Fairer than Morning

by Rosslyn Elliott

  He began to move down the row, his shoulders rolling under the shirt with the rise and fall of the hoe. He was much quicker than she at the work, making it look effortless. She knelt in his wake and began to pour seeds in her palm, shoving them two at a time into the rich loam. They were blessed indeed here in Ohio. She had heard other farmers say before that the land here was like a Garden of Eden. Even the least competent gardener had simply to shove seeds into the ground and up they sprang, watered and nurtured by God’s own hand in the perfect balance of rain and a temperate climate. Once the frost had passed, of course.

  Bent from the waist, she followed Will. She was practiced in this work. Between the two of them, they would finish soon.

  He ended the row and turned back toward her where she had just pressed the soil down over the seeds. She still had a few more to plant on the row. He waited patiently, probably as aware as she that whacking the soil right beside her would fling up clods in her face. She continued her work, kneeling down.

  A flash of her mother’s image recurred to her again from the dream. Her conscience would not leave her alone.

  “You look burdened,” he said. “Is it the upcoming journey? I do not want to add to your cares.”

  “No.” She rubbed a stray lock of hair back with her sleeve so she would not streak mud across her forehead.

  She had not told anyone about the nightmares. But thinking about her mother walking away from her in her mind’s eye made her chest hurt. Perhaps Will had the same kinds of visions when he should be sleeping peacefully. If anyone could understand, he might.

  “The journey is not troubling me.” She dropped more seeds in the churned ground. “It is simply that I have disturbing dreams. They are hard to forget.”

  His look grew more intent. “About the bounty hunter?”

  “In some ways.” She found it too painful to admit her mother’s presence in her dreams, even though he might have similar visions. But having admitted the cause of her trouble, the urge to be understood drove her onward. “I dreamed that you did not stop me, and I killed the bounty hunter.” She did not stop in her work, moving two feet on to the end of the row, dumping another small handful of seeds into her palm from the bottle.

  His silence forced her to look up when she had planted the final two.

  “I dream as well. Sometimes it is unpleasant.” For a moment his face seemed to lose the health and color he had gained since his arrival and returned to a hint of drawn, sharp pallor.

  She rose to her feet.

  “Have you told your father that it still troubles you?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “He told me something that has helped me.” Will averted his eyes, as if shy on the verge of such a confidence.

  “What is that?”

  “That seeing the evil in ourselves is the worst trial we ever face.”

  She let the words sink in. Yes, there was evil in her, in the desire to take revenge, to crush the life from a human soul and personally send Rumkin to his final judgment for what he had done to her. Her unwilling twinge of pleasure at the thought released an answering flood of self-hatred. “I do not like it.” Her voice was loaded with repulsion.

  “Neither do I. But I have accepted it. As your father told me, we are not sinless. And if we think we are, we will become proud and harsh.”

  Had this depth of spirit opened up in Will merely because of her father’s counsel? It could not have. Humans did not create the capacity of a soul. It must have been there all along, God’s gift in him, waiting only to be liberated.

  She must not become tearful in front of him. Thank goodness he shifted back to the new row in the ground and began to turn it over, allowing her to gather herself and steady her hands to her task.

  They worked on in silence, the wet soil giving to the pressure of her hands like clay. The light grew and pinkened, reminding her of the last time she and Will had met on the brink of dawn.

  By the time they finished, the skyline was rose-gold over the trees and fields.

  She tucked the seed bottle under her arm and watched the bright edge of the sun clear the tree line.

  “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,” she said to herself.

  Footsteps told her that Will had walked up alongside her.

  When he had given her his letters for safekeeping, she would never have imagined they would stand here only six weeks later, under such different circumstances, watching the sun rise again.

  “Is there anything fairer than morning?” she murmured, not expecting an answer.

  He was quiet for a moment. “I can think of three things.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “You can?”

  He met her gaze. “Freedom.”

  She smiled. “And?”

