Josiah's Treasure

by Nancy Herriman

  The second he crossed the threshold, Sarah banged shut the door, clattering glass for the second time today. She collapsed against the doorframe, the smell of his lime shaving lotion lingering in the air, taunting her.

  “Miss Sarah, here’s the tea . . . what’s happened?” The tea service clinked as Mrs. McGinnis clasped the japanned tray tight to her chest.

  “Before Lottie and the girls get here, Mrs. McGinnis, I need you to tell me all you know about Josiah’s life before he came to San Francisco.”

  “Now, didn’t he tell you all his stories, over and over, Miss Sarah?”

  Sarah peered through the leaded-glass door insert at the wavy image of Daniel’s receding shape. “Apparently not.”

  Daniel tugged his coat about him as a chilly wind whipped up the hill. It was just as cold as the sound of Miss Sarah Whittier’s voice. He had overstayed his welcome?

  Quite the contrary, Miss Whittier.

  He paused to secure his collar around his neck, taking in the scenery, the sunlight reflecting off the bay in the distance. A poet might claim the light glinted like a hundred diamonds scattered upon a sheet of sapphire silk to tangle in the masts of the ships bobbing upon the water. What a view. It would be the sort of location Josiah would choose: the top of a hill, the brilliant blue heavens overhead, and the wealth of San Francisco sprouting around him like goldenrods in the verge.

  This should have been for Grace and Lily and Marguerite, not for some opportunistic young woman whose hair smelled of roses. Daniel’s mother and sisters were the ones who had suffered the most from the scandal after it had become clear Josiah had abandoned them. Grace had endured the humiliation and her father’s endless taunts, defending Josiah until the end, loving her husband more than he deserved. They moved out of Hunt House, Daniel working at any job he could find to make ends meet, living for the day he could hunt down Josiah and reclaim their money. Enough money to give his sisters the future Daniel had promised without him having to beg Grandfather Hunt for help. He’d rather crawl through hot coals than ask that man for a penny.

  Well, the day for reparation had finally come, and Miss Whittier was not going to stop him. Even if her keen eyes had seen the hurt he worked so hard to conceal. The teenage boy’s heartache he’d spent years attempting to forget.

  Stepping off the curb along California Street, Daniel hailed the street car driver to halt, paid his nickel, and climbed aboard, tipping his hat to a young woman in a tattered bonnet and threadbare cloak. Not everyone in San Francisco was rich.

  At the end of the line, he disembarked and headed down Montgomery. The doorman of the Occidental Hotel nodded a greeting and pulled open the door. Daniel retrieved his room key from the reception desk clerk.

  “A profitable day, sir?” the fellow asked, his hair a shock of orange as conspicuous as his freckles.

  “Let’s say it was a surprising day.” Daniel set his hat upon the desk. “I’d like to send a telegram to my attorney in Chicago concerning a legal matter and another to my sisters.”

  “I can attend to that, sir.”

  The clerk extracted a stack of Western Union telegraph forms from one of the many cubbyholes beneath the desk and handed Daniel a pen. First, Daniel composed a note to his attorney asking him to obtain proof of Daniel’s identity and to contact a lawyer in San Francisco. Then he bent to telling Lily and Marguerite the most important news of all. They were only ten; how would they take it? Having no memory of their father, they’d probably take it a lot better than he had.

  Dear ones,

  Found house in SF. J has died. A young woman claims to have inherited estate. Have contacted lawyer. Will return when settled. D.

  Daniel stared at what he’d written. J has died. Three words, eight letters summarizing a bitter fact. His searching had come to an end, but it didn’t feel like closure. A grave stood between Daniel and the chance to seal the wound Josiah had left on his heart.

  The clerk cleared his throat. Daniel suspected he’d been trying to gain his attention for some time. “Is that all, Mr. Cady?”

  “That’s it.” He wouldn’t waste money on a telegram to the Hunts; they could learn of Josiah’s death on their own. “Here are the addresses, and put the charge on my bill.”

  The clerk took the information and the forms. “I’ll have the operator send your messages at once.”

