Josiah's Treasure

by Nancy Herriman

  The lawyer shrugged, his heavy gold watch chain winking with the movement. “If he did, he probably took that information to his grave. Unless he let Miss Whittier know its whereabouts. Your father seems to have been awfully fond of her. I always find it peculiar when a man leaves money to a single young woman who isn’t a relation.”

  Daniel let the innuendo pass; Miss Whittier had claimed Josiah was like a father to her and Daniel believed her. “Could you look into it? As you can see in that telegram, Josiah claimed to have made more money off his gold strike, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have hidden some away if he did.”

  “I might be able to uncover additional assets.” He examined Daniel. “For an extra fee.”

  “I’ll pay it.”

  “Good. Very good.” Another smile, all white-teethed smugness. “For her sake, I hope Miss Whittier has been aboveboard on reporting all known assets. Any deception will not sit well with Judge Doran. As it is, she’ll see her share of the inheritance severely curtailed.”

  “How much might she get?” Enough to support that shop of hers? He hadn’t calculated how much her expenses might be or asked how much money her supporters were going to supply. He’d presumed the funds would be enough; he hadn’t wanted to learn otherwise. “She has a business she’s trying to fund.”

  “A business? Really? Are you certain it’s legitimate?”

  Daniel’s jaw tightened. “It seems legitimate to me.” If that shop wasn’t, it was a pretty elaborate hoax.

  Sinclair shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s best for us to be on our guard when it comes to dealing with Miss Whittier.”

  “How much might she get after probate’s settled?” he repeated.

  “Judge Doran will make some provision; several hundred dollars, maybe even a thousand. More than she probably had when she came to this town, but not much to men like you or me, right, Mr. Cady?” Sinclair chuckled. “After all—and I quote the Roman who first said it—‘money alone sets all the world in motion.’”

  A quote Daniel’s grandfather would have appreciated. An opinion, he had to admit, he’d started to share.

  “I can recommend the name of an excellent real estate agent for the auction of the house once you obtain ownership,” Sinclair continued.

  “I’m sure you can,” Daniel said. That was his plan—sell the house, get his money, and go back to Chicago where he belonged.

  Sinclair slipped a card from his coat pocket and flipped it to its blank side. He produced a pencil from the same pocket and wrote down a name. “Contact my friend at this office. If you hire me as your attorney to represent you, you wouldn’t even need to remain in town to see the transaction through. I could handle everything for you and send the proceeds to Chicago.”

  He made it sound so simple. So painless. But it wouldn’t be painless for Sarah Whittier. Daniel wondered where she would go. Back to her relatives in Arizona, possibly, even though she claimed to love San Francisco. She must have friends in town who would take her in if she wanted to stay. Where she ended up really wasn’t his concern. And neither was whatever would happen to her needy girls and her shop. If he kept that in mind, he would be fine.

  Daniel slipped the card from Sinclair’s fingers and stood. “Let me know what you find out about Josiah’s assets.”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Cady.”

  Before the man could rise to see him off, Daniel strode across the Turkish rug covering the office floor and stomped down the stairs and out onto the street. He sucked in the San Francisco air, wanting to clear his lungs of Sinclair’s citrus-spice cologne and the stale smell of greed. But he couldn’t, and he had a feeling the stench would cling to him a very long time.

  There were worse places in San Francisco than the streets near the wharves. Worse neighborhoods, where prostitutes and opium dens and gambling houses coexisted, impoverished immigrants crammed tight into dilapidated quarters, and excrement mingled with rainwater to form a soupy, disgusting mix on the cobblestones. But not by much. If it weren’t the middle of the day, Sarah would never dare come here.

  She stood in the doorway to Phoebe’s apartment and took shallow breaths. The bay breezes wafted the sour stink of a nearby tallow factory through the one window, and her stomach rolled. She wouldn’t be there much longer, though. The girl was eager to quit her dank and gloomy room, and she was hastily rounding up her few belongings with Minnie’s help. Minnie chattered incessantly, untroubled by the surroundings, happy to have another girl at the shop. A new member of their family.

