Ah Mong inclined his head and returned to the rented trap to wait for Sarah. Sarah found the ticket collector and led Anne along the dock, evading other passengers hurrying for the gangplank.
A sea of ship masts bobbed to their left and their right. Anne eyed the sailing vessels, the seagulls wheeling among the rigging. “I’ve never been on a boat before.”
Sarah rubbed her hand down the coarse sleeve of Anne’s thin wool coat, rummaged this morning from a secondhand clothing shop. Beneath was a new dress Sarah had ordered for her weeks ago, intended for opening day of the studio. A day Anne would never see. Or the other girls, either, thought Sarah broodily. “A steamer is perfectly safe.”
“It might be, Miss Whittier, but Cora’s not the only one who can’t swim.”
She responded to Anne’s slender smile with one of her own. It seemed a million years ago that Cora had fallen into the pond at Golden Gate Park and Daniel had rescued her, ages before Sarah had come to learn that not only was he hard-hearted, he was as false as fool’s gold.
“You’ll arrive in Portland on Tuesday,” said Sarah. “Not too long a journey, and I suspect you’ll never be out of sight of land. Plus, you’ll have Mrs. McGinnis to distract you. The voyage shouldn’t be too difficult, especially for a woman as strong as you are.”
“Not as strong as I wanted to be. I stayed with Frank for too long. Let him tell me what to do, even when I knew it was wrong.” She swallowed, the lace banding her dress collar quivering with the motion. “At least we’re safe from him now.”
We’re safe? Sarah cocked her head. Had she misunderstood Anne’s words, spoken in a whisper, barely audible above the ruckus of the wharf? She decided she had.
“Here, take this.” Sarah handed her the wicker basket packed with lunch and a few other items of food. “If you find you can’t tolerate the food they serve onboard, Mrs. McGinnis has made certain neither of you will starve. Her sister will collect you when you arrive in Seattle. She sent us a short telegram last night and has agreed to take you on as her housekeeper. I wish the position was a better one, one that could take advantage of your talents. I’m sorry it won’t.”
“I will make it work, Miss Whittier.” Her gaze was steady, her jaw set, refusing to be cowed by the world. No matter how it treated young women alone.
The steamer’s whistle tweeted, a signal that departure time had arrived. Sarah and Anne started for the gangplank, a young man jostling them in his haste not to miss his passage.
“I’ll write,” said Sarah, “after you’re settled, to let you know how the shop fares. I’m sure the other girls will want to give you their news and hear how you’re doing.”
“I’m not as sure as you, but I’ll be glad to hear from you and any of them.” Anne startled Sarah with an embrace, the basket swinging from her elbow knocking against Sarah’s hip. Suddenly, she reached into the deep pocket of her skirt. “Wait! I almost forgot to return the money Mr. Cady loaned me.”
“I’ll repay him for you. Keep that.”
Anne nodded. “Thank you again for everything, Miss Whittier. I will pay you back.”
“There’s no need.” Anne would be better off saving her pennies for her future.
“But I shall. I promise. I have to. You’ve been my salvation.” “Anne.” That was all Sarah could say, her throat tightening around words.
Anne rushed up the short gangplank. When she reached the steamer’s deck, she turned and waved. “Trust in God, miss. He rescued me. He’ll do right for you,” she shouted over another screech of the boat’s whistle. Then she was gone, shouldering her way into the cabin spanning the deck.
Sarah waited, hoping to see either Mrs. McGinnis or Anne’s face appear at one of the windows, but that was the last she saw of the girl. Tears burned Sarah’s throat. Loss . . . she would never get used to the pain of separation, of having to say good-bye. Aunt Eugenie had torn her away from her mother’s grave that stormy, humid Ohio afternoon, her arms groping the empty air for the harsh wooden cross scratched with her family’s names. One of many good-byes she’d been forced to say. Likely, this would not be the last.
She inhaled and turned her face to the breeze, letting the wind dry her eyes. There was no time for tears, not when she needed strength to face her own trials. Have faith. Trust in God. How she wished she could.
