Josiah's Treasure

by Nancy Herriman

  “Don’t you intend to publish your story? They’d all learn it then.”

  “Well, maybe I won’t publish the story.” He tipped his derby forward, shading his eyes against the midday sun. “I might be willing to forget all about it for the right amount of money.”

  Impulsively, Daniel’s hands clenched. A passing flock of female tourists, bustles bouncing and feathered hats aquiver, stopped him from applying his fists to Jackson’s face. The elderly woman at the rear of the group shook her head at them both then scuttled to regain the rest. “How much?”

  Jackson considered. “A hundred ought to be right.”

  An amount that had to be several months’ salary for a reporter. Given Daniel’s relation to Addison Hunt, Jackson could have asked for more; Daniel considered himself fortunate Jackson hadn’t.

  Daniel inhaled deeply, caught a whiff of cigar smoke off a man descending from the cable car recently stopped at the hotel entrance, breathed in the smell of the bay water only a few blocks distant, and glared at Jackson until the shorter man shuffled his feet and his smug grin slipped.

  “I have no intention of giving a hundred dollars to you. I don’t have that much on hand even if I wanted to.” The bulk of his ready cash was tied up in a pair of dolls and a beautiful watercolor of a clutch of rocks sprayed by the sea. Painted by a woman he’d very nearly kissed last night, full on the mouth and long.

  “That is a pity.” Jackson noticed an attractive young woman hurrying across the road toward them and paused to tip his hat at her. Forehead furrowing, she gave him a wide berth. “But maybe you could telegraph Grandpa Hunt and have him wire you some funds. Today.”

  Trust you are taking care of story . . . His grandfather would want the story kept quiet, but not at the expense of his bank account. “My grandfather isn’t the sort to pay hush money, either.”

  “He might be. Because when you consider that his son-inlaw—and now his grandson too—was involved with a woman who might be a criminal, he might be eager not to let the good folks of Chicago learn the news. Puts a taint on the family name, doesn’t it?”

  “Miss Whittier’s no criminal.” He stepped close enough to Jackson to trod on the man’s scuffed shoes. “You’re lying, Jackson.”

  “You don’t intimidate me, Mr. Cady, because I believe you’re too fine a gentleman—frayed coat aside—to pummel me in public.” He squinted at Daniel and blew out a breath, stinking of the oysters he’d had for lunch. “I think my cost has gone up. One hundred twenty-five. And this story is worth every penny.”

  “I won’t pay you.” Jackson had to be bluffing.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to put the story in the paper, get a few extra dollars from my appreciative boss.” He shrugged. “Make my reputation. Get better opportunities, maybe. I certainly won’t sit on it. Offer it to Miss Whittier, perhaps.”

  “She doesn’t have any spare cash to pay you off, either.”

  Jackson smirked. “You don’t think so?”

  “Mr. Cady?”

  Daniel turned at the sound of Sarah’s voice. She was only a few feet away, coming quickly up the sidewalk, and it was too late to warn her to turn around.

  Jackson hopped into Sarah’s path to intercept her. “Why, Miss Whittier! We were just discussing you and here you are.” Theatrically, he swept off his hat and bowed. “My name is Archibald Jackson. Of the San Francisco Chronicle.”

  “I recognize you, Mr. Jackson,” she said without warmth, her gaze sweeping over him and Daniel. Tension corded her throat, tightened the lines of her face. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

  “A recent acquaintance, Miss Whittier.” Jackson grinned, interrupting Daniel before he could deny any connection. “And hopefully a profitable one.”

  “Mr. Cady has always hoped for profits,” she replied flatly.

  “I sure would like to talk to you about the stash of diggings Mr. Josiah Cady brought back from his little mining operation in the Black Hills,” the reporter said. “Lots of gossip about what happened to all that gold, isn’t there? Bet his former mining partner might have a theory. Your uncle, right? The one who lives in Los Angeles.”

  Sarah blanched. “I don’t have either the time or the inclination to discuss my uncle or Josiah with you, Mr. Jackson.” She shot Daniel a dark look. “I came here to let you know, Mr. Cady, that Anne has been found and will be fine. Thank you so much for your help. It is no longer required. Good day to you both.”