  More delicately boned and frail-seeming than Sarah had visualized, Phoebe met Sarah’s first criteria by looking her directly in the face and proclaiming she would work harder than anyone. Phoebe had been quick to recognize her best opportunity to flee the life she was living. Her mother’s passing had left her alone—no siblings, no relations to tend to or be tended by. Sarah understood how it felt to be adrift in the world, as untethered as a cottonwood seed. A lesson Sarah herself had learned more thoroughly than she had ever anticipated she might. She had tried to cling, nonetheless—to Aunt Eugenie, who had resented her; to Edouard, who had betrayed her; to Josiah, who had perished. Each loss harder than the last. Would she be forced to leave San Francisco, too, in order to start over once again? Find a new situation to cling to? She hoped not.

  Phoebe finished bundling a spare bodice and stockings, hair comb, and a collection of embroidery needles inside her winter shawl and strode to the front door. About the same amount of possessions as Sarah had taken away from Los Angeles. Funny how one’s life could be reduced to the number of objects one could carry in her arms.

  “Do you need to leave a message for your landlord or perhaps make a final payment?”

  “I have not paid him for a month.” The girl’s nonchalance surprised Sarah. “He will be happy to see the back side of me.”

  “So long as he doesn’t fetch the police on you,” she said.

  “The police? They think my landlord is worthless too. They will not bother.” Phoebe smiled at her. Sarah was ridiculously glad to see the girl had all her teeth. Clean, white ones that shone against her plump, pink lips. “Merci, miss. There has never been anyone to care about me. Never.”

  The slip of French brought Sarah up short, a harsh reminder of Edouard, and she was more abrupt with Phoebe than she intended. “I want to help you and can. That’s all there is to it.”

  “That is not all. There have been other women at the dressmaking shop who come and pretend they want to help. They bring flowers and such, as if a bouquet would make life better, smile and pat our hair like we are stupid children, when all we want is decent work and respect. They shame us. But you do not shame me.”

  Tears burned the back of Sarah’s throat. This . . . this was why she had to do all she could for her girls. This need to be free of shame. This need to have a decent life full of promise and second chances. She recognized Phoebe’s feelings because she’d shared them the moment Josiah had taken her in, no questions asked, no explanation needed as to why she was on his doorstep or what she’d done that had brought her there.

  “Work hard and there will be no need to thank me and no need to ever feel shame again.” Sarah smiled away the tears. “You’re one of us now, and I will take care of you.”

  Minnie grinned over Phoebe’s shoulder. Sarah had said the same to her. To Cora and Anne and Emma as well. “That’s exactly right. You’re part of our little family, Phoebe.”

  Phoebe’s eyes sparkled. Maybe with grateful tears. “Family? I have not had one in so long, I forget what that is!”

  Oh, oh. Sarah’s breath caught. “I will take care of you,” she repeated.

  Seven

  “What do you think?” Sarah asked Lottie, standing next to her in the shop the next morning and also taking a break from her chores.

  With an embroidered linen handkerchief, Lottie blotted the sweat glistening along her hairline. “Of Phoebe? Or the shop?”

  “Both, of course.”

&
nbsp; Lottie’s gaze tracked Phoebe as the French girl followed Cora Gallagher around, her skirts hitched into her waistband, rough boots peeping beneath the heavy twill. Compared to Cora, with her large frame and shock of luscious auburn hair, Phoebe was petite and delicate. But the two girls seemed to have hit it off, if the fact that their giggles were growing louder and louder was any indication.

  “She is the most curious mixture of French charm and American resilience,” Lottie answered after a peal of laughter rang out, echoing in the space, and Phoebe slapped Cora playfully with a rag. Lottie tucked her handkerchief in the sleeve of her dress—a printed cotton that came the closest to a work dress Sarah had ever seen her in but would be a fine Sunday frock to most women—and smiled. “I rather like her.”

  Sarah did too.

