Sam shifted his attention to the man—looked to be in his fifties—standing next to the young woman. The poor man looked even more dazed than the young woman, and certainly not capable of handling the crowd of men pressing in on them.
“Her father, you think?” Sam asked.
Cookie grunted. “Doesn’t look like the fatherly type, and they bear no resemblance to one another, that’s sure and certain. Can’t really peg him, to be honest. A little too scrawny for the likes of San Francisco. Not that I’m one to judge a fellow before a proper how-do-you-do. So, I’ll just take myself over there and make introductions. That’s the only way to get our questions answered. And while I’m visiting with him, I might convince him to shave off those long sideburns. The poor man will never last in San Francisco looking so fancy.”
At that moment, one of the men lunged at the girl, and Sam could contain himself no longer. He barreled into the street, yanked the man back, and stepped into place next to the beautiful stranger.
“Back up, all of you,” he hollered. “Give her some room.”
No one made a move.
“I said, back up!” He raised his voice, surprised by his own confidence. Any minute now one of these men might give him a black eye for interfering, but that didn’t stop him from trying. “Make room for the lady.”
The men continued their taunting and flirting.
Sam had just about given up when a shot rang out, piercing the air. The men turned at once to see Cookie, who stood on the front porch of the Gold Rush Inn, pistol raised to the sky.
“You heard Sam, fellas. Leave that woman alone or you’ll never eat another piece of my cherry pie.”
The crowd dispersed at once.
Sam didn’t know whether to be embarrassed that he couldn’t handle the men on his own, or grateful that Cookie had come to the rescue.
He glanced at the terrified woman, who looked as if she might faint. “Are you all right?”
“I … I think so.” She gave him a half-smile, but he could read the terror in her eyes.
“These fellows mean no harm, though that might be hard to believe.”
“I believe you.” She seemed to relax a bit with these words. “I think I’m just weary from traveling. This will all look rosier after I’ve had some sleep.”
“Have you made lodging arrangements? I would offer you a room at our inn, but we’re all booked up.”
“She can stay with me.” Cookie pressed her pistol back into its holster. “Don’t mind a bit.”
“No, no.” The woman looked distressed. “We’ve made arrangements at the Ivory Tower.”
“The Ivory Tower?” Sam had wondered how anyone could afford the place since the owner’s most recent price hike.
He didn’t have time to ponder this for long, because the woman’s knees buckled and she started to go down. He caught her just in time and nudged a hand under each arm to prop her up.
“Hang on, miss.” He slipped his arm around her waist and she leaned into him. “We’ll get you to the Ivory Tower, and the sooner the better.”
Abby slept long and hard in the lush feather bed at the Ivory Tower. She’d never known such exhaustion. When she awoke, the afternoon hours were upon her. A quick glance out the window to the street below showed the city of San Francisco in full swing. Men dressed in rustic attire swarmed the road, many with a bottle in hand. Others hung on the arms of women in bright satin dresses and ruffled skirts. The whole street was abuzz with activity. How she’d managed to sleep through it was a miracle.
She went in search of a bath and located one inside the hotel, meant for guests only. Certainly a finer option than the bathhouse they’d passed as their coach pulled into town. She relaxed in the warm water, feeling somewhat revived. Until her stomach rumbled.
By the time she was dressed once more, shadows of the evening were hovering overhead. Still her stomach would not stop complaining. If she didn’t eat soon, she would be ill.
Abby knocked on Neville’s door and he opened moments later. She was stunned to discover he had already organized his room. The open trunk was completely emptied, and his traveling suit was pressed and hung on a wall peg in the corner of the room.
“Gracious, someone’s been busy.”
“Indeed. Preparing for our return trip, Miss Abigail.”
“Return trip?”
“Naturally.”
“But we’ve just arrived. And what about learning to be content?”
“I will not allow you to stay in this place of … of …” His eyes narrowed as he spit out the word. “Degradation.”
“Neville, don’t exaggerate.”
“Have you looked out the window? Have you seen those … those … women?” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Degradation is the only word to describe the current state of affairs. I cannot, under any circumstances, learn to be content in such a place as this. Your father would be appalled at the way those men treated you upon our arrival and, frankly, terrified to see you in this current situation. I must rectify it at once. I’ve let this go on far too long, as it is. I have some chance to redeem myself, but I must move quickly.”
“Rectify the situation?” Abby shook her head as she pondered his words. “How, Neville? Can you build a road to Oregon?”
“No, but I can most certainly take you back home to Philadelphia, where you will be safe.”
“But Mama …”
“Will return home in her own time. You must come to terms with that, Miss Abigail. This is not your problem to fix.”
“But I—”
“Now, I don’t want to be a bother, but we really must make our plans to leave. I’ve tended to my clothes and will see to yours after dinner.”
“But we’ve only just arrived.”
“And have already overstayed our welcome. Look around you, Miss Abigail. Or, rather, don’t. Conditions are deplorable. Simply deplorable. I cannot sit idly by and watch these men behave in such an ungentlemanly fashion. I must assume the fatherly role. So, after dinner I will pack your bags and book a coach to St. Louis, where we will catch the train for home. Not that I’ve ever considered Philadelphia home, but it’s a sure sight closer than this.”