  Daniel watched the boy hurry off to a back room. He probably shouldn’t have mentioned Miss Whittier to his sisters because they really didn’t need to know about her. He would handle that woman on his own.

  At least, he thought as he picked up his hat, he hoped he could.

  Four

  “Now what do I do?” Every muscle in Sarah’s body felt taut, and the edge of the chair dug a groove through her skirt, petticoats, and chemise right into her legs. A trickle of sweat followed the groove. “Where does this leave me?”

  Interrupted before he’d left for his downtown office that morning, Mr. Samuelson propped his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. A successful lawyer, his balding head made him look older than he was, and his permanently peaked eyebrows, continually surprised. Or alarmed. An attribute, he asserted, that knocked his courtroom opponents off their guard. But his gaze was as steady as the prow of a boat slicing through calm water. He had that in common with Lottie. Who, at the moment, was seated in the chair at Sarah’s side and clenching her fingers in the lap of her perfect peach confection of a dress.

  “Papa, please answer Sarah and do not stare enigmatically.” Lottie glanced at Sarah. If Sarah had to pick which parent her friend favored, the choice was easy—Mrs. Samuelson. Like her mother, Charlotte McElvey Samuelson was enviably lovely, her hair a riot of blonde spirals, and her face the heart shape sighed over in poems and popular songs. But the winsome exterior hid a resolute spirit, as if satin bows and lace hankies had been wrapped around an iron beam. “Can you not see how anxious she is?”

  A twitch of annoyance crossed Mr. Samuelson’s face. It was out of character for Lottie, ever considerate, ever respectful, to badger her father. She must be just as worried as Sarah.

  “Charlotte, your mother needs to do a better job teaching you patience. Remember, ‘the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit.’”

  “I am sorry, but ever since Sarah told me her news . . .” Lottie rested her hand atop Sarah’s, gripping the chair’s arm. Her palm was cold. “It is utterly unfair.”

  “Just tell me what you think about my situation, Mr. Samuelson,” said Sarah.

  His fingers separated and spread flat across the desktop. He didn’t smile. Sarah appreciated that he wouldn’t bother to blunt his opinion with false optimism. “Probate law is not my specialty, but I am aware of another case where a child, presumed deceased and therefore not mentioned in the will, returned and was able to claim his share of the inheritance.” He considered her for a moment longer. “If this fellow can prove his identity, then he will likely be found to be the rightful beneficiary of Josiah Cady’s estate. He and his sisters equally.”

  “You’re telling me they have the right to come and take my inheritance from me?”

  “They certainly have the right to challenge the probate, Miss Whittier. I also must tell you that, if a challenge is granted, access to your assets will be limited until probate is settled.”

  “I won’t be allowed to spend the money Josiah left me? Or use the proceeds from the sale of his property?” Her resolve was crumbling like a sand castle being consumed by the tidal flow.

  “I would advise against spending any more than the bare minimum in the chance the judge decrees you must reimburse Mr. Daniel Cady the full sum,” he answered solemnly. “Presuming a challenge to the terms of the will is granted and a new probate hearing agreed upon, that is.”

  “How could this man possibly be Mr. Cady’s son, though?” Lottie asked, unwilling to believe.

  “Miss Whittier?” her father asked.

  “I don’t know.” A lengthy
conversation with Mrs. McGinnis—and an hour spent poking through Josiah’s papers—had shed no fresh light on Josiah’s past. And no light at all on the man claiming to be his abandoned son. “He might be.”

  “I suggest we proceed as if he is,” Mr. Samuelson answered.

  Lottie squeezed, pinching Sarah’s hand against the chair arm. “Will Sarah be left with nothing?”

  “Josiah intended for her to inherit, so the judge will have to take his wishes into consideration. He may allow Miss Whittier to keep all the money she has in the bank, for instance.”

  “That is enough to manage for several months, Sarah,” said Lottie. “We should be established before that runs out.”

  “I hope so, Lottie.”

  “I said ‘may,’ Charlotte. No guarantees.” Mr. Samuelson’s nostrils flared as he drew in a long breath and contemplated Sarah. “If you want to know what to do next, Miss Whittier, I recommend you convince the judge you are deserving and worthy of every penny he might let you keep. Though usually fair, John Doran can be a hard man when he’s in his courtroom.”

