Midnight Star (8 page)

“Well, miss, San Francisco ain’t as wild as it was in forty-nine, but if you don’t mind me saying so . . .”

Another lecture from a well-meaning man, she thought, and cocked her head to one side, giving him her complete attention.

The Oriental Hotel was a pleasant surprise. Porticoes embellished its four-story facade and formed a shaded gallery on the entrance level. There was a wide wooden-planked sidewalk in front of the hotel and a gold-liveried employee met her at the front door.

On their short ride from the wharf, Chauncey had been aware of men who simply stopped in their tracks and stared at them. Some of them looked quite disreputable with their slouched hats and flannel trousers, and others, oddly enough to
Chauncey, looked like gentlemen straight off St. James Street in London, replete with frilled white shirts and black frock coats. It was no different in the lobby of the Oriental Hotel. There were a half-dozen gentlemen seated in comfortable chairs in the lobby, and upon her entrance she could feel their eyes studying her as if she were a rare and exotic specimen. The man behind the desk merely blinked at her once, then with a good deal of aplomb inquired politely what she wished.

I want to become quickly well-known as a young English lady of wealth, she thought, and informed the clerk that she wished the best accommodations available. She also informed him of her name in a rather carrying voice.

“Welcome to San Francisco, Miss Jameson.”

There, she thought, following a young man and their luggage up the beautifully carved winding staircase, soon I should be the talk of San Francisco. I hope.

Chauncey wasn’t aware that Mary, following in her wake, was waving her umbrella toward the hungry-eyed men who looked ready to follow her young mistress.

“Is the weather always so lovely and clear?” she asked the young man.

“ ’Tis changeable, miss, if you know what I mean, it being March and all. You’ll see fog soon enough. Thick white stuff that covers everything in sight, ’cept of course the tops of the hills. Now, when it rains, there’s the problem. Always carry an umbrella, miss, and wear sturdy boots. The streets get real nasty. In fact, last month a gentleman was walking on the sidewalk, and
before he knew it, the wooden planks sank and he was up to his knees in muck! Such language.”

Chauncey’s suite of rooms on the top floor of the Oriental was more beautiful than her rooms at the Bradford Hotel in London. Perhaps more gawdy, she amended, smiling at the vivid crimson draperies, held in place with thick loops of gold velvet.

“Lawks, Miss Chauncey,” Mary breathed in awe after the young man had reluctantly taken his leave. “You’ll not believe my room. It’s a bloody palace! Prime, everything!”

Chauncey privately thought her own huge bedroom looked more like a harem suite than a hotel, but she held her peace. It was spacious and the view from the wide window was indeed beautiful. She could see all of the downtown area, the high-jutting barren hills, and the sparkling blue water of the bay, dotted with at least a hundred ships. So many buildings and so many people, she thought, trying to visualize a San Francisco of ten years before, a village of a mere one hundred souls. She walked to the vast bed and ran her hand over the soft dark blue velvet spread. Prime indeed, she thought.

“Look, Miss Chauncey,” Mary said, “you’ve even a private bathing area behind this screen. Your own tub, too!”

“Prime,” said Chauncey.

Chauncey paused a moment and looked up at the imposing bright-blue-painted sign: “
Saxton, Brewer, and Company.
” For several moments her legs simply would not carry her forward. I am become a coward after all these months, she
thought. What if he recognizes my name? Don’t be a fool, she chided herself. Elizabeth Jameson is a stranger; he will never make a connection. She became aware suddenly that a group of men had stopped their progress along Montgomery Street and were staring openly at her.

She forced her shoulders back, raised her chin, and marched through the huge oak door into the vast interior of the bank, Mary close on her heels. It wasn’t quiet, as were the banks in England, she thought, smiling to herself when she remembered she had visited but one. Men were arguing, talking in small groups clustered about black-frocked men, employees, she supposed, of the bank. Slowly the boisterous talk quieted as the men noticed her presence.

A tall, good-looking man, dressed in well-cut somber black, detached himself from a group and walked toward her, his face a study in curiosity and pleasure. He is young, Chauncey thought as he approached her, not much above thirty. Her heart began to pound and her mouth was suddenly dry.

“May I help you, miss?” the man asked, his voice pleasantly deep and vibrant.

Get a hold on yourself, you silly fool! “Yes, I am here to see Mr. Saxton. It is my intention to visit San Francisco and I wish to open an account in your bank.”

