Lovelier than Daylight Page 21

  She returned to meet Aunt Ann on the stoop. Her aunt’s quick glance was assessing, as if she sensed something unusual afoot. Susanna felt warmth creep from her neckline to her cheeks. But her aunt said nothing and waited for Johann with ladylike calm as he came down the stoop after them.

  “The Hannah Neil Mission is next. We’ll need to take the streetcar,” Susanna said.

  “I’ll go with you, if you like.” Johann seemed very serious. Could her aunt hear a new intimacy in his tone? Susanna folded her arms and did not meet either of their gazes.

  But she did not want him to leave. “Yes, that would be welcome.”

  She longed to take his arm again, waited on even that formal touch with anticipation. When he offered, she felt the same lift of the heart as when they kissed, but also a new, deep reassurance from his unflagging regard and care. It eased her spirit a degree, even in the absence of Rachel, the plight of the children, the awful memory of the Corbins.

  She felt she would go with him anywhere, and he with her.

  Twenty-Eight

  “IS MR. GIERE HERE ? ” THE LOW, MALE VOICE CAME from the front of the Westbote office, down the hall.

  “Yes, sir,” the boyish treble of the newsboy replied.

  Johann walked a few paces and emerged into the main printing room. A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a mustache was standing just inside the front door.

  Johann approached the man, offering his hand. “I’m Johann Giere.”

  “Ronald Brundish.” The man shook his hand with a firm grip. “Reporter for the Dispatch.” He appeared to be in his fifties, from the creases on his forehead.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Brundish. I’ve seen your articles. A pleasure to meet you in person.”

  “Likewise. I read your piece on the saloon bombing this morning.”

  “You read German?”

  “My grandparents came over from Bavaria.”

  Interesting that Johann had not seen him at German events— but then, some men didn’t want to claim their heritage.

  “My congratulations on scooping the rest of us,” Brundish said.

  “Any time.”

  They both grinned, though Brundish’s held a hint of rue. No reporter missed a story without pain.

  “As you were the only member of the press to witness the scene in person, I’d like permission to write an account for the Dispatch based on your eyewitness account.”

  “With appropriate credit?”

  “Of course.”

  Johann considered. It did not matter, really, if Brundish wrote the article, as long as he gave credit. And Johann was behind on the brewery accounts again after spending the day yesterday with the Hanbys. He had no time to draft another article right now. “Yes, that’s acceptable,” he said. “If you’d like to walk out with me, I’m afraid I must get to another appointment.” An appointment with his overdue ledgers.

  “Certainly.” They exchanged professional courtesies as they walked down High Street. The horse car trundled toward them—Johann wished Brundish good-bye and swung himself up into a bench seat.

  The Westbote building receded from his peripheral vision and he sighed. Never would he have thought he would be so ambivalent about the newspaper. But the heady aroma of gaslight and crime that hung around the New York position now had a rival in the soft, sweet-smelling hair of Susanna. And he must be honest with himself—he had thought of her a hundred times since they parted company yesterday, with a sharp yearning to hold her again and kiss her as he had on the stairs. Their subsequent walk to the Hannah Neil Mission had been charged with that unexpected intimacy, though of course Susanna became completely absorbed in the children once they arrived. That was a mercy, because her aunt had sensed something and was observing him more closely than he liked. He did not mean to conceal anything, but who knew how Susanna’s relations might react to an open courtship. And he could not truly court her, anyway, if he were going to New York.

  Donnerwetter, what a mess. Guilt seeped down to his gut. He should not have kissed her, not if he meant to leave. It wasn’t honorable—he was ashamed of himself for losing his restraint. And still, a little whispery voice said he could choose to stay, try to convince his family and the Hanbys that he and Susanna were a good match.

  But why would God have arranged the way to New York so neatly unless Mr. Reinhardt was correct? What were the odds that a national crime story would happen in Westerville, Ohio, of all places? It could not be coincidence. If God did have a plan to send Johann to New York, then was Susanna merely a distraction? If so, she was the best one ever created.

  At the very least, he would not rest, he could not leave until he had helped her do everything possible to bring those children home to the Hanbys. It was one thing to know of her situation— quite another to see in person the sad faces of the Leeds children, the real possibility that they would be separated and the little ones would never know their siblings. It had torn at his heart, standing there in the orphanage, until he had to turn away and wipe his eyes when she wasn’t looking. No one could fathom the impact on those children should their family be utterly destroyed. It was bad enough that their mother had disappeared to parts unknown.

  He was so lost in thought he barely noticed the passing scenery, and he realized with a start that he had almost missed his corner near the brewery. When the horse car slowed again, he jumped out to the pavestones. He strode down Brewer’s Alley and crossed Wall, then Front. The entrance to the brewery lay a few yards ahead. He rounded the corner of the wooden fence. “Giere.” To his right, a man loomed very close to him.

  Johann jerked away by instinct, opening a few feet between them.

  It was George Leeds, hair tidier than usual, clothes smoother, beard trimmed and clean. But the fumes of whiskey still drifted from him in a noxious cloud.

  “What brings you here?” Johann did not make an effort to sound friendly. It was too odd to have the man spring up at his elbow.

