He inched away from her. “That’s why I’m staying in San Francisco.”
“You still shouldn’t be alone.”
He rubbed his hands over the rail. “Is Mr. Dawson waiting for you in the diggings?”
“Oh no,” she said, waving her glove. “There’s no Mr. Dawson. It’s just safer traveling as a married woman.”
“That’s shrewd of you.”
“You can’t fool me, Mr. Payne.” She scooted closer to him. “You may have been a deckhand on this boat, but you are clearly a gentleman. And I am a lady in need of companionship.”
One day he wanted to marry, but he didn’t want a marriage of convenience. Or to make promises simply to keep warm. One day, he wanted to marry a woman he loved. A woman who would dare love him in return.
“I’m afraid I have all the companionship I need.”
“Of course—it’s impossible to dig for gold when you’re traveling with company.” She looked back down at the white-capped waves. “Would you consider selling the boy to me? I’ve become quite attached to him.”
He considered her words for a moment. He may not need a wife, but Isaac needed a mother.
“I’d pay you a good sum,” she continued.
“What if you didn’t pay me anything?” he asked. “What if you adopted him?”
She stepped away from the railing, her smile slipping. “Why would I adopt him?”
“You said Isaac needed someone to care for him.”
“Without a husband, I need someone to care for me.”
“Ah.” The woman didn’t want a son. Isaac would remain in slavery with this woman until she found a husband. Then he’d be dispensable. “I’m afraid he’s not for sale.”
“So I get nothing from you?”
“Well wishes as you search for gold.”
“I’m not looking for gold.” A smile returned to her lips again. “I’m looking for a husband so I can help him enjoy his gold.”
“It seems I have liberated you, then.” He tipped his hat to her. “I’m not here to look for gold either.”
As Alden stepped away, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Webb along the rail, on the other side of the deck. Persila stood near them and so did Isaac. Persila held Isaac’s hand as if she feared he might fall into the water, watching over him again like she’d done repeatedly as they worked together these past months.
Alden had tried to talk to her about freedom, about the possibilities in this new state, but she didn’t seem to be able to entertain the hope of a future beyond serving the Webbs.
Isaac leaned against the railing, searching for a glimpse of the harbor. “Is it really California?”
“That’s what Captain Crandall says.”
“What will we do when we get on land?” Isaac asked. For the first time, Alden heard a tremor of fear in the boy’s voice. They’d worked hard these past five months to secure their passage out west. And now the end—or beginning—was close at hand.
“I have a job waiting for me here.”
“Will you hire me out?” Isaac asked.
Alden shook his head. “I’m hoping they might have work at the office for you too.”
At least until he found Isaac a good home.
An albatross flew over their ship, diving into the bay, and the land began to clear in front of them, breaking free of the fog. He saw sand hills at first, covered by scrubs of evergreen, and then the harbor with a forest of ship masts huddled together below a hill, like weeds sprouting out of muddy soil. Above were the façades of buildings, stair-stepped up, and clusters of shanties and tents on each side.
San Francisco.
Everything looked grimy yellow from this vantage point. Dank. But it was home, and he was glad to be here. He would learn to work alongside Judah. And he and Isaac would be free from slave masters and ship captains alike.
The clipper dropped anchor near the pier, and Captain Crandall ordered his crew to extend the gangplank, but Alden and Isaac were officially done with their work. Alden had left his trunk back in Boston, so all he and Isaac carried were two carpetbags.
His legs wobbled as the wood below him on the gangplank seemed to sway.
“Why am I still rocking?” Isaac asked, his eyes wide.
“It will stop soon,” Alden reassured him. “Our bodies don’t know we’ve landed yet.”
Isaac reached for the rope railing. “I hope my legs figure it out soon.”
Persila trailed the Webb family down the gangplank. While almost everyone else had a look of jubilation on their face, she looked terrified to discover what this new land held.
“Are you going straight to the Mother Lode?” Alden asked Mr. Webb.