  “Good day to you, Miss Whittier. Or is it Thayer?” asked Jackson.

  “Thayer?” Daniel repeated. What was Jackson talking about? Los Angeles. Josiah’s partner. None of it made sense.

  Gathering up her skirts, Sarah rushed off before Daniel could stop her, before he could explain that he wanted nothing to do with a slimy reporter. Before he could ask his own questions. She looked back only once before weaving between the carriages and a horsecar trudging along Bush Street, hurrying the rest of the way up Montgomery.

  Jackson slapped his hat onto his head. “She’s a feisty one. I like her. She won’t like the story I’m going to print, though, I can promise you.”

  “Leave her out of your paper, Jackson.”

  “Have you discovered a source of money all of a sudden, Mr. Cady?”

  “I don’t care what story you think you’ve uncovered. You leave her alone because that’s the honorable thing to do.”

  “Honor?” Jackson guffawed. “I don’t bother with honor, Cady. It’s too burdensome.”

  Twenty-Three

  “I can’t believe he was with that reporter, Lottie.” Sarah gripped the handle of her cup, the sunlight streaming through the greenhouse windows reflecting on the surface of the tea within. Around her, the air was warm and heavy with the perfumed scent of flowers and loam, which on any other day would have made Sarah tranquil and sleepy. Her fingers shook, though, rippling the tea, scattering the reflection. She felt so betrayed, so stupid to have started to trust Daniel. He’d been kind merely to weaken her defenses, probably hoping she’d finally admit to hiding a cache of gold. “They looked like they were conspiring together.”

  “Surely not conspiring, Sarah,” said Lottie. “Mr. Cady would not stoop so low.”

  After trusting in Aunt Eugenie’s love, believing in Edouard’s promises, Sarah was not as certain as her friend.

  “How else would that reporter have known that my aunt and uncle live in Los Angeles? He called me Thayer, Lottie. My uncle’s last name. The one he gave me when I went to live with him and my aunt as their ‘adopted daughter.’”

  How bitter to remember those days, her aunt and uncle’s insistence that she would be Sarah Thayer from the moment she’d come to them. Sarah Whittier was someone to be forgotten, the last name a reminder to Aunt Eugenie of long-standing resentments. She would never forgive Sarah for being the daughter of Caroline Whittier, the younger sister who had married for love, borne children, and found happiness. Instead, Aunt Eugenie’s life had been circumscribed by duty and practicality—her marriage to Uncle Henry made for the status it would bring, her girl-hood hopes withered on the vine. If they’d ever sprouted at all.

  And she punished me in my mother’s stead.

  “Sarah, I can see you fretting.”

  “I’m thinking about my aunt and uncle. That always makes me fret.” Sarah set down her cup before she splattered tea everywhere. “When we were at Golden Gate Park, Mr. Cady questioned my claim that Josiah had friends in Arizona. That afternoon, I wasn’t sure if he was suspicious of my story, but it seems he must have been. He has to be the one who told Mr. Jackson that my uncle lives in Los Angeles and asked him to poke around.”

  “To what end? What might Mr. Jackson discover?” Lottie’s face puckered with impatience. “That you fell in love with a scoundrel? Everyone makes mistakes, Sarah. Such a story makes paltry news in this city.”

  Sarah glanced toward the archway that connected the half-octagon greenhouse to the parlor at the rear of the Samuelson’s hou
se. There was no one to see them, secluded as they were among the maroon gloxinia and amethyst passion flower vines, pots of striped orchids and thick ferns. The small metal table they sat at, tucked against the far wall, was a long way from prying ears. If anyone in the Samuelson household would be so uncouth as to eavesdrop, that was.

  “Lottie,” she said, lowering her voice nonetheless, “you know what I did was worse than merely falling in love with a scoundrel.”

  Her friend was undeterred. “You could not have known when you eloped with Edouard Marchand that he had stolen from your uncle.”

  “I should have known that his promises were lies and that he had no intention of marrying me.” Sarah shivered. How could she feel so cold, out in the stultifying warmth of the greenhouse? It was her memories that turned her blood to ice, because she had let Edouard do too much, his kisses and caresses very convincing to a young woman so in need of love. Thank heavens she hadn’t made a more serious mistake. “I trusted Edouard and I trusted Mr. Cady, and they have both proven to me that I will never learn.”

