Beneath a Golden Veil

by Melanie Dobson

  “I didn’t think you’d care about the slave.”

  Victor took a step toward him. “Why did he go with Alden?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Perhaps Master Alden needed a boy to help him at school.”

  He didn’t care one whit what Alden needed. Isaac was his; no one else could claim him. “Does John Payne know?”

  “I’m just the driver, sir. No one ever tells me what the master knows or doesn’t know.”

  Victor pointed at the horse. “Get them ready.”

  “They’re too tired for another journey.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You ever felt the whip on your back, Thomas?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll whip you and your horses if you don’t have me on the way to Alexandria in the next hour.”

  Turning, he stomped back toward the house, trailing snow behind him as he tramped across the wooden floor in the hall. When he marched into the drawing room, Nora excused herself.

  Eliza leaned back on the sofa, sipping a glass of brandy. “Where’s your slave?”

  He towered over her. “Did you tell Alden to take him to Cambridge?”

  “I did not, but it’s a brilliant thought.”

  “What if Alden decides to sell him?”

  She took another sip. “Good riddance, for all of us. That boy’s not fit for any kind of decent work.”

  “You’re right. He’s much too smart to be a slave.”

  “Oh, Victor,” she said, setting her glass onto a table. “Just because you fathered him does not mean he’s smart. In fact, quite the opposite.”

  He fought to ignore her words. “I’m going to retrieve him.”

  Eliza’s smile fell. “You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  “The boy reminds you too much of Mallie, doesn’t he?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “But you know exactly how I felt about Mallie.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “And we know how she felt about you. Left you the first opportunity she had to run.” Standing, she walked toward the decorated tree and fingered the needles. “Perhaps that’s what Isaac is doing too. Running away from you.”

  If only he could put his hands around that long neck, choke the life out of her. If the judge knew what it was like to live with this woman, he’d let him go without consequence. “I’ll find Isaac and bring him back.”

  She stepped toward him, her voice hard. “If you go after him, I swear I’ll leave you.”

  “Then that seals my decision.” Eliza may threaten, but she would never leave him. According to the law in Virginia, a divorced woman couldn’t own a single item of her husband’s property. Eliza had a firm appreciation for prestige and the finer things a plantation and their slaves could offer.

  “This is ludicrous,” she said.

  “What’s ludicrous?” John was standing in the doorway, his top hat in his hands.

  Victor stepped toward him. “Alden took one of my slaves north with him.”

  When John swore, Victor sneered at Eliza. He knew the man would understand.

  “If you don’t go now,” John said, “you’ll never see your slave again.”

  The chill from the hall swept over Victor. “Will he sell Isaac?”

  “No. He’ll probably set him free.”

  Eliza laughed again as he stomped back out of the room. He would find Alden and Isaac. And he would bring Isaac back home with him for good.

  Chapter 12

  Sacramento City

  December 1853

  The front door of the Golden Hotel flew open, shaking the paintings when it banged against the wall. Isabelle looked up from the ledger as a Negro boy dressed in torn breeches and a stained linen shirt rushed into the lobby.

  The boy scanned the small room, and Isabelle recognized the look on his face. It was one of terror.

  Outside the door, on the walk crowded with miners and businessmen, she heard a man yell, “Micah!”

  She’d told Aunt Emeline that she wanted to be faithful to help whomever God sent her way. Perhaps God had directed this boy right to her. Perhaps now was the time to continue what her uncle and aunt started long ago.

  “Hurry,” she said, beckoning the boy behind the counter and toward the elevated desk where she sat. Then she pushed aside her chair and lifted the panel to her hiding space.

  The laws of this new state might support slave owners’ rights, but no matter what the government said, she could never send a boy back into slavery—if this boy was a slave.

  She would have to evaluate his status later. For now, she had to be faithful to what God required of her.

  The boy hesitated, staring down into the dark space. Outside the window stood a fleshy man dressed in a gray sack coat. His head ticked back and forth between his shoulders, like a clock keeping time.

