. “Miss Hanby.”
“Mr. Giere. Thank you for coming.” She felt disjointed, unsure. “I hope I didn’t interrupt you.”
“It’s a welcome interruption.” He still didn’t appear at ease.
The more gentlemanly he was, the more the guilt stabbed at her. “I owe you an apology. I was hasty in assuming the nature of your contribution to the article.”
“It’s nothing. Please think no more of it.” He looked down at the walkway.
Why did he seem hesitant? Nothing seemed more important than earning his forgiveness, not just for the children’s sake, but to restore their former intimacy, to heal the wound. He could be excused for being reluctant, after her behavior.
“If there is anything I could say or do to take back my words, I would,” she said, stepping closer. If she had to plead, she would. “I wish to accept your father’s kind offer.”
He closed the distance between them with another step or two so they both stood directly in front of the bronze figure of Youth. “Susanna.” The stillness of his eyes held regret.
“You can’t forgive me?” she whispered.
“Of course. I forgive you completely.” He still looked so sad. “But . . . I have bad news for you. George Leeds has died of acute alcohol poisoning.”
“What?” She grasped at his coat sleeves as the ground seemed to shift under her, throwing her off balance. “He’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so.” He supported her, rock-solid while the rest of the park swung madly. Finally her head cleared.
“Then I have lost my chance. And the children’s.” Her throat tightened and she barely choked it out. “With my stubbornness and foolishness.” She pivoted and walked away, head bowed to the ground. She loathed herself. The grass flew past under her feet, then she was back on the path. Her boots rapped on wood and she slowed, realizing she was on a footbridge over the water.
A hand caught at her elbow. “Wait.” He had run after her and she turned reluctantly to face him. They stood together on a rustic bridge of crossed logs, over a narrow section of lake, so limpid and placid compared to the stormy thoughts that lashed at her. Trees surrounded them on all sides—not a soul in sight.
“It isn’t your fault that Leeds died.” His voice was soft.
“But had I not been so quick to judge and so strong-willed”— she gripped the bridge handrail to steady her shaking—“I would have accepted your father’s offer in time.”
He put a comforting arm around her shoulders and they stood side by side, looking out over the water lilies.
For a moment he was silent as the warmth of his arm cradled her. The lilies were profuse, scattered at the edges of the water, full white blossoms almost glowing in the afternoon light.
“You are as fresh and natural as those lilies,” he said. “And they open in God’s time, to receive the light he pours down on them, but they close in the darkness. If you were stricken and closed by the darkness around you, I can’t blame you. That’s how God has made you—sensitive and passionate. He made you lovelier than any change of the light, whether I see you in darkness or daylight.”
No one had ever said such a thing to her. She was not worthy of it in any way. Her eyes dampened. “I do not feel lovely.” She turned to face him, but could not meet his gaze.
She felt a gentle touch, his fingers brushing her cheek, and looked up.
“You are.” He leaned toward her and she closed her eyes as his lips touched hers, softly, his hand sliding around her shoulders.
It was a painful sweetness, to be kissed just then, and to feel his care through the gentleness of his touch. Through her sense of loss rose a warmth, a longing to be closer, to dissolve into the kiss and let him hold her.
He drew back, but kept her in a loose embrace. “I don’t make a practice of stealing kisses. My intentions are serious.”
She stared at him, her heart beating fast.
“If we marry, I could support the children with my salary at the brewery. You could go to college.”
“But—but—” She could not pick one of the many objections, they swarmed so fast through her mind. Finally she seized the closest. “We still have no way to get them from the home, not without George.”
“If we are married and have the means to support them, we may be able to change the m
atron’s plans for their future.”
“But if we don’t, you will have married me for nothing.”
He laughed. “For nothing?” His face grew sober and his voice lowered to a murmur as he held her closer. “This is not a marriage of convenience, Susanna. I love you. I have every intention of being your husband in every way, and I hope you would want to truly be my wife.”
