Uncle Will stopped at the head of the aisle. The reverend asked in a resonant voice, “Who gives this woman in marriage?”
“I do,” Uncle Will said, and stepped aside to return to the pews. He needed no training in wedding custom—he had seen more than his share.
Johann moved close to her and they stood facing one another. The reverend said some things that slipped past her, as she saw only Johann’s eyes, steadying in their blue depths.
“And now I ask you to repeat after me,” the preacher said. Susanna repeated the time-honored words, and hearing them fall from her lips shook her. She was making a vow to God. She had never said anything as important or binding—her hands started to tremble in Johann’s, but she took a deep breath and went on. She would not weep; it was too sacred a moment for that. She made it through, looking only at him. She could trust him. Then it was his turn, and he vowed his lifelong love and honor for her with no hesitation.
It had gone so swiftly.
“You may kiss the bride,” the preacher said.
Johann leaned down and touched his lips to hers for a long moment—it was not the fiery, passionate kiss he had given her before, but like an echo of the promise he had just made, a seal between their hearts.
“I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Johann Giere.”
They walked down the aisle as if it were a dream to the scattered applause of their families, smiling at one another. It was done. A burden lifted from her heart. There could be no turning back, and that was good. They would go forward together, she and her bridegroom.
Thirty-Nine
EVEN IN THE LIGHT HAZE OF HALF-SLEEP, JOHANN felt her warmth against his side. He opened his eyes and turned his head on the pillow to the wash of light pouring across the hotel bed. Susanna lay so close he could smell the sweet, fresh tumbled hair down her back and see the curve of her body under the sheet. He slid a hand across to the pool of her light-brown, gold-glinting tresses on the white linens and stroked it with his fingertips, marveling at its satiny softness, its vivid color, at his freedom to take joy in the beauty of his wife while she slept beside him.
But he would not wake her. He rolled to the edge of the mattress, with an even motion so as not to shake the bed. He lightly rose, leaving her undisturbed, her face serene, the top of her shoulder just peeking out from under the sheet and her cotton gown. God had smiled on him. He wanted to take her in his arms and feel her breathe against him, see her shy smile and her dark eyelashes fluttering down to hide her intense emotion.
But he had something to do for her this morning, even before they went to the Hannah Neil Mission to claim the children. And he would not fail his bride in this.
The Hare Home was a short ride away by horse car. He was struck again by how gray and dirty it looked amid the brighter buildings on the street. He raised a fist to the old door and rapped three times.
The broad face of the housekeeper appeared in the window, then the door opened. “What is it?” Mrs. Grismer did not appear to recognize him, her piggish eyes narrowed in unfriendly slits.
“Good morning. I came to visit last week. I’m here on business pertaining to the orphanage.”
“Yes?” She did not move to let him in.
“I must speak with you in private.”
“I’m busy at the moment.”
“It’s an urgent matter.”
She still did not budge and regarded him with an insolent spark in her eyes.
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his vest pocket. “Perhaps you recognize these names? Sarah Eddy, Dick McIntyre, Martha Daggett, Edward Clark?” He shot a look at her whitening face. “Shall I go on?”
She opened the door and turned on her heel with a swish of her grimy, wrinkled skirts, leaving him to follow her into the dim hall.
She turned inside her small parlor and glared at him. “Well, sit down. Apparently it is a matter of some weight.” Her tone could have frosted a window but did not deter him. He sat in a chair covered with grease spots and adorned with a few crumbs in its seams. She closed the door of the parlor with a sharp push and snatched the paper he still held unfolded in his hand. “Where did you get these names?” She scanned the list.
He kept his tone neutral. “The city morgue.”
“Ah, the poor children.” She changed her tone abruptly to a cooing lament, though her face remained flat and hard. “You know it wracks my heart to lose even one. Such a pity we get them in ill health and we can’t restore them, despite our best efforts.”
“All twelve of those children died in this home last year.”
“As I said—” She spit out the words.
“I heard you, madam.” He held up a hand and she sputtered to a stop.
He pointed to a portrait on the wall above the fireplace. “Is that not Mr. Timothy Hare, the benefactor of this home?”
“Yes.” She shifted from one foot to another, her bulk swaying from side to side.
“And he is deceased?”
“Five years ago, God rest his soul.” It sounded more like a curse from the woman’s tight, ungracious lips.
“And his estate now manages the finances of this orphanage.”
“Who are you? What business is it of yours?”
“I am a news reporter.”
She went even whiter, an oily, fish-belly paleness.
He kept his voice level. “I imagine Mr. Hare’s trustees are not as involved with the management of the home as he might have been himself.”
She kept silent, her eyes like dull black marbles, a few droplets of perspiration on her upper lip.
“But it appears to me, from an examination of the society pages of the Dispatch, that more than one charity ball has been held for the benefit of this institution over the past five years. And those events have raised a significant sum of money for Mr. Hare’s cause, in addition to the very generous legacy he left this home in his will.”
“What paper do you write for?” She rasped out the words.
“The Westbote.”
“Oh. Nothing but a German paper.” A grin crawled across her face and twisted into disdain. “Who will ever read anything you have to say?”
