“Or silver or diamonds?” she retorted, gratified by the confusion that wrinkled his forehead. “The gossip has spread far beyond the Occidental. To hear the news on the streets, you’d think I was hiding the whole of the US Treasury in this house.”
“Did you recognize the burglar?”
“I felt like I did, but . . .” Sarah shook her head. “I’m not sure. Although the police feel they know who he is and are confident they’ll catch him soon.”
“I’m mightily reassured.”
“The house and its contents are perfectly safe. Ah Mong’s brother will be here tonight along with Ah Mong. More than enough protection. Plus, I have a gun.”
Frowning, he contemplated her. “I heard about that also.”
Her face burned; she must be as red as a Morello cherry. “Listen, Mr. Cady, if you think that you need to stay here as my protector, let me assure you it’s unnecessary. As I said, I already have guards. Furthermore, we’ve hired a locksmith to install more secure locks today. The best I can afford. If you don’t mind my spending some of Josiah’s money, that is.”
“New locks or not, it’s unsafe for you with only an incompetent young boy—all right, two young boys—and a middle-aged housekeeper as guards. And though no doubt you’re also a crack shot, it might be better if you don’t have to prove your ability again.” He folded his arms and stretched his legs out farther, his boot heels striking the porch slats to emphasize his point. Rufus blinked at Sarah and turned to grooming his fur, a happy co-conspirator to Daniel’s occupation of the stoop. “So I insist on staying here.”
Had Daniel misunderstood yesterday’s impetuous kiss? Perhaps he had decided her ill-considered act of affection meant he had permission to show up at the house and claim a right to be her champion. Daniel Cady, of all people. The man who wanted to take away her inheritance.
Daniel, one eyebrow lifting into a lazy arc just like Josiah’s would, seemed to be reading her very thoughts.
“You can’t stay here,” she insisted, even if newsboys were of the opinion that Nob Hill was becoming dangerous. And even if, deep inside, the idea Daniel might want to protect her gave Sarah a thrill.
“I’m not just protecting you, Miss Whittier. I’m protecting the contents of this house, which are valuable to me.”
“Why am I not surprised?” And why do I keep thinking he might actually have feelings for me? “Well, my reputation is valuable to me. And you’re not doing it any good. Because if this town gets wind of the fact that an unrelated man is at my house, it could do no end of harm to my business.”
“I’m just sitting on the porch,” he said.
Sarah scooped up Rufus and scowled at Daniel. “No you’re not. You’re leaving. Right now.”
With uncanny timing, Mrs. Brentwood came out of her house. “Miss Whittier! I just had a visit from my sister, who was shocked to hear of your troubles. Terrible—Oh! Mr. Cady! I did not notice you there.” She peered at him, her lips compressing. “Looking very comfortable in your shirtsleeves, I might add.”
“Do you see?” Sarah muttered to him. “Everyone will hear about this.” Sarah turned to Mrs. Brentwood and raised her voice. “Mr. Cady was just leaving, Mrs. Brentwood. He also learned of last night’s events and was concerned about my safety.”
“Very kind of you, of course,” the woman said, tucking her chin to better survey them both. Undoubtedly concocting what she would tell her sister. Mr. Cady is courting Miss Whittier and in the most inappropriate fashion . . . oh heavens, heavens.
“You must go,” Sarah hissed.
Relenting, Daniel exhaled long and loudly, sliding his feet beneath the chair to stand. He slipped his arms into his coat, his gaze never leaving her face, causing Sarah’s cheeks to heat beneath their scrutiny.
“You make me worry for you, Miss Whittier.”
“For me? Or for the contents of the house?”
He leaned in, close enough she could smell his lime shaving lotion. She thought for a moment he might reach for her hand.
“You,” he answered softly, grabbing his hat, and turned to go.
Daniel rode the cable car for the complete circuit of its line. He should simply go back to the hotel and find some amusement to while away the rest of the day. There was a chanteuse receiving rave reviews over at the Baldwin. Or he could take a carriage to overlook the Golden Gate or visit Seal Rocks. Thinking of them made him think of Sarah’s painting. And thinking of her painting made him think of her. Made him remember the softness of her lips on his skin, the scent of roses in her hair, the weight of her body in his arms when he’d pulled her from the lake. Made him afraid that this time her stubborn independence would land her in serious trouble.