A tremor went deep through her, and she realized she would want that, would gladly share his home, his name, and all the things that made her blush hot in his embrace. What better man had she ever known? No one had done for her what Johann had done, out of the goodness of his heart. Except—
“We could never marry,” she said.
“Why not?” He did not appear taken aback and did not release her.
“Because of the beer. I’ll never be able to see intoxicating drink in my home without thinking of George and Rachel.” Real distress sliced through her. Only now did she realize how much she wanted to say yes. And yet she would be even more foolish than Rachel to marry a man who drank, who made alcohol his living, after what had happened to her sister. Her sister had chosen infatuation over righteousness, and look what it had done.
It would tear her apart to refuse him, but she must.
He drew one hand up to caress her hair. “And you think I would adopt six children for your sake and theirs, but refuse to give up a glass of lager, if that’s all that stands between us?”
She blinked. “You would give it up?”
“Without any regret.”
She paused. What now? An inner tremble began. “But you would still be employed by the brewery.”
“Yes. Without it there would be no way to support the children.”
She pulled away and clattered a few steps backward on the bridge, her feeling of panic rising. “I can’t do it. It’s a devil’s bargain.” Her moral conviction had to be stronger than her longing for him, which was more powerful than she ever wanted him to know. But tears washed her face, exposing her.
As if what had happened already were not enough, now she had somehow allowed herself to want the one thing that would be sure to continue this pain, in some way—a man who would inevitably make alcohol a part of her life, because her family’s survival would depend on his selling it, even if he vowed to keep it out of their home. She could not be stupid. Rachel’s lesson was all too clear.
He pulled a handkerchief from his inner pocket and gently blotted her face. She felt him kiss her gently where the tears had been, then he murmured, “You must take at least a little time to think. Don’t throw away this last chance for the children.”
“It’s not the last chance.” She turned away and walked off the bridge.
“What else is there?” he called after her in clear frustration, his accent resurfacing.
She did not turn around but continued down the path through the tall trees as the sunlight shone white off their glossy leaves. “God will provide another way. He will. I will find my sister, whatever it takes.”
Thirty-Five
THE OFFICE WAS ALIEN, GLOSSY AND DARK, ITS HARDwood furniture carved and polished to a high shine. A luxurious carpet pillowed the hem of her skirt as she sat in the waiting room. “Miss Hanby?”
She rose, looking at the slight clerk quizzically. “Yes?”
“Mr. Piper will see you now.”
She followed him back to the majestic office in back. A middle-aged, gray-haired man rose from his enormous desk to greet her.
“Miss Hanby.” He extended a warm, strong hand. “I’m Ernest Piper. Welcome to our practice.”
“Thank you.” Could he tell from her clothing that she was not the type of client who usually patronized lawyers?
“You have a case to describe to me?”
“Yes, sir.” She gave him a quick summary of everything that had happened with Rachel and her children.
“And you wish to know if you have legal recourse to gain custody of the children?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you will not have any legal rights, but you may be able to appeal to the mercy of a judge.”
“Is that often successful?”
“That depends.” He hesitated, tapping his pen on the desk. “These things your brother-in-law said about your sister running away with someone else. You are sure they are false?”
“I would stake my own honor on it.”
“Good.” He leaned back in his chair. “Then there may be a chance. The court will not have any mercy on morally bankrupt mothers.”
“But they might help me, given her innocence?”
“Yes. Of course, if you wish me to advocate for you, I will need a retainer, as I will have to do some research and file some papers.”
“How much will you need?”
He named a sum. It was practically all of her tuition money. “Is that acceptable to you, Miss Hanby?”
“Yes.” She opened her purse. “Here it is.” She counted it out, hiding any emotional reaction. She must not mind if her uncle was disappointed. Even he must admit that life came before study. If she wished to give up her college chance for the children, that was her choice.
“Very good. Now, I will begin work, and you will hear from me in a week or so.”
“Thank you.”
“Just be aware, Miss Hanby, that the retainer is not refundable.”
“I understand. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon.”
The clerk came back and ushered her out.
Now there could be no going back. She had taken the last step in her power to find her sister. But her heart still ached at the thought of Johann.