  “And what about the shop?” She waved impatiently at the space, already a thousand times cleaner than when she’d brought Daniel there. They had stripped the ruined wallpaper and scrubbed the display shelves, which were ready for fresh coats of paint, and the oak floor nearly gleamed gold in the morning sunlight. The shop had become more a diamond in the rough than what earlier could have passed for a chunk of dirty granite. If Daniel Cady saw the space this morning . . . Sarah released a frustrated sigh. He would still be unwilling to invest. “A location on Market Street, close to all the stores, would have brought in more customers.”

  “Someday we will get there. But for now, this is ideal.” Lottie bent to dip a washing cloth in the bucket of soapy water sitting beneath the front window. Wringing it out, she glanced up. “I wanted to surprise you with this later, but Mr. Halliday has committed a sum of money for the shop. After no small amount of cajoling and being stuffed with Cook’s excellent berry tarts yesterday afternoon, I confess. And I will soon approach Mrs. Linforth about becoming a customer. She has that new house she needs to decorate, and a series of Anne’s lithographs would be perfect in her parlor. I might even be able to convince her to host a supper and a showing of our art in support of our cause. If we get enough customers and backers,” she continued, leaning close so the girls couldn’t hear, “we will not need to worry about Mr. Daniel Cady and his claims on the estate. We are very close, as it is.”

  “That’s wonderful!” We will succeed despite you, Daniel Cady.

  “And why you have me as a partner, Miss Whittier.”

  “There is none better, Miss Samuelson.”

  Cora caught Sarah’s attention as she swayed behind the main counter, sweeping a rag across the surface, a popular Irish melody on her lips.

  “If we don’t get the girls to concentrate on their tasks, it won’t be Daniel Cady that stands in the way of this business opening.” She raised her voice. “Cora, you’ve missed some spots. I don’t know if dancing and cleaning go well together.”

  Cora grinned and winked at Phoebe. “Ah, but they do for me!” she said with a flourish of the rag, sending a billow of dust twirling in the air.

  “Well, don’t teach Phoebe any bad habits,” Sarah teased.

  “She is not, miss,” Phoebe answered, her faint French accent distorting the vowels, tugging painfully at Sarah’s heart.

  If she’d realized the girl would remind her of Edouard every time she opened her mouth . . . “I certainly hope not. Don’t forget to mop the back room too.”

  “We won’t,” the girls answered in unison.

  Sarah took up the broom and retrieved her dustpan to work a pile of soot and old dirt into the center of the room. It was good to hear Cora and Phoebe so happy, so full of life. She shouldn’t begrudge them any joy, when outside of this shop they had so little. Sarah started humming along to Cora’s tune.

  “Cora, what is that you are singing?” Lottie asked as she scrubbed smudges from the front window.

  “Just a tune my pa is fond of. It’s called ‘Finigan’s Wake.’ It goes like this, Miss Charlotte.” Cora cleared her throat while Phoebe stood aside, a delighted look on her face.

  “Tim Finigan lived in Walker Street,

  a gentleman Irish mighty odd

  He’d a beautiful brogue, so rich and sweet,

  and to rise in the world he carried the hod

  But, you see, he’d a sort of a tippling way,

  with a love for the liquor poor Tim was born

  To help him through his way each day,

  he’d a drop of the craythur’ every morn.”

  Sarah paused in her sweeping and noticed that Lottie’s washing cloth had ceased its circles on the windowpane.

  Cora grinned, possibly taking the silence as approval, and continued:

  “Whack, hurrah! Blood and ’ounds! Ye soul ye

  Welt the flure, yer trotters shake

  Isn’t it the truth I tould ye?

  Lots of fun at Finigan’s Wake!

  One morning Tim was rather full,

  His head felt heavy, which made him shake;

  He fell from the ladder and broke his skull,

  So they carried him home his corpse to wake.”

  Lottie’s brow furrowed and she looked over her shoulder to stare at Cora.

  Sarah fought a smile. “Cora, that’s probably enough.”

  “It just gets funnier from here, Miss Sarah. You have to hear.” Right then, the shop bell jingled. Cora proceeded with the rest of the verse, hitting the notes with gusto.

  “They rolled him up in a clean white sheet,

  And laid him out upon a bed

  With fourteen candles at his feet

  And a barrel of whiskey at his head—”

  Cora abruptly halted, her eyes gone wide. Sarah glanced toward the door to see who’d entered the shop.

