The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder

by Creek, Amethyst

  “Do you possess a gun, Mr. Simmons?”

  “Yes,” Jack responded.

  “And you carry it with you?”

  “Of course,” he answered, opening his jacket to reveal it. “Thomas always carried one when he was working, but it did not seem to help him did it?” he commented rather crossly.

  Cookson ignored the remark. “Here is what I think we should do, Mr. Simmons,” said the detective as he looked up from the notes he had taken. “You are going to find out who stands to inherit any part of Sprague’s estate. I am going to Pine Creek and to your mine to make some inquiries of my own. I will also find more information on your Mr. Schultz and see where that may lead.”

  “Excellent,” said Jack. “When can you begin?”

  “There are a couple of pressing items I must button up first,” he said, consulting his calendar. “Give me five days. I will go to Pine Creek and visit your mine in five days. That would put us at the 17th of August. Would that be satisfactory?”

  “Yes,” said Jack, “and if I discover any new information, you will be hearing from me.”

  “We have a plan then,” said Cookson. “Remember what I said though, money is frequently the motive in situations such as these.” The men shook hands and Jack left. His assignment was to find out who the beneficiaries were of Thomas’ estate. He had intended to call on Susannah anyway, but he knew it would probably be difficult to convince her that such personal information was needed for the investigation. It had to be done; he would pay her a visit tomorrow.

  Susannah had not slept well again, in fact, she had not slept at all. As the first rays of morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, she stopped pretending to be asleep and rose. Two weeks had passed since the funeral and Susannah was not yet ready to face the world. By early afternoon, she found herself nearly alone. Catori and Mrs. Sheppard had gone to the market and the Mansfield’s were visiting the Purfields. Susannah had excused herself at the last minute, feigning a headache. On some level, she welcomed a quiet, brief period of peaceful, uninterrupted solitude. It was equally true that in the midst of her bereavement, she was unfit company, dull, brooding, prone to tearful episodes, and introspective. It was a dispiriting thing to find oneself so suddenly on a very solitary path with only a heart full of memories. This had happened to her once before, when she was a young girl. She never thought fate would be so cruel as to revisit her again with such a painful loss.

  To restore her equilibrium she now looked to commonplace tasks. These days Susannah frequently tended the flower garden, she helped Mrs. Sheppard with canning the strawberry preserves and on one day she occupied herself with a complete inventory of all the table linens. Her time was spent focused on mundane tasks, but each night when she turned down the lamp, she thought of Thomas and how much she missed him. In some ways she felt trapped; not ready to rejoin society but tired of being home. Her hidden reserves of fortitude were dwindling away.

  Her footfalls crunched as she made her way along the gravel path to the carriage house. Susannah had not visited her studio since before the accident, but something called her there. Her studio was her refuge and her artwork had always been a healing balm to her soul. Those around her meant well but it was painful to recognize the pity in their expressions and this caused her to hide her emotions at times. If she broke down in the privacy of her studio, at least she would be away from prying eyes. She was tired of pretending to be whole.

  As she looked around, Susannah glimpsed several unfinished projects still on their easels awaiting an artist’s inspiration. There were sketches of flowers to be transformed into watercolors. There was an almost-complete oil painting of the mine and another rough sketch of Fluffy Lucero contentedly sunning himself on the flagstone path. There was the unfinished painting she planned to give to the Purfields. It portrayed a favorite spot in the mountains where they had enjoyed many picnics together.

  Susannah listened to the silence for a long moment, she was well and truly alone. She stood there, half thinking, perhaps half hoping she would see Thomas step through the door at any second. How she missed his lively affection, his endlessly warm embrace, his lover’s touch, his tender kiss, his easy laughter. The tears welled up again unbidden. Susannah was not unlike someone who had stumbled upon a stage without a script. There were things needing her attention, such as following up on Edward’s advice to have the mine’s account books examined. But in these and other important matters, she was paralyzed by indecision.

