Fairer than Morning

by Rosslyn Elliott

  When he arrived at the poorhouse door, his gloves muffled the thud of his knock. There was no answer. He pounded again, harder. Perhaps they could not hear.

  But the door opened, and to his surprise, it was not the old woman but the same young girl he had met before. She regarded him with equal surprise, her eyes shadowed by her bonnet, her fair hair twisting down in locks over her shoulders. “You have a delivery?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. This was his opportunity to talk to her alone. “What’s your name?”

  “Emmie. Emmie Flynn.”

  “I’m Will Hanby.” They stared at each other. The faint smudges of exhaustion under her eyes emphasized her fragile beauty, the drooping grace of a flower blighted by frost.

  “Where’s the old woman?” Will asked, afraid the crone would scream from the hallway at any moment.

  “Dead,” Emmie said. “Yesterday.”

  Will could not say he was sorry. Without the old woman’s sharp tongue to drive him away, perhaps he could figure out a means to help the girl.

  “But the new overseer for the women will come soon,” Emmie said.

  He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Why are you here? Can I assist you in some way?”

  Her expression grew distant. She brushed away a truant lock of hair from in front of her face. “No, there’s nothing you can do.” She turned away.

  “Wait.” He put his hand on the door for fear she would try to close it. “I know a man who knows the owner of a glass factory. Would it be possible for you to work there?” He had no idea whether Dr. Loftin would even agree to ask Mrs. O’Hara such a thing, but it was his only recourse.

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “But I would have nowhere to live.”

  “There are boarding houses near the factories. It would be better than . . . here.”

  She turned back to face him, lips parted as if to say something, but wordless, just searching his face. “All right then,” she whispered, and fled down the hall.

  When Will returned from the almshouse, he pulled the cart up beside the pigsty and walked back to Dr. Loftin’s home. The white back door set into the white brick was discreet; he would not disturb anyone if he passed the borrowed gloves to Dr. Loftin’s maid.

  But for the second time that day, a door opened to reveal someone he did not expect. It was not Mary in her uniform. Instead, a chestnut-haired young woman in a red dress stood on Dr. Loftin’s threshold. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice gentle, her words clear. “I should not have answered on Dr. Loftin’s behalf. I was just passing by when you knocked. Would you like to speak with him?”

  “Yes.” He was painfully aware of the mud streaking his trousers, his hair that Jane Good had hacked into unkempt waves with blunt scissors. Compared to this dainty girl in her fine dress, he was a crude, dirty savage.

  Just then, Mary the maid walked up behind the young lady. “Miss Miller, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll get the doctor,” she said, and was gone as soon as she had come.

  Miss Miller. This was the saddler’s eldest daughter, then. They stood awkwardly regarding each other. He noticed that her eyes were deep brown and fringed with dark, thick lashes. Eyes that looked sad and kept secrets.

  “You work for the saddler?” she asked.

  “I’m his apprentice. One of them.”

  “Then perhaps you and my father will work together.”

  “My master has told me so,” Will said, the taste of self-loathing bitter in his mouth.

  She shrank back a step. What could he expect her to do, face-to-face with a foul-smelling youth who spent his days in pig slop and his nights in a barn with animals?

  Now the doctor came to the door and stepped in front of her with a polite, “Miss Miller.” She retreated down the hallway; Will watched until her straight back and the dull gleam of her skirt disappeared from his view.

  “Yes?” the doctor asked.

  “Your gloves, Doctor,” Will said, offering them to him. “Thank you.”

  “Oh no, I intended for you to keep them.” The doctor’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “Do you not need them?”

  “Sir—Doctor—I could not keep such a pair of gloves,” Will said, searching for an excuse. “They aren’t suited to my work.”

  The doctor paused. “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But I think you may need them for your journeys to the poorhouse, at least,” the doctor said. “Keep them. I have others.”

