Lovelier than Daylight

by Rosslyn Elliott

  That sounded like a reference to Susanna—and not a promising one. Johann made a noncommittal sound. “So you have no idea why she vanished?”

  George looked sideways and then at his glass. “Nope.” Was that a tiny smirk on his face?

  He rallied to a sober whine. “And it’s been hard for me since she left. She was supposed to tend the farm while I worked, and now there’s no one to tend the farm. So it’s hungry times for me.”

  Obviously George was neither working nor tending the farm. What a miscreant. His wife had been feeding their whole family, probably by working herself to the bone with the help of the older children, and now George complained because his chuck wagon had pulled out of town.

  “It sounds like a hard life,” Johann said.

  “It is.” He looked morose.

  “Well, in that case, I would be happy to pay for your train fare to Columbus.”

  “For what?” His breath smelled of whiskey.

  “It would be better for the children to stay with family, and so I would like to ask you as a gentleman to come claim your children under the law and retrieve them. After that, your responsibility would end, and your relations would take care of them.”

  “You mean the Hanbys?” He smirked again, but openly this time. “They already asked me this, and I said no. And I say no again.”

  “I will pay your expenses for any travel and meals.”

  A light gleamed in his dark eyes. “Well, maybe I’ll consider it. I need the travel money in advance.”

  It would probably be a waste, but even the smallest chance was worth it. “I’ll give you the train fare and then buy you a meal when I meet you in town.” He fished out the money and used the stub of a pencil to write down the address of the brewery on his notepad. He tore it off and gave it to George. “Come find me here and we will take care of business, then have a fine German feast.”

  “All right.” But the ongoing smirk told Johann it was a lost cause.

  With a short good-bye, he walked out and hurried down the street, putting distance between himself and the wretched scene.

  Why had he agreed to do it? Oh, yes. Susanna. The stirring memory of her beautiful face in the flower shop dispelled at least part of the slimy feeling of talking to George Leeds, a sensation like handling a newt.

  And he had to admit that there was a silver lining, even in this failure with George.

  He would have a good excuse to return to Westerville and investigate further for his article.

  And he would see her again.

  Sixteen

  THE SINGING IN THE CHAPEL WASN’T UNIFORMLY tuneful, but it was sincere. The congregation sang the strong rhythm of the hymn with extra feeling to chase away the shadow of the saloon.

  Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter,

  Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;

  Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness,

  Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a man enter through the doors in back and stand in the back pew. She did not turn around and stare, but his blond hair and deportment were unmistakable—Mr. Giere. Her pulse quickened. He could only have come with news about his meeting with George Leeds.

  Rescue the perishing, care for the dying

  Jesus is merciful, Jesus will save.

  The men singing bass thudded to a close and the people sat down once more to hear the final thoughts of Reverend Spalding. He dismissed them with an urgent call to continue opposing the saloon and all who did business with Corbin. As they filed out, the congregation maintained respectful low voices and did not really converse until they scattered outside into the quadrangle of the college.

  Mr. Giere was waiting for them a few yards away, hat in hand.

  Uncle Will had stayed to talk to the reverend and had not yet noticed their visitor. Aunt Ann called out, “Good morning, young man.” She beckoned to Susanna and led the way toward him as he took his hat off to greet her.

  “Good morning, ma’am.” The brewer’s son was respectful, and his manner was different from the practiced sophistication of the college boys. He was humbler, but somehow it made him seem older and more mature—wiser, even, for his time in the real world of work and human events. But why was she thinking of such things? His personal qualities hardly mattered compared to what he might have learned about the children and their future.

  Susanna trailed with some reluctance after her aunt, trying to stave off the memory of the lilies that threatened to make her blush. She could not acknowledge them, of course. But she had to speak with him if she wished to hear the news.

  “Thank you for coming all this way to help us,” Aunt Ann said. Susanna had told her of Mr. Giere’s plan to speak with George Leeds.

  “I wish I had better news,” he said.

  It was like an elbow to the gut. Susanna tried to breathe. She had known there was no chance, but still—

  “I’m very sorry I didn’t succeed, Miss Hanby.” He looked as if he meant it, but she wished he would not be so sympathetic. It made it harder to remain composed.

  “I suspected as much.” She had to leave soon before she gave way. “He will not help us?”

  “No. He was friendly to me at first, but stayed hostile to you no matter how I tried to work on his better feelings. Apparently he has few to none of those.” A brief expression of distaste melted into concern. “He told me that if anyone wanted the children, your sister would have to reclaim them.”

  “He did?” She couldn’t think, stupefied. Her aunt placed a hand on her arm.

  The young man looked as if he would like to do the same but instead glanced down and kneaded his hat brim. “I asked Leeds where he thought she was. At that point he became guarded and said he knew nothing.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. Should she tell him about the letter? No, he might think she was asking for more assistance. She had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from breaking down. After an instant of pure pain, she tasted blood and let up. Her aunt was thanking Mr. Giere and asking him if he would take lunch with them. Susanna would have to plead illness—she was far too upset to make conversation, and especially not with him.