The man looked at him with the same disdain as many of the other passengers on the ship, but then he saw Isaac and seemed to realize that Alden was a kindred spirit of sorts: the only other man on the Pharos who’d brought a slave into California with him. “We’re going to Sacramento City for a week or two first, then we’ll travel to the goldfields. Where are you headed?”
“I’m staying here in San Francisco.”
Mr. Webb nodded at Isaac. “Are you selling him?”
“No,” Alden replied. “Are you selling Persila?”
“Not yet.”
Alden lowered his voice, pretending to confide in the man. “I was worried about bringing a slave to a free state.”
“There’s no need to worry,” Mr. Webb proclaimed. “I heard there are plenty of slaves out here, digging gold for their masters.”
Alden groaned inwardly.
“Once we strike it rich, we’ll buy us a fine mansion and live as good as anyone else.”
While the Webbs collected their freight, Alden slipped up beside Persila. “You can find me at 316 Stockton Street,” he said. “I will do everything I can to fight for your freedom.”
“You fight for Isaac’s freedom,” she said before kissing the boy on his head. “I’ll be praying for you both.”
Isaac looked as if he might cry. “I’ll be praying for you too.”
He and Isaac strolled off the pier, into a hodgepodge of adobe buildings, wooden warehouses, saloons, and hotels. The hulls of old ships were used as foundations for some of the buildings, and canvas was draped as roofs over others. The streets were crowded with men it seemed from around the world, speaking different languages. He only saw one woman, and she was dressed like a man, with sporting pants and a black frock coat.
Mrs. Dawson would find a husband soon. Perhaps before the day’s end.
“Fresh fish!” a vendor yelled on one side of the street. Another yelled that he was selling candy, oranges, and pears—a tray secured by suspenders over his shoulders displayed his wares. There were chickens in cages at an open market, quarters of animals hanging overhead. The smell of roasting meat clung to the salty sea air.
Isaac glanced up at him.
“We’ll eat soon,” Alden promised him.
They pushed through the crowds of people as they climbed the dirt road up to Judah’s office on Stockton. It was located in a two-story whitewashed building, the sign overhead displaying the names of Garrett and Baer.
Alden checked the address again before he and Isaac stepped into a bank, complete with two teller booths and an office on the side.
He slid the envelope across the counter. “I received a letter from a friend at this address.”
The teller read the address and stepped back, saying he would return.
Isaac’s nose was pressed against the glass window in the lobby. It seemed everyone else in this city was in a rush to their destination, as if they had someplace important to go. But this address was supposed to be terminus ad quem—the journey’s end for Isaac and him.
The teller returned to the counter. “Mr. Fallow used to rent an office upstairs, but he’s no longer here.”
“Do you know where he went?”
The man shook his head, slipping the envelope back to him. “My employer says he left a year ago. Probably went to the goldfields.”
> Alden stared down at the letter with dismay, then stuffed it back into his pocket, mumbling a thanks to the clerk before turning toward the door.
Judah had been so resolute with his offer; Alden hadn’t considered that the man would have left San Francisco before he arrived.
Why hadn’t he told Alden where he’d gone?
Despondent, he leaned back against a post. What would he do if he couldn’t find work? Even if he found Isaac a home, there wasn’t enough money left for his return passage to Boston now.
He prayed San Francisco wasn’t an ending for them after all.
Chapter 22
Sacramento City
May 1854
Isabelle knelt on the grass by her aunt’s grave, a bouquet of wild lupine in her arms. She laid the pale yellow and purple flowers beside the dried ones she’d brought here last week. Then she’d kissed her fingers and held them against the cool marble stone.
Aunt Emeline rested beside her husband in City Cemetery, her grave marked with a simple epitaph.
EMELINE LABRIE
LOVING WIFE, FAITHFUL SERVANT, DAUGHTER OF GOD
APRIL 1797–FEBRUARY 1854
The words pierced Isabelle’s heart again. Three months had passed since Aunt Emeline had gone home, but it seemed like years. The anchor in Isabelle’s life had been cut loose, and she felt like a ship lost at sea, drifting through a storm.
