Their visitor gave a regretful shrug. “Empire, California, is a rough-and-tumble mining camp with a wild and lawless reputation. Violence is common. There’s at least one murder a day in Empire. Hardly any murderer is caught, and even if he is, punishment is highly uncertain. Could be death by hanging or nothing at all.” He looked down at the package at his feet. “Mr. Morgan wanted you to have Charles’s personal effects. Items we collected from his tent—clothing, writing implements, his diary, that sort of thing.”
Letty took a moment to collect herself. This was no time to be looking at items that would surely bring back heart-wrenching memories. “Thank you, Mr. Hastings. We shall go through them later.”
“Well, then.” Hastings rose to leave. He’d done his duty. Plain to see he was eager to escape. “Mr. Morgan sends his sincere condolences. If for some reason you need to talk to him, you’ll find him at 151 Cambridge Street, his residence on Beacon Hill.”
Letty held her tears in check with rigid control. “Please convey my thanks to Mr. Morgan. How kind of him to let us know.” She accompanied their visitor to the door, thanked him, and said good-bye.
Returning to the parlor, she found her mother still sitting on the sofa, pale, shaken, and beyond tears. “Charles is dead?” She looked up at Letty with searching, grief-stricken eyes. “This is so sudden. I can hardly believe it.”
Letty looked for words. None were adequate. “I can hardly believe it either, but it must be true.” She offered her hand. “Come along, let’s go upstairs. This is a horrible shock. You need to lie down. I’ll get a cool cloth for your forehead.”
As if in a daze, Mother allowed her to lead her up the staircase. At the top, she paused. “This Garth Morgan, did Charles ever mention him?”
“Now that I think about it, I believe he did in one or two of his letters.”
“He was supposed to be a friend.”
“That’s what Mr. Hastings said, a good friend.”
“If he was such a good friend, why didn’t he come himself? Why did he send his employee with the news?
“I don’t know. Come on, you need to lie down.” As Letty helped her mother to the bedroom, she wondered the same thing. If he was such a good friend, why hadn’t Garth Morgan delivered his sad news in person? Did he not care? Was he so rich and important he couldn’t be bothered with an ordinary family like the Tinsleys? Probably so, but she should put such an unpleasant assumption out of her mind. Mr. Garth Morgan was just another rich man without a heart, and she shouldn’t give him another thought.
Chapter 2
Only one, very small dark cloud hung over Garth Morgan’s horizon as he stood before the ornate mirror in his bedroom. He liked what he saw. The cut of his wool frock coat emphasized the broad width of shoulders. The matching trousers, rust silk waistcoat and high-collared shirt made him a six-foot-two picture of handsome elegance. Mother would be pleased, although in the end he was bound to disappoint her. At tonight’s dinner party in his honor, she’d no doubt plotted to have one of her friends’ daughters sit beside him and so dazzle him with her charm and beauty he’d propose on the spot. Her blatant strategy had never worked and wouldn’t now. Despite the annoyance, he looked forward to an evening of fine food and chatter with old friends, especially after a trip across the Isthmus of Panama that had been the usual nightmare, and the trip to Boston on a storm-battered ship that kept passengers’ stomachs in constant upheaval. He missed San Francisco already, but on the other hand, how truly enjoyable to be back in the city where he was born. Boston seemed so dignified now, so quiet and safe compared to the rollicking, dangerous, ever-changing city by the bay.
If only…
Mother had mentioned she had a “small favor” to ask. That meant something major. No doubt something he wouldn’t want to give, or do, but because she was his mother, he could not say no.
“Before dinner,” she’d said, “meet me in the library.”
So he’d go downstairs right now, get her small favor out in the open, tell her yes, whatever it was, and enjoy the rest of the evening.
He found his mother, Mrs. Lenora Sternfield Morgan, waiting in the library. If this were England, she’d surely be royalty with her stout figure encased in a gown of elegant black lace, a sparkling diamond tiara perched atop her upswept white hair. That she was one of the acclaimed leaders of Boston society, there could be no doubt.