  “I’m here to tell you my offer still stands, but only for four more days. I knew who you were when you told me your name.” He pointed to the brewery. “And I know you can afford it.”

  Johann gritted his teeth and waited.

  George puffed out his unhealthy chest. “I got a part with the traveling troupe. We leave for the South on Monday.” He beamed with pride as if he expected congratulations. “So if you want the children, I could use the traveling funds. And I won’t hold anything against you.”

  Monster. Johann’s pulse sped up and his fists tensed. But richly as this man deserved it, a trouncing was not going to solve the problem. “Understood,” he said reluctantly. “And where am I to find you?”

  “Here.” He handed Johann a card, garish and new. On it “George Leeds” was printed in elaborate lettering, with “Actor” beneath it.

  “I need an address.”

  “On the back,” George said smugly.

  The address scrawled by hand was on Rich Street near the river. Not a good part of town, but Johann expected nothing else. “I’ll find you if I need to find you,” he said with disgust, and walked on into the yard toward the building.

  His stomach turned. What a sickening display of ego and pride—a man to whom a wife and six children meant nothing, but the chance to strut on a stage was life itself. It was as if he had tossed seven human beings on a ragpicker’s wagon without blinking and had them hauled away.

  When he reached the brewery office, no one was there. He sat down and opened the ledger, but he gazed at it for a long time with unseeing eyes, too churned up inside to work.

  Twenty-Nine

  SHE DAYDREAMED OF HIM WHILE SHE WASHED THE pots and pans, while she stitched harness, while she helped Aunt Ann sort pieces for a quilt.

  Her preoccupation lasted all afternoon. She boiled blackberry preserves, the canning steam rising high in the air, moisture gathering on her forehead. If she had cost her aunt and uncle money, she could at least help them store up new supplies. The work of canning was hot, but sh
e didn’t mind the solitude that left her free to remember blue eyes and those breathless few seconds in the alley. She might as well do something useful with her time—it was better to stay busy. And she did not wish to go outside, where she would have to see the hideous, blackened hulk of the saloon with its roof lying to one side on the ground.

  Someone rapped on the kitchen door. That was odd. She peered out to find the freckled face of Abel Wilson at the window.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Hanby.”

  “Hello, Mr. Wilson. Are you looking for my uncle?”

  “No, I came to look in on you and see if you were recovering from the shock—you know, of the saloon and all.” He looked ill at ease.

  “Thank you Mr. Wilson, but I’m quite well. I’m more concerned about the Corbins.”

  “My concern is for you first.”

  She didn’t want to hear declarations of affection from Mr. Wilson, and it also seemed in poor taste, with a child and man lying injured in the doctor’s house. “Have you heard anything about the Corbins’ health?”

  He waved an impatient hand. “Aren’t you glad that the saloon nightmare is over?” He looked bizarrely expectant. What did he want?

  “I don’t think it’s over, Mr. Wilson.”

  He recoiled. “Why not?”

  “Every time I see that building, I see the town’s nightmare continuing.”

  “I thought you wanted it gone as much as I did.” His eyebrows knit together in a wounded twist.

  “I was wrong. What happened was terrible. My uncle will be preaching on it. Every preacher in town has asked him to come help, to console the congregations. Don’t you see how awful it’s been? People won’t even look each other in the face. They won’t walk down State Street.” She realized that she was wringing the dishrag in her hand until drops ran down her wrist.

  He bit his lip with his big front teeth, resembling a worried young rodent. “I don’t think your uncle should preach on it.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s been too critical, using the Bible as if no one in Scripture ever had to fight an evil, as if it’s wrong to take up arms and fight.”

  She stared, dumbstruck. Did he think blowing up children belonged in the same league with a knightly joust? “If you don’t mind, Mr. Wilson, I’m in the middle of chores.”

  He added resentment to the parade of expressions moving across his boyish features. “I see, Miss Hanby. Good day.”

  Even the canning steam couldn’t dispel the cold that had slithered into her stomach.

  Twenty minutes later her aunt walked in from the backyard. Her cheeks had more color from the walk, her white hair twisted in a neat chignon below her straw hat. “They’ve gone to Columbus.”

  “Who has gone?” Susanna asked.

  “The Corbins.” Aunt Ann removed two long hatpins and hung her hat on the wall. “Mr. Corbin and his baby girl will recover, they say. Praise God! But they won’t be back, and I can’t rejoice in the wicked act that prompted their departure.”

  “I suppose we should be glad that Arthur Pippen won’t have to leave, and other men will be safe because there’s no saloon.” Susanna’s voice was weak. Abel Wilson’s visit had shaken her, and the strangeness of what he said would not leave her mind.

  “The benefits can’t outweigh the injuries and evils,” her aunt said. “Have you seen this?” She laid a newspaper on the kitchen table. “It’s causing a stir over at the hotel and in the post office.”

  Susanna walked to the table, curious. It was the Daily Evening Dispatch. At the top, it said “General Telegraph News”— in other words, a piece that would go all over the country, to the New York Times and other major papers.