When she was younger, she used to watch other families with wonder until God brought a family to love her too. Her aunt and uncle had cared deeply for her well-being and for her dreams. For almost a decade, she had belonged.
The trinket box that Aunt Emeline had given her was hidden in the room under her desk at the hotel, and she wore two keys around her neck now—one for the lockbox with revenue from the hotel and the other for her aunt’s box. That key was a consistent reminder of her aunt, but she still couldn’t bear to open her gift. Nor could she visit the cottage on the knoll above the cemetery, even though Nicolas and Sing Ye had invited her to dine with them.
Soon, she’d told them. Soon, she could step into the cottage, knowing that the woman she’d loved was gone. And soon, she hoped, she’d be able to press forward confidently in this world on her own.
Her guardian was gone now, but she couldn’t continue drifting. She would have to find strength to stand on her own feet and face whatever was next, knowing the God of Aunt Emeline and Uncle William—the God who sent His son—was with her too.
Standing, she wiped the tears from her eyes and began to walk back between the scrubs and iron fences and the mishmash of wooden and marble tombstones. The spring sun was welcome relief from the doldrums caused by the winter’s rain. The storms had come swiftly into California and were already gone.
Still Ross hadn’t returned home.
She’d received two more letters from him in the past months, a repetition of his previous words. He’d found gold. He couldn’t wait to marry her in the spring.
But April had passed, and she’d begun to wonder if perhaps there was another woman in Marysville vying for his attention. Ironic, given he already had two women waiting for him in Sacramento.
She walked through the cemetery’s gatehouse, and wind rustled the branches of a lone tree as she neared the street. Several blocks ahead, the Sacramento River bent toward the busy wharf. She could see the twin stacks of one of the steamboats that brought supplies and Argonauts alike from San Francisco. The paddle wheels on the sides of the boat churned the water, lapping it against the banks. A steady rhythm between man and nature.
She and Fanny had slipped into a comfortable rhythm as well, working together to accommodate their guests at the Golden. In lieu of a friendship, they’d developed a polite camaraderie, never stepping back into the mire of what had or had not happened between Isabelle and Ross. After Aunt Emeline died, Fanny stopped asking questions about the past, and Isabelle was grateful that she didn’t have to answer the inquiries. She was quite content just sipping tea together each morning, reading the papers, knowing that Fanny would be gone soon.
She’d finally told Fanny that she received word that Ross was in Marysville, but instead of going to find him, the woman opted to stay in the city. Fanny had said she preferred to wait and enjoy the fruits of Ross’s labor when he returned.
When Isabelle reached Fourth Street, she turned right. Lorinda Washburn, the only dressmaker in Sacramento, lived in a small house on this street, and as Isabelle passed her window, she saw Fanny inside, being fitted, it seemed, for a new wardrobe.
Fanny had no money to pay for clothing, but she’d still been visiting Lorinda about once a week, placing orders that she wouldn’t be able to redeem until Ross returned. Reality didn’t seem to daunt her. Fanny was convinced that Ross would take back the hotel, and she was preparing to take her place as hostess.
Sighing, Isabelle walked into the lobby. If Ross were able to buy back his half, she’d transfer the entire ownership of the hotel to him. No matter the arrangement, she couldn’t work alongside him and Fanny.
Stephan was helping Janette in the kitchen, preparing for dinner. He had retrieved a box from the steamboat that arrived this morning—a buttery queso chanco from Chile, chocolate from Domingo Ghirardelli’s company in San Francisco, and almonds from Spain. Janette was focused on her preparations of a torta caprese for dessert, a chocolate almond cake powdered with sugar.
“Have you seen Fanny?” Janette asked, her dress and hair powdered with sugar as well.
Isabelle nodded. “She’ll be back soon.”
“She’s been gone all morning.”