  “Sarah, stop it! I do not know how this reporter found out about your family, but I refuse to believe Mr. Cady was the one who told him,” insisted Lottie. “What would it gain him to be in cahoots with such a fellow?”

  Fortunate Lottie, who had never had her heart broken or her faith challenged. “A larger black eye on my reputation, which would plainly turn Judge Doran’s opinion against my claim on Josiah’s estate.”

  “He would not want to damage your reputation. Sarah Jane Whittier, that man is in love with you.”

  Was he? Last night, she might have thought so. “Charlotte Samuelson, that man is only in love with revenge.”

  “It is time to go, Anne.” Phoebe’s voice was persistent. “Miss Sarah will be here soon to get you, and she will not want you to be late for the boat.”

  Anne pressed her fingertips against the tiny room’s windowsill and stared out at the hills of the city. She shouldn’t feel sentimental to be putting them behind her, putting her life with Frank behind her, the life she’d led before behind her too. Did her father ever wonder what had become of his only child? Did he ever regret shoving her to the street when she hadn’t . . . when she wouldn’t . . . the memories clogged Anne’s throat with tears. They’d been poor, dreadfully poor, she and her father, and he had sought the last way he could think of to bring in some money. A pretty young girl was a commodity in San Francisco many men would happily buy.

  I can forgive him now, heavenly Father. Anne pinched her eyes closed. You have shown me mercy and I can forgive.

  I just wish he would miss me and be sorry.

  Once she left San Francisco, he’d never know where to find her. If he did have regrets. If he did want to, ever, say he loved her.

  “Anne.” Phoebe rested her delicate fingers on Anne’s shoulder. “It is time to go.”

  Anne opened her eyes. The hills shimmered out of focus then resolved into their usual shapes, the buildings and roadways distinct and clear. Frank was gone. And for her, her father was gone too.

  She gathered up the few possessions Emma had volunteered to retrieve from Mrs. Hill’s—a couple of sketches, some underthings, a tiny locket containing a faded photograph of her mother, Mr. Cady’s dollars—then looked at Phoebe. “I’m ready.”

  He’d waited a long time to come to this place, but then he hadn’t found the stomach to visit earlier, to stare at a marble headstone and look for answers.

  “Thank you for coming with me, Miss Samuelson,” Daniel said to the woman at his side. “I didn’t know where to look.”

  She gave Daniel a brief smile. “You could have asked Sarah to accompany you this morning, once she returned from taking Mrs. McGinnis and Anne to the wharf. She comes up to the cemetery often to visit.”

  “She’s upset with me.” More than upset. She’d been rigid with righteous indignation. “She saw me with a reporter yesterday, a man who’s been asking about Josiah and that nuggets rumor. It didn’t look good.”

  “I did hear,” she said, her voice gentle with consideration. Charlotte Samuelson was always considerate and kind, he decided. “I told her not to think you would willingly have anything to do with a man like that.”

  “Thank you for defending me.”

  “I believe in you, Mr. Cady.” She lifted her pale brows a fraction. “Do you want me to leave you alone with Josiah?” Miss Samuelson understood. Her insightfulness was rather disconcerting, but today, he appreciated it.

  “For a minute or two.”

  “I shall be right over here. I enjoy reading the headstones. Some folks find that morbid, but I find the practice . . .” She gave a small lift of her thin shoulders. “Comforting.”

  Miss Samuelson strolled off, her bright pink skirt belling in the wind swirling over the hilltop.

  Daniel stared at the headstone. Below the dates of Josiah’s birth and death, an inscription had been carved into the lustrous white marble. Beloved Friend.

  Beloved friend to whom? Not to him.

  He skimmed his hat through his fingers, noticed movement far off to his right. A funeral party was proceeding through the cemetery along one of the narrow gravel lanes, a small knot of folks dressed in black following behind a crape-festooned horse-and-cart, a coffin conspicuous in the bed. They were all men, their dark coats tugged by the wind topping the high ground of Laurel Hill Cemetery and bending the tips of the trees. Possibly a brother or a son among the group, relations who might feel the loss of the individual in that spare wood box as keen as an open wound. A different situation for Josiah, who had gone into the sandy soil on the flank of this mountain without a single member of his family to shed a tear over the dirt.