He was silent a moment; then a wide smile split his mouth and she saw a small space between his two front teeth. “You are English,” he said. At her nod, he continued, “I am Mr. Brewer, Miss . . .”

“Miss Jameson. Elizabeth Jameson.”

“Yes, Miss Jameson. I am sorry, but Mr. Saxton is not here.”

Chauncey felt like howling her disappointment. To come all this way and the wretched man was gone. “When do you expect Mr. Saxton, sir?”

Daniel Brewer pulled on his left earlobe, a habit of long standing. “He is currently in Downieville, visiting the mines, ma’am. I expect him to return in another week or so. May I help you?”

Mines? Her father’s mines?

“Miss Jameson?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Brewer. Of course you may help me.” She paused a moment, gathering her wits and suppressing her raging disappointment. “Let us go to your office, sir. And we will need the services of an honest jeweler.”

Their business was transacted quickly and Chauncey was pleased with the result. The jeweler assessed several of the diamonds she wished to convert into cash at a slightly higher value than had the man in London. Mr. Brewer provided her with an account book, telling her that it was never wise to carry much money on her person.

“May I escort you ladies back to your hotel?” he asked solicitously.

Mary was not the least surprised when Chauncey gave Mr. Brewer a dazzling smile and agreed. She’ll pry every bit of information out of the poor man, she thought, walking sedately behind Chauncey, her umbrella held tightly in her fisted hand.

“Would you like tea, Mr. Brewer?” Chauncey asked politely.

Mr. Brewer beamed.

Over tea, Chauncey, not one to rush her fences, inquired politely about Mr. Brewer and his antecedents. He was from Atlanta, he said, his father a clerk in a mill. He had been in San Francisco for two years now, and had no intention of ever returning to the South. After his second cup of tea, she asked casually, “You said that Mr. Saxton would not return for a week, sir?”

“That’s right, Miss Jameson. I do know that he will be back for the Stevensons’ masked ball. Promised to be here, and of course he wouldn’t let down Miss Stevenson.”

Miss Stevenson!
She sipped her tea. “A young lady, I gather?”

“Yes, Miss Penelope is Henry Stevenson’s only daughter. Pretty girl, and much sought after, as you can imagine, miss. It shouldn’t be long before an announcement is made. Where did you meet Mr. Saxton?”

Chauncey’s eyes flew to his face in momentary consternation. “Captain Markham of our ship, the
Eastern Light,
recommended him to me. He assured me that Mr. Saxton was a most . . . honest man.”

“Del is that. He’s one of the original argonauts and one of the few men to make a fortune in gold and not lose it. Now he’s into banking and shipping, even politics. It’s my pleasure to be his partner.”

Chauncey sloshed the tea around the bottom of her cup. “And Mr. Stevenson? Is he equally as honest and well-to-do as Mr. Saxton?”

Mr. Brewer gave a loud belly laugh. “Honest? Well, Miss Jameson, that’s indeed a relative term in San Francisco. Everything is freer out here, if
you get my meaning. The biggest crooks are our politicians, but I guess that’s true most anywhere. Mr. Stevenson now, he’s rich, richer than Del as a matter of fact. He owns the bulk of the iron foundries, a lucrative business here, and one of the newspapers.”

Richer than Delaney Saxton. How can I ruin him if he weds an heiress?

“I just arrived in your beautiful city, as you know, Mr. Brewer, and you are my first acquaintance. Perhaps it would be possible for me to meet Mrs. Stevenson and—”

“Of course, Miss Jameson, of course!” he interrupted her jovially. “A young lady like yourself needs to meet other ladies of your own standing. Perhaps you would like me to call with you at the Stevensons’?”

Chauncey gave him her most royal look, as if to say:
I
call upon
them?

Mr. Brewer had not gained his modest fortune by being stupid. Not only was Miss Jameson an extraordinarily lovely young lady, she was also quite rich. An eccentric, he thought, excusing her. Undoubtedly Mrs. Stevenson would trade her jewels to be called friend by this rich young Englishwoman.

“On the other hand,” he said, “perhaps I should instead tell Mrs. Stevenson of your arrival in our city. Then she could call on you . . . tomorrow? I am certain she would be pleased to present you with an invitation to her ball.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brewer,” Chauncey said in her most regal voice. She rose gracefully, extending her hand to him. “You have been most kind, sir. I trust I will see you again soon.”