  She blotted the tears and turned her attention to the worktable. Soon the jars of paint were gathered up and restored to their shelves. She efficiently organized the paintbrushes according to their sizes. Several unused canvasses were stacked neatly into a cabinet. Finally, the slate floor received a good sweeping. Satisfied, she glanced around the studio one last time and then headed for the door. The next time she visited her private domain, all would be ready. But she wondered when she would be ready to tackle a project once again.

  The cicadas were putting forth a very loud humming in the nearby trees, unreeling their melodic shrills under the summer sun as she walked the gravel path back to the mansion. Their rhythmic song had everyone on notice that the frost would arrive in only six weeks. Soon the spectacular foliage of the beautiful landscape of nature’s palate would be distilled into a dull brown; all would become dried and dormant. Did she really want to spend the winter here? Her friends the Purfield’s would be leaving soon; she would miss having them nearby. How nice it would be to escape to Larkspur and stay there for a time with Grandmamma. Her years spent at Larkspur with Grandmamma had been the source of so many happy memories. No matter how wretched Susannah’s fate, one constant blessing remained in the abiding sweetness of her loving grandmother. Writing to her of Thomas’ death had been one of her most painful tasks. What exactly might a 25 year old widow say to her grandmother that could possibly make any sense?

  She made her way through the dining room, pausing for a few moments. A light breeze ruffled the lace curtains. It was a favorite spot, the wide window offered such a lovely view and the angle of the sun was just right at this time of day. The house was all quiet, so quiet, the rhythmic tick, tick, tick, of the grandfather clock in the hallway was noticeably amplified. The mahogany cellarette holding the bottles of liquor sat innocently next to the sideboard. It was a sturdy cabinet, highly polished and inlaid with an intricate mother-of-pearl floral design. Usually the cellarette was kept locked. Her nerves in tatters, she wanted only to shake off her melancholy. What was one glass? But would she be content with only one? Susannah was wasting her time arguing with herself. She took a fortifying breath and turned the key.

  It was about an hour later when she heard someone at the front door, then a man’s voice and that of the maid. The front door closed again, the footfalls drew closer, and then Jack was standing in the dining room. Susannah was seated all alone at the big table, the decanter before her, half empty. She looked up at him and saw the fire in his eyes.

  “Jack!” she said. “Will you join me for a drink?”

  “What are you doing, Susannah?” he sighed.

  “Getting drunk. What are you doing?”

  “More like drowning your sorrows, wouldn’t you say?” he observed.

  “They’re my sorrows to drown. What do you care?” she said evenly, as she poured another glass. Susannah had a familiar stubbornness that reminded him of his own.

  Taking another tack, he said, “You are going to make yourself sick. You will have a headache in the morning.” Jack hated to see this innocent, sweet, blithe woman disintegrate before his eyes.

  “I have a headache every morning. My life is one big headache,” she complained.

  “Susannah, you should not be…” he began. But she interrupted him, “Do not order me about, Jack! You know,” she continued, “you are just so good all the time. Good old Jack. Always taking care of everything and everyone. Sometimes I wonder if your parents wanted a girl.” She was not a dramatic fem
ale given to hyperbole. No, this wasn’t Susannah, it was the wine talking, Jack decided.

  He drew out a chair, sat down and placed an empty glass firmly in front of her. Her hand was unsteady, she spilled some of the liquid as she poured. He gulped the drink back in one large swallow. “There!” he said crossly, “Happy now!” She looked away. But he continued as his irritation grew, “Is this how you have been spending your days? Where is your little friend Edward?”

  “Why are you always so mean to Edward?” she frowned.

  “I don’t like him,” he muttered.

  “He likes you,” she said sweetly.

  “He needs to go back to England.” Jack paused, as if struggling with whether he should go on. “We need to talk, Susannah, but you’re in no condition.”

  “Yes, we do need to talk. It seems I am now the co-owner of your mine – we are to be partners,” she said with special emphasis on the word partners, as she smiled at him.

  “You’ve been to see your lawyer?” he asked as he leisurely trailed one long finger up and down his glass.

  “He came here – to read the will,” she answered truthfully.

  “Thomas didn’t leave any part of his share to another, did he?” Jack probed.