  “Heaven.”

  “Well, yes. But that’s hardly a fair comparison.” She teased him to lighten the seriousness of his expression. “And the third?”

  He had bowed his head over the handle of the hoe. He looked up sideways and met her gaze. He said nothing.

  Just as her cheeks began to burn, he turned and lifted the hoe in his hand. He walked toward the barn.

  Why had he refused to answer and given her such a curious look? She took a few quick steps to the wall of the house, bent to retrieve her second seed bottle, and rushed back up the stoop into the kitchen. Her father’s apprentice might have improved himself tremendously since coming to their home, but he still lacked social graces.

  Breakfast had to be made. Her flustered annoyance made her snatch the poker and stir the banked fire in the hearth so hard that sparks flew up the chimney.

  Thirty-Five

  WILL LOOKED OUT THE STAGECOACH WINDOW AT THE streets of Cincinnati, grateful for an excuse not to stare at Ann sitting across from him, a hat tied in a graceful bow under her firm little chin. She sat next to her father, reading a book that she held in one hand while the saddler read a newspaper.

  The discovery that Ann was accompanying them to Pittsburgh had taken Will by surprise. Why would she go to the trouble? Surely she would prefer to stay with Mr. Milksop, though that blond dandy was not nearly good enough for her.

  He had thought far too often of Eli Bowen in the past few days, and never with pleasure. He had to gain control of the jealousy that rampaged through him like a herd of wild pigs. Like the demon-possessed pigs in the Bible, in fact. He wished he could send them into the lake, as the Lord had. He would reread that story later. Since coming to Mr. Miller’s farm three weeks ago, he had spent every quiet moment studying the Bible, often by firelight. He had already read through all of the New Testament and was halfway through the Old, though he had skipped Deuteronomy and Leviticus. They did not seem as important to the great story he was following. He would read them some other time.

  The driver of the stage coach yelled and the coach swerved. Will wondered what hapless person they had just avoided. As they rattled along the streets, the noise of their passage joined the din of scores of cart and coach wheels and the yells of boys hawking papers and what-have-you from the sides of the road. The familiar odors of the city intruded again—smoke, though not as strong and acrid as in Pittsburgh, a sickly smell of rot from the riverfront, and the mingled foulness of a hundred other types of refuse that flew into the streets every day from homes. A shudder crept over him as he remembered Pittsburgh.

  They pulled up at the stagecoach station, which was a tavern. As Mr. Miller and then Will stepped down to the street, hostlers ran out past them and began to unharness the horses. Will turned back to hand Ann down from the coach, telling himself that the feel of her gloved hand in his did not delight him, but knowing he was a liar. She smiled at him, her cheek dimpling. Then she held a little nosegay of pink blooms to her face. He did not blame her. He would do the same if he were a woman and had some way to keep the stench away without looking unmanly.

  The driver threw down their bags, which were minimal, just one large case per person.
Will hefted his own and Ann’s while Mr. Miller grabbed his own and led them without delay down the wharf. “The packet will leave soon,” he said over his shoulder.

  The steamboat Emissary was moored at the dock. Ann and her father did not seem impressed by it, proceeding to the packet office matter-of-factly, but Will could not take his eyes off the huge vessel as he followed the Millers.

  In minutes, Mr. Miller had purchased tickets. They hurried up the gangplank, where it looked as if the rest of the passengers had already boarded and were moving around the decks. Mr. Miller beckoned Will to come with him toward the bow while Ann headed for the stern like a seasoned traveler.

  After Will had marveled at the maritime neatness of their two-bunk stateroom, the boat shuddered to life under their feet, and clanging bells announced its departure. Will and Mr. Miller walked to the stern, where they found Ann leaning against the railing, watching the dock as they drifted away from it. She appeared to be deep in thought and only smiled halfheartedly when Mr. Miller broke her reverie with a comment on the spectators waving farewell.

