Lovelier than daylight

Thomas Nelson

Chapter One

Tall grass and wildflowers blocked her view and stranded her in the middle of the meadow. Susanna's arms prickled as if someone watched her—but surely no one else was out here in the country on this June morning already hot and breathless.

Scores of fleabane daisies studded the wall of grass like flat yellow eyes, unblinking. The heavy air pressed from all sides, its stillness broken only by the hum of a wasp that circled above her head.

Her sister needed her. She must get to the farmhouse as soon as she could. She gripped the handle of her heavy valise with both hands and pushed through the grass, peering for marks of passage to keep her on the overgrown path. Her back grew warm under her bustled polonaise and corset, and her petticoat dampened beneath her skirt. She wanted to lift her curls away from her neck and fan herself, but she trudged on. At least her straw hat kept the sun out of her eyes.

This summer refused to relent, with its constant liquid heat, harsh as the burn of whiskey on the tongue. Susanna had tasted a sip of whiskey once, at her father's request. He wanted her to know its flavor so curiosity could never tempt her, even though she promised him drink held no allure for her. Whiskey had done more than enough harm already.

She would not think of that. She was here to bring companionship and merriment to her sister and her children before she headed off to college in Westerville.

In her valise she had a surprise that would entertain them for hours—layers and layers of thin paper in seven colors. With it she would show her nieces and nephews how to make something wondrous, exact replicas of the flowers in her botany book. She could not wait to see the joy of creation ease their cares, at least for the few days she was with them. A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. The children would crowd around and ask with bright eyes what was in her valise—they knew there would always be a surprise. She only wished she could give them more.

A brick chimney poked above the grass, which finally opened to a clearing. Her sister's house squatted ahead with its familiar, peeling white planks. Rusted farm tools lay by its walls, and the fields beyond bore only a sparse cover of wilting corn. But any neglect was not Rachel's fault. With a lazy husband and six little ones to feed, Rachel could not go out in the fields and do everything herself.

Susanna hurried forward, her shoulders aching from the pull of the valise.

Why hadn't the children come out to greet her? Clara or Wesley should be out doing their chores, even if the little ones stayed inside.

She stopped. Something had happened to the flowerbeds. The blooms lay crushed and browned along the foundation of the house. Her throat knotted—Rachel must be so sad. The only color and luxury at the home had come from the flowers she had so patiently watered and weeded. All dead now.

She set her luggage at the bottom of the stoop, climbed up, and knocked. No answer. She laid a tentative hand on the knob and pushed the door open a crack. "Rachel?" Her call sank into eerie silence. Her stomach hollowed and she gripped the knob tighter. She eased the door open. The small parlor with its threadbare furniture was empty.

A few steps took her into the dim hallway and back to the bedroom. No one was there. The sheets were rumpled, the quilt hung on the floor, and the baby's cradle was empty. Something was wrong—her breathing quickened.

No, she must not panic. Perhaps her nieces and nephews were upstairs, caring for Rachel there. In her most recent letter, she'd mentioned having a mild fever. If she were still feverish, Clara and Wesley would be caring for her, as their father would be of little help.

The motionless, musty heat of the house gave her a queasy feeling, but she climbed the narrow stairs in the hall anyway. There were two bedrooms upstairs, one for the two older boys and one for the three girls.

"Clara?" she said into the stillness. Both bedroom doors were open, and an unpleasant odor seeped out. A cold flutter started in her chest. She pulled her handkerchief from her skirt pocket and steeled herself to step up to the doorway. It was too quiet. Clutching the handkerchief to her nose, she edged forward.

The room was in shambles, and vacant. The odor came from a few soiled diapers strewn across the floor with flies creeping over them. An old quilt lay in a heap on the bed, as if the children had been playing with it. This was not like Rachel at all. Difficult as her circumstances might be, she had always kept her home clean and orderly. Susanna tried to swallow but her mouth was paper dry.

The boys' room was deserted, and the bedclothes in equal disarray. A drawer had been pulled out of the shabby dresser and lay upended on the floor.

She hurried down the stairs, her heels thumping on the wood. She must return to town and ask if anyone knew the whereabouts of Rachel Leeds, George Leeds, or their children. She would not lose her head, she would stay calm. But she gripped the banister with white knuckles.

She should leave a note for them, in case someone returned while she was gone. A simple desk stood against the parlor wall. She rummaged through its first drawer. There was only a scrap of paper, but it would do. But no ink—perhaps there was a pencil. She opened the second drawer to find it empty.

"What are you doing here?"

The breath froze in her lungs and she whirled around.

George stood inside the door, rank with the stench of stale liquor. He wore no tie, and his shirt and vest were stained and wrinkled. His oily mustache ran down into his beard, which was unhealthy and sparse. It was hard to believe he had ever been a handsome, hardworking farmer who had courted and won her merry sister. But Rachel was not merry anymore, thanks to him.

"Where are Rachel and the children?" Her voice was taut as a frayed rope.

"She's gone."

Her vision narrowed to his slack, tilted face. Had Rachel left him? Where would she go, with all her children?

He blinked at her. "She left. Went off with some other man."

"That's not true. She was ill—she wrote to me."

"Maybe she had brain fever, maybe that was her excuse." His mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. "Guess she wasn't too sick to ride the train."

Rachel. Susanna's heart contracted. "Where are the children?"

"She gave 'em to the county."

"The county?" She could only repeat it, dazed.

"To the orphan home."

"But why would she do that?"

"Maybe she didn't want 'em in the way of her and her new man. And I sure as heck can't manage 'em. They're motherless now."

"But they're not fatherless. You let your children go to an orphanage?" She felt her hands shaking and hid them behind her skirt.

"She didn't ask me. She left a note. But now it's done, I'm not going to fight it. And don't get smart with me, Susanna Hanby. You Hanby women let your looks puff you up, think you're more important than you are. I could pick you up in one hand, just like your sister. Well, you see how she turned out—nothing but a loose woman."

He was full of lies. Rachel had never been vain, even though she was pretty. Her nails bit into her palms. She'd like to dig them into his uncaring face instead. "What orphanage?"

"I dunno. In Columbus. What, do you think I could take care of all of them, plus a baby? That needs a woman."

...