Janette complained more often these days about Fanny’s long absences, and Isabelle couldn’t blame her. The person who labored the least among them was living in the best rooms, seeming to do what she pleased. If Ross wasn’t planning to return, Fanny needed to go find him.
The lobby bell chimed, and Isabelle hurried to the next room. As she moved through the dining room, she pressed her hands against the chignon she’d twisted at the nape of her neck, checking the loose curls that fell on each side of her head. Then she straightened her gray day skirt and white blouse.
When she rounded the corner, she saw the back of a man dressed in a blue flannel shirt, jean trousers, and high boots pulled up almost to his knees. The typical attire of a miner. But then she stopped in the archway. Frozen. She knew the shape of those shoulders, the dark-blond hair that had grown long over his collar.
Nine months after walking out of the Golden, Ross had returned.
She stepped back, poised to run away, but it was too late. He spun on the heels of his boots, his lips breaking into a smile. Then he rushed across the lobby to her, arms outstretched.
Before she could speak, he wrapped her in his arms. Kissed her lips.
Stunned, she stepped away, her stomach ill. She’d rehearsed this moment for months, and yet she couldn’t seem to remember what she’d intended to say to the man in front of her.
He was grinning, oblivious to her reluctance. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it back before April,” he said. “Did you get my letters?”
She nodded slowly.
“I felt like I was close to something big, and boy, was I.” He dug into the pocket of his coat and removed a buckskin pouch. Inside was a small nugget of gold. “I wanted to surprise you.”
He handed the gold to her, and she stared down at her hand, her palm open. “I can’t accept this.”
His grin faded. “But I found it for you.”
She held the nugget out toward him. “I’m sure your wife will appreciate it.”
He lowered the bag in his hands, studying her face instead of the gold. “Have you changed your mind?”
“No.”
“I thought you would be faithful, no matter how long I was gone.”
She curled her fingers over the nugget. “And I thought you were an honest man.”
He shook his head. “You’re not making sense.”
“You asked me to marry you, Ross.
”
“And it’s something I intend to do. This afternoon, if possible.”
“You might want to speak to your wife about it first.” Outside the window, she saw Fanny strolling slowly up the walkway, a white parasol propped up over her head to ward off the sun. “She’s been waiting for months for you and your gold.”
Moments later, Fanny opened the door. When she saw Ross, she shrieked and rushed toward him, flinging her arms around him. As she clung to his neck, Ross looked over at Isabelle. She saw the shock in his gaze. Dismay.
Fanny had been telling the truth. And it seemed he hadn’t ever intended to make good on his promises to the woman he’d left behind.
“How I’ve missed you,” Fanny said, stepping back, though her hands remained on his shoulders.
He dropped back against the counter. “I’ve—I’ve missed you too.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” She took a breath. “I didn’t think you would ever come back.”
She kissed him and then let go, giggling when she realized that Isabelle was in the room too. Her gaze fell to the nugget in Isabelle’s hands.
“Look what Ross brought for you,” Isabelle said, holding it out.
Fanny squealed as she reached for it. “You did find gold.”
His smile was strained. “Of course I did.”
She examined the piece. “How much more did you find?”
“Plenty, but it’s all in dust,” he said, speaking as if every word pained him.
Fanny smiled up at him again. “Now we can buy back your hotel.”
Reaching for Ross’s hand, Fanny led him around Isabelle, back toward the rooms where she’d been staying. Isabelle slipped over to her refuge behind the counter. She thought about hiding upstairs in her room, locking herself in until Mr. and Mrs. Kirtland left the hotel, but she wouldn’t be able to hide for long. Instead, she tried to busy herself by writing a letter to a shop in San Francisco.
An hour later, after taking a bath and changing into the clothes of a businessman, Ross returned to the lobby. “Fanny is packing,” he said. “Can we talk upstairs?”
They walked up to the third floor, to the sitting area in the center of the lodging rooms. He sat on one of the damask-covered chairs, and she leaned back against the wall beside the window.
Beneath a Golden Veil Page 13