“May I remind you, madam, that our mayor is German and well known for his interest in the welfare of indigent women and children.”
“What do you want?” She lumbered over to a cabinet in the corner and opened the door to reveal an iron safe, built into the wall. She began to turn the dial.
A wave of disgust stopped his words until she had actually fumbled it open. “I do not seek money. I simply wish you to release to me three of the children in your charge.”
She stopped and peered over her thick arm at him. “The children are indentured to the home. They are legally bound.”
“As you were legally bound to use the funds of the home in their support.”
She gazed at him with a gray, nervous face, the fat jiggling at her throat. “Which children?”
“Wesley, Clara, and Daniel Leeds.”
The light of comprehension dawned in her eyes. “You were the one with the Hanby women.”
“A friend of the family.” And now a member of the family, in a manner of speaking, but no need to mention that.
She reached into the safe, pulled out a cashbox, and set it on the desk, then retrieved a small portfolio. She braced it against her ample bosom, ruffled through it with thick fingers, then whipped out three pages, one at a time. She threw the portfolio back in the safe and crammed the cash box after it, then slammed the door with a heavy click. “Here.” She snarled it, revealing her yellowed teeth as she thrust the papers toward him.
He examined them. They were indeed the documents of indenture, signed by the matron of the Hannah Neil Mission. Of course—she would have signed, as Rachel had never been here.
“And the children?”
“You will not write on this subject, now or ever, in your paper?”
“If you bring me all three children now, and forget you ever saw them.�
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“Very well. But you must swear on your immortal soul that you will not write such an article.”
“I will not swear on my soul—that’s no vow for a Christian. But you have my word as a gentleman that I will not write on the subject.”
“Then wait here and I will bring them down.” She hobbled out the door and shut it again, leaving him alone in the parlor.
He had given his word. He could not be the one to expose her corruption, which had caused the starvation, illness, and death of so many innocents. The coroner’s assistant had told him how those poor children left the Hare Home wrapped in sheets and ended up in his city morgue.
But even if Johann couldn’t write an article about the home, he also couldn’t permit such a crime against humanity to continue.
So on the way back to the hotel, he would have to ask the three Leeds children to be patient and wait in the carriage while he made a quick visit to the offices of the Dispatch.
He was sure Brundish would welcome such a juicy and humanitarian story, especially as the Dispatch reporter seemed to enjoy using Johann’s leads.
This was one favor Johann had no reluctance to call in.
Forty
CLARA WORE A CORNFLOWER BLUE DRESS THAT FLUTtered around her as she led the roan horse around the lawn beside Uncle Will’s house. Annabeth clung to its mane, giggling, seeming even tinier than usual as she perched on the horse’s back.
Susanna carried the bucket of water past them, stepping out of the way as men streamed across the grass carrying planks and stacks of tile. State Street was crowded with wagons, twenty or more of them.
Danny held baby Jesse, who was waiting his turn to ride, his wisps of auburn hair lifted by the breeze. Susanna reveled in their bright faces, the color returning to Danny’s cheeks, their neat clothing and unworn shoes. How far they had come, in just a few weeks, from the sadness of June and July.
The bucket of water was getting heavier—she lurched over to the kitchen steps and set it down.
Inside, Aunt Ann greeted her with a smile over her shoulder as she placed a pie carefully in the pie safe. Her aunt’s forehead was moist in the heat of the kitchen. She had tied her hair back under a kerchief, as had Mrs. Pippen, who stood at the table stripping the husks from sweet corn.
“Susanna, where’s your mother?” Aunt Ann asked. “She shouldn’t exert herself too much.”
“She won’t be outdone,” Susanna said. “She’s picking wild blackberries over at the Hayworths.”
Aunt Ann and Mrs. Pippen both laughed.
Rachel rounded the corner carrying a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Are the children staying out from underfoot?” Susanna was relieved that the strain around her sister’s eyes had eased in the last few weeks—she even smiled more, almost like the old times, before she ever married.
“The girls are playing with the horse. Wesley is with the men, but don’t worry, they won’t let him up on the roof.”
A shout echoed from the men outside. Was anything wrong? Susanna hurried to the door and peered at the hubbub of activity surrounding the new barn. From high on the pitched roof, Johann was grinning down at the other men, who were yelling good-natured taunts about the fact that he had finished his row of roof tiling first. Well, that was a relief—everything was going smoothly.
“We are good at this in Bavaria,” Johann called down.
The other men groaned and someone threw an apple up at Johann, though it fell far short. Johann’s father chuckled as he received a pail full of nails handed down from the living chain of men that led to the top of the roof. “Everything’s better in Bavaria,” Mr. Giere said, to more friendly heckling from the others and shouts of approval from the other German men who had come to help, including Heinrich and a dozen of the brewery employees. On the train there had been much goodnatured complaining about the absence of lager, or so Johann had told her, but now they were very polite about the prospect of lemonade. They knew what the town had been through, and they seemed to be kind people.
Uncle Will carried a crate full of saddling tools into the barn, his lined face practically glowing under his fringe of white hair.
“It’s all over but the sweeping,” Reverend Robertson shouted as he climbed down the ladder. “Strike up a tune!”