  Will nodded and tucked them under his arm. “Doctor . . .” He did not know quite how to proceed, but waded into the matter. “There’s someone at the poorhouse whom I wish to help. I was hoping you might have some influence with an employer. To get her a position . . . perhaps in a factory.”

  Dr. Loftin crossed his arms and raised one hand to stroke his white close-cropped beard. “I don’t often ask my friends for that variety of favor.”

  Will’s heart sank.

  “How old is this woman?”

  “She’s just a young girl, about my age, Doctor.”

  “And you have some reason to believe that she’s a hard worker, not a drinker or an immoral woman?”

  “I believe in my heart she’s a good girl, sir. And I know she works hard, her hands were blistered.” He had another thought and blurted it out. “If she was immoral, she wouldn’t be in the poorhouse. There’s plenty a house with its doors open to loose women in this city.” Will could not believe he had said such a thing. He kicked at the ground with the worn toe of his boot.

  “A good point.” The doctor smiled faintly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, sir!” He wanted to shake the doctor’s hand, but he should not overstep his bounds. He kept his arms rigid at his side instead.

  “I’m pleased that you wish to help someone in need. I know God will bless your compassionate heart.” The doctor cleared his throat. “Good day to you.”

  Will turned to go, ashamed. The doctor might not think him so compassionate if he knew of his black, violent hatred for his master.

  “And, Will—”

  He looked back at the doctor.

  “Would you tell your master that Mr. Miller, the saddler, wishes to meet him at his convenience? Perhaps later today.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Thank you.”

  Will started back toward the Good house. He heard a click behind him as the doctor closed the door on that other world, where people spoke in soft voices and thanked apprentices—a world of satin and rosewater.

  As he crossed the Loftin grounds and drew level with the doctor’s large stable, something moved at the edge of his vision. He looked over by the barn to see a man watching him. The man said nothing but slipped out of sight around the whitewashed corner of the building. Strange. Dr. Loftin’s grooms were usually either in uniform or dressed in work clothes, but the man by the barn was in a greatcoat and hat. Perhaps it was Mr. Miller, the saddler. If so, he was not very friendly to give such a piercing look to Will but make no greeting and disappear like a specter.

  No matter. If Mr. Miller was cold or odd, it would make it less abhorrent to follow Master Good’s order to try to steal his business. It was a sickening prospect, but Will had no choice. At least he would have the consolation of knowing he had not stolen from a kind and honest man.

  Nine

  ANN, A NOTE CAME FOR US ! ” SUSAN HURRIED INTO the bedroom, her light-blue dress rippling like water and bringing out the sparkle in her eyes. She clutched a large ivory card in both hands like a bouquet. “It’s from the Burbridges.”

  Ann took it in one hand while she smoothed her skirt to one side in order to sit on the fainting chair. Not that she felt faint. The thought made her smile. She liked Allan Burbridge very well, and of course, he was attractive. But he was not the kind of man whose words could be stored up and treasured. His compliments had clearly caressed the ears of many young women in Pittsburgh and were not to be compared to Eli’s passionate,
soulful declarations. Of course, it was over two years since Eli had made such statements to her . . .

  She could not dispel her hope that, in the end, God might still intend her to be Eli’s wife. There was a romance between them that she knew she would never feel with another man. It heightened all of her senses. His thoughts on poetry, or indeed any intellectual topic, drew out the best from her own mind. They would never want for stimulating conversation. And surely that was the most a woman could ask of any match: a true romance and a meeting of the minds. His words to her at the dance renewed her hope. Painful as it had been to witness Eli’s courtship of Phoebe, he was a young man, and she could forgive him for losing heart under the circumstances.

  “Ann, will you read it?” Susan looked at her with undisguised impatience over the top of the card.

  Ann scanned the perfect calligraphy. “To Mr. Samuel Miller and the Misses Miller. Mrs. Lewis Burbridge requests the pleasure of your company for dinner on Wednesday the eighth of March at half past five o’ clock.”