  Susannah raised a quizzical brow. “What? Don’t be silly. Of course not,” she said, looking irritated. “Oh, and I am to hire a bookkeeper to examine the accounts.”

  Jack growled with a disapproving voice that sounded like he ate nails for breakfast and washed them down with rocks. “Honestly, Susannah, you don’t know anything about mining,” he said wearily. “Why don’t you sell your half to me?” Too late he realized his mistake. There are always two ways to say something and he had picked the wrong way.

  “Ooooh, no, no, no!” she exclaimed with more emphasis than was needed. “That’s what Edward said.”

  “Edward? What has he got to do with this?”

  “He is looking out for my interests.”

  This was an unexpected development. Why did he get the feeling the two of them were in cahoots? “Well sell it to someone else then, I don’t care!” he said loudly. “Look, Susannah,” he added, in a quieter tone, “I know this has been hard. You suffered a tragic loss, we all did, but you most of all. Thomas loved you. He would want you to be happy. You must try to go on living for his sake. But managing a mine? I have seen your artwork. You have talent. Others look at the things around them. Through your artwork it is evident you actually see them. Mining was Thomas’ interest, it was his path, but it is certainly not yours. Do you have any idea what you would be getting yourself into?”

  It was a compliment. Jack had never commented on her artwork before. But he had formulated an opinion of her work, of her. It was a gratifying thought, but one she pushed aside. “Thomas left his share of the mine to me,” she said, her determination gathering steam. “I will not let him down.”

  “Were it not for your artistic talent, you would never have found yourself with the Purfield’s in a broken down buggy the day you accidentally met Thomas,” Jack reminded her. She frowned.

  Jack added defiance to her growing list of demerits. He eyed her speculatively. “A lovely young woman like you, gently bred, a gifted artist with many students depending on her,” he said quietly as he gazed at her, “do you really want to trade it all to fulfill Thomas’ dream?” A few tendrils of her soft hair had come loose. Jack wanted to touch her there, to restore the curls, to caress her earlobes, to gently follow the curve of her lips with his forefinger. She was so lovely. His resolve was fast oozing away.

  Her tears welled up again. The day was in shambles. She pushed the empty glass aside and stood rather shakily. “But I have you to help me. You are right, I don’t know anything about the mine and I do not know what my role might be. All I do know is that Thomas loved you as a brother. He trusted you, and so must I. It would do me a world of good to make myself useful. And now, please excuse me, I find that I am weary.”

  He touched her hand, took it in his, and gently stilled her, his thumb caressing her palm. Then he gave her a pledge. “If this is your wish, I will do what you ask, Susannah. I will help you.” His words conveyed a wealth of meaning. “I will have the account books sent over. You will need to know everything.”

  “Thank you, Jack,” was all she said before she ghosted through the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jack kept his word to Susannah and within a few days the financial records of the Five Nuggets Mine dating back to 1873 had been turned over to her accountant who reviewed them with due diligence. A meeting was then called so that the accountant, a Mr. Hoyt, might report his findings. It was an unbearably hot August afternoon when Jack arrived at Susannah’s home at the appointed hour. With no clouds in sight to offer relief from the blazing sun and without so much as a hint of a light breeze to cool things off, everything and everyone was feeling the heat. The dry air sucked the moisture right out of the sunbaked ground; flowers and vegetable gardens would be wilted by tomorrow without a good soaking.

  Jack was shown into the parlor and found Edward Mansfield also in attendance, much to his annoyance.

  “I have asked Edward to hear the report as well. You do not mind, do you, Jack?” Susannah asked. This was not really a question. It was an awkward moment. What could he say? If he objected to Mansfield’s presence, he would reveal himself to be a disagreeable sourpuss, or worse that he was a secretive scoundrel with something to hide. If he allowed him to stay, he would be validating Mansfield’s involvement in affairs that were not his own. So Jack said nothing.

