Josiah's Treasure (34 page)

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.

“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, don’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.

Red scraped crumbs from the tablecloth and continued to offer his opinions. “Looks like your instinct about her was right. She
was
worth askin’ questions over.”

“She wasn’t ever accused of a crime,” he pointed out. Jackson would have uncovered an indictment if there’d ever been one.

“And don’t that make her pure as the driven snow!” Red answered, grinning like the reporter might.

Daniel got to his feet; he’d had enough of listening to the Occidental Hotel waiters offer commentary. “Charge the lunch bill to my room.”

Sarah’s shop was a short block distant, and if he’d come to know her actions at all, she would be there. He had to hear her side of the story, had to get an explanation for how she could have done even a portion of what Jackson had claimed. Needed to square the image the reporter had painted, that of a shameless woman and her thief of a lover, with the one Daniel had come to believe was real.