Josiah's Treasure

by Nancy Herriman

  “Fifty dollars,” she repeated, feeling a rush of panic. Hardly enough to buy off Mr. Daniel Cady, whose arrival in town had thrown more than just her budget into disarray. Lottie’s suggestion was sounding sillier by the minute.

  Sarah brushed her fingers across the brooch pinned to her waist and rejected the impulse to pawn it. She never would. Not the miniature of the Rêve d’Or roses, the petals a blush of salmon-tinged gold, the color her mother loved so much. It was the first ivory miniature she had successfully painted and so full of memories that Sarah could feel the weight of them whenever she touched its surface. Not even for the girls would she part with the brooch.

  “That is less than what you told me your customer was willing to spend, Mr. Grant. These paintings are worth far more than twenty-five dollars apiece.” Edouard had claimed Sarah had a rare gift, a true talent as an artist. He had lied to her so much, she should reconsider whether his flattery had been a lie as well. Mr. Cady had seemed genuinely impressed, however, and he had no reason whatsoever to lie to her.

  “Miss Whittier.” The proprietor’s lips settled into a grim line as he extracted a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket, removed his spectacles, and took to cleaning them. He regarded her myopically. “I do not recall giving you any particular sales figure. After all, this is not a fine arts gallery. This is a decorative arts emporium.”

  Restoring his spectacles to the bridge of his nose, he waved a hand at the room, crowded with overstuffed chairs, tables, and glass cases to display his goods. A colorful collection of Japanese plant pots filled one corner. Figurines—including numerous scaled-down copies of the Venus de Milo—dotted every surface alongside blue and pink glass vases, fancy silver frames to hold photographs, and paper knives in mother-of-pearl and silver and carved ivory. On the walls hung Mandarin fans, though there would be better and more authentic to be found in Chinatown, and popular prints and copies of famous paintings, tags declaring their prices hanging from their gilt-edged corners. The bric-a-brac and decorations of the aspiring classes, but few original pieces of artwork and certainly no watercolors of the quality she produced. And though that was the case, Mr. Grant had assured her that he could sell her paintings for more than twenty-five apiece, even if today he had conveniently forgotten the sum.

  Sarah sighed. Any amount was better than none.

  “Thank you, Mr. Grant.” Nodding politely, she folded the fifty dollars and put the money in her reticule. “I’m grateful you sold them for me at all. Perhaps you would consider another?”

  From off the floor at her feet, she retrieved the paper-wrapped painting of the Seal Rocks that Daniel had admired in the parlor and laid it on the counter.

  Mr. Grant exhaled and peered at her through his spectacles, his eyes distorted by the glass. “How much do you want for this one?”

  Sarah fixed a calm smile on her face. “I would like thirty-five. It’s one of my best pieces and a very popular subject.” Enough to pay for the repairs, but not enough to also buy dresses for the girls. Those would simply have to wait.

  Mr. Grant shook his head. “Miss Whittier—”

  “Don’t say no. You did sell my others quickly, and this will sell too. I’m confident.” She pushed the watercolor closer to him.

  “You know, it’s not as though Leland Stanford is going to stroll in here any day soon looking for the next great landscape painting to hang in his parlor. Although I wouldn’t mind at all if he or his missus did.”

  “I don’t need Leland Stanford to buy it. Just someone who wants to appear as rich and influential. I’m sure you know a few folks in town who fit that description.”

  Rubbing his knuckles against his jaw, his glance moved between her and the painting. “You’ve worn me down, Miss Whittier.” He undid the string holding the paper closed and peered inside. “Very nice. I’ll put it in my front window and hope one of the Stock Exchange Board members strolls by and takes to it.”

  “I would appreciate that. Good day.”

  Before he changed his mind—or uttered any more quips—Sarah turned and left the shop, heading south on Kearny. She didn’t have far to go to reach her destination. Mrs. McGinnis had shown her the newspaper when Sarah had returned from Lottie’s, Daniel Cady’s name a prominent mention among recent arrivals in San Francisco. He was staying at the Occidental, one of the finest hotels in the city.