  “I think I’d better pursue my other business in town,” he said, with a subtle look at her. He was certainly too handsome and probably used it to his advantage to get people to buy his father’s beer. “But I would be glad to escort you ladies to your home, if you wish. Where is Mr. Hanby?”

  “He’s speaking with Reverend Spalding about the saloon,” Aunt Ann said, a little warily. “We’ll go home ahead of him, as we often do—he will arrive just in time for the meal after I heat it up.”

  Mr. Giere looked as if he would offer his arm but did not know to whom. Well, Susanna did not want that. She took her aunt’s arm. “Shall we go?” she asked.

  He looked properly chastened, clasped his hands behind his back, and kept an appropriate distance from them. He shouldn’t be familiar—they weren’t cousins or even friends.

  “I’m glad to hear Mr. Hanby is trying to solve the saloon problem,” he said as he strolled next to them, matching his pace to her aunt’s. He had an educated way of speaking that only increased its effect with his occasional accented word. “I have no doubt that any plans of his invention would be strictly legal.”

  “That’s true,” Aunt Ann said. “Will’s only law-breaking days were during the Fugitive Slave Act. He certainly doesn’t approve of vandalism or intimidation.”

  “Or perhaps worse.” Mr. Giere’s face was thoughtful. “Which is why I’m staying here this evening.”

  “For a dramatic story?” Susanna didn’t blunt the slight edge of the question.

  “I’m only willing,” he said with his trace of a lilt, “to go so far in seeking a story. I won’t stand idly by if I think someone may be hurt or killed, and then grin while I run to the presses. That’s the act of a ghoul, not a man.”

  A little liking fo
r him flared in her spirit, even in its overcast gloom. At least he had principles in some areas. Should she tell him what Abel Wilson had told her? But she had promised not to tell. And besides, Mr. Wilson was not talking about killing anyone—just being “emphatic,” whatever that meant.

  “Do you think someone may be injured due to the saloon?” Aunt Ann gave him a keen look. “Have you heard something?”

  “I can’t say.” He glanced away, diffident. “But I assure you I’ll do my best to hear what I need to hear, especially if lives are at stake.”

  “But won’t you ruin your story?” Susanna asked.

  “My hope is that the story will be both dramatic and harmless.” He gave her a rueful half smile.

  The saloon lay in their path to the Hanby home, its roof still askew like a rakish hat. A couple of men went in as she stared. Horrible, to have their drinking so open, even on a Sunday. Was that legal? Were there not ordinances? If not, there should be. She would have to ask her uncle.

  Another man slipped around the corner and crept into the saloon with a surreptitious backward glance.

  “Auntie,” she gasped, and stopped. Mr. Giere halted next to her.

  “What is it?” her aunt asked.

  Susanna clutched her sleeve. “I believe that man who just went into the saloon was Mr. Pippen.”

  “No.” Her aunt paled. “We mustn’t assume so—we could not see clearly from here.”

  “Miss Hanby is correct,” Mr. Giere said. “I recognized him too.”

  “You know him?” Susanna asked, her temper flaring.

  “I saw him testify in the men’s meeting.”

  “But it still doesn’t matter, I suppose, that you helped Corbin set up his saloon here.”

  He fell silent and did not look at her, gazing at the doorway that had swallowed the slight man.

  Would everything be ruined for all these children whom no one could protect? Their lives and health destroyed? All by the effects of drink, whether beer or spirits, and the law would not intervene. And Mr. Giere would not denounce it, he would continue to deliver beer to lost men. She was about to lose control of her tongue. She gathered her skirts in both hands and ran down the street toward home.

  Seventeen

  THE TWO OLD MEN WERE WATCHING CORBIN FROM the porch of the hotel. Johann was sure of it. They had taken up positions in the old rocking chairs as if they intended to stay a good while. One had a pencil and a ratty, worn journal in his lap.

  “Evening, gentlemen.” Johann pulled up the ladder-backed chair not far from them and sat down, extending his legs as if he, too, had nothing to do but sit on porches in the twilight of this oppressive heat that refused to break.

  He could not let Miss Hanby’s outburst distract him from his Westerville story—he would continue to seek information, despite the shock of seeing Arthur Pippen fall off the wagon. He shouldn’t feel responsible—it wasn’t rational. Pippen had talked of an obsession with whiskey, not lager. But Johann could not forget the distress in Miss Hanby’s green eyes before she ran off.

  One of the old men grunted a greeting, the other simply scrawled in his book.

  “Are you from the Vigilance Committee?” Johann hazarded a guess based on what he had heard in that night’s rally at the church.

  “Yep.” The one not writing nodded with a look of significance. “I may be useless for most things, but I can still sit in a chair.” He wielded a toothpick with long practice on teeth that seemed solid and healthy for one so old. “You new in town?”

  “Just an occasional visitor, sir. I went to the temperance meeting tonight and also the first meeting after Corbin came in.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Columbus. I travel back and forth on business.” Johann stared at the tip of his boot and waited so as not to sound too interested. “What are you watching for?”

