by Rae Carson
Becky snatches the letter from my other hand, so I’m holding nothing.
“The governor thanks you for ridding California of the problem of James Henry Hardwick,” she says, reading quickly. “He doesn’t know what you did exactly, but he knows where credit is due. It’s his pleasure to do you this favor, blah, blah, flattery and more flattery, and he hopes you will remember him in the first election after California attains statehood. . . .” She looks up at me, grinning ear to ear. “He did this to cultivate you as an ally,” she says. “He thinks you’re important.”
“I’m happy to not dissuade him,” I say, and I’m grinning ear to ear, too. A town charter. Signed by the governor himself and several others, probably delegates from California’s constitutional convention, which is what passes for a government in these lawless lands.
Becky takes it from Mary’s hand. “After the breakfast rush, I’ll frame it and post it in the tavern so everyone can see it,” she says brightly. She tucks the charter and letter into her apron pocket. “Now, get back to work, both of you. These miners won’t feed themselves.”
We’ve barely served a handful of people before Jefferson arrives, looking more proper and well-groomed than he usually does before a hard day of prospecting. I’m about to tell him about our shiny new charter, but he preempts me in an overly loud voice. “Leah Elizabeth Westfall!”
I’m so startled that I almost drop the coffeepot.
He grins. “Maybe you should set that down.”
I do, slowly, as the sound of scraping forks ceases and everyone—Becky, the Buckeyes, the Chinese, and Mary—all turn to stare.
“Um. Good morning, Jeff?”
Still grinning, he reaches into his pocket while dropping to one knee. “I know you already proposed to me, and I know we’re getting hitched tomorrow, one way or the other. But I still reckon it’s right and proper to give you this.” He reaches up, and my gold sense knows what he holds in his hand even before my eyes take it in. A gold band, shiny and new.
I pinch it between thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the light. “Jeff,” I say. “You know I don’t need fancies. Or any more gold.”
“I know. But that ring is special, see. Remember that nugget you gave me? Seems like a long time ago now. You tracked a wounded deer onto our homestead and chanced upon that nugget in a stream. And you gave it to me the day your mama and daddy died, said it wasn’t yours by right.”
“I remember.”
“Well, this is me, giving it back to you.”
I blink at him, my knees suddenly quivery. I knew he had kept it. I found it in a box of his things the night Frank Dilley set our camp on fire, but I’d had no idea why he kept it. Tears prick at my eyes. “Jefferson, this is the nicest thing. Making that nugget into a ring . . .”
“Put it on.”
I do, and it slips onto my finger and sends tingling warmth through my whole hand, like it was meant to be there all along. I hold it up, admiring the way it shines in the light. A little piece of home, a bit of shared history, tying us together as powerfully as any wedding vow.
“Thank you.”
“So does this mean you’ll marry me after all?”
As if there was any question. I lean down and throw my arms around him, almost knocking him back. Everyone around us cheers like it was a proper proposal, even the Chinese miners.
Jefferson gets to his feet and hugs me back, his face nuzzling my hair. Reluctantly, I disentangle myself. There’s a lot to do before our wedding tomorrow, and I need to get back to work.
Someone clears his throat. It’s Old Tug, standing from the table, hat crumpled tight in his hand. His friends give him nods of encouragement. “You can do it, Tug,” says one, as another slaps him on the back.
“I guess this is as fine a moment as any,” he says. For once, he wears a clean shirt and pressed trousers, and he’s obviously made an attempt at combing his thistly hair. He takes a deep breath.
Jefferson and I exchange a puzzled glance and sit on the nearest bench, glad to cede the stage to someone else.
“Miss Mary,” Tug begins, and he starts twisting that hat in his hand.
Mary freezes, like a rabbit who’s sighted a fox. Slowly, carefully, she sets her basket of biscuits on the table and folds her hands together over her apron.
Twist, twist, twist, goes Tug’s hat. “I know I’m not a fancy man. And even though I’m mighty fine looking, I concede that I am but the fourth best-looking fellow in this town.”
Fourth? At least he doesn’t lack optimism.
“But I work hard, and I’m healthy and strong,” Tug continues. “A catch for any woman. But, see, I don’t want any woman. I want you, Miss Mary. To be my wife. You’re the nicest, handsomest, uppittiest woman I ever knew, and it’d make me the happiest man in the world if you said yes.”
And then, Tug shocks us all by clearing his throat again and letting loose a long string of Chinese. No one gapes more than Mary.
Tug grins. “Been practicing that for months, with the help of some of my friends here. You’ll always be smarter than me, and I’m sure I bungled that a fair piece, but . . . maybe you can teach me true?”
Silence reigns in the tavern.
I lean toward Jefferson and whisper, “He’s never proposed like that before. He must really love her.”
Jefferson whispers back, “Mary is the only thing he’s been talking about for the last two months.”
Finally Mary unclenches her hands, lifts her chin, and says, “Mr. Tuggle, I would be honored to become your wife.”
Tears brim over in Tug’s eyes, and suddenly all the Buckeyes are whooping and hollering like it’s the Fourth of July.