  The boy rubbed his hands together. “Master Bridges is gonna kill me.”

  “You’ll be safe in here,” she assured him. “If you move quickly.”

  He glanced back at the window and then climbed down into the dark room. Isabelle replaced the rug and sat back on her chair to continue recording expenses in her ledger.

  While California was officially a free state, slaveholders who were just passing through didn’t relinquish the ownership of any slaves traveling with them. Some slave owners spent months in the goldfields, claiming they weren’t going to stay permanently, and the law seemed to be on their side. She’d seen advertisements of slaves even being sold in San Francisco, and now other blacks—freed men and women—were in danger of being kidnapped and sold too.

  It didn’t matter to her whether or not this boy hidden below her was legally free. In her mind, no person should be bought or sold.

  The front bell chimed as Mr. Bridges stepped into her hotel. In his fingers, he clutched a cheap cigar, the stench overpowering the scent of lemon verbena in the lobby.

  “Micah!” he shouted. His head continued its strange ticktock rhythm, looking back and forth as if she weren’t even there.

  Her heart pounding, Isabelle looked up casually from her accounts, pointing with the wooden handle of her pen at the list of rules hung beside the counter. “Rule number six,” she stated. “There is no smoking inside this establishment.”

  Mr. Bridges held up the cigar and made a grand sweep with it, trailing the smoke through the room before he spoke again. “Where’s the proprietor of this place?”

  She closed the ledger, tapping the sole of her patent boot on the rug. “How can I assist you, monsieur?”

  “I want to speak with the person in charge.”

  “I am the person in charge.”

  His eyes narrowed in on her. “You own this hotel?”

  “I’m the manager.” She dipped the nib of her pen into the inkwell. “Would you like to reserve a room for the evening?”

  He shook his head. “I’m looking for my slave. Someone said they saw a colored boy run in here.”

  “What does he look like?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

  His eyes narrowed, searching her face as if trying to determine if she was being obstinate or if she was just inept. “The same as any other darky, only shorter.”

  A retort rose in her throat, but she swallowed it. In this situation, honey would be a more effective deterrent than rebuke.

  She rose slowly, directing the man away from the hiding space. “Come with me,” she said as she walked through the entrance into the restaurant. “I will enlist my staff to search for him.”

  Mr. Bridges followed her through the open doorway into the vacant dining room and reluctantly sat at a table near the kitchen. Then he took a draw on his cigar and puffed out the smoke in her face.

  She waved her hand in front of her face, resisting the urge to gag. She would have required any other man to extinguish his cigar, but she would appease Mr. Bridges this afternoon, for Micah’s sake.

  “Stephan,” she called. When her dark-skinned steward came up from the
cellar, she waved him toward her. “This gentleman is looking for a Negro boy.”

  Mr. Bridges ignored him. “Micah’s a slave,” he reminded her. “Eleven or twelve years old and darn good at hiding.”

  “He said that Micah came into the hotel,” she told Stephan, nodding toward the steps. “Could you please search the rooms upstairs?”

  “You’re sending him to search for Micah?” the man asked incredulously, as if Stephan wasn’t standing right there—as if her steward were incapable of looking for a missing person because his skin was a shade darker than the man across from her. Her blood felt as if it might boil over, but she maintained her composure on the outside, for Micah’s sake. Stephan’s face remained aloof as well.

  “He is quite capable,” she explained. “Stephan will search the top floors of the hotel, and I will look on the bottom.”

  Mr. Bridges returned to his feet. “I will search with you.”

  She shook her head. “Only guests and my employees are allowed upstairs.”

  Stephan moved toward the steps, and Fanny appeared in the kitchen doorway, flour sprinkled on her apron. She’d spent her day helping Janette, the hotel cook, prepare for their evening meal.

  “Could you please bring this gentleman some of the raspberry tarts you baked?” Isabelle asked.