Anger rose up inside of her. Abby placed her hands on her hips, ready to state her opinion with clarity. “Neville, I’m a grown woman and I can certainly take care of myself. If you’re so intent upon returning home, then do so, but please don’t presume to tell me what to do. I’ve come after my mother. She won’t budge, I feel sure, until she’s seen me in person. I will wait as long as I must to see her face to face.” Abby regretted the words as soon as she saw the deflated look in Neville’s eyes.
“Miss Abigail, I implore you …”
“We will be in a better position to make such decisions after we’ve had a good meal.” She slipped her arm through his. “That’s why I came calling, actually, to summon you to dinner.”
“Are you sure you’re ready to face that crowd in the street again?”
“From what I understand, Cookie’s food will be worth it.”
He squared his shoulders, clearly standing his ground. “I will not cross the River Jordan, even if the Promised Land lies on the other side.”
“Cherry pie.”
His eyes glazed over.
“Now, come on, Neville. Let’s go eat some dinner, rest awhile, and make plans in the morning. What do you say to that?”
“I say … I say …” His shoulders slumped forward. “This cherry pie had better be the best I’ve ever tasted. Otherwise we’ve traveled all the way from Philadelphia to San Francisco for nothing.”
Abby gave him the broadest smile she could muster then guided him out into the hallway. She could almost taste that cherry pie now.
Dinner at the Gold Rush Inn was all Abby had expected and more. Not that she could keep her eyes open long enough to enjoy it fully. By the time the last nibble of cherry pie had been swallowed, she very nearly fell asleep at the table.
Neville m
anaged to rouse her long enough to see her back to the Ivory Tower, where she dressed in her nightgown and tumbled into that cozy bed.
All night long, Abby dreamed about cherry pie. She could still taste it, even in her sleep. Images of cherries floated by, followed by memories of that handsome stranger—the one who had rescued her from the rowdy local men. She’d seen him again at the inn, this time hard at work, waiting tables. Funny, that he would land in her dreams as well. Not that she minded. Not at all.
The following morning, Abby awoke with a thousand thoughts running through her head. She needed to send the letter to Mother, of course, and some sort of message to Father as well. He would be worrying about her, no doubt. How would he take the news of their diversion to San Francisco? Only time would tell, but she could anticipate concern from his end.
After a quick breakfast at the hotel, she advised Neville of her intentions and he insisted upon accompanying her to the post office. Thank goodness the main street was virtually void of cowboys and miners this morning. Perhaps they were sleeping in. No doubt the loud music coming from the nearby saloon late last night kept them awake.
Neville seemed in better spirits this morning, though he insisted on keeping a watchful eye on her as she made her way across the street toward the post office.
“You would be proud of the way I worded my message to Mother, Neville. I made San Francisco sound like a glorious adventure, something she won’t want to miss out on.”
“A work of fiction?” he countered.
“Hardly. I’ve told her that the city is teeming with life, night and day. That people are arriving daily from all over the world. That San Francisco boasts the most eclectic, diverse people one could ever wish to meet.”
“That would be putting it mildly.”
“I’ve reminded her that a visit to California is a visit to the gold capital of the world.”
Neville responded with a grunt. “I would prefer to send a note stating that we are leaving San Francisco by tomorrow morning, if it’s all the same to you.”
After mailing the letter to her mother, Abby followed up with a telegraph to Father. He would, no doubt, be relieved to hear from her after no word since St. Louis.
“I need to make a stop at the mercantile, Neville,” she said as they stepped out of the telegraph office. “I am in need of a few personal items.”
“Of course.” He gave her a curt nod. “And I am in need of a shave and a haircut. I took note of a barbershop just a few doors down. Perhaps I could spend a few minutes inside while you shop.”
“Perfect. That will give me time to get what I need.”
“If you’re sure you can manage without me.”
“I’m not a child, Neville,” she said for the hundredth time.
He merely shrugged.
They parted ways at the door of the mercantile and she walked inside. What was it about a general store that always made her feel at home? This one had a broad selection of merchandise, things she was familiar with, but odd things as well. Shovels. Pans. Gloves. Things that miners would need.
As Abby perused the merchandise, she was approached by a man in a business suit. For a moment, she almost forgot she’d landed in a rugged western town. This man had all the markings of a Philadelphia gentleman from his styled hair to his tailored attire. The clear-cut lines of his profile caught her attention at once as did the dark hair and trimmed mustache.
A smile turned up the edges of the handsome stranger’s lips, revealing two well-placed dimples. This drew her to him even more. “Well now, I don’t believe we’ve met.” His eyes twinkled as he fixed his gaze on her. “And I was sure I knew everyone in town.” He stuck out his hand. “Marcus Denueve. And you are…?”
“Abigail Effingham. Just arrived in town yesterday afternoon. I knew some Denueves years ago, from Paris.”
“The town of my birth.” He brought his hand to his chest, as if overcome by this news. “But I call San Francisco home now. Are you here to stay?”
“Not at all. Just passing through.”
“Pity.” He offered an exaggerated pout. “But now that you mention it, I’d heard that a pretty lady had arrived. The men didn’t exaggerate.”
