Josiah's Treasure (10 page)

“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?”

Phoebe nodded. Cora took the opportunity to smile pertly at Daniel before responding to Sarah’s comment. “Absolutely, Miss Sarah. We’d work our fingers to the bone for you.”

“Hm.” He suspected they would, the way they gazed adoringly at her, their personal savior.

“She’s teaching us to paint and draw like the best artists in California,” Cora continued, her hands gesturing with enthusiasm. “But none of us will ever be as good as she is.”

“Thank you, Cora,” said Sarah without a trace of arrogance, sounding humbled that some ill-educated immigrant girl thought the world of her.

Daniel swallowed, though the action didn’t relieve the tension in his throat.

“I never did ask you how much the lease was on this place,” he said. She had to have spent some of Josiah’s money on the first month’s rent and supplies. Maybe even wages to the girls. Money Daniel might never collect.

“Eighty-five a month.” She lifted her chin, daring him to call her a spendthrift. “Rental property is expensive in San Francisco.”

“Sarah negotiated an excellent deal,” said Miss Samuelson, rising to her friend’s defense.

But given what a probate judge was likely to award . . . “Several hundred dollars wouldn’t go far,” Daniel unintentionally murmured aloud, finishing his thought.

Miss Whittier’s brows scrunched together. “‘Several hundred dollars’ . . . what are you talking about, Mr. Cady?”

He caught her gaze. He couldn’t answer. She’d find out soon enough how fragile her dreams were.
Go back to Arizona
, he wanted to tell her.
Go back to your relatives and marry some banker or shopkeeper and stop wanting to help the downtrodden of San Francisco. Stop being as foolish as Josiah, who thought the world was better and more promising than it was.

And don’t make me be a villain.

“I should let you get back to your work, Miss Whittier.” He tapped his hat onto his head. “Miss Samuelson, a pleasure. Ladies.”

“What an interesting visit,” said Lottie, climbing behind Sarah onto the open dummy car of the Stutter Street cable line. “I wonder what Mr. Cady really wanted.”

“So do I.” Sarah settled onto one of the outward-facing benches, where the views were unobstructed and the air was crisp and damp on her face, the evening’s coming coolness tempering the sun’s fading warmth. “I don’t believe for a second he was merely out for a stroll and happened to decide to stop in for a visit. Those questions about the rent . . . he’s trying to figure out if I’m squandering Josiah’s money.”

“That is your view, Sarah, but I have decided he has changed his mind about not supporting the shop and wanted to check on our progress.” Lottie lifted her bustle out of the way to take a seat on the bench next to Sarah. With a ding, the cable car lurched forward.