  Blowing Up a Saloon

  Columbus—At last the people of Westerville, a small village in this county, have succeeded in blowing Henry Corbin, the saloonkeeper in that town, high and dry out of his building. All kinds of persecution have been resorted to in order to rid the village of a saloon. The majority of the villagers support temperance and belong to a religious sect know as the United Brethren. They fight Satan as well as all others not of their belief, and an outsider is considered and treated as little above the most degraded.

  “Oh goodness,” Susanna said. Her heart sank. “Has Uncle Will seen it?” What an awful piece, to tar the whole town and attack the United Brethren for the violence of a few. And to call the Brethren a sect, as if they were some strange, eccentric people instead of just another Christian church. Her uncle would be so hurt. Perhaps they could hide it from him.

  “Yes.” Aunt Ann’s brow was furrowed. She picked up the tongs and began to place lids on jars with assured, quick motions. “Did you read the last part?”

  Susanna scanned the rest of the article, mostly a description of the explosion, the two kegs of gunpowder discovered missing, and the damage and injuries. But then another sentence caught her attention.

  While the citizens profess to be indignant and claim that they will investigate and bring the guilty to punishment, little confidence is had in such statements. It is a well-known fact that any person not in league with the United Brethren sect cannot hope to live in peace, but is harassed until he either departs on his own or is blown out.

  She laid a hand over her bodice, pressing without effect against the ache that had started there. Oh, Uncle Will. He had given his whole life to the church and worked so hard to serve.

  The last line of the article read:

  We are indebted for this article to our German colleague at the Westbote.

  What? She glanced at her aunt, then back down at the page as if she could rearrange the lettering by her will alone. “Johann did this?”

  She picked it up and held it closer to read the telltale line again. How could he? It was too monumental to even take in.

  “I don’t know, dear.” Lines of worry etched across her aunt’s brow. “Perhaps it wasn’t he.” She took the pot of steaming water and set it aside to cool.

  Aunt Ann was being too generous. There was no other reporter at the Westbote who had covered the story. It was Johann’s story—Susanna knew it.

  The lock clicked in the front door and her uncle entered. He seemed older, his shoulders slumped, his face sagging.

  “Hello, dear,” her aunt called.

  He did not speak but went upstairs one slow step at a time.

  Susanna tore off her apron with shaking fingers and threw it down on the table.

  Her aunt held out a hand in caution. “Now don’t let it upset you too much.” But her eyes glittered with unshed tears and she turned back to the stove.

  Susanna grabbed her handbag from its hiding place in the pantry and hurried to the door. Her tuition money was inside—it would pay her fare.

  “Where are you going?” her aunt asked across the sitting room.

  She did not answer—she did not want to be stopped. She pulled the door closed and headed to the train station.

  Johann bowed his head and rubbed his aching temples. Too much work, too little rest. He had spent several hours looking for Rachel Leeds by the docks and in nearby businesses, but no one knew anyone by that name. And the auburn-haired description brought up the same information that Mr. Hanby had told him: a captain’s wife, in and out of town. As a result of his investigations, he had stayed up late into the night finishing the books for the month, balancing accounts. Sometimes he wished he did not have such a good head for figures, but he was the best bookkeeper, and so his father liked him to look everything over. It was the wise thing to do, in a business as complex as the brewery.

  Heinrich stuck his head around the door frame. “Johann. You have a visitor.” He winked.

  It must be Lotte. He suppressed a comment and rose to his feet.

  “In the front yard,” Heinrich said.

  The last thing he wanted with this aching head was to hear another love song, but he could not be unkind. He already felt guilty about taking someone else to the dance. He had most certainly hurt her feelin
gs.

  He skirted the mash tuns where the brew fermented, then exited through the double doors. A light sprinkle of rain had begun and pattered in tiny circles on the dirt of the yard. And it was not Lotte, but a much more welcome visitor, standing in the yard in her green dress.

  Susanna. The sight of her delicate features under the brim of her hat melted him at once, though she wore a look of strain around her eyes that he had seen too often. He wished he had some news about her sister to ease her worry.

  “Good afternoon.” He smiled.

  But she did not return his smile or his greeting. She brought up a newspaper in her hand and showed it to him—the Dispatch. “Did you see this?”

  “No.” He hadn’t yet found the time to look at the other papers today.

  “Here.” She held it out.

  What had prompted such a clouded expression? He unfolded it and looked at the first page. She stabbed her finger at the telegraph news column. He read it. Meine Guete, it was harshly worded. He could see why she was so perturbed. He read through the description of the facts—yes, Brundish had it all straight. But it was harsh—he felt her distress and he must console her for it. Then he read the credit at the bottom. He raised his eyes to meet her gaze. She was about to burst, her green eyes smoldering.

  “How could you do it?” she said with restrained intensity. The accusation in her face stunned him.

  She took a step toward him. “Why? Why would you ridicule us in this manner? Were we just figures of fun to you the whole time, the crazy United Brethren? You must have laughed to see us so taken in by your charm at the dance . . . and else-where.” He knew she was thinking of the alley outside the Hare Home. She was so bitter he could not summon a response. Her words went into him sharp and deep as a lance and stuck there, skewering him in silence. She thought so little of him? She should know him better after their time together and his efforts to help her.