  “Tomorrow! I wonder what kind of house they live in.” Susan sidled around to peer over Ann’s shoulder at the gilt-edged note card.

  Mabel poked her head in the doorway. “What is that?” She came to look.

  “We’re going to the Burbridges’ home for dinner. Do you think it will be a very large house?” Susan asked. “A mansion?”

  “Perhaps they have gold plates and forks,” Mabel said.

  “Let’s not speculate on such things,” Ann said. “It’s not polite. Yes, the Burbridges are well established, but what matters is that they are kind enough to offer us hospitality.”

  “And that their plates are solid gold!” Mabel giggled and poked Susan, who brushed away her hand as if it were an annoying fly.

  “Don’t be so silly.” Susan used her grown-up voice as she picked up a newspaper from the marble table beside Ann’s chair. “Listen to Ann. You need to learn to be a lady.” She rolled up the newspaper. “You mustn’t embarrass us. Not even when you drink from the ruby and emerald glasses.” She swatted Mabel on the head. Mabel shrieked and grabbed for the paper. A struggle ensued, punctuated by laughter.

  “Girls!” Ann said. “You won’t be allowed to go at all if you insist on acting like wild animals.” Mabel had just succeeded in snatching the newspaper from Susan. At this most dire of threats from Ann, they froze and recovered their innocent expressions. Mabel replaced the newspaper on the table, patting it down where it curled at the edges from its mistreatment.

  “We’ll be good,” she said.

  “We’ll be young ladies,” Susan echoed. As if by mutual agreement, they walked out the door in genteel fashion, but as soon as they were out of sight, Ann heard loud whispering and the patter of their running feet down the stairs.

  She couldn’t help but love them with all her heart—even more when they were mischievous. But she winced at the memory of their laughter when they encountered that poor young man on the road today with his cart. She didn’t know anyone in Rushville who was so thin, or so poorly dressed. When he came to the door just now, he seemed angry when she mentioned the possibility that he might work with her father. Perhaps he thought that her father would not give him anything for his work. But he frightened her a little. He looked like someone who had seen his share of fights—all sinew and bone and warning. He would be good-looking, with his square jaw and deep-set eyes, were it not for the painful thinness and the—yes, the smell. As a farm girl, she was not one to turn up her nose at animals or hard work, but if a man worked with pigs, it was very important that he wash and change his clothes. Perhaps this young man had no other clothes.

  A man’s heavy step approached in the hall. Her father appeared in the doorway.

  “Come in, Father.” This was her opportunity. She had not been alone with him since that frightening scene on the boat.

  “The girls made me aware that we have received an invitation.” He grinned, his hands behind his back, neat in his waistcoat and tie. “It seems you have made an impression on young Mr. Burbridge.”

  “Or perhaps it is Mrs. Burbridge who loves your conversation,” Ann said tartly.

  He chuckled. “I believe we need to go on a shopping expedition. We will spend only within reason, but we must outfit you and the girls appropriately. The girls will be presentable in their best dresses, if you air them out. And the doctor has kindly offered to lend you some of his late wife’s clothing, for he thinks you were close enough in size. But all three of you will need evening gloves.”

  “Father, you’re acting like an old maid trying to marry off an aging cousin.” Her comment was light, without the resentment it might have held before. After all, Eli might not be lost.

  After an uncertain pause, he smiled. “No matter how you may protest, I know you will enjoy dressing for the dinner.”

  Now was the time to ask about the other matter, while they were alone. Ann took a deep breath, stood, and crossed to the door of the room. She eased it closed so no little eavesdroppers could listen and pivoted to stand with her back to it. “I’m grateful for your care for me, Father, but I must ask you about something.”

  “What’s that?” He crossed his arms.

  “An incident that disturbed me while we were on the boat.”

  “Which was?” His expression was guarded.