Abby hardly knew how to respond to such a comment. She tried not to let her gaze linger on the man but couldn’t help herself. Dark wavy hair, deep-blue eyes, the color of the dress she now wore. Clean-shaven face, unlike most of the men in town. Father would approve of this man, no doubt. Judging from his dialect, he’d only been in the States a few years, at best. She could still hear the warmth of Paris in his voice.
“Welcome, Miss Effingham.” His handsome face lit in an inviting smile. “We trust you will stay on for some time and get to know us better.”
She could listen to this man speak for hours. That rich, melodic tone felt familiar, as if she were talking to an old friend from home.
“I hope to stay until my mother arrives from the Oregon Territory,” she managed at last. “That can’t happen until the roads open up.”
“Won’t be long now. But we look forward to getting to know you better in the meantime.”
By “we” she felt sure he meant “he.” Abby cleared her throat.
“I will leave you in the care of my head clerk, Mr. Kennedy.” Mr. Denueve tipped his hat and walked away.
The clerk, a wiry older fellow, glanced her way. “What can I do for you today?”
Clearly not French. Midwest, perhaps?
“I need a few things for my stay, starting with ladies’ personal things.”
“Don’t have much of a selection of items for women-folk, but what we have is right over here.” He led the way to a lone shelf filled with serviceable items for females.
“Perfect. I’ll take two of these …” She pointed at the unmentionables. “And four of these.” She picked up several handkerchiefs.
He snatched them and tucked them under his arm. “Anything else?”
“Talcum powder, please, and licorice, if you carry it. That will do for now.”
She followed him to the counter and reached for her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Six dollars and fifty cents.”
“W–what?” Abby could scarcely catch her breath. “Six dollars and fifty cents?”
“Yep.” He continued the task of wrapping her items, oblivious to her inner wrangling.
“For these few things? I could have purchased them back in Philadelphia for a fraction of that price.”
“You’re in San Francisco now, and things are a bit different here.”
“You can say that twice and mean it.” She glanced down at her purchases, her thoughts in a whirl. “Well, in that case I’ll have to adjust the number of items. I’ll just take one handkerchief, thank you, and skip the licorice.”
This news appeared to aggravate the clerk, who huffed as he tallied up her purchases again. She paid the necessary money and turned on her heel, nearly running into Marcus Denueve. She almost lost her bundle in the process.
“Excuse me, Miss Effingham.” Mr. Denueve tipped his hand. “Didn’t mean to get in your way there.”
“Oh, I’m fine.” A bit flustered, but fine.
“You are, indeed.” This time his words left little doubt to his meaning.
“Well, I should really be on my way. I need to head back to the hotel and get settled in. I’ll need to locate the laundry and then the bank.”
“I could help you with that.”
“Surely I can find them on my own.”
“But you’re not from around these here parts, are you now?” He gave her an inquisitive look. “You’ll need a navigator.”
“Nottingham. England.”
“I see. Miss Effingham from Nottingham. Very nice.” He stroked his chin and appeared to be giving her a solid once-over. “They grow ’em pretty in Nottingham.”
“Th–thank you.”
“In which hotel are you staying, Miss Effingham?”
“The Ivory Tower.”
“Finest place in town, befitting a lovely lady like yourself.” He crooked his arm. “Please allow me to walk you back.”
She shook her head and rejected his offer of kindness. “Thank you, but I do not require a chaperone.”
His expression spoke otherwise. “Clearly you do not know San Francisco.”
“Clearly you do not know me.” She offered what he hoped would look like a convincing smile.
“I see. Well, watch out for yourself, Miss Effingham.”
“I always do. Besides, I’m not headed back to the hotel just yet. I have to stop off at the barbershop first.”
“Oh?” His arched eyebrows showed his surprise. “In want of a shave and mustache trim?”
She fought the temptation to roll her eyes at his silly joke. “No. I am meeting Neville.”
“Neville?” Mr. Denueve’s brow wrinkled in what could only be construed as curiosity. “Your beau?”
She laughed. “Oh, for pity’s sake, no. Neville’s our family butler. He accompanied me because Father wouldn’t allow me to travel alone. He’s rather old-fashioned like that.”
“Your father, or the butler?”
“Well, both, actually.” She laughed. “But I need to go quickly, if you don’t mind, because Neville will worry. That’s what he does, you see, when he’s not got me in his sights.”
“I can see why a man would worry not to have you in his sights.” My goodness, but this man could flirt. Of course, the French accent made the whole thing rather enjoyable, but she would never admit that to anyone other than herself.
Abby bid Mr. Denueve good day and walked a few doors down to the barbershop, which was teeming with boisterous men. Within a minute or two of her arrival, she regretted it. Neville was in the process of being shaved—that, she could see through the window—but took no notice of her. The other men in the shop, however, did. Whistles and catcalls followed. Either Neville had fallen asleep or was completely oblivious. He did not stir from his place in the chair.
Just when she’d decided to take a step inside the barbershop, a voice sounded from behind her. “I don’t recommend it, miss.”
My Heart Belongs in San Francisco, California Page 4