Mary showed Mr. Brewer to the door and turned to Chauncey, her broad forehead lined with a frown. “You didn’t count on that, Miss Chauncey.”

Chauncey didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “No,” she said slowly, “I didn’t. I am rich, Mary, but if Mr. Saxton marries this girl, the Stevensons’ wealth combined with Mr. Saxton’s will make things much more difficult.” She fell silent and walked over to the wide bow window to stare down at the bustling activity below on Market Street.

“What are you thinking, Miss Chauncey?”

“I’m not certain yet, Mary,” Chauncey said, not turning. “First I will make the acquaintance of Mrs. and Miss Stevenson. Perhaps it is just as well that Mr. Saxton is not here. I will have time to learn all about the lion before bearding him in his den.”

Delaney stared meditatively into the mirror as he carefully arranged his cravat. He satisfied himself with his first effort and turned away to shrug into his black frock coat, held by a silent Lucas.

“This evening will be a bloody bore,” Delaney said.

“Perhaps not,” Lucas suggested. “Don’t forget you’ve yet to lay eyes on that new English lady, an angel by all accounts.”

“Only by Dan Brewer’s account. According to Penelope, the girl’s hardly passable and a true English snob.”

Lucas grinned. “Well, you’ll be able to judge for yourself.” He handed Delaney a black velvet mask and a black cape.

“What utter nonsense,” he heard Delaney mutter under his breath. “I suppose I’ll be quite late. Bring the carriage back and don’t wait up for me,
Luc. I’ll get home with somebody, I’m certain. And drive slowly, I need to recoup my strength and my patience before I can be pleasant to Mrs. Stevenson.”

Lucas did as he was instructed. Delaney leaned back against the stiff leather squabs and closed his eyes. There had been trouble at the Midnight Star, his mine in Downieville, and two men were dead as a result. Damned violence, he thought, still unable to accept it, as common as it had become in his life. And now he was on his way to play the gallant at a masked ball!

Miss Elizabeth Jameson, an Englishwoman. When he had arrived home two days before, Dan Brewer could speak of nothing else. The lady was wealthy, beautiful, and eccentric. Dan showed Delaney the finely cut diamonds in the vault. “She must be eccentric,” Dan declared. “Why else would she come here, for God’s sake?”

“Maybe she’s hanging out for a rich husband,” Delaney said.

“Ha! She wouldn’t have to walk a block to find one!” He glanced at his friend and partner slyly. “Did I tell you, Del, that it was you she wanted to see when she first came to the bank?”

“No,” Delaney said dryly, “you didn’t. I don’t know her from Adam . . . Eve, rather. I wonder why.”

“She said something about the captain of the
Eastern Light
singing your praises.”

An unmarried young lady was still something of an oddity in San Francisco, and Delaney was curious, he couldn’t deny it. He grimaced, remembering another bloody long
English tea
with Penelope and Mrs. Stevenson the afternoon before.

“Just imagine,” Mrs. Stevenson had marveled loudly, “a real English lady here, and she will be at our ball. We enjoyed tea with her at the Oriental. Only the best suite for her.”

“You make her sound like an exotic bird,” Delaney said.

Penelope tittered. “Bird indeed, Delaney! Mama, does she not have a beak of a nose?”

“No breathtaking plumage?” Delaney asked.

“Well,” Penelope grudgingly admitted, “she does have beautiful clothes. But she was rather cold and standoffish.”

“Now, my dear,” Mrs. Stevenson said, frowning slightly at her daughter, “Miss Jameson wasn’t precisely cold. It is just that she is English. Very formal, but quite gracious in accepting our invitation. Did you not say, Delaney, that the English are far more restrained in their manners than Americans?”

“Something like that,” Delaney agreed.

“I thought her quite old,” Penelope said.

“Old?” her mother uttered. “My dear, she cannot be beyond her twenty-first year!”

Delaney laughed softly, picturing clearly Penelope’s pouting little mouth. She could obviously not bear to have competition from another young lady. The carriage slowed as they neared the Stevenson mansion. Set on the gentle north slope of Rincon Hill, the impressive structure was aglow with lights from every window. Carriages lined the road, and Delaney called out to Lucas, “Stop here! I’ll walk the rest of the way. Thank God it hasn’t rained—I wouldn’t want to soil my beautiful togs!”