  “Of course,” Fanny replied. “Should I bring coffee too?”

  “No—I will retrieve some wine from downstairs.”

  Fanny’s eyebrows arched, but she didn’t say anything about Isabelle indulging the man.

  Thankfully, Mr. Bridges didn’t seem to realize her insincerity. “Micah’s a wily boy,” he said, his eyes skimming the room.

  “If he’s in the hotel, I’m certain Stephan or I will find him.”

  Mr. Bridges took a step toward the cellar door. “I will look downstairs.”

  Isabelle moved to stop him. “Where are you from?” she asked, blocking the entrance.

  “Texas.”

  “I don’t know what it’s like in Texas, but I don’t tolerate trespassing here—and the sheriff is on my side.”

  When Fanny brought out the tarts, the man settled back into the chair. At least he was deterred for the moment.

  Excusing herself, Isabelle stepped down into the cellar. Mr. Bridges wouldn’t be able to see Micah if he came down here, but it was possible he could hear him between the walls.

  Isabelle slowly retrieved Mr. Walsh’s Madeira from her limited collection of fine wines, regretting that she had to waste some of it on this man fuming in her dining room. But better to distract him than let him tear up her hotel. Once he left, she’d help Micah escape, but it would be better for all of them if Mr. Bridges’s senses were dulled before he continued his search.

  When she emerged back into the dining room, she shook her head, trying to appear disappointed by her news. “There’s no one hiding downstairs.”

  The man shifted in his seat, but his eyes were focused on his goblet as she filled it with the dark, sweet wine. He didn’t bother to sniff it, guzzling it instead. Then she refilled his glass.

  After drinking three glasses of wine, he looked over at the wooden staircase that linked her dining room with the second floor. “Where is your man?”

  “He’s very thorough in his work,” she explained. “I’m certain he’s still searching.”

  “He best find Micah, or I’m going to enlist your sheriff to help me.”

  She walked to the bottom of the tall staircase and glanced up. Stephan was waiting for her signal at the top.

  When he walked back down into the dining room, Stephan spoke to her. “There’s no one upstairs except the guests in rooms 2 and 8.”

  Mr. Bridges leaped up, knocking over his fourth glass of wine. The brown liquid spilled across the white tablecloth. “He’s lying.”

  Isabelle crossed her arms. “Neither my steward nor I can produce a child who clearly isn’t here.”

  He backed away. “I’ll return with your sheriff.”

  She smiled. “Rodney is always welcome.”

  Mr. Bridges stomped out of the dining room, and as she watched him pass by the window, Stephan moved up beside her. They were alone in the room, but still she whispered. “Micah’s safe, but if that dreadful man brings back a dog, he’ll find him.”

  “I know where to take him,” Stephan said.

  She looked back at her steward, a man who’d worked hard for her during the past year. He hadn’t volunteered much of his story, but she knew it hadn’t always been easy. The lobe was missing below his right ear, and he walked with a limp.

  “Will he be safe?” she asked.

  “Much safer than here.”

  Isabelle glanced back out the window. “Let’s move quickly, then.”

  The sun had fallen below the horizon, the coal lamps emitting their orange glow along K Street. Taking her cap and black cloak from behind the reception counter, she slipped outside into the fading twilight. The walkway was still crowded with workers leaving the wharf and shop owners finishing the day. She slipped around the side of the building and into the alley behind it, then waited a few moments to see if anyone followed her.

  When no one emerged, she stepped into the tiny courtyard between her building and the one next door. Then she rolled an empty barrel to the side and swung down the hatch behind it. After bundling up the hem of her dress in one hand, she crawled back through the passage.

  A faint ray of light stole through a crack between the buildings, and when the passage opened into a narrow room, she saw the boy sitting on the dirt floor, his legs drawn up to his chest. Near him was her metal lockbox.

  “I’m Isabelle,” she said, sitting between him and her gold. “You must come with me.”