  “You will not give up on me, will you, Mr. Samuelson?”

  He steepled his fingers again, examining her over their tips. She had revealed too much in that question. “Why should I?”

  Because I am not so very worthy? “If I can’t make use of what Josiah left me,” Sarah said, instead of the thoughts uppermost in her mind, “then your loan and the money my other backers have offered are all I have to pay the bills. Won’t you and the others think it’s unwise to support the studio if it’s in jeopardy?”

  “No one will retract their offer simply because this Daniel Cady fellow has shown up in San Francisco, Sarah.” Lottie was adamant. Bless her.

  Mr. Samuelson leaned across his desk. His peaked eyebrows didn’t make him look surprised or alarmed right then, but rather intensely serious. “Miss Whittier, I didn’t give you that loan for five hundred dollars because I have money to spare and nowhere better to invest. I have always trusted you to do what was right.”

  But what about Mr. Pomroy? she wanted to ask. Or Mr. Winston, the banker who had been reluctant at first to support a woman’s ambitions, yet he planned to donate funds anyway?

  Sarah patted Lottie’s hand, easing its grip on her arm, and nodded calmly. “I thank you for your trust, Mr. Samuelson. I hope the others continue to believe in me like you do.” She wished more fervently that she’d gotten all of those pledges committed to paper, instead of mere promises made over tea and coffee and sandwiches.

  Mr. Samuelson smiled, a quiver of movement across his mouth, and reached for his pocket watch; their time was up. “Do not worry, Miss Whittier. We’ll find a way for your shop to survive, even if Mr. Cady has the terms of Josiah’s will overturned. Have confidence.”

  Lottie rose and went around the side of the desk to deposit a kiss upon his cheek. “Thank you, Papa.”

  Sarah thanked him also and left the study with Lottie. “I suspected he’d tell me Daniel Cady and his sisters would get everything.”

  Lottie closed the door behind them. The hallway was quiet and empty, the sounds of the house readying for lunch a distant rustle of noise. “Papa did not say exactly that.”

  “But it’s what I expect. Given the ‘hard’ Judge Doran.” Sarah sighed. “I do hope our backers continue to stick by us. We’ll manage if they do.”

  “Of course they will.” Lottie rubbed a hand down Sarah’s arm. “Do not be downhearted.”

  “I’m not,” she insisted. “But I do honestly wish I had never, ever opened that front door yesterday and let Daniel Cady in my house.”

  “Keeping the door closed would not change the fact that he exists.”

  “But it would have delayed my knowing it!”

  Lottie laughed, a reassuring sound, and together they strolled to the front of the house. The Samuelsons’ maid, Bridget, had anticipated their arrival and had gathered Sarah’s cloak and hat. Well dressed and well fed, Bridget had the comfortable demeanor of a young woman who knew she’d landed square on her feet. Unlike the immigrant girls Sarah sought to help. Had to help.

  “Thank you, Bridget,” said Lottie, dismissing the young Irish girl, who bobbed politely and hurried off. “Perhaps Mr. Cady will change his mind about wanting all of Josiah’s estate and be generous,” she suggested once they were alone again.

  Sarah couldn’t imagine a more unlikely outcome. “Not him. I think he needs the money to go along with the abundance of vengefulness he already possesses. His coat was a little threadbare.”

  “Well.” Lottie’s pale eyebrows perked. “If he does need money, maybe we can buy him off.”

  The shocking suggestion made Sarah grin. “Never in a million years, Charlotte Samuelson, did I imagine you would suggest we bribe someone.” She shook her head. “I don’t have the sort of funds to buy him off. Not when he stands to gain thousands of dollars from Josiah’s estate.”

  “You never know, Sarah. Perhaps a few hundred dollars will be sufficient.”

  Would it? It might be worth a try. “Perhaps. I do have some money coming to me from two paintings I put up for sale . . .” Money she had intended for repairs at the shop that were proving to be more expensive than her budget had allocated; she’d also been hoping that any money left over from the sale would allow her to buy each of the girls a second new dress to go with the ones she’d already ordered. The dresses would have to wait and the repairs as well, unless she could sell more of her work and soon. Or wrangle another loan from someone. “The sale of those paintings isn’t going to get me an amount anywhere near a few hundred dollars, though.”