The lawyer would find a way to get the children back to her. No one ever had a bad word to say about Rachel. If good character could bring mercy from a judge, her sister’s long-suffering at George’s hands must be a certain win in court. Susanna’s sacrificed tuition money was nothing in such a cause.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reinhardt. I appreciate your recommendation, but I can’t go.”
“Johann, what changed? You were practically packing your bags.” Mr. Reinhardt grew lines across his forehead. “You will throw it away, just like that?” He spread out his arms in a shrug and leaned back in his chair behind the office desk.
Johann hated to see him disappointed. “Sir, you said that God may have a plan for us, yes?”
“Yes. And what about your talent?”
“I can still use it, sir, if you’ll keep me on part-time. But I think God sent me a messenger this week.”
“An angel?” Mr. Reinhardt did not quite scoff, even in his disappointment.
“A dead man.”
“The one you wrote about in your article.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ach, I can’t argue with that.” Mr. Reinhardt picked up the Westbote and opened it up with a flap. Johann was apparently dismissed. He turned to go.
The door from the street opened, across the room with the printing presses, and a woman came in, veiled heavily for summertime, in black hat and dress, clearly in mourning. She looked around with an air of confusion, then saw Johann and made her way toward him, a black handbag on one arm, a newspaper folded in the other hand.
“May I help you, ma’am?” he asked, eyeing her veil curiously.
“I’m seeking the original author of this article.” She held the paper toward him. The Dispatch, of course. But to his surprise, the article she indicated with her crocheted black gloves was titled “The Tragedy of a Drunk,” a translation of the title of his article about George Leeds. And there beneath the title was his byline and a credit to the Westbote.
“Excuse me for one moment, please,” he said to the lady, and walked back into his editor’s office. “Did you give permission for the Dispatch to translate and reprint my article?”
“Yes, Brundish asked. He likes your writing.”
“Is he going to pay you? Or me?”
“We’ll see.” Reinhardt did not put down his newspaper. St
ill irritated by the New York refusal.
Johann walked back out to the lady. “I’m the author of that article.”
“I must confirm it with you. This man”—she pointed to the name George Leeds—“was from Union Center, and left six children, with a vanished mother?”
“Yes.” He stared at her hard, but could not penetrate the blur of her veil.
She pulled it back over her hat, revealing a pretty, half-familiar face, and when she took off her hat completely, he knew. Her hair was auburn.
“I’m Rachel Leeds,” she said. “And I need your help.”
Thirty-Six
SUSANNA TOOK THE IRON OFF THE STOVE, DIPPED her fingers in the water next to her, and flicked drops on the flat black metal. They hissed into steam. The rain lashed against the windows, its din broken by an occasional thunder clap and flash of lightning. She applied the iron to the collar of the shirt, taking care to move quickly so as not to scorch it. Professor Hayworth and his wife had agreed to allow her to do some ironing to make more money for her train fare. She would finish as quickly as she could today so she could return to Columbus and the boat dock.
Uncle Will was working in the cellar, where he had set up his saddlery. Aunt Ann was at the church with a group of ladies knitting for orphans. They would take the scarves and mittens to Columbus the next day to be stored up by charities for winter.
A return to Columbus to look for Rachel—but Johann would not be with her on this search, not offering his steady arm as he had last time. She had to breathe deeply against the ache of refusing him—it was just her susceptible heart, her weak flesh that wanted to be his wife. And if her chest hurt like she was cloven in two, it was her own fault for letting down her guard and falling in love with someone unsuitable. Heaven would never intend her to marry a man whose business was so destructive, so there must be some other answer, even if it seemed impossible to save the children in only two days.
She adjusted the shirt on the board and pressed the cuffs. Why did her traitorous mind insist on conjuring forth these visions of herself and Johann, as if it were his shirt she ironed and he would walk out of the back hall, put his arms around her, and kiss the back of her neck, as if they were married? She summoned the image of George, oily and drunken. That would cool her ardor. Sickened, she placed the iron back on the stove to reheat.
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