  He shook his head. “I ain’t going back.”

  “I don’t blame you,” she said. While they needed to hurry, she knew that fear could immobilize a person—what scared someone could end up destroying them simply because they were too afraid to act. “Mr. Bridges says you’re from Texas.”

  “He’s from Texas, but that ain’t my home.”

  “I’d like to help you find a real home.”

  He eyed the entrance into the passage. “He’ll catch me if I leave here.”

  “I fear he’ll catch you if you stay.” She scooted back toward the passage. “I have a friend who can take you to a safe place.”

  “How do you know it’s safe?”

  “I suppose I can’t promise, but it’s much better than if you stay here.”

  She retrieved three gold coins from the lockbox and pressed them into his palm for the journey ahead. Then she crawled back through the passage, not knowing if Micah was following her until she climbed out into the courtyard. Thankfully, he emerged seconds later, closing the small door as she dusted off her skirt and pinned her escaping curls back into place.

  Stephan stepped around the side of the building. “Here’s my friend,” she said, introducing Micah.

  When the boy hesitated again, Stephan leaned down beside him. “There’s no telling what your master might do if we don’t hurry.”

  “I’m afraid,” Micah told him.

  Stephan pointed to his earlobe. “My master clipped off my ear the first time I ran away.”

  Both Isabelle and the boy shuddered.

  “I won’t tell you what he did the second time.”

  With that, Micah agreed to leave. Isabelle draped the black cloak over his shoulders and covered his hair with her cap. She didn’t ask where they were going, but as the sky grew darker, she prayed they would be safe.

  Two customers were waiting for her when she returned to the lobby, and she seated them in the dining room. Fanny stepped out of the kitchen, her flour-doused apron replaced with a pastel green one.

  “Stephan had to fetch something for me,” Isabelle told her.

  Fanny reached for a menu. “I’ll take their order.”

  She didn’t know how long Stephan would be gone, and in that moment, she was grateful that Fa
nny was there to help.

  Back in the lobby, she waited for the return of Mr. Bridges. Ross would say she was crazy to risk everything for a slave boy—a stranger they didn’t know and shouldn’t believe. He wasn’t proslavery, just probusiness. And now she realized, pro-Ross. It seemed he had no problem using people to get exactly what he wanted—the money for his passage to California, the ownership of a hotel, the gold he thought would make him rich.

  The door bell chimed, and she took a deep breath as the inevitable arrived. Mr. Bridges stomped back into her hotel, along with the sheriff. Thankfully, they didn’t bring a bloodhound.

  “Evenin’, Miss Labrie,” the sheriff said, removing his fedora.

  She welcomed him with a smile. “Good evening, Rodney.”

  Rodney nodded toward the man stewing beside him, still clutching a cigar. “Mr. Bridges here is looking for his slave.”

  Isabelle stepped back around the counter. “I thought slavery was illegal in this state.”

  “The federal government sees it differently.”

  “Either way,” she said, motioning to the man beside him, “I already explained to Mr. Bridges that I don’t know where his slave is. If he’s allowed to bring a slave into California, then he should be responsible for his whereabouts.”

  Rodney glanced toward the restaurant. “He said you wouldn’t let him look through your hotel.”

  “Mr. Bridges is a stranger to me and one who refused to obey my basic rules.” She pointed again to the sign beside the counter, toward the clearly stated rule against smoking.

  “I will search with him,” Rodney said.

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  Rodney’s eyes narrowed. “Do I need one?”

  “Stephan and I searched every floor and found nothing, but Mr. Bridges is welcome to search as long as you stay with him.” She pointed toward the man’s hand. “And as long as he leaves his cigar outside.”

  When Mr. Bridges continued clinging to the cigar, irritation flooded Rodney’s face. The sheriff had only been in Sacramento City for a few months. He was a fair man under the obligation to keep law and order in a town that didn’t value either. He didn’t have time for insolence.