Delaney fastened on his mask and swung the
cloak over his shoulders. He paused as he neared the massive front doors, and gazed up a moment at the sparkling stars in the clear sky above. He breathed the crisp cool night air deeply into his chest, wondering as he did so if Marie were already here with Jarvis, her escort. She would behave herself. She was French and utterly practical.

The Stevenson rendition of a butler, a man named Boggs, was a rough-looking character with a battered nose and a mouthful of broken teeth. His history was unknown, which was probably just as well for the peace of the Stevensons. Tonight he was decked out in formal evening dress and looked for the world like a mongrel dog among curled poodles.

“Good evening, Boggs,” Delaney said. “It’s elegant you are tonight.”

“Thank you, Mr. Saxton,” Boggs said grandly.

Delaney handed over his silk top hat and wandered upstairs to the huge ballroom. Glittering chandeliers cast dancing shadows on the guests, many of whom were whirling about in a rather fast-paced waltz. The small orchestra was settled at the far end of the ballroom upon a dais, playing their instruments with urgent gaiety.

Delaney recognized most of the guests immediately, though they were all wearing the required masks. As usual, there were more men than women present, even including some of the more questionable females. He saw Mrs. Stevenson, her iron-gray hair arranged in ridiculously tight ringlets about her broad face, two huge ostrich plumes rising at least a foot above her head. Penelope was surrounded by a group of
men. He could hear her tittering at their compliments from where he stood. He scanned the crowd, realizing he was searching for Miss Elizabeth Jameson. He saw Marie dancing with the stiff-kneed Jarvis. Penelope could learn something about style from Marie, as could most of the ladies here tonight, he thought, unconsciously nodding approval of her yellow velvet gown. Her only jewelry was a diamond necklace he had given her at Christmas.

There she was, the mysterious Englishwoman in question—he was sure of it—standing next to Dan Brewer, while Dan, bless his heart, appeared to be shielding her from the onslaught of eager gentlemen. She was wearing an elegant gown of pale blue silk that fell away from her white shoulders. He scanned her form, objectively noting her full breasts and slender waist. “I take it all back,” he murmured to himself. “There is style.” He could tell nothing of her face, but her hair was lovely, an odd combination of colors, like the leaves in autumn back in Boston, he thought. He moved no closer, content to watch her for a while. Only when Dan left her to go to the refreshment table did Delaney approach. There were a half-dozen other men closing in on her, but he deftly made his way through their ranks until he stood in front of her.

“It is my dance, I believe, Miss Jameson,” he said calmly, and proffered his arm.

Chauncey eyed the gentleman standing so much at his ease in front of her. He was tall, slender, and well-dressed. His hair was a light brown, the color of rich honey, and rather longer than an English gentleman would wear. He wore no side
whiskers or beard. His mouth was well-formed and his smile attractive.

At least he appeared utterly respectable, and he did know her name. A man of some importance, she supposed, for the other men had stood aside for him. Still, she frowned a moment before accepting him, her eyes going about the huge ballroom yet again. Where was Saxton? Dan Brewer had assured her that he would be coming.

“You know my name, sir,” she said, bringing back her attention to the gentleman.

“Of course,” he said. “I promise not to tread on your toes. Waltzing is one of my major accomplishments.”

Chauncey grinned and accepted his arm. She found that he was a surprisingly good dancer, his movements easy to follow, and he did not attempt to draw her close.

“I do not know your name, sir,” she said, gazing up at him. His eyes were a light brown, nearly the same color as his thick hair, with golden lights. Or were they more amber? It was hard to discern his other features because of his mask.

His eyes twinkled down at her. “I do not think you have a beak of a nose,” he said.

“A beak! No, I trust not. What an outrageous thing to say, sir.”

“True, but I was informed that it was indeed the case. By a young lady, of course. No gentleman, even if it were true, would so castigate an unmarried lady, at least not in San Francisco.”

“I am beginning to believe that you would, sir!”

“I?” A mobile brown brow shot upward a good
inch. He smiled, revealing straight white teeth. “Never! I may be a blackguard, but I would never insult a lady who dances as well as you do.”

“I do not dance with blackguards, sir.”

“I beg to differ with you, ma’am. If you have danced at all this evening, blackguards have already numbered among your partners.”