  The proper place for a man who must believe he was soon going to claim a sizable chunk of money.

  Having nowhere better to go that afternoon, Daniel still had his legs stretched out and his fingers intertwined atop his waist when she walked through the ground-floor doors. Reflexively, he sat up straight. Unexpectedly, he realized he was pleased to see her. It had been a lonely eight months, searching for Josiah. He missed sociable conversation. Even with a woman who didn’t look like she’d come for a chat.

  He watched her make her way through the room. She wore a blue walking outfit so lacking in ornamentation, she made the other women in the lounging area look like peacocks, with their towering feathers and cascading flounces and sweeps of pearls. The vast majority of the female occupants of the room took one look and dismissed her as irrelevant, trivial. The men looked a little longer, until they decided she was no great beauty and the street scenes beyond the windows were more interesting. To dismiss her was to overlook her greatest attribute—a spine made of steel. Who was she? If he were a betting man, he’d lay odds she was not some uncultured girl from a rough Arizona town. Sarah Whittier spoke with intelligence, could paint with exceptional skill, and carried herself with authority. She had either quickly learned how to ape her betters or was not exactly who she claimed to be.

  “Miss Whittier,” Daniel called out and stood. She noticed and crossed to where he waited. “I didn’t expect a visit. Yesterday, you left me with the impression you’d had quite enough of me.”

  “‘Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,’” she replied.

  Shakespeare. Well, there’s another surprise. “Are you in misery?” “That rather depends on you, Mr. Cady.”

  She swept past him, trailing the scent of rose water, and settled onto the chair across the table from his. Daniel understood why Josiah had taken to her. She might not be arrestingly lovely, but with her even features and a habit of looking people in the face, she was more appealing than most women Daniel knew.

  Sarah placed her reticule on the table but forgot to remove her crocheted gloves. Nervous, then. Rightly so.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, retaking his seat. Undoubtedly she was there to beg him to part with enough of Josiah’s money so she could make her way until she found employment. He might be willing to give her a small amount—say, thirty or forty dollars. Any more would make him a sucker for a pretty face. As bad as Josiah.

  “The Occidental is a first-rate hotel, Mr. Cady. Better than where I thought you might be staying.” Her gaze slipped to the cuffs of his shirt. Looking for signs of wear, he supposed. “But in spite of appearances, I’d guess you are used to fine accommodations, since you’re the grandson of Addison Hunt of Chicago and your arrival in town warrants a mention in today’s Daily Alta. An announcement that saved me from having to hunt all over the city for you.”

  So that was how she had found him. “I am indeed related to Addison Hunt.” Somehow. It was a mystery to Daniel how a man so cruel could’ve sired a daughter as gentle and loving as Grace Hunt Cady.

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a railroad tycoon.”

  “Then you can afford a room here, after all.” She tilted her head, showing off the curve of her neck above the lace trimming her collar. “Or maybe you’re counting on that inheritance to pay your bills.”

  “I have enough money to pay my way, Miss Whittier, and the Occidental has affordable rooms, believe it or not.” A small reward after months of dusty boardinghouses and seedy rented lodgings. Besides, when he’d arrived in San Francisco he hadn’t been planning on staying long. “
I hate to disappoint you by not occupying one of the hotel’s luxury suites, but my grandfather is the tycoon, not me.”

  Sarah peered at him. Once again, he experienced the unsettling feeling she could read his thoughts. See the bitterness in his heart. “In that case, Mr. Cady, perhaps you will accept my offer.”

  She retrieved a handful of bills from within her reticule, piquing his curiosity. What was she up to?

  Miss Whittier laid the money on the table. “Fifty dollars, for now. Five hundred as soon as it’s available.”

  Five

  “A bribe?”

  Daniel Cady stared at the folded bills as if she’d just laid a pile of rancid fish on the table. Sarah swallowed, her tongue sticking to the dry roof of her mouth. She would really enjoy one of those lemonades the waiter was carrying past on a silver tray. It was hardly the right time to stop and order one, as if she were at the Occidental on a friendly social visit.