  “We have to at least try. We must hold on to the shop. It is too important to the girls.” Lottie’s gaze held Sarah’s. “It is too important to you.”

  Only Lottie knew the full story of Edouard and her past; she would understand what Sarah hoped to achieve with the girls and the shop and why.

  The studio was more than important to her.

  It was everything to her.

  “Don’t worry, Lottie. I don’t plan to let go of that shop, no matter what Daniel Cady intends.”

  “A fresh Imperial, sir?” The server working the Occidental’s lounging room, another skinny boy with a frizz of orange-red hair and a profusion of freckles, nodded at the glass at Daniel’s elbow. It sat three-quarters full of the sugared lemon-water concoction. Daniel had been too busy contemplating a mahogany-haired painter who answered the door in stockinged feet to remember to drink it.

  “No. Thank you,” he said.

  The server bent to clear it away.

  “Are you new to San Francisco?” he asked the boy before he continued on his rounds.

  The server gave his other customers a cursory glance. The ground-floor room was busy that afternoon, full of tourists eyeing the pedestrians passing the large plate-glass windows, their voices echoing off the marble floor, competing with the click of billiard balls from the rear parlor. Despite the crowd, the boy seemed inclined to stand and talk with Daniel. After he’d paid last evening’s waiter for information on Josiah—three dollars, as much as the daily hotel charge—Daniel would guess every server in the hotel would be content to chat with him, whoever waited for them.

  “Moved here last spring, sir. Come from Kentucky. I’m the first one in my family to go anywhere more’n twenty miles beyond Washington County.” The boy’s broad grin revealed a gap where a tooth once resided.

  “Too new to know anything about a Josiah Cady, then, I suppose.” Daniel didn’t expect the boy to have heard of Josiah—the fellow last night hadn’t either—but Daniel was always hopeful. The more he knew about Josiah’s dealings in San Francisco, the better Daniel could assess the extent of his father’s assets. In case Miss Whittier opted to be less than truthful about them. The first task for the San Francisco lawyer, right after the man examined Josiah’s will, would be to review his father’s bank accounts and real estate dealings. “Or a Sarah Whittier, for that matter. When the
y arrived in San Francisco. How much they might be worth. Any gossip at all.”

  “Never heard of ’em. But Cook was born here,” he said, making the fact sound like a miraculous achievement.

  “And Cook might know if, oh, there were stories about Josiah Cady arriving here with a lot of money or maybe gold from his mining operation. Gold or money he might have hidden somewhere. To avoid taxes.” Or to avoid paying his family what they’d been promised.

  The server’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard about stuff like that happenin’.”

  “I take it you’d be willing to ask Cook what he has heard.”

  He nodded and licked his lips as Daniel reached for his money clip. “A dollar now. Two more if you bring me useful information.”

  Another three-dollar investment toward his ultimate goal to obtain Josiah’s assets. Even if it meant taking the property away from Sarah Whittier.

  “I’ll get right on that, sir.” The greenback disappeared into a deep pocket in the boy’s pants. “And my name’s Red, in case you’re needin’ to talk with me again.”

  He trotted away. Daniel leaned into the seat cushion and stretched out his legs. Felt a twinge of guilt. Don’t be stupid, Daniel. Don’t feel sorry for her.

  Don’t care.

  “Fifty dollars?”

  Sarah blinked at the proprietor of Grant’s Emporium as if he had sprouted a third eye to go along with the pair staring at her from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “That’s what I said, Miss Whittier,” he replied, flattening his hands on the counter that stood between them.

  He’d sold her two best landscapes for only fifty dollars. The amount was a travesty. However, the San Francisco Art Association only took work on consignment and would never agree to buy paintings outright. She’d needed the money quickly in order to cover the cost of the studio repairs, forcing her to rely on Mr. Grant’s dubious ability to sell high-quality artwork. She needed even more money now.