“You wanted to see me, Mother?”
“No sooner do you get here than you’re leaving again.” Her disapproving expression reminded him she rarely wasted time on trivial conversation. She was always quick to express her grievances.
“You know the reason for that.” Garth lowered his long body into a Louis XVI walnut armchair. “I have a hotel to run in San Francisco, and elsewhere, too. I only came home to see to your investments, as well as mine. Also, I wanted to keep an eye on that considerable shipment of gold I just put in the bank.” He lifted his eyebrow. “Surely you have no objection to that.”
She gave him her contemptuous stare, an expression with which he was quite familiar. “Will you ever sell those wicked saloons?”
Why did he try? There was no pleasing her. He’d never convince her gambling was considered a highly respectable occupation in the west. “You had a favor to ask?”
She was easy to read. Part of her wanted to launch into a lecture about the evils of gambling. Another, more practical part, well understood such lectures were useless, and she might as well move on. “Actually, it’s a big favor but nothing you can’t handle.”
Ah, good. The practical part had won. He sat straight. Better be on the alert. If his mother called it a big favor, it was bound to be something he would be loath to do. “So tell me.”
“You know Sally Walters.”
“Of course I do. She’s one of your oldest, dearest friends.”
“And you are well acquainted with her daughter, Honoria.”
Garth gave a wary nod. What was she up to? Anything involving Honoria could not be good. The same age, they’d played together when they were growing up. To this day, he remembered the mean little girl who’d got him into trouble more than once with her lies and sneakiness.
“As I’m sure you will recall, Honoria married Arnold Leffington, who is now a Major in the United States Army.”
“Of course. I went to her wedding.” No need to recount how he and some of his friends had rejoiced at the happy news that the obnoxious Miss Honoria Walters was finally off the marriage market. They’d had a merry time at her wedding and wished her well.
His mother wasn’t done. “Major Leffington is now stationed at the Presidio in San Francisco.”
“Oh? And Honoria is with him?”
“No, she’s still in Boston. He wants her in San Francisco, though. That’s where you come in.”
Oh, no. No. No. “We were never close, you know. She was spoiled when she was little, and she’s spoiled now.”
His mother ignored his comment and skewered him with a flinty, merciless gaze. “Honoria cannot possibly make that dreadfully long journey by herself. She will need an escort. Since you’ll be leaving for California soon, across that Isthmus, or around the Horn, or whichever way you plan to go, I think it would be most fitting if you accompany the daughter of one of my dearest and oldest friends.”
Words failed him, which perhaps was for the best. What a horrible thought. No way around it. If he said yes, he’d be spending months with a woman whose main topic of conversation was herself, and who totally bored him to distraction. And yet… How could he say no? This was his mother asking. A childhood memory popped into his head. He couldn’t have been more than four when he had those awful earaches, and she’d walk the floor with him half the night. She could easily have had the nanny do it, but she chose to care for him herself. So he had no choice. Above all else, she was his mother, and he’d always be grateful for the warmth and comfort he’d felt in her arms. Ah well… No use fighting a battle he
was bound to lose. “Of course, Mother, I’d be delighted to escort my old friend, Honoria, to California.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” She gave him another shrewd gaze. “You think I don’t know Honoria’s a pain in the neck? I shall write Major Leffington immediately and let him know you’re coming.” She broke into one of her rare, warm smiles. “I truly appreciate your generosity, Garth. God will remember this.” The smile faded. “By the way, I’ve placed Eugenia Becket’s daughter next to you at dinner. Beatrice is a lovely girl. She paints the most beautiful water colors and sings like a lark.”
He smiled back. “You’ve just won a major victory. I suggest you quit while you’re ahead.”
She heaved a weary sigh. “You just won’t listen, will you? Always so sure of yourself. Such confidence leads to a touch of arrogance and conceit.”
“What? You think I’m arrogant and conceited?”