  “Not a bribe, Mr. Cady,” she replied, trying not to notice how hard his eyes had gone. When he’d first called to her, he’d almost seemed glad to see her. Not any longer. “A settlement against Josiah’s estate. Fifty now with five hundred to follow.”

  He pushed the bills toward her, knocking a few onto the floor. “Five hundred dollars won’t satisfy me, Miss Whittier, when I stand to inherit property worth thousands. I don’t know what makes you think I would be happy to take a dime less.”

  Sarah scrambled to retrieve the fifty dollars, the stays of her corset jabbing her ribs. “I was thinking you might not ever prove you’re actually Josiah’s son and would be happy with the money.” And go away.

  “Oh, I’ll prove I’m his son, Miss Whittier. Whether he wanted to admit it or not. And I’ll get that estate.”

  Sarah shoved the money into her reticule, snagging her glove on the teeth of a hair comb stored inside. “Is that all you care about, Mr. Cady? Getting hold of Josiah’s money?”

  Her raised voice drew censorious glances from two women seated on a nearby sofa, who fell to whispering.

  “I’m not the only one here who wants Josiah’s money.” His eyes were growing harder and darker by the second. “Isn’t it your plan to use the proceeds from his estate to open some art studio to display the inferior creations of self-deluded society girls?”

  “My students aren’t society girls.” She yanked the ribbons of her reticule. “They’re poor immigrant women who desperately need the work I intend to provide them.”

  “A charity,” he scoffed.

  Sarah scowled at him. “Is there something wrong with wanting to help those less fortunate?”

  “I didn’t figure you to be the type who would throw good money after bad.”

  “Mr. Cady, you can’t have failed to notice all the factories in San Francisco. Their smokestacks nearly crowd the skyline in some parts of the city. In some of those factories, women labor at menial tasks, barely able to make a living. Some resort to other means to support themselves and their families.” He seemed a well-traveled man of the world; she didn’t have to fill in the details for him about what those means were. “I want better for them, or those few I can assist who have some talent for art. Anything better than a life on the street or in some filthy and dangerous factory.”

  “And you believe your studio is the solution,” he replied, his tone too flat to decipher.

  “I had one particular ability when I came to San Francisco. I am an artist and reasonably talented. And I know how to teach others to sketch and execute designs.” “Such talent, ma mie. Mon trésor.” Sarah shook off the memory and focused on Daniel, looking skeptical. “My partner, Miss Charlotte Samuelson, and I have been selecting needy girls with demonstrated skill and training them to become first-class artists. We will specialize in chromolithography and colored photographs. Actually, any custom artwork someone might desire. Those less artistic will run the press and work with the customers. In addition to the lessons in technique I give, Lottie teaches them grammar and arithmetic, if they’re not already proficient.”

  “Setting up a business is an expensive proposition, Miss Whittier.”

  “I do have financial supporters who believe in my cause.” She realized her mistake the instant his gaze flickered.

  Daniel leaned into the padded back of the lounge room chair. “Doesn’t seem to me like you need Josiah’s inheritance, then. Seems like you’ve got matters under control.”

  Sarah balled her hands into fists, the fine crochet stitching of her gloves preventing her fingernails from digging into her skin. He was a dreadful man. Arrogant. Selfish. Smug. He would never be generous with her or the girls. She felt lost and she hated it.

  “What are your intentions for Josiah’s estate?” The two women seated near them rose and huffed off, likely tired of listening to her argue with Daniel. “As the grandson of a railroad tycoon, perhaps you’ve discovered a pressing need to build a mansion or purchase a yacht. Or perhaps to impress an heiress?”

  He didn’t even flinch in response to her sarcasm. “I think I already explained I’m not the tycoon. But if you must know, I intend to start an import business and build a decent house for my two sisters with the money. We’ve been living in a cramped three-room apartment for too long and they deserve better.”

