Josiah's Treasure

by Nancy Herriman

  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.

  “You are a dreamer, Lottie.”

  “I like to think the best, because he does not seem as bad as you suggested.”

  Sarah reclined against the seat back as best as her corset permitted. “Have you become an admirer of the stony-hearted Daniel Cady?”

  “You are too harsh, Sarah,” Lottie countered. “Consider his situation. He came searching for a father he believed abandoned him, only to find the man had passed away and left all he owned to a stranger. You would be out of sorts too. Give Mr. Cady time to grieve and adjust.”

  “I doubt time to grieve will turn him into a compassionate human being, Lottie. And for the life of me, I truly can’t fathom why he bothered to come to the shop. I don’t think it was because he’s decided to support it. He probably did so for no other reason than to remind me of his presence in town.” Not that I would forget. “He is absolutely annoying.”

  “And amazingly handsome.” Lottie settled her hands atop her skirts and regarded Sarah. “A fact you neglected to mention.”

  “The man has come to take my inheritance. I’m not likely to forget his intentions and swoon over his handsome face like Cora and Phoebe.”

  “I do see the resemblance to his father. Though his eyes are much sadder.”

  “So do I,” Sarah conceded. When it arrived, Daniel’s proof of his identity would be superfluous. “I only wish the similarities went further than skin deep.”

  Lottie reached for the pole as the cable car bounced over a rough spot in the track. “I think they might, Sarah.” Her voice was so steady despite the jarring of the cable car. “I really think they might.”

  Sarah clung to the nearest leather strap and wished Lottie were correct.

  The cable car climbed the steady grade, the busy streets around Union Square giving way to quieter neighborhoods. Within minutes they reached Jones Street, where they would have to disembark. Sarah signaled to the conductor to stop. They hopped down to walk the steep ascent up Jones Street, Sarah regretting an overly ambitious lacing of her corset that morning that left her short of breath.

  At a crest, they paused.

  “My goodness,” Lottie whispered. “I can never tire of this view. I am glad you asked me to come to your house to go over the shop books, though I hardly need much of a reason to come up here.”

  The prospect from the summit was stunning, the sun slanting low on the horizon to stretch long the shadows of the buildings blanketing the hills of the city, the evening fog beginning to creep up from the ocean to spread its fingers amid the dips and rises. Between houses, Sarah could see all the way down to the bustling hub of the city and the sparkling waters of the bay where the Oakland ferries trailed smoke from their stacks. A three-masted schooner, probably freshly arrived from China, was angling into one of the wharves. She twisted about, and off to the north she could see the blue-green of the Marin Headlands beyond the Golden Gate. If she were to paint the scene, she’d pick out cadmium and ochre, olives and sapphire blues, buffs and French gray.

  Soon, it might all be Daniel Cady’s view.

  “I can see you fretting, Sarah.” Lottie’s touch upon the back of her hand was gentle. “Be of good courage.”

  “Perhaps I should swoon over Daniel Cady. Perhaps his hard heart would be softened if I fluttered and flirted. That might be more successful than a pitiful attempt to offer him money.”

  “I would never tell you not to try!”

  Laughing—heavens, how grateful she was for Lottie—they strolled the remaining short distance to Sarah’s house.

  She noticed the commotion outside of it before Lottie did, and her bright spirits vanished. “Whatever—?”

  Mrs. McGinnis was seated on the front steps with her head in her hands. Their neighbor, Mrs. Brentwood, paced the front porch, her mandarin orange dress as bright as a beacon light. A policeman had just climbed into his wagon parked at the curb and pulled away, a cluster of curious bystanders turning to watch him go, one of whom annoyingly looked like a newspaper reporter.

  “It does not look good,” said Lottie.

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  Sarah broke into a run, Lottie close on her heels.

  Eight

  “Thank goodness you’re finally here, Miss Whittier.” Mrs. Brentwood’s eyes fairly bulged. “Oh, merciful heavens, the shock! Horrible!”

  “What has happened?” Sarah sprinted up the remaining stairs to the porch. Lottie tripped over her skirts in her effort to keep up, catching herself before she fell. She reached for Sarah’s arm to steady both of them.

  “Miss Sarah.” Mrs. McGinnis looked up when she heard Sarah’s voice. Her face was pinched. “I’ve ne’er been so scared. I came back early from the shopping and was making tea in the kitchen, knowing you’d be home soon, when I heard a noise on the rear steps. Thought it might have been Rufus, though I kent he wasn’t outside. I peeped through the door and saw an evil-looking man staring back at me!” She shuddered. “I’ve ne’er screamed so loud in me life. Rufus’ll ne’er come out of hiding, wherever that daft cat’s gone to.”