“Two weddings in Glory this year!” I say, delighted.
“Three,” says a voice at my ear. It’s the Major, slipping onto the bench beside Jeff and me. “Becky said yes,” he explains. “But we prefer to keep things quiet for now. We’ll wait until her husband has been gone from us a whole year, God rest his soul.”
Jefferson claps him on the back, as I reach out to take his hand. “That’s wonderful news, Major,” I tell him.
From her place at the stove, Becky bangs a pair of tongs against a kettle, creating enough racket that everyone falls silent again.
She announces, “In honor of the upcoming nuptials of my dearest friends, everyone gets free seconds today!”
And once again, the miners cheer wildly. I get to my feet. “Becky is going to need my help,” I say to Jefferson.
“And mine,” Jefferson says. “Just put me to work.”
The next afternoon, Becky helps me don my ridiculous spun-sugar wedding gown. We’re getting ready inside her brand-new house—well, old house, I suppose—which has a porch, two rooms, a loft, and three windows. Her honeymoon cottage, shipped all the way from Tennessee.
We stand before a long floor mirror in a silver frame, and I can hardly believe such a fragile, frivolous thing made it to California unscathed.
“You sure you don’t mind?” I ask Becky as she cinches my waist so tight I can hardly breathe.
“Of course not. This is the nicest house in all of Glory. You and Jefferson should enjoy it as newlyweds for at least a week.” She works the ribbons in back, forming a perfect bow. “I’ll take the house back soon enough, don’t you worry. But Wally and Wilhelm and the Buckeyes worked so hard putting this place together; I reckon the whole town will want to see it put to good use right away.”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. It seems as though Mama is looking back at me—those same golden-brown eyes, the same golden-brown hair, that strong, stubborn chin. My hand goes toward my throat, reaching for a locket that’s no longer there. I don’t imagine that I’ll ever get used to its absence.
Olive steps forward with a bouquet of wildflowers—mustard, poppies, blue lupine, and purple paintbrush. “I made this for you,” she says shyly.
“Olive, this is beautiful. The best wedding bouquet I’ve ever seen.”
The girl’s cheeks blush rosy. “I made a littler one for Minnie, too,” she says.
“Minnie?” I give Becky a questioning look.
Becky frowns at her oldest, but it’s empty of true vexation. “I was going to wait until after the wedding to tell you,” she says. “I’ve named my daughter.”
I can hardly believe it. After all this time. “Becky, that’s wonderful. Minnie, is it?”
“Minerva.”
“From the California seal.”
“Exactly. I wanted a strong name for her.”
“Minerva is the Roman goddess of wisdom,” Olive informs me solemnly. “I’m the big sister, so I have to teach her to be wise.”
“I can’t think of a better teacher.”
The dinner bell rings, even though no meal is being served right now.
“It’s time!” Becky says. “You look lovely. Ready to go?”
“I’ve kept that boy waiting long enough.” I just hope I don’t drown in lace before I can get myself properly hitched.
Becky leads me from the house, Olive following behind. Mary meets me at the door, dressed in a pretty gown of soft yellow. We are the four women of Glory, and we make a brightly colored but careful procession toward the Worst Tavern.
All the people I love in the world are already seated—Jim Boisclair, who has opened up a new general store right here in Glory, the Major with his future stepdaughter in his arms, Hampton, even Wilhelm and the Buckeyes. The college men have returned: Henry and Tom for a visit, but Jasper is here to stay. Tom waits at the front beneath the awning. He is licensed to perform wedding ceremonies now, and I’ll have no one else. Henry gazes up at him adoringly from the first row.
Beside Tom stands Jefferson, and my heart tumbles a little. His straight black hair is fresh from a wash, his skin bronzed from working outside so much, his eyes bright with anticipation. I hate to admit it, but Becky and Henry were right. Plum is the perfect color for him, and I etch this moment in my mind, so that later I’ll be able to pull it from my memory and treasure it.
Nailed to the wall behind Tom is our town charter, neatly framed. At Jeff’s feet sit Nugget and Coney. I can safely say I’ve never attended a wedding with dogs before, but everything is different in California.
As I reach the front, Jefferson whispers, “You’re right. You look like a pastry.”
I grin up at him, wondering if any moment could be more golden than this one.
“I mean, you look really pretty, Lee. The prettiest girl in the land.” He would know. He’s seen a whole continent.
Tom begins. “Dearly beloved . . .”
It’s going to be a quick ceremony, because Jefferson and I aren’t fancy people. It’s not the wedding that’s important to us, it’s the marriage. It’s working together for the rest of our lives. It’s knowing someone so deeply that facing the unknown together isn’t dark and dangerous, but instead beautiful and bright.
I place my hand in Jefferson’s, mouthing the words I hardly ever say, even though I feel them with my whole heart, for him, for my friends, for my home.