So he visited the docks. Bought a sandwich off a street vendor as a quick dinner. Stopped in a coffee shop to read the newspaper and drink some of the shop owner’s blackest brew. Took the cable car back again, waiting for the sun to set. He had a plan and it didn’t involve letting a scrawny Chinese boy and his undoubtedly equally scrawny brother stand guard over Sarah without him.
The wicker chair was still where he’d left it on the porch. Ah Mong, perched cross-legged at the top of the steps with a yellow-and-red quilt tossed over his shoulders, watched him approach the house. Daniel nodded at the boy, sat down, and stretched his legs.
Ah Mong eyed him, a long, indecipherable contemplation. “Why do you sit here, Mr. Cady?”
“I’ve come to help guard Miss Whittier, Ah Mong.”
The boy’s back straightened to a flatness Daniel had only witnessed on young ladies with very stiff corsets. “Miss Whittier has me and my brother. He is out in the garden. And there are new locks on the doors.”
“New locks or not, she will do better with three of us. More eyes and ears paying attention.”
“That man sneak in the back door last night. Quiet as grass growing. I did not hear him.” His gaze did not falter. “That will not happen again.”
“Miss Whittier agrees with you, but I’d like to be certain.”
Daniel adjusted the cushion at his back and surveyed the road. A lamplighter with his ladder was beginning to make his way down the street, gas lamps flaring to life in his wake. Across the way, a neighbor alighted from a hired carriage, glanced quizzically in their direction, and climbed the steps into his house.
Daniel settled deeper into the cushions as Mrs. McGinnis—or Sarah—touched a match to a lamp in the front parlor behind him, the light seeping through the closed slats of the blinds, striping the front porch in bands of white. The last breeze of the day rustled the leaves of a palm tree planted at the street, carried the sound of a cable car bell and the shouts of parents calling home their children for the evening. It was far quieter up here than at the Occidental, where the street sounds didn’t settle until late in the evening most nights. Much quieter than the tiny, thin-walled apartment he and his sisters shared in the heart of Chicago. Almost as quiet as the treelined boulevards that surrounded Hunt House, where the genteel clatter of landau wheels was the only noise that dared break the hush.
“It will be cold to sit here tonight, Mr. Cady, and you are not needed.” Nodding, Ah Mong folded his arms across his chest. “Your father told me to take care of Miss Whittier. I am like a good son and do it.”
Daniel turned to stare at Ah Mong. Restlessly, Daniel shifted his feet, planting them firmly beneath the chair. He had been the best of sons once, idolizing his father, the adventurer, the charmer. He had wanted to grow up to be like Josiah, to conquer the world and bring home riches to his adoring family. Up until that vision of his father proved as false as the trompe l’oeil wood grain Grandfather Hunt had paid an artist to paint upon his massive kitchen mantel.
Both Sarah and Ah Mong respected—actually, admired—Josiah, though. Were willing to defend his name to his only son, or sleep on a cold and damp porch night after night to protect the woman whom Josiah had come to love like a daughter. The man did not deserve either their loyalty or their admiration.
Daniel clung to that conviction, though it grew harder to hold on to. If a woman like Sarah cared about Josiah, an intelligent woman with a compassionate heart, maybe Daniel was wrong about his father.
An old prayer murmured. Daniel couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard or said the words, but they had stuck in his head. For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.
Daniel’s throat constricted and he turned away from Ah Mong’s piercing gaze, all-seeing even on the darkened porch. I am not ready to forgive Josiah. Father in heaven, if You’re up there listening, You know I am not ready to forgive the man who broke my mother’s heart.
And who broke mine.
“You are just like a very good son, Ah Mong,” Daniel said, his attention fixed on the road, not really seeing it. The fog was boiling over the western hills, and soon the scenery would be shrouded anyway.
“I try, Mr. Cady. I have no father to honor. I do what I can.”
“Your father has passed away?”