Squaring her shoulders, Sarah returned to the trap she’d rented to take Anne and Mrs. McGinnis down to the wharf, parked at the edge of the road that fronted the quay.
Ah Mong, straight-backed on the seat, watched Sarah climb up. “They will have a safe trip, Miss Sarah. It is a good day to travel and start a new life.”
The gangplank rattled as it was pulled onto deck, and the ropes tethering the steamer to dock were cast off. “How can you tell that, Ah Mong?”
“My grandfather would say the day is right for such things,” he replied solemnly. Sarah grabbed the side of the seat as he flicked the reins across the horse’s back, spurring the mare forward. “But I would say I trust in your God.”
Thankfully, the remainder of Saturday had passed without hearing either from Daniel or that loathsome reporter. Sarah hid away at the shop, where work could be relied upon to distract her, until it had grown late and she’d had to return home to an empty house. A lonely place without the homey sounds of Mrs. McGinnis clanking pots in the kitchen or humming over the stove, scolding Rufus over some offense. Sarah plucked a hairpin from between her lips. If she lost everything tomorrow, including the house, where would either of them go? Maybe Mrs. McGinnis would return to her niece in Portland or go to her sister’s in Seattle. And she herself would . . .
Sarah shoved the hairpin home. It jabbed into her skull, making her wince. She would find a room to rent and continue on. Because she would never return to Los Angeles and beg forgiveness, one more time, from an aunt and uncle so unwilling to give it.
Checking her reflection in her bedroom mirror and noting that her hair was reasonably fixed and her amber twill gown fitted the way it should—an accomplishment without Mrs. McGinnis to help—Sarah went to fetch Lottie’s birthday present from her workroom. She was glad for the diversion of a small gathering today; if she sat at home and listened to the clocks tick, she would go mad as a March hare.
Outside, Ah Mong waited patiently in another rented trap. An extravagance, but a better way to arrive at Lottie’s house than trudging down the road from the cable-car stop, her nicest pair of shoes dusty and ruined.
Mrs. Brentwood abandoned her post by her parlor window, where she’d been watching the neighborhood’s comings and goings, and hurtled onto her front porch. Her face was crimson and she was waving a newspaper like a semaphore flag. “Miss Whittier! Have you seen? How dreadful—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brentwood. I’m in a hurry.” Sarah fisted her skirts out of her way and hurried down the stairs to the street. “I’m late for a luncheon and can’t talk now. Tell me your news when I’ve returned.”
Despite her ample proportions, Mrs. Brentwood was quick on her feet and managed to arrive at the sidewalk the same time as Sarah. “But you have to see what is in the Sunday paper, Miss Whittier.” Her eyes were wide. “It’s awful! And it’s about you!”
Sarah froze in her spot, one hand on the trap’s dash rail, ready to clamber up. “About me?”
She thrust the newspaper at Sarah. It was only a flash, but Sarah noted the masthead: San Francisco Chronicle. “Indeed, yes! It has the most dreadful things to say about you and some man in Los Angeles stealing from your uncle there. All lies, of course, since everyone knows you’re from Arizona.” Mrs. Brentwood squinted at her—checking for guilt, no doubt.
Sarah released her grip on the dash rail. Jackson hadn’t waited to hear her version of the story, and now all of San Francisco would learn the truth, or some sensationalized version of the truth. Either way, she was ruined.
I am so sorry, girls. So very, very sorry.
“Ah Mong, I won’t be going to the Samuelsons’ today.�
�� She took the paper from Mrs. Brentwood. “I apologize, but the newspaper is correct. I am from Los Angeles.”
“And the rest?”
“I’ll have to read the article to let you know.”
Mrs. Brentwood turned pale and shrieked.
Twenty-Four
“I give you credit for being brave enough to come to my house and face me, Miss Whittier,” said Mr. Pomroy.
“I had to,” Sarah answered without flinching; she had some pride left. “I need to understand where my business and my girls’ futures stand.”
“That will depend on how much of this story”—he indicated the open newspaper resting on the parlor table beside him—“is true. Did you steal gold nuggets from your uncle, along with some—excuse my choice of coarse words—some French lover?”