One of the townsmen walked to the table where someone had set his fiddle case and took out the instrument. He tuned it with a few twists, then launched into a quick, merry tune, an avalanche of notes falling from his seesawing bow.
Rachel came down the kitchen steps, careful with a tray held over her rounding belly, first in a line of women bearing baskets and bowls. Just then, Susanna’s father walked out of the barn, shoulder to shoulder with Uncle Will.
Father had not lost the air of slight confusion that surrounded him whenever he looked at Rachel, as if he knew he was missing part of the story about one daughter’s widowhood and another’s sudden marriage. But they would tell him everything, eventually, when Rachel was ready and he had come to know Johann better. For now, Susanna’s joy was deepened by the very knowledge he lacked: how close he had come to losing his grandchildren, and the miraculous goodness of God in restoring them.
All the children swarmed after the procession of women. They stood on tiptoe to peek over the rims of the baskets and see what delicious feast was in store. But their skipping turned into capering to the heady rhythm of the music, and the adults had to call them back with mock firmness to keep them from bouncing into the food and overturning the dishes on the tables. Even called to order, they could barely contain their glee. Baby Jesse burbled as if he had caught the excitement from the older boys and girls. Susanna wanted to go over and kiss him, but she would have all the time in the world to do that now—his whole life, or at least until he grew manly enough to object.
The men had gone in clusters to wash up, using a pile of hand towels loaned for the day by their wives. They came back two and three at a time, rejuvenated by the music and the prospect of food. One man began to sing and clap to “Bluetail Fly,” and a few others joined in, but most were eyeing the food.
As Susanna arranged serving bowls, arms went around her waist in a welcome, familiar embrace. “Does it make you glad?” Johann whispered in her ear, sending a thrill down her neck. She smiled at the tickle, then nestled back against him and turned her head to murmur back, “So happy, love. Thank you for helping.”
“It’s good for a town to build together.”
She knew what he meant, having witnessed those many strong hands working together driving dowels, sawing timber, lifting beams to shoulders on the count of three. Every plank raised built back the spirit of the town, their confidence that strife and destruction could give way to love and charity.
The fiddling ended and Uncle Will cleared his throat. “Shall we pray?” Heads bowed across the lawn, the men’s hair still damp from their quick washing at the pump, the women colorful in their bright kerchiefs and aprons.
He offered a short, heartfelt prayer of thanks for the barn and the hands that built it, choking up only once and continuing with determination and a steady voice. “And, Lord, thank you for the love of our neighbors and for this food. All that we need, you have provided. Amen.”
“Amen,” they all echoed in a ripple, and happy chaos began, mothers ladling food onto tin plates, little children sitting on the grass together chewing unself-consciously with open mouths. Even that made Susanna smile, as Danny chomped on a biscuit with the blithe innocence of youthful table manners.
She took a more ladylike seat on the brick stoop, and Johann came to join her. When no one was looking, she laid her hand on his, and he turned his palm up to cradle hers.
The music began again, jaunty but pretty, a three-beat fiddler’s polka. A few couples rose and danced by the edge of the yard, where hollyhocks bloomed in profusion along the neighbor’s fence. Johann squeezed her hand for some reason and lifted his eyebrows in a subtle signal—she followed his gaze. Heinrich held blond, smiling Lotte
in his one strong arm as they danced together, completely besotted and glowing. Susanna looked sideways at Johann and saw him trying not to grin. She knew it was a relief for him, that Lotte had recovered from her infatuation, and even better, that she and Heinrich made one another so happy, her bubbly youth lightening his dry, experienced humor. He had even overcome his loathing of dance for her. And now Lotte would sing Johann no more songs. Susanna clamped down a giggle. Johann had given up the fight and was grinning broadly. She knew he was thinking the same thing.
His eyes met hers, and they did not have to say anything at all. He stood up, keeping hold of her hand with a more intimate look.
“May I have the pleasure?” he asked.
She rose with him and danced, while the little girls twirled by the flowers. Several other couples joined them, but she only looked at her husband. His gentle hands guided her just as he had in their first dance together. She would never have dreamed this trial would end in such happiness.
As the tune came to a close, the fiddler began to play something else—it was familiar. Where had she heard it before? Oh—Cousin Ben had written it and played it for the family, not one of his most famous tunes, but a light, happy dancing song. She did not begin to dance at once, but glanced at her aunt and uncle—they held hands, and she saw tears sparkle in her aunt’s eyes but they did not fall. Uncle Will smiled at her aunt with the tenderness of fifty years’ married love.
She remembered Johann’s murmur in the garden that lanternlit night when they last danced. You see the good things God gives us. . .
And her uncle’s words after his barn burned. Praise God for such love, and such joy.
Yes. Yes. Her heart swelled to overflowing as she watched her family, the children dancing, Rachel smiling at them from the stoop, and her uncle and aunt holding hands.
Gratitude made her feet light. Like the beautiful blossoms of the hedge, no earthly joy could last forever, but she hoped that like Uncle Will, like Ben, they would leave their seeds behind. She would dance with her husband, dance for their love, and for the legacy they would pass to the children.
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