“Of course I do.” She tilted her head back and gave him a cool stare. “The trouble with you is you’ve led a charmed life. You think Honoria is spoiled? Well, so are you. Always gotten your way. Everything you ever wanted, you got without lifting your little finger. Nothing momentous has ever gone wrong in your life. You’d better hope nothing ever does because I’m not sure you could handle a crisis.”
He regarded her with amusement. “So you think I need some momentously awful ‘something’ to happen in my life? Something that’ll bring me down a peg or two?”
“You’re a proud man, Garth. Too proud. Mark my words, you’re riding for a fall.”
“You’ve made your point. Now can we move on?”
She threw up her hands. “All right, we shall say no more on the subject. Ah, Garth…” Her face fell. She looked genuinely distressed. “You’re thirty-three. Way past the time you should have a wife. I could be a grandmother many times over by now, like most of my friends. Instead, for reasons I cannot fathom, you refuse to marry.”
This wasn’t the first time they’d gone through this scene. “When will you stop match-making? How many times have I told you I’m happy as I am—single, and hope to remain so. I’m not against marriage, but as I’ve told you before, I’m not the kind of man who falls in love—never have, never will.”
“Men have needs, and don’t deny it. You’d be better off with a wife than whomever it is you frolic with.”
Frolic? Garth suppressed his laughter. Lillian would laugh. When he got back to San Francisco, he must remember to tell her.
He arose from his chair and offered an arm to his mother. “Come, let’s greet our guests, shall we?” He couldn’t resist adding, “And let’s hope that momentously awful ‘something’ you warned me about won’t happen on the way to the drawing room.”
His mother gave him a disdainful sniff. “You think that’s funny? Laugh and scoff if you want, but you’d better hope that charmed life of yours doesn’t come to an end.” She patted his arm and smiled benignly. “I wouldn’t count on it, though.”
Chapter 3
Charles is dead. The dreadful truth hadn’t yet sunk in. Letty had to keep reminding herself. The package that contained his things sat undisturbed on the parlor floor for hours. Finally, she’d forced herself to carry it upstairs to his room. So far, she hadn’t cried, but tears pressed against her eyes as she sat on his bed and looked around at heart-twisting reminders: his bureau with the silver plated comb and brush set laid out just so; his James Audubon Bird of America prints hanging on the wall; his battered desk with its inkwell and plumed pen, sitting and waiting as if he were about to sit down and write another essay about marine invertebrates or minerals and gemstones. The room was the same as when he left. Other than an occasional dusting, they hadn’t touched a thing.
The tears pressed hard, but Millicent and William would be home soon, and she mustn’t give way now. She’d do something practical, like open the package and go through his things. Get the dismal task over and done with before Mother had to deal with it. She got a pair of scissors from Charles’s desk and cut the light rope that bound the package. With a resigned sigh, she opened it.
A small stack of his clothes lay on top, most she hadn’t seen, but the sight of the dark wool jacket he’d worn for years brought a lump to her throat. Everything could use a wash. Not like her fastidious brother to tolerate dirty clothes, but perhaps laundresses were scarce in the heights of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Under his clothes lay a few small items he might have kept in his pockets: a few coins, comb, silver watch, small penknife. Next, she found his set of watercolors and brushes, then his leather-bound diary. Her anguish grew at the sight of it.
Oh, Charles.
She sank to the bed and turned to page one, dated February 15th, 1851, the day he left Boston to sail around Cape Horn. Skimming through, she found some pages crammed with his meticulous handwriting, others nearly blank. That fit with what he’d told them in his letters, that sailing around Cape Horn involved a few days of high seas and excitement but many days when the ship was caught in the doldrums and hardly moved. Eager to see his last entries, she flipped to the end. But what was this? The last few pages were missing. Only jagged edges remained from where the paper had been torn from the binding. How disappointing. She would very much have wanted to read his last thoughts. Probably the bandits had ripped out the pages. How cruel and unnecessary.