  Daniel clenched his hat brim as the funeral party vanished over a small hillock in the distance.

  “Grace loved you until the day she died, Josiah,” he said, thankful Miss Samuelson had moved far enough away to be out of earshot. Talking to a grave. He’d gone crazy. “She always believed you’d come back. But you didn’t.”

  Grief cramped Daniel’s chest. Josiah didn’t deserve his heart-ache. He hadn’t when Daniel had been younger, a miserable boy lonely for his father, and certainly did not now. He had spent hours, countless hours, listening for the sound of Josiah’s gruff laughter in the hallway, watching for the familiar sight of his handwriting on the mail coming to the house, inhaling air in hopes of breathing the sharp sweetness of his cigar. Feeling disappointment over and over again, so often that he couldn’t feel it any longer, numb to the repeated scrapes and stabs to his heart.

  I was fourteen, Josiah, a boy on the verge of manhood. And I needed you. Needed a father.

  “Beloved Friend.” What a lie.

  Why had Josiah never returned? Because of gold? Because California had held so much more appeal than life in Chicago? Because he hadn’t really loved his wife?

  Hadn’t loved us?

  The carved inscription swam in his vision. Daniel shoved on his hat and drew his gaze off the stone, regarded the ragged lines of tombstones and monoliths climbing the hillsides. There were no answers to his questions, here among the dead.

  Miss Samuelson caught his eye and returned. She looked down at the headstone. “He had a small service but he was deeply mourned. Still is deeply mourned by those who were his friends.”

  “Who suggested the inscription?” he asked resentfully.

  “We all thought it appropriate.” She studied his face. “I hope you come to understand, one day, how wonderful a man Josiah really was. I hope you learn to forgive him.”

  She may as well hope he’d suddenly develop amnesia and all those scars on his heart would be forgotten.

  “Let me take you home, Miss Samuelson.”

  “I am sorry to be leaving you, Miss Sarah, at such a time,” said Mrs. McGinnis, the wind blowing off the bay ruffling the wisps of hair peeping out from her bonnet. Around them, passengers and their companions rushed along, dodging wagons loaded with cargo headed for the
warehouses clustered along the wharf. Coal smoke drifted from the steamer at dock, catching in the breeze and swirling away. Stevedores and dock masters shouted above the din of ship’s whistles and the creak of timbers. A cart loaded with mail bags brushed close, forcing Sarah to edge nearer Mrs. McGinnis lest she be swept away in the melee.

  “If my eldest sister were still alive, God rest her soul,” the housekeeper was saying, one hand outstretched protectively, shielding Sarah, “she’d be with her bairn at such a time. But as it is . . .”

  Sarah squeezed her arm. “Your niece needs you during her lying-in. I’ll be fine here.”

  “But the hearing on Monday—”

  “Will not be affected by whether or not you’re in San Francisco, Mrs. McGinnis. Besides, Anne will appreciate your company until you disembark at Portland and see her off to Seattle.”

  The housekeeper nodded and hugged Sarah briskly, then stepped back. “Tell me again you’ll be fine.”

  “I shall.” She dropped a kiss on Mrs. McGinnis’s cheek, causing her to look abashed by the display of affection. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. And take care of Anne for me. I think she’s anxious.”

  “She’ll be well once she reaches my sister. Besides, hope holds up the head, and that’s what Anne has again—hope.”

  “God bless you, Mrs. McGinnis. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Wheesht, lass.” Eyes watering, she snatched up her carpetbag. “Tell that girl and Ah Mong to hurry along. The ship’ll be gone afair that boy brings her belongings.”

  “Safe trip.”

  Sarah waved until Mrs. McGinnis was swallowed up by the crowd collected beneath the roofed shed covering the dock. She turned and spotted Ah Mong, a satchel in one hand and a wicker basket in the other, hurrying behind Anne. A few more minutes and Anne would be securely boarded onto the steamer and safe from Frank.

  “Thank you,” Sarah said to the boy, taking the basket from him while Anne took hold of the satchel containing items of clothing Minnie and Sarah had been able to lend, as well as a few of her personal belongings Emma had fetched from the Benevolent House. Which hadn’t been much.