  Catori offered everyone refreshing glasses of lemonade which they gratefully accepted and then excused herself. Edward complained about the heat. “It will be even hotter tomorrow,” Mr. Hoyt predicted, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. Susannah vigorously applied her fan to her face and sipped more lemonade. Once everyone was settled, Mr. Hoyt began his report. He launched into a twenty minute summary of a laundry list of expenses: everything from feed for the mules, to staples such as coffee, sugar and lard for the camp’s cook, to blasting caps and redwood support beams, right down to soap for the washhouse. He then followed up with a summary of the mine’s overall productivity and steady income. It was a lot of information to take in. Susannah had never given much thought to the complexity of running a mining camp. There were so many details, and she gave Mr. Hoyt her full attention, interrupting him with occasional questions. Mansfield followed the conversation with keen interest, but for reasons all his own. The ledgers confirmed what the assay analysis had predicted: at present, the quality of the ore being mined close to the surface was yielding an acceptable level of gold to be deemed a sound investment. The widow Susannah was sitting on a sizable fortune.

  All was in order, as Jack knew it would be. “Mr. Hoyt,” said Jack, “it is most gratifying to hear your favorable independent analysis of the mine’s financial health.”

  “Yes, now then,” Hoyt continued, clearing his throat, “If I may…” He leaned over a ledger sheet and smoothly slid one finger down a column of figures, as if searching for a particular entry. It appeared that Mr. Hoyt was not yet finished. Jack was completely blindsided by the unexpected observation that came next. The accountant noted a couple of transactions that seemed questionable for a gold mining business. Among them, two bank drafts of $100 each, written August 9th, and made out to one Madam Delilah and one Mary Dempsey. Mansfield jumped on this information like a dog on a bone. Any opportunity to discredit or undercut his rival must not be wasted. When Jack looked bad, he looked good.

  “Who is Madam Delilah?” Mansfield asked innocently, his expression bland, while knowing full well who she was.

  “I find that Madam Delilah appears to run a brothel in Pine Creek. Mary Dempsey is her employee,” Hoyt answered factually.

  “What?” said Susannah in alarm, as she blushed with embarrassment.

  “It is not what you think,” said Jack, as he wrestled with how much information to reveal.


  “Paying prostitutes?” said Mansfield with a sneer. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. What kind of shenanigans are these? What kind of business are you running? While we are all mourning the death of your friend and business partner, you’re off having a liaison with common prostitutes? And you have the cheek to pay for your entertainment out of company funds! Disgraceful!” He turned to Susannah who was seated next to him, smoothly taking her hand in his with dramatic flair. “I am sorry you had to learn of this, my dear,” he told her with a look of concern on his face. He gave her hand a meaningful squeeze and his eyes bored into hers. She understood. He would be her protector.

  “I can explain,” Jack insisted, but seeds of doubt about his honesty, integrity and good judgment had already rooted in the landscape of Susannah’s mind.

  “I can’t wait to hear this,” Mansfield muttered sarcastically.

  “Are you through, Mansfield?” said Jack angrily. “Yes, two prostitutes were paid out of company funds recently. A miner in our employ roughed up one of the prostitutes at Madam Delilah’s establishment. The managers and I agreed that financial compensation seemed to be in order. We were obligated to do something. The employee is no longer with us, much to everyone’s relief. We believe this matter has been satisfactorily settled.”

  “Shady dealings if you ask me,” Mansfield commented with a superior smirk. “You led us to believe you went back to the mine to conduct an investigation. Whatever happened to that idea?” Mansfield continued in an effort to keep the pot of controversy stirred up.

  “A detective has been hired. There are a lot of witnesses to be interviewed, but we are making progress,” Jack said evenly, while offering no further details. “May we return to the topic of Mr. Hoyt’s report?” But the three of them now eyed Jack with speculation and general distrust.

  “Susannah, as co-owner of the business, you have certain rights,” said Edward most solicitously. “Until you become more confident in your role, and until the investigation into what happened is completed, you must insist on frequent financial reports of an independent nature, like the one just given by Mr. Hoyt. At this point, it is impossible to tell who is to blame for Thomas’s death and who will be answerable for it. Who knows what the investigation will uncover?”