  Oh dear.

  “Am I interrupting a party?” asked Daniel, slipping his hat from his head, taking in the scene.

  Two young women, dressed in coarse-cloth work gowns and heavy shoes, gaped at him from behind the store’s counter. The one who’d been singing nudged the petite, dark-haired one and then, astonishingly, winked at him. If these were examples of Miss Whittier’s employees, he didn’t hold out much hope for the shop.

  There were employees, though, and that he was glad to see. He’d let Sinclair’s concerns trouble him unnecessarily. Drive him to come here this morning and prove to himself that Sarah was, at least, not lying about this.

  “We were . . . we . . .” Sarah was stuttering, her cheeks pinked. He thought anew that she might not be conventionally beautiful, but she was pretty enough. She would be prettier, though, if her mouth weren’t hanging open.

  She glanced at the blonde woman at her side, looking for support. With her elaborately coifed hair and tailored dress, the woman didn’t look as though she belonged in a dusty storefront, a dripping washing rag in her hand and a stained apron tied around her severely corseted waist. Her pale eyes narrowed, assessing Daniel, questioning who he was. Apparently Sarah wasn’t going to enlighten her just yet.

  “We were enjoying a song while we cleaned the shop,” Sarah finally said. “Music helps the work go more quickly, don’t you agree?”

  Daniel propped up an eyebrow. “Interesting song choice.” An Irish drinking song. Her girls certainly weren’t bored society misses.

  “Yes, well . . .” Sarah huffed, aware of the poor impression the song and her girls, who had stopped gaping and moved on to whispering together, had made. Crisply, she set aside her broom and stripped off her apron. “What brings you to our studio this morning?”

  “Sarah, you might want to introduce us,” the woman next to her interrupted.

  “Oh. Certainly,” she answered, though the snap of her brown eyes suggested she would much rather march Daniel right back out of the shop.

  She addressed the girls. “Cora Gallagher, Phoebe Morel, this is Mr. Daniel Cady.”

  Stepping forward, he could see them more clearly. They were both pretty, youth filling their cheeks, but he wondered how long it would be before hard work eroded the unlined skin.

  Cora batted her eyelids. “Minnie told me about you
. You’re Mr. Josiah’s relative.”

  Relative. Not son. Sarah must not want her girls to know exactly who he was, information that might present a host of embarrassing questions. Such as why Sarah had inherited the house and not him. He’d let it go. For the moment. “That’s me.”

  “And this is my business partner, Miss Charlotte Samuelson.” Sarah indicated the woman at her side.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Cady,” Miss Samuelson replied softly and politely, her fingers squeezing his with the acceptable amount of strength. “Sarah has told me so much about you.”

  He could just imagine.

  “Are you only visitin’, Mr. Cady, or have you come to stay in San Francisco?” Cora asked.

  “Cora, it is impolite to ask his plans,” corrected Sarah.

  “Just visiting, Miss Gallagher,” Daniel replied.

  He scanned the shop, pausing where the most noticeable changes had occurred. There were a lot of improvements in a short time. Miss Whittier was serious about her business. Thank God something’s for real in this town. “Much tidier, Miss Whittier. Not that the dirt bothered me.”

  “We have a long way to go.” Sarah glanced down. She’d been twisting her hands around the handle of the broom as though she hoped to strangle it. She relaxed her grip.

  “We intend to open in a week or so,” said Miss Samuelson. “We have every confidence we shall be ready by then.”

  Trusting in those backers Sarah mentioned. Or that maybe he wouldn’t get Josiah’s will overturned. An awful lot of trust. “Looks like you shall, Miss Samuelson.”

  “What brings you by?” Sarah asked again.

  Daniel strolled farther into the shop. “I was out for a walk. Nice day. Thought I’d see how things were going here. Glad to see you’re hard at work.” Very glad. But now he was back to worrying how she would support it.

  “I told you my girls are diligent, as well as talented. This shop is their future. Right, Cora, Phoebe?”