  They stood there watching for a few minutes, Ann between Will and her father. As they pulled away from the city, the trees by the river spread great clouds of pink and white blossoms along the banks. Their ethereal lightness made him want to hold Ann’s hand.

  “It’s a magnificent sight,” he said.

  “Yes.” She seemed drawn in by the beauty around them as well. It was like a fairyland, steaming up the river between forests of pink and white, the blossoms quivering with the slightest wind.

  “Do you like traveling by steam?” He wanted to speak with her, on any subject at all.

  “Oh yes.” She still seemed distracted. She looked down, removing her gloves one finger at a time and stowing them in her small handbag. “Our previous journey was very eventful.”

  “In what way?”

  She closed her handbag with a sharp pull at its strings. “Many ways.” She turned and leaned forward to speak to Mr. Miller. “I think I shall retire until dinner, Father.”

  The saddler took his daughter’s hand and pressed it. “Of course.” Will wondered what had happened on that previous trip. Mr. Miller was solicitous, and Ann disturbed.

  She walked around the end of the ladies’ cabin, her perfect carriage not disturbed by the motion of the floor beneath her.

  Mr. Miller and Will passed the time at the rail in pleasant conversation about the boat and the people on it. Then the conversation turned to Scripture and some of the strange stories in Genesis that Will had read recently. He was so absorbed by Mr. Miller’s explanations that dusk crept up before he knew it.

  “Well, we had better dress for dinner.” Mr. Miller stepped back and touched his hat as a lady passed in an amber-colored dress bedecked with feathers.

  “Yes, sir.” Will followed the saddler back to the stateroom, where they unpacked their cases. There was an empty wooden bowl on a small fixed shelf between the bunks. Mr. Miller took it, left for two or three minutes, and returned with water in the bowl. He produced a bar of soap from his case and shaved quickly and precisely. Will followed him, drying his face with the small white towel that was a little dingy, but serviceable.

  Mr. Miller had loaned Will an evening coat and collar to wear for meals on the boat. To his surprise, the saddler also produced a second hat from a hatbox in his case. It was not as tall as Mr. Miller’s top hat, but its blackness gleamed in the cabin light. Will took it from Mr. Miller’s hands, careful not to bend the brim.

  Mr. Miller opened the door and stepped over the maritime sill. He fit his own hat to his head, then turned back to watch as Will navigated the step and donned his hat.

  “Excellent,” Mr. Miller said. The saddler looked Will up and down. “Indistinguishable from any other cabin passenger, son.”

  Will’s confidence surged and he took a deep breath. Mr. Miller led the way to the ladies’ cabin to wait for Ann.

  Ann pushed a hairpin into place to trap a loose wave that always liked to come down at inopportune times. She would not be late to dinner this time, now that she had no little girls to chatter and ask questions and lose their stockings. She missed her sisters already. It had been hard to leave them with Mrs. Sumner. She had never left them, not since her mother died. It was more painful than she had expected, and she found herself having to pray down the worry.

  She fastened the last of the long row of buttons on the wine-red dress. It was presentable—as well made and flattering as the dresses the other ladies had worn the last time. Retying the bow of her hat, she tried to use her hand mirror to examine herself by holding it far away and then close, and then far away. The cabin lamp was too dim for her to see well.

  She put the mirror in her handbag and stepped out of her stateroom. Her father had told her to meet him at the door to the ladies’ salon, and so she headed sternward. After a few yards of curving deck, she spotted her father, looking very gallant in his evening coat. Behind him stood someone else in evening coat and hat.

  She blinked twice in the twilight. The handsome young man in the evening coat was Will. She had noticed, of course, that the marks of his abuse had faded. But she had not expected that his evening attire would transform her view of him in quite this way, allowing her to see him as if she had never known that starved, beaten person who had once lived at Master Good’s house.

  Mr. Miller looked at Will with paternal pride. “Why don’t you escort my daughter to dinner? You should learn how to do these things.”