How slippery he is, Chauncey thought. At least he has wit and doesn’t pretend that I am the most desirable creature in the world! She was silent a moment, remembering, and suddenly she missed a step.

“I suppose,” her partner said pensively, “that I should have asked if you were a treader of toes.”

“Not usually,” she said a bit stiffly, miffled at his lack of tact. “It is just that I was wondering who that man is standing . . . over there.” She pointed distractedly toward a portly gentleman laughing immoderately with a woman wearing a rather pointedly garish red gown.

“No you weren’t, not really,” Delaney said. “In any case, the gentleman is John Parrot, one of San Francisco’s esteemed financiers. Whom were you really looking at?”

“You are most forward,” Chauncey observed, frowning up at him.

“No, actually, I’m the mildest of souls. Ah, the waltz is drawing to a close. But look, Miss Jameson, there is a flock of hungry birds—roosters, more aptly, gazing toward you. I will protect you for another dance.”

Before Chauncey could say a word, he had swung her again into the next waltz. She started to protest, but her gaze was held by a short,
rather stocky young man who stood in the doorway of the ballroom. Was that Delaney Saxton? He looked the part, at least from this distance. He appeared utterly arrogant and conceited, as if he were the royal prince surveying his kingdom.

She landed on her partner’s foot.

“Oh dear, I am truly sorry,” she gasped. “I promise you I am not usually so clumsy.”

“I suppose it is allowable, since you are an eccentric.”

Chauncey was startled into laughter. “Eccentric! Only very old, very wealthy people are allowed to be eccentric, sir. All others are simply crazy.”

“It is what I have been told, Miss Jameson. Why else would you come to San Francisco?”

She fell awkwardly silent, and his eyes narrowed on her still face. “A world traveler, then,” he said easily, disliking her sudden discomfort even though he didn’t understand it.

“Perhaps,” she said finally.

“If you would but tell me whom you are looking for, you would likely spare my body further pain. You just missed another step.”

“Oh, very well,” she said. “If you must know, I am wishful of meeting my banker this evening.”

“Your banker?” he asked carefully, his eyes going briefly toward Dan Brewer.

“Yes, his name is . . . Delaney Saxton. Mr. Brewer told me he would be present this evening. After all, he is supposed to marry Miss Stevenson. Surely he would not miss her ball.”

Delaney was startled into silence. How could a man Miss Jameson had never met before cause her such distraction? There would be time enough
to tell her that it was he who was her banker. But not yet. He wanted to enjoy himself a bit longer. “Marry Penelope Stevenson?” he drawled. “Delaney Saxton? It is a strong possibility, I suppose. Tell me, did Dan Brewer give you all this information?”

Chauncey flushed just a bit. This man made her say things before her mind cleared them for utterance. “Well, not really. You see, Mrs. Stevenson and Miss Penelope came to visit me last week. It was they who told me of Mr. Saxton’s . . . intentions.”

“Hmm,” said Delaney. “Why are you so anxious to meet this fellow? He’s not at all prepossessing, you know. Terrible dancer, quite inarticulate, a buffoon in fact. Always laughs at stupid jests. Really, Miss Jameson, I beg you to forget the man. He’s an utter bore, I promise you.”

“Not an ounce of wit, then?”

“Less than an ounce.”

“You are in fact not a friend of Mr. Saxton’s, then?”

“Did I say that? Ah, such a pity the dance is over. I fear I must return you to your other admirers, ma’am. I wish you luck in fending off their attentions. But you really needn’t worry. They all hold ladies in almost reverent awe.”

“You don’t appear to,” she said sharply.

“But then, I’m something of a bore,” said Delaney, smiling widely down at her.

She was striving to think of a retort when Dan Brewer bore down upon them. “You might at least tell me your name, sir,” she said, goaded, “before,” she added, “you take yourself off.”

“Perhaps later, Miss Jameson. Good evening,
Dan. Did you come to provide protection for our newest lady?”

Dan Brewer smiled shyly at her. “Yes indeed. I’m glad you two have finally met. Miss Jameson, would you kindly honor me with this dance?”

“Met?” Chauncey exploded. “I have no idea who he is!”

Delaney gave her a devilish grin and wheeled about, striding confidently toward Miss Penelope Stevenson.

Dan Brewer laughed, shaking his head. “Ah, Del loves a good mystery! He’s quite a jokester, Miss Jameson. You’ll have to forgive him.”