A few sketches of birds lay at the bottom of the package. Charles was a great admirer of James Audubon and liked to sketch his own birds, no matter how busy he was. She laid out the sketches on the bed, along with all the contents of the package.
So this was all that remained of her brother. She wanted to fling herself on the bed and cry, but Mother needed her, and Millicent and William must be told the terrible news. Best to keep busy. She picked up the dark wool jacket. She’d have it cleaned, maybe give it to some poor soul who couldn’t afford a coat. She reached to check the pockets. In the first one she checked, her fingers curved around several folded sheets of paper. What was this? She pulled them from the pocket, unfolded and smoothed them out on the bed. One look and her heart slammed into her chest. Before her lay the legal claim to Golden Hill, a map of some sort and a letter from Charles.
Dear Family,
All is going well here. Nearby claims are just about worked out. Although I continue to find gold, my claim at Golden Hill will also soon be played out. I’m not worried, though. Far from it! My big news is that by sheer luck I have come across a fantastically rich vein of gold not far from my current claim. I’ve named it The Montezuma. These are dangerous times, what with all manner of scoundrels wanting to rob me and my fellow miners of everything we own. For my own safety, I must keep my discovery a secret. If all goes as planned, I shall begin mining operations as soon as I’ve arranged for the necessary protection. As an extra precaution, I’m enclosing my claim to Golden Hill and a map showing the location of The Montezuma. This site is rich beyond belief. In the unlikely event something should happen to me, guard it carefully.
I trust my deposits have reached the bank in a timely fashion. My good friend, Garth Morgan, has been most helpful in that regard and allows me to store my gold in his safe, prior to shipping. I’m about to head down the mountain and leave a considerable deposit at his hotel. He’s leaving for Boston tomorrow with his own gold shipment, and has kindly offered to take mine, too.
Keep the letters coming. I miss you all, and can only wish for your continued health and happiness. How I look forward to my return to Boston and my beloved family.
Your loving son & brother, Charles
Oh dear God. Pressing a hand to her mouth, Letty sank to the bed and unfolded the well-creased map. It appeared to be of his campsite with an arrow pointing to some sort of trail. A curvy line marked “Coyote Creek” ran through it. Farther on, he’d sketched the tiny figure of a blue bird, and farther on an “X.” Like “X” marks the spot? Hard to tell. From a distance of three thousand miles, she couldn’t begin to picture a mining claim high in the
Sierra Nevada Mountains.
Dusk was falling, but she hardly noticed. In the darkening gloom, she clutched the pages. Killed him and hid his body. What with Mathew Hasting’s words drumming through her head, she could hardly think. And what was Charles’s letter all about? My good friend Garth Morgan... Fantastically rich vein of gold…
In the midst of the deep grief that possessed her, she couldn’t make sense of any of it and could only recognize, in the foggiest of ways, that from this day forward her life would never be the same.
On an ordinary evening, light chatter and laughter filled the Tinsley’s dining room. Tonight, Elfreda, the cook, prepared dinner as usual, but she shouldn’t have bothered. The family sat at the dinner table immersed in gloom, merely picking at their food. Letty had shown them Charles’s letter, as well as the map and claim, but so far no one had commented upon his finding a fantastically rich vein of gold. No one had gotten beyond the shock of hearing their beloved Charles was probably dead.
“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” Millicent finally said. Usually Letty’s younger sister provided high-spirited chatter throughout the meal. Tonight, eyes red from crying, she’d hardly spoken.
Letty’s heart went out to her little brother, who sat in disconsolate silence, not even pretending to eat. When given the awful news, he’d bravely fought back his tears. After Charles left, he’d done his best to be the man of the family, and that meant he wasn’t going to cry. But inside, his ten-year-old heart must be broken. William idolized his older brother, wanted to be like him in every way.
At last, Mother, her face pale and strained, laid her fork down and pushed her plate away. “I can’t eat.” Tears filled her eyes. “I feel so helpless. Why aren’t we doing something?”
Gold Rush Bride Page 2