  Will stepped to her side and offered his arm as if it were second nature.

  “Very good, son!” Mr. Miller chuckled. She thought Will flushed slightly under his tan, but could not be sure in the uncertain light from the wall sconce next to him.

  She put her arm through his, remembering when she had last done so on this boat with Allan Burbridge. She was disconcerted that Will did not suffer at all in comparison to Allan. In fact, Will’s darker hair and his eyes shadowed by his hat brim reminded her of some smoldering hero in one of her novels. She smiled to herself at the ridiculousness of her thoughts. Yet it was always pleasant to walk to dinner on the arm of a well-dressed young man.

  He was silent as they followed her father. His arm was steady and he matched his pace to hers, which slowed his longer stride. She was also quiet, trying to accustom herself to this new Will.

  When they reached the dining room, the lamplight was ambient and golden as the guests milled about, talking to one another. They had only just crossed the sill when a knot of three young ladies of varying heights broke apart and reassembled itself around the newcomers.

  “Good evening!” The tallest extended a hand to Will. He took it and bowed, removing his hat. Had her father been coaching him in etiquette? Admiration mingled with amusement as she watched him greet each young woman with quiet good manners. She had arrived at the ball on the arm of a transformed prince, as if she had walked into a story she would read to her sisters from the Grimms’ tales. And yet—her heart softened as she thought it—who could be more deserving than this young man who had proven himself kind and brave on several occasions? Those were the very qualities that graced the ordinary youths in the tales and set them above their enemies.

  She was not surprised that the young ladies in the room were drawn to him like so many brightly colored moths. His hint of reserve made him, if anything, more interesting to them.

  “And do you follow a trade?”

  “He is my partner in saddlery and on the farm,” Mr. Miller interjected from the side, his eyes glinting. Her father seemed to take muted glee in watching his protégé’s entrance to the dining room.

  These girls did not seem a bit deterred that Will was a craftsman.

  “Oh, how fascinating,” the girl in bright blue piped. The taller one in amber next to her gave her a subtle look of disgust. Ann wondered if any of them would speak to her at some point, or if they would go on cooing solely at her escort.

  “And what takes you to
Pittsburgh?”

  Ann was sure this question would flummox him, but just then the captain entered in the same navy brass-buttoned coat he had worn before. They all moved to their seats at the table. Ann had to restrain her smile at the sight of the girls jostling each other with apparent nonchalance as they strove to sit next to Will. The girl in amber won, and the one in blue had to be content with moving to the seat across from them. The girl in green was less aggressive and took the seat next to the girl in amber with a crestfallen air. When the captain bid them be seated, Mr. Miller surveyed the seating arrangement with ill-concealed mischief. Ann had never seen him enjoy himself so in company.

  The same horde of covered dishes overran the table. Will reached for one and removed the lid.

  “Would you like some roast?’ he asked her.

  “Yes, please.” She smiled at him, and he answered with a slow, warm smile as he looked into her eyes. He picked up his fork without looking back at the dish and gazed at her the whole while as he speared a slice of roast beef and transferred it to her plate. Then he took one for himself.

  She chuckled, and he grinned more broadly.

  “That’s quite a skill,” she said, relieved that he had finally looked away at her laugh. His unbroken regard was comical, but stirring somehow.

  “I have a strong instinct for finding food. It came in handy more than once.” His gaze turned a little more serious, though his tone was still light. She wanted to touch his hand to show him her understanding, but that would be too forward. Instead, she touched another dish.

  “Very well then. What do you think is in this one?”

  He knit his brows together in mock concentration. “Beans.”

  She peeked inside, then lifted off the lid. “How did you know?”

  They both grinned.

  The girl in amber spoke around his shoulder. “You must have great mental ability. Are you a spiritualist?”

  He turned to answer. “No, miss.”

  “I’ve seen spiritualists in Philadelphia tell the number of a card plucked from a hat.”