  She approached him, and spoke softly in the hope he would see her honest love and concern. “A man accosted you on the freight deck. I saw you. He took hold of you, and the two of you had words.”

  He was silent.

  “Do you know him?” she asked. “Why did he dare treat you so?”

  He still made no reply, his brows knitted, his head turned aside.

  “Why didn’t you report him to the captain?” she asked. “Does he have some hold over you?”

  At that, her father broke away and walked to the door. He jerked it open and turned back to face her. “It’s none of your affair.” He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, his eyes dark with disapproval. “Don’t speak to me on the subject again. We will have a pleasant time here, if you will do your part to make it so.”

  He walked out, shoulders stiff.

  Ann stood still, aghast. It must be serious, indeed, for him to behave so harshly and refuse to say a word. What wrong had her father done that he could not be frank with her?

  Not long afterward, Susan returned, already wearing her coat. “Ann, Father says you must come. The doctor is taking us to meet the other saddler.”

  Donning her fur cape again, Ann followed her sister down the curved stairs and into the spacious marble foyer. Dr. Loftin and her father waited there with Mabel.

  “Shall we walk over to meet Master Jacob Good?” the doctor asked. He opened the front door and held it for them.

  Ann took Susan’s and Mabel’s hands and they descended the front stoop. The road was embedded with pieces of gravel, and remnants of the last snowfall frosted the hillocks of the roadside.

  Her father and the doctor conversed a few yards behind her as they walked the thirty or forty yards to the next house. Her father sounded as if not a thing in the world troubled his conscience. But she saw no way to excuse the evidence that he must be deceiving them in some way. No one would be manhandled by a stranger on a boat and then hide the reason why, unless he had a guilty conscience. Yet, for the life of her, she could not figure out what he might have done. He was a part-time minister, a man of simple tastes who avoided drink and gambling.

  And yet—did she really have any way of knowing what her father did in those days when he was absent from the farm? She had never met his congregants, scattered far and wide as they were across southern Ohio. How did she know that they really existed? Perhaps not every venture away from the farm was for virtuous purposes. He was a man living without a wife, after all. But now she disgusted herself, and she refused to entertain that train of thought any further. She stole a glance back at her father, where he chatted with blithe goodwill. Was it possible that th
e contours of that face so familiar to her might someday shift to reveal someone she did not know?

  At the Goods’ front door, Dr. Loftin knocked on their behalf. The door opened to reveal a sallow, gawky woman in a plain dress and apron.

  “Mistress Good, I’ve brought Mr. Samuel Miller and his family to introduce to you and your husband.”

  “Why thank you, Dr. Loftin.” The syrupy way that Mistress Good spoke reminded Ann of overly sweet tea. It did not match her thin bony face. “I’ll just be getting Master Good.”

  In a moment, the man who must be her husband came to the door and walked down the steps to greet them. He was shorter than the doctor or her father, distinguished by his striking dark hair and light eyes. He was powerfully built through the shoulders and well dressed in a new black coat and trousers. A gold watch chain dangled from the pocket of his waistcoat.

  He took her father’s hand first, as the two men murmured civil greetings, then bowed over her hand. She did not know why, but she was relieved when he did not kiss it. The idea bothered her, even though her hand was gloved.

  Master Good took them around the side of his home and back to the large barn.

  “We built this addition some years ago,” he said, indicating the one-story structure that jutted out beside the tall barn. “Especially to house the saddlery.”

  “Very nice,” her father said.

  Good led them in. Ann was surprised that it was slightly warmer inside, then remembered no saddler would let his leather freeze, lest it become too stiff. A small iron firebox stood in the center of the room—there must be coals smoldering within.

  The walls were studded with half a dozen saddles in various stages of completion—brown, black, red, one just a bare tree with the padding stitched on. On the stitching horse at the center of the room, a saddle was propped on its pommel, its cantle supported by the wooden post that protruded from the bench to allow for clamping and stitching.