Ah Mong’s eyes shimmered, catching the light from the parlor lamp. “He died in a factory accident. He is with the ancestors now, and I pray to his shrine for courage and strength.” Alarm passed across his face. “Do not tell Mrs. Brentwood, please. She would not like to know about my shrine.”
“I won’t tell her.” Daniel considered him. He had to be the same age as Daniel had been when Josiah had strolled out of the Hunt mansion, never to return. “Your father must have been a good man to have a son care like you do.” And I envy you.
Ah Mong shook his head, his black braid swishing across his back. “He was not a good man. He beat me often and lost all our money in the fan-tan parlors in Chinatown. But it is a son’s duty to respect his parents. Confucius teaches that the father conceals the misconduct of the son, and the son conceals the misconduct of the father. Uprightness is to be found when we do this.”
“There is a teaching in our religion that we must honor our mother and our father. It’s a commandment, actually. Not quite the same as this Confucius teaches, but you get the idea.”
“I know it. Miss Charlotte told me that one day.” He blinked, and his eyes freed of their tears. “So we both believe we must honor our fathers, Mr. Cady.”
“I would like to, Ah Mong.” Daniel stretched his legs again, pulled his coat collar up around his neck, seeking warmth. However, an upturned collar couldn’t warm the chill in his heart. “I very much would like to.”
Seventeen
“You’re a daft laddie.”
Daniel roused from his fitful sleep, his back stiff and his legs tingling. Hidden in the porch shadows, Mrs. McGinnis’s face came into slow focus.
“What time is it?” Daniel asked, rubbing a hand across his face. It had to be early still; the gray fog was heavy on the houses stair-stepped up the street, and the sun was just beginning to tinge the misty sky with orange. Sometime during the night, the quilt he’d seen draped over Ah Mong had ended up on him. He tucked it under his chin and yawned. “It’s really early, Mrs. McGinnis.”
“It’s six in the morn. And afair Miss Sarah has risen, which is the most important thing.”
“How was her night?” he asked, glancing upward toward the second floor, though he could only see a sliver of window casing beyond the porch overhang and he had no idea which room Sarah slept in, anyway.
“She is fast asleep in her bedchamber. Which is in the back and canna be seen from here.” Mrs. McGinnis extended a steaming cup of coffee. “I slipped a wee drop of laudanum in her evening tea. Nae near enough to harm her, mind you, but enough to help her rest. Poor lass. So much to fret about.”
Daniel wrapped his fingers around the coffee cup, soaking in the warmth. As he was the cause of much of Sarah’s fretting, the housekeeper’s generosity surprised him. “Thank you for this. I appreciate the coffee.”
She stood back, drawing her crocheted shawl close around her shoulders. “I’m nae being kind to you because I’ve decided you’ve turned into an angel, Mr. Cady, but if you’re willing to brave the San Francisco night air for the sake of Miss Sarah, you canna be all bad.”
“I couldn’t leave Ah Mong out here without assistance.” Propped against the balustrade, the boy snored gently, his head lolling to one side. A meager guard.
Mrs. McGinnis smiled down at him. “He means well, poor laddie. Takes his duty to Miss Sarah seriously.”
“And his promises to my father, as well.”
Even in the shadowy half-light, Daniel could see her expression soften. “Mr. Josiah was a good man.”
How many times could he hear that before he’d stop cringing? Josiah was no more a good man than Daniel was a forgiving son. All those years waiting for a father to return home wouldn’t be so easily forgotten.
“Josiah Cady was a man who abandoned his wife and children. Not so good, to me.” He stated the words like they were unassailable fact. Which they were, as far as he was concerned.
“And do you think that getting hold of his estate will mend the pain in yer heart?” she asked. “We need to seek the riches of God’s grace, Mr. Cady, nae the riches of the earth to heal what ails us.”
“I doubt I deserve the former, although the latter will do very well to rectify a whole host of wrongs.”
The dawning light, rosy-golden, revealed her dismay. Daniel supposed she didn’t much care for people who could not understand right from wrong. “You’ll need to be gone afair Miss Sarah discovers you out here. She’ll nae welcome your presence.”
“I intend to leave as soon as I finish this coffee.”