  Someone attempted to break in? Sarah dropped to the housekeeper’s side, caught up one of her clammy hands. “You’re all right
, though? You’re not hurt?”

  “Nae, miss, not one bit. Though I wouldna have minded dinging that man over his head and showing him what hurt is!”

  “Awful. Dreadful!” Mrs. Brentwood sucked in air in noisy, rasping breaths. With every inhalation, her bodice’s brass buttons strained against the wool. “The neighborhood just isn’t safe. Up here. In broad daylight! You’d think. Terrifying. Ah Mong and his brother can take turns guarding, but will it be enough?”

  “I doubt there is any need for them to guard the house, Mrs. Brentwood.”

  “There most certainly is!” she said, aghast. “You need to be protected. The police have promised to increase their patrols, but if they’d done their job, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place! Horrible. Horrible.”

  The situation was horrible, but hysteria would not help them. “I appreciate your concern, but we should try to stay calm.” Stay calm and think. But who would want to rob them? And why?

  “This is unbelievable,” said Lottie, her arms clasped around her waist.

  “Unbelievable doesn’t begin to describe it.” Sarah took Mrs. McGinnis’s elbow and helped her stand. “Let’s go inside. Lottie, can you open the front door for us?”

  Lottie did as asked and guided the housekeeper into the dining room, where Mrs. McGinnis collapsed onto one of the cane-bottom mahogany chairs.

  “Good day, Mrs. Brentwood,” said Sarah crisply. “I think we’ll be all right from here.” She shut the door before the woman could collect herself and stride into the dining room with them.

  Lottie said in a bright voice, “I shall go fetch that tea,” and hurried toward the kitchen.

  Sarah pulled out the chair next to the housekeeper. The afternoon sun lit the olive-colored walls and dark sideboard but barely warmed the room. Or maybe it was just that Sarah was so chilled from worry that she couldn’t feel its heat.

  “So what was this man like? Was he menacing? Did he have a weapon?” Sarah asked Mrs. McGinnis, trembling anew over the thought that she might have been harmed.

  The housekeeper shook her head. “Nae weapon that I could see. As to his appearance, he was a big, hairy, evil brute of a fellow. I’ll ne’er forget him.”

  “I wonder why he thought he wouldn’t be spotted by someone. I mean, the sun is hours from setting yet.”

  “Loony’s why.”

  “He must not have cared if he was seen.” Lottie, carrying the tea tray into the room, must have overheard Sarah’s question. “Or perhaps he is a night laborer and daytime is the only time he has for housebreaking.” Dispensing the steaming tea through the strainer, she set a cup in front of Sarah. It rattled against the saucer.

  Sarah glanced at her friend. Lottie’s face was as pale as the cream glaze on the cups. “Lottie, you don’t have to stay. I’m too shaken to review the books today. It can wait.”

  “What if the intruder comes back?”

  “With the police just here, he won’t be back anytime soon.” “But he might return later,” Lottie answered. Mrs. McGinnis let out a fretful groan.

  “Do you intend to lie in wait for him?” Sarah asked, attempting to keep her tone light.

  “I could borrow Papa’s Colt and sit in the parlor . . .”

  Sarah had to smile at that. “Your father would lock you in your bedroom first.”

  “I would not tell him I had taken the gun. Really, Sarah, I am hardly a noodle.”

  “Thank you, but there’s no need for such drastic measures.” Mrs. McGinnis huffed. “If that house lot in back wasn’t empty, we wouldna have this problem.”

  “Have you ever seen him before?” Lottie asked her.

  “I canna be sure . . .” The housekeeper’s face scrunched in concentration. “I think I’d remember a face that ugly.”

  “If he was intent on housebreaking, I can’t fathom what he might have been after,” said Sarah. If he was willing to scale the rear yard wall in the middle of the day, that item must be precious indeed. What had he thought was in the house worth risking such a daring attempt? “Unless the fellow fancies tall case clocks or silk-upholstered couches, there’s nothing of worth to steal. Besides, he could hardly cart those off, midday, without one of our neighbors noticing.” How Mrs. Brentwood, who always seemed to have her nose pressed to her window glass, didn’t spot him before Mrs. McGinnis had was enough of a wonder. “And I certainly don’t have any jewels or . . .” She was about to say “gold” when an unwelcome memory stopped her.

  Sarah flushed hotly. She didn’t want to remember what had happened that day, how Edouard had betrayed her. But it was too easy to recall the sight of her Uncle Henry’s gold nuggets wrapped in a scrap of newspaper that had been shoved deep into Edouard’s inner coat pocket. Her shock, her anger and sense of betrayal were as fresh today as they had been that summer afternoon four years ago.

  “Sarah, what is it?” Lottie asked, bending toward her. “You look ill.”