  Her pulse was thrumming so intensely in her head it began to ache. She could just imagine what sort of house the grandson of a railroad tycoon thought would be decent enough. Probably one that would be a lot larger than the house on Nob Hill. “Ball gowns and tickets to the opera can be so expensive.”

  “They are ten, Miss Whittier, and don’t need ball gowns.” Daniel pulled in his feet, preparing to stand. “I commend your noble goals, but I’m rather certain the probate court will rule that my sisters and I are the lawful heirs to Josiah’s estate. I’m not going to apologize for that fact. Your bribes won’t change my mind about pursuing the case and neither will your attempts to make me feel guilty.”

  Remorseful, she gripped his hand to stop him before he could rise. “I want you to see the shop. See what I intend to do.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  She very likely was. “My future and the futures of four girls are on the line, Mr. Cady. Everything we’ve dreamed of. Let me decide if I’m wasting my time or not.”

  Daniel’s irritation had eased by the time they had gone a block. He’d been insulted by her attempt to buy him off and angered by her implication that the promises he’d made to Lily and Marguerite were a less worthy use of Josiah’s money than her plans, but the walk in the refreshing afternoon air had cleared his head and let him think. Miss Whittier was merely fighting for her cause. He would do the same in her shoes. He was doing the same, fighting to win his proper inheritance. For his sisters’ sake. For the vow he’d made to his mother on her deathbed.

  The woman marching along the sidewalk beside him hadn’t said a word since she’d stalked out of the Occidental, Daniel in her wake. Sarah’s face was as stern as a schoolmarm’s, the ribbons of her hat fluttering beneath her chin. She couldn’t possibly hope she would convince him that her shop would detach him from his . . . from Josiah’s money. But then, Sarah Whittier wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met. Maybe she did.

  And maybe she would.

  Sarah looked over and caught him staring. “Debating how to tell me you don’t want to see my shop after all, Mr. Cady?”

  “No, Miss Whittier, that’s not what I’m thinking about in the least.”

  “I won’t ask you to elaborate,” she retorted.

  Spunky and determined. Could be a dangerous combination in a woman.

  He almost smiled at the thought as they hurried across the street, dodging a draft horse with a shopboy astride its broad flanks, his feet barely reaching the stirrups. Going the other direction, a wagon carrying what looked to be freshly arrived Chinese trundled up the road, each of the men—and many boys—perched atop a canvas bag probably filled with their belongings, their eyes downcast and shoulders slump
ed. Interesting place.

  Sarah reached the curb before Daniel, evading his attempt to take her elbow to assist her onto the sidewalk. Typical for her, he decided.

  Sarah stopped at an empty corner storefront and pulled open the beaded reticule suspended from her wrist. “Here we are.”

  She turned a key in the lock and stepped through the doorway ahead of him, the shop bell jingling over their heads and the musty smell of unused space swirling in the air. “Don’t lean against anything. I only received the keys yesterday and haven’t had a chance to clean.”

  “The dirt doesn’t bother me.”

  “It does, however, bother me,” she replied, sounding impatient that he didn’t understand that she would want everything to be perfect.

  Removing his hat, Daniel wandered through the rooms, his footsteps breaking a trail through the dust coating the scarred wood floor. Lined on two sides with large windows, the store comprised a medium-sized space walled off in the corner to form a separate set of offices. An iron staircase against the separating wall punched through the ceiling, leading to the upper floor. Given the location—at the center of the city’s commercial district—and the size, the shop had to have come with a hefty price tag. But he already could see why she’d selected it—the space was perfect.

  While he wandered, Sarah explained her plans in a carrying voice. How the main floor would be used to display samples and would be where they’d interact with customers. That design work and painting would take place upstairs, where the windows were large and airy. That the gas-lit room right behind him was for a girl named Emma’s business office.

  “The lithography area will be located against the back wall,” she was saying. “The stones are heavy to move and have to be near the press, so it’s critical to have a large ground-floor workspace. Also, there’s a sink and plumbing available for washing away etching solutions and inks, along with these wonderful windows to work by.”