She flinched now. Because of Daniel and Archibald Jackson, she had to stand here, among Mr. Pomroy’s brocade curtains and thick-piled rugs and heavy furniture, and relive her greatest foolishness. Her worst offense.
“Unfortunately, much of it is true.” Archibald Jackson had found a great resource in Los Angeles. With Daniel’s assistance, undoubtedly. “But I did not help Monsieur Marchand steal that gold. All I intended was to run away with him.”
Mr. Pomroy cocked his eyebrows. “‘All,’ Miss Whittier? That is condemning enough behavior for a woman of your upbringing and standing.”
“I am aware of my failings, Mr. Pomroy.” Aunt Eugenie had listed them in great detail, the day Sarah had attempted reconciliation, her words brutally unkind. “Which is why I did not want the story known.”
“But this Marchand fellow did steal from your uncle?”
She wished she could claim otherwise, but the time for falsehoods and fabrications was past. “My uncle was launching his campaign to run for mayor, and as part of the festivities, he decided to show off some of the gold he’d kept as a souvenir of the mine he and Josiah had run in the Black Hills. He’d shown off the nuggets before; he liked to boast about his success. I told Edouard about the party, that it would be the perfect evening for us to elope. No one would notice me missing. He agreed, but not for the reason I’d thought.”
Sarah remembered that night so well, the doors and windows thrown open to catch the cool summer’s evening breeze, the clink of glasses and the smell of cigar smoke wafting through the house, the maids in their brightly patterned skirts rushing back and forth from the kitchen to the parlor and the garden beyond where the party had overspilled, her uncle’s company enjoying the fountain and the stars overhead. The corner table draped with velvet and the nuggets upon it, winking in the gaslight, guarded closely by one of the male servants. The way her heart had raced as she’d made banal conversation with the guests, all the while anticipating that soon, so soon, she’d be gone from Los Angeles with the man she loved, on her way to starting a new life, creating a new family, one that would love her wholeheartedly. Edouard, though, had other ideas.
Sarah hugged her arms tight around her waist. “I should have suspected what Edouard was up to, but I didn’t.”
“Your uncle was irresponsible to display his wealth at a party,” said Mr. Pomroy, a generous concession.
“He was more irresponsible to drink heavily and fall asleep so soundly that Edouard had no trouble sneaking into my uncle’s bedroom that evening and taking the bag containing the nuggets.” And she had let him into the house, all as part of their plan to run away together. Utterly unaware of what he really wanted.
“Did Marchand bring you to San Francisco hoping to steal from Josiah too, as the paper claims?”
“He didn’t know about Josiah. We came here because we intended to catch a steamer to Victoria, Canada, and go gold hunting in the Cariboo near there. I didn’t get on that steamer with him, though.” He’d waited until the train had pulled into the station in San Francisco to brag about the gold he’d stolen from Uncle Henry, pulling the newspaper-wrapped bundle from his coat pocket with a wink. How Edouard’s eyes had sparkled. How sick she’d felt, realizing she’d run off with a thief. “When I discovered that he had stolen from my uncle, we had a terrible fight, right on the platform. I feel guilty about not getting the nuggets back. I did try, but Edouard knocked me down and fled into the crowd.” They’d given the crowd quite a show, a man and a woman brawling like saloon drunks.
“The gold was gone and I was too ashamed and scared to go back to Los Angeles,” she continued, a bead of sweat tickling along her collar. “So when I saw Josiah’s advertisement for a nurse-companion in the paper, I turned to him for help. I hadn’t known he was living here, or else I would have gone to him immediately.”
Her landlord nodded to indicate he was following the story. Out in the hallway, Sarah heard the hushed rustle of skirts and wondered if Mrs. Pomroy was listening nearby, preparing to lecture Mr. Pomroy on his choice of tenants.
“Fortunately for me,” Sarah said, “the local stories about the event used the name my aunt and uncle had given me, their last name, Thayer. After the news broke, Josiah and I decided it would be best if I called myself by my birth name, Sarah Whittier. A bit of deception, I freely admit, but by doing so, I managed to slip into life here without too many questions about my past. Until now.”
“The scandal destroyed your uncle’s chances at winning the election.”