Author’s Note
The descriptions of San Francisco owe much to the careful attention of journalist Bayard Taylor and his book Eldorado, originally published in 1850. Taylor traveled from New York to California in 1849 to report for the New York Tribune. I relied on the annotated edition, Eldorado: Adventures in the Path of Empire, published in 2000 by Santa Clara University and Heydey Books.
Coverture, the legal doctrine whereby a married woman’s legal rights were entirely subsumed by her husband, was a real part of American history, though the specific laws varied by state and over time, in more complicated ways than I can cover here. One of the first goals of early feminists was to eliminate the doctrine of coverture. The Supreme Court finally struck down the last state law based on coverture in 1981, when I was eight years old.
Hampton’s kidnapping was inspired by several historical instances, in particular, the account of Stephen Hill, a free black man kidnapped by slave catchers, whose freedom papers were destroyed. Delilah Beasley’s The Negro Trail Blazers of California, originally published in 1919, is one of the earliest books to describe the many instances of free blacks who were held by slave catchers, as well as the black community’s efforts to free them. She also described former slaves, like Hampton, who mined gold to buy family members out of slavery.
The Charlotte, run aground and converted into a residence, is loosely based on accounts of the whaling ship Niantic, one of the finest hotels in the early days of San Francisco. The Apollo saloon was a real saloon in San Francisco that also started out as a grounded ship.
The land-fraud schemes attributed to Hardwick all took place in San Francisco during the Gold Rush. In particular, several fortunes were built by selling titles to “water lots” in the bay. The practice of sinking ships to claim lots and begin the landfill process was very common, especially during 1851 and 1852, and was more mechanized than I’ve described in this book.
Sheriff Purcell was inspired by two early sheriffs in San Francisco, William Landers and John C. Pulis, both of who came west during the Mexican War as part of the New York Volunteers military unit.
The attempted bank robbery and the hanging that followed was inspired by a contemporary account of John Jenkins, an Australian who stole an entire safe from a bank and was captured during his escape and executed by a vigilance committee without a trial.
I hope the reader can forgive me, because the hymn “O Sleepless Nights, O Cheerless Days,” from which the book’s title is taken, was not published until well after the Gold Rush. It was written by Helen Smith Arnold, who was born in 1849. Arnold wrote two other hymns, and died in 1873 at the age of twenty-three.
James Boisclair is one of the few historical figures to appear in these novels. After buying his freedom and opening a successful general store in Dahlonega, Georgia, Boisclair packed up and joined the Gold Rush to California. Very little is known about what happened after he arrived, only that he was shot and killed. One of the best historical accounts of Boisclair is found in “Georgia’s Forgotten Miners: African Americans and the Georgia Gold Rush of 1829,” by David Williams, published in Appalachians and Race: The Mountain South from Slavery to Segregation, edited by John C. Inscoe (University Press of Kentucky, 2001).
A special thank-you goes to Dr. Shirley Ann Wilson Moore, Professor Emerita of History at California State University, Sacramento, who reviewed this manuscript and applied her vast knowledge to the text. For further reading on this time period, I recommend her outstanding book, Sweet Freedom’s Plains: African Americans on the Overland Trails 1841–1869 (University of Oklahoma Press, 2016).
In telling Mary’s story, I was influenced by the historical accounts of Polly Bemis, a Chinese immigrant who came to San Francisco as a concubine, lived in the gold-mining camps of Idaho, and wedded Charlie Bemis, a white saloonkeeper, in a marriage of convenience. Her story can be found in The Poker Bride: The First Chinese in the Wild West, by Christopher Corbett (Atlantic Monthly Press, 2010). Mrs. Bemis remained independent throughout her life, controlling her own destiny. Though I didn’t use specific details about Mrs. Bemis’s life, I wanted Mary’s story to illustrate both the opportunities briefly available to nonwhite women during the early Gold Rush period, as well as the challenges they encountered that forced them to make hard choices.
Books are hard to write. Trilogies are harder. I couldn’t have written this one without my team, which includes my husband and researcher, C. C. Finlay; my indefatigable editor, Martha Mihalick; and my agent-cheerleader, Holly Root. I also owe a huge debt to my readers. Thank you for your tweets, your emails, your Facebook messages, and most of all for hanging out with me at events all over the country. You make this job the best in the world.
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About the Author
RAE CARSON is the author of the bestselling and award-winning Girl of Fire and Thorns series. Her books tend to contain adventure, magic, and smart girls who make (mostly) smart choices. Originally from California, Rae Carson now lives in Arizona with her husband.
www.raecarson.com
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Books by Rae Carson
The Girl of Fire and Thorns
The Crown of Embers
The Bitter Kingdom
The Shadow Cats
The Shattered Mountain
The King’s Guard
The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection
Walk on Earth a Stranger
Like a River Glorious
Into the Bright Unknown
Credits
Cover art © 2017 by Neil Swaab
Cover design by Neil Swaab
Cover photographs copyright © 2017 by Jaroslav74 (Shutterstock); Malgorzata Maj, Jennifer Kapala (Arcangel Images)
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
INTO THE BRIGHT UNKNOWN. Copyright © 2017 by Rae Carson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.