“Good.” She reached for the door handle.
“Wait, Mrs. McGinnis,” said Daniel, stopping her. “I want you to know I have decided to invest in the studio.” He did want to prove that he understood right from wrong. At least, in one particular instance. He and his sisters would hardly miss a thousand dollars, and the money would mean a world of difference to Sarah. “Not a lot—I have promises to keep—but enough to help for a while.”
She stared at him a good long time before replying, likely waiting to see if he’d retract the offer. “Nae matter how much she might come to need the money, Mr. Cady, she’ll ne’er accept a handout from you. Especially if it’s meant to alleviate your guilt.”
She’d seemed willing enough the other day. “It wouldn’t be a handout. It would be a loan.”
Mrs. McGinnis looked skeptical. “She still might prefer you live with your guilt.”
“She might at that,” he agreed, feeling satisfaction when her lips quirked. Making Mrs. McGinnis smile seemed quite an accomplishment. “Don’t tell her. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Och, it’ll be a surprise whether I’m the one who tells her or nae.”
Sarah yawned and stretched, working out the kinks in her neck. The sun was finally up, and it cast a hazy glow across the study, across the empty armchair where Josiah had liked to sit and smoke cigars, his glass-fronted bookcases stuffed with books she hadn’t had the heart to pack away. It lit the mediocre painting of San Francisco Bay he’d bought from an itinerant painter, an impetuous act of generosity that always made him smile. Spilled light over Josiah’s desk, fitted with a leather pad, glass paperweight, and silver inkstand topped with a crystal inkwell and blotter as if he might return at any moment. She wished he would return to give her advice, because the sun didn’t cast much light on the rows and columns of numbers marching across the account book pages. No matter how often she examined them, the figures added up the same.
She kneaded her neck and examined the numbers one more time. Without Mr. Winston’s contribution, which had yet to appear in her bank account even though he’d claimed she would see the money by now, Mr. Samuelson’s loan would be stretched thin. It would barely cover the balance she owed on the lithograph press plus the girls’ wages and next month’s rent. And when she considered she also needed to pay Mrs. McGinnis and the household’s daily expenses . . . Sarah sighed and squeezed the kink that tweaked a
spot right above her shoulders. Now that she couldn’t use any proceeds from the sale of the Placerville property, she was doubly desperate to receive Mr. Winston’s donation, or for Mr. Halliday to hand over the money he’d told Lottie he would contribute. The wonders of the Samuelsons’ cook’s berry tarts must have been quickly and conveniently forgotten.
“You never would have let me sign the lease on the storefront without Mr. Winston’s money securely deposited in the bank, would you, Josiah?” she asked of the room, the scent of his cigars clinging to the desk and the bookcases, the armchair and its small round side table. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Sarah Jane. She had been so desperate to secure the shop, so perfect in every way, that she had forgotten his best piece of advice. But then, how could either of them have known Daniel would appear and destroy all of her plans like a flood wiping away everything in its path?
She closed the leather-bound book and tried to slide it into the top drawer of the oak desk, but the ledger jammed against an object wedged at the rear. Reaching inside, Sarah pulled out a palm-sized folder of heavy blue paperboard embossed in gold. It was an old tintype of Grace Cady, hidden away. Sarah held it up to the light. Daniel’s mother had posed leaning against a chair, opulent curtains and a potted palm at her back, her hair coiled over her shoulder. Even in the severe dress she’d chosen for the portrait, she was beautiful, though her expression was filled with a wistfulness, a melancholy that Sarah had never wanted to recognize before. Not from the wife who had loved a man Sarah had idolized. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d caught Josiah staring at the photograph, only to have him stash it away as if ashamed of his sentimentality. Why had he left her? Was the pursuit of gold truly that much more important than being with his wife? And had Daniel inherited not only Josiah’s mannerisms but his father’s weaknesses, as well?
It’s a good thing, Sarah thought as she ran a fingertip down the length of the paperboard folder, I haven’t fallen in love with your son, Grace Cady. Because if she had, she might come to fully comprehend the unhappy yearning in the woman’s eyes. Yet one more time in her life.
Josiah's Treasure Page 17