  “Violations, boy, violations.” The toothpicker grinned, talking out of the edge of his mouth with the toothpick clamped between his teeth. “Corbin will flout several rules soon, I guarantee.”

  “Such as?”

  “He can’t serve outside. He can’t serve to men under eighteen. And he can’t serve after nine p.m.”

  “And what happens if he does?”

  “The mayor might have him arrested.”

  “I see.”

  A loud shout broke the dusky stillness of the street. Corbin’s unmistakable flat voice reverberated from the open window of the saloon building across the street.

  The toothpicker chuckled. “He must have found it, eh?” he said to his friend.

  “I reckon so,” the other man said, deadpan, but with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “What did he find?” Johann asked.

  Before he could answer, the door of the saloon rocked back against the wall and Corbin practically jumped out. “I see you over there!” He stabbed a finger toward the old men, who must have seemed to be nothing but dark shapes in the fading light. Johann was glad Corbin could not see him.

  The toothpick came out of the old man’s mouth and he held it in his palm. “What of it?” he called. “We may sit here if we wish.”

  “I know you’re up to your spying and vandalism,” Corbin yelled.

  “What is it, Corbin, got a bad smell in your back room?” Both old men chuckled hard at this.

  “You sons of mongrels!” Corbin threw his arms down as if he would stamp in his rage, but then stormed back inside the saloon.

  Johann murmured to the toothpick man, “What happened?”

  “Word has it someone was planning to pitch a few rotten eggs through Corbin’s windows this evening.” The man smiled like a prankish boy beneath his wrinkles. “They’ll stink up his saloon for sure.”

  A minute later two customers hurried out of the saloon, one with his hand over his nose and mouth as if about to be sick.

  “See?” The old man laughed. “Did you get that in your diary?” he said to his friend. “Don’t miss it now. This is the juicy stuff.”

  “Got it,” his friend growled, battered hat pulled down over his eyes. “But I’m losing the light.”

  Even as he said it, the lamplighter came down the street igniting the few oil lamps with his long pole. The hotel had its own porch lamps: a maid came out and turned them up to brighten the porch.

  As she did, a group of men strode out of the hotel’s tavern— an alcohol-free establishment, of course, but providing fine cold cuts and potatoes for travelers. The young men seemed familiar to Johann—it was the Otterbein students from the church. Johann watched them go down the steps, speaking to one another in low, hurried whispers.

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” he said to the two elders on the porch. “I will take an evening stroll.”

  “Mind your step. Our lights aren’t the best.”

  “Thank you.” He followed the young men down the stairs at a discreet distance. This might be silly, playing at intrigue in the dark. But the way they kept glancing at the saloon seemed to be more than just curiosity.

  He had to tread with caution in the gathering darkness, feeling with each foot before setting it down so as not to step in a dry pothole and break an ankle. Westerville would benefit from gaslight. But then, he could not conceal himself so easily if the streets had adequate lighting.

  He moved down the empty street like a shadow, straining to see. The young men were still whispering to one another, but as they left State Street and turned toward the creek, they hushed. He could still hear their footfalls ahead and hoped their collective noise would cover his.

  His foot met no resistance and he stumbled and tripped. He caught himself on his palms, scraping them on the pebbles in the packed road. He froze there, listening, but they did not appear to have noticed. What an adventurer he was, blundering around at night like a clumsy schoolboy. He clambered to his feet again and followed.

  They went into a large building, a storehouse or barn, judging from the dim shape outlined against moonlit treetops. Perhaps they simply
had a secret club meeting. But he would watch for a few minutes more.

  It didn’t take long before the dark blot of figures came back out the door of the barn, some of them holding an object between them. He could not see what they were carrying: it was larger than a bucket but smaller than a lager barrel. He should not go any closer or they would spot him. They filed around the corner of the barn and disappeared into the trees.

  He debated whether to pursue them. The footing over there in the grove would be even more treacherous without light. One or two of them must be very familiar with this site to navigate it without a lantern. Johann would not have that advantage and would probably plant his face in the ground the minute a tree root popped up and he failed to notice. Then they might discover him.

  It was wiser to give up the pursuit for the night. He could come back and look again in the morning. And it all might yet prove to be a wild goose chase: some college boys out for nothing more than amusement.

  But his instinct told him otherwise.

  The dawn drifted through the kitchen window and shed pink light on the food Susanna was packing in the basket. She could not yet go see her nieces and nephews—the endless prescribed week between visits had another four days left before she could go back to the Hare Home—but she and her aunt could at least go help the Pippens.

  Aunt Ann came in with a plucked, headless chicken hanging from one fist and a few drops of blood spattered on her apron. She had the grim look of a woman who does a necessary but hated task—Susanna understood. She had been the resident chicken killer at her parents’ home, because she was the fastest on her feet and could catch one and make it quick and merciful. But she always felt like praying after she had done it. It seemed a huge thing to take a creature in your hand and still the hum of its life and the brightness of its eyes, even a life as small as that of a piebald chicken.