  “It’s nothing. Just the shock of what’s happened today finally hitting me, I guess.” Edouard and her own past stupidity were irrelevant when she had very real and current problems to tackle. “I just wish I knew what the man thought he’d find here.”

  Lottie appeared satisfied with her answer. “I do too. What do you think, Mrs. McGinnis?”

  The housekeeper’s face was pasty pale. “Och, who knows?” Hastily, she stood and collected the teapot to replenish the hot water.

  Sipping the tea—brisk black Assam tea that didn’t soothe like she wanted it to—Sarah watched her housekeeper depart down the short passageway into the kitchen. “This intruder has really shaken her. It’s possible she’s mistaken about what this man wanted, though. I’m betting he didn’t intend to rob us but was looking for a handout and Mrs. McGinnis’s screams scared him off.” She liked that conclusion; it would enable her to sleep tonight.

  “I had not considered that,” said Lottie. “It makes a lot of sense. You should tell Mrs. McGinnis so she is less upset.”

  Sarah nodded.

  Lottie’s tea remained untouched on the table. She glanced at it and sighed. “I suppose I should go.” She rested a hand on Sarah’s arm, the weight reassuring. “Tell me you shall be fine.”

  “The police are on alert and Mrs. Brentwood is lending us two capable sentries. If this fellow plans to return, we’ve done what we can.” Sarah lifted her brows. “However, I wonder if maybe I should borrow your father’s Colt.”

  “Or you could ask Mr. Cady to stand guard.” Mischief danced in Lottie’s eyes. “If he is so interested in acquiring your inheritance, he has a personal stake in keeping it safe.”

  Sarah’s pulse skipped. “I would never ask that man to stand guard over me.”

  Daniel closed the hotel room door behind him. Fingering the envelope from Western Union, he crossed to the room’s window and threw back the curtain. He tore through the envelope flap and extracted the telegram. Another one from his Chicago lawyer. There had been a slight delay in obtaining proper legal documentation as to Daniel’s paternity. His baptismal record had been lost in the ’71 fire, but Daniel was not to worry. There were plenty of suitable witnesses to attest to Daniel’s identity.

  Daniel creased the telegram between his thumb and forefinger and glanced over at the tintype of his sisters, stiff in their light gowns, that he’d propped on the dressing table. For them, he had pursued this course. The proof would unfailingly come and Sinclair would have all he needed to proceed with the case. The wheels had been set into motion, ready to crush into oblivion a sizable portion of Miss Whittier’s carefully constructed world.

  Daniel was not to worry.

  He flattened his palm against the windowpane and stared down. Far below, the late afternoon hubbub of Montgomery Street reverberated off the stone and brick buildings, a jumble of rattling carriage and wagon wheels, the warbling calls of street corner hucksters, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on jagged cobblestones. His grandfather would jingle his coins in his pocket, grin, and call them the sounds of
commerce, growth, progress. “Energy,” he would say, when he was still speaking to his only grandson, “energy.”

  Daniel could do with less energy and tumult right then. He longed for a bit of silence so he could put his thoughts in order. He wished he knew how to pray. Wished he still believed in prayer, but his belief had dwindled with each passing year until it had disappeared altogether, leaving not even a trace to mark where it might have once existed. His purpose had been so clear when he’d come to San Francisco, his mind focused on one cause, his feelings contained and controlled. It was all a jumble now.

  He kept thinking of Sarah’s girls and the adoring way they looked at her. Kept recalling Miss Samuelson’s flinty determination and Sarah’s stiff-necked confidence, daring him to tell her she was unwise to continue with her plans. He shouldn’t have gone to the shop and recognized how serious her efforts were. Even though he still had more questions than answers about her, one thing was clear: Sarah’s business was no lark, which is what Sinclair apparently believed. She, her partner, and her girls may or may not succeed, but they certainly didn’t intend to fail.

  Even if he succeeded in claiming Josiah’s estate.

  Josiah.

  Daniel dropped his hand from the window, leaving an imprint on the glass. Every day he spent here, stuck in one spot for the first time in eight months, forced him to deal with his memories of the man. Sort through the consequences of what Josiah had done since he’d left Chicago, including stoke the ambitious fires of hope in a brown-eyed woman who was as lovely as a spring day when she blushed.

  He shouldn’t have gone to the shop. Because in seeking some final reparation from Josiah, Daniel could no longer avoid knowing how much he was going to hurt Sarah.

  “Everything is set for this evening, Miss Whittier.” Mrs. Brentwood wagged a finger at Sarah, seemingly oblivious to Sarah’s dinner cooling on the small parlor table. True to her nature, Mrs. Brentwood hadn’t been dissuaded by Sarah’s attempt at privacy earlier that day. The woman’s curiosity always won out. “I told Ah Mong to be extra sharp about watching your house.”