“No one cares to elect a man whose ward runs off with the family’s thieving art tutor.” The loss of the election, the reduction of his social standing, had hurt Uncle Henry more than the theft of some nuggets that were a negligible portion of his considerable wealth. “After I’d been in San Francisco a few months, Josiah insisted I go to Los Angeles to speak with my uncle and attempt reconciliation. He refused to forgive me.”
“Your uncle could have called the police on you as an accomplice, guilty or not, Miss Whittier, so you should be thankful that was all he did.” Mr. Pomroy laid his hand across the newsprint and looked at her long and hard. “So are you wondering if I’m going to throw you out of your shop like my last tenant?”
She held herself as tall and straight as she could. “We signed a lease, Mr. Pomroy, a legal document giving me the right to that storefront for six months.”
“It’ll be an idle storefront, Miss Whittier, without customers. There isn’t a respectable family in this town that’ll give you their business after this. Not with so many other art studios and print shops to choose from.” He tapped a forefinger on the paper. “The Chronicle is doing a good business selling papers, however.”
“I can still pay the rent for the next couple of months. Mr. Samuelson’s loan and the sale of all my artwork should enable us to survive that long.” She’d given up on ever seeing the money from Mr. Winston. And as for the other money promised to her . . . she’d likely never see that either. “And we don’t yet know the outcome of the probate trial.”
“Do you really think that will fall in your favor, Miss Whittier?” Mr. Pomroy sighed deeply. “I have known you for quite a while and have thought you a headstrong idealist, but I’ve never thought you a dishonorable woman. I am sorry you have come to this.”
She believed him, believed the regretful turn of his mouth, the way he looked at her like a father might regard a fallen child. “You worried that I or my girls would let you down, and I have.”
“I worry about all my clients, Miss Whittier, so don’t think yourself exceptional,” he answered wryly. “As embarrassing as this news story is, my partners and I will not turn you out of the shop, unless ultimately you can’t pay the rent. We would have no choice, in that case; we do have a business to run. However, staying in town means you’ll have to weather the storm of gossip.”
“My only future is here, Mr. Pomroy. With the young women I still intend to help.” Daniel, how could you do this to them? To Cora and Phoebe and Minnie and Emma? All in the name of revenge against Josiah.
“You’re braver than I would be in your situation, Miss Whittier.” Gently, he took her arm. “Go home and rest. Whatever you do, d
on’t answer knocks on your door. You have more to face tomorrow, and I’m afraid the hearing will not go well.”
He couldn’t possibly be more afraid of that outcome than she was.
Mutely, Sarah let him lead her to his entry hall. Whoever had been out there had gone, and the small rectangle of space, warm in reds and golds and dark wood, was empty.
“Whatever happened to your art tutor, by the way?” Mr. Pomroy asked as she crossed the threshold and stepped onto the porch. “Did he make it to Canada with those nuggets?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Pomroy.” She’d stopped asking herself that question years ago. “And I really don’t care.”
If he were a violent man, he’d go to the nearest gun shop, buy a Colt 45 and blow Archibald Jackson’s head clean off his shoulders. But Daniel was not a violent man, regrettably, and any rage he felt over the story in the Sunday morning Chronicle simply served to make his stomach feel hollow.
Over his shoulder, the dining room waiter let out a low whistle. It was Red, taking too much interest in Daniel’s newspaper. “Some story, ain’t it? ‘A Cautionary Tale of Greed and Immorality.’ Catchy.”
Daniel slapped the paper shut. “It’s a bunch of lies,” he snapped, but how much was lies, and how much, truth? She’d told him she was from Arizona. She had been able to lie about that, right to his face. Any number of her claims could be false.
Red cleared away Daniel’s empty plate. “You think so? I think it makes all sorts of sense.” He glanced around him then leaned closer to whisper. “Explains why there’s still a story about nuggets up there at the Cady house. Maybe that woman stole ’em from that French fellow and hid them away somewhere. Or maybe she’s sitting on a big fat bag of gold your father brought here with him and never told nobody about.”
Daniel clenched his fists against his lap.
Josiah's Treasure Page 24
