Beneath a Golden Veil

by Melanie Dobson

  Mr. Bridges held up his cigar. “There’s no law in California against smoking.”

  “Miss Labrie is entitled to enforce the rules of her establishment.”

  “And I’m entitled to my cigar.”

  Rodney shoved his hat back on his head. “If your cigar is more important than your slave, so be it. I’ve got plenty of other things to do.”

  Mr. Bridges eyed him for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure whether the sheriff was serious. He must have determined that Rodney was in earnest because he stepped back outside, returning seconds later empty handed. She didn’t know what he did with the cigar. Hopefully he didn’t hide it someplace that would set the town on fire.

  Rodney removed his hat again, and the two men stepped through the archway at the right of the room, into the restaurant. Then she heard them walking up the stairs, heard the scraping of furniture on the floor overhead, the stomping of their boots.

  There were eighteen people staying in the Golden right now. Hopefully they wouldn’t harass any of the guests as they looked for Micah.

  Any other time, she would have protested a search—for the sake of her guests—but she didn’t want Rodney to think she was hiding anything from him. And the longer it took them to look through her establishment, the more time Stephan had to hide the boy. Perhaps it would take Mr. Bridges a few hours before he relented.

  Outside her window, the sky was completely black now. The walkways were still filled with men, most of them heading to the saloons or gambling halls two streets over. Some were just in Sacramento City for a few days or weeks. Others had stayed long enough to become citizens of the town. She knew almost everyone who’d decided to call this place home.

  As she waited for Rodney and Mr. Bridges, she escorted customers back into the dining room and checked two miners into vacant rooms. They’d spent months, the men said, in a wet tent in the Mother Lode. They quickly agreed to her list of rules—payment due before they occupied a room, extinguishing all lanterns before they left, no spitting on the floor, no gambling, at least one bath per week at the local bathhouse, no hard liquor, no prostitution, and no smoking cigars anywhere inside the hotel. They paid twenty dollars each to reserve a room for a week, and with the keys at her side, she took the miners upstairs.

  When she stepped back into the corridor, she looked for Mr. Bridges and Rodney, but she didn’t see either man. Perhaps they were up on the third floor now.

  Each time she escorted another customer into the dining room, Fanny flashed her a panicked look, but even if she felt overwhelmed, Fanny was handling the flood of customers perfectly fine on her own.

  Isabelle was sitting at her desk, writing an order for more wine, when the sheriff and Mr. Bridges appeared back in the lobby. Rodney looked annoyed, Mr. Bridges livid.

  Mr. Bridges leaned onto the counter. “Where did he go?”

  She flashed Rodney a look, eyebrows raised as if the man in front of her might be crazy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Where’s my slave?”

  “Did you search the entire hotel?” she asked, equally annoyed at his interruption.

  Rodney stepped up to the counter, drumming his fingers on the wood. “Two people claim they saw a colored boy run into your lobby. They never saw him leave.”

  She glanced around the lobby. “I’m not hiding a boy here.”

  “You said that your steward helped you search.”

  Isabelle pasted a smile on her face, much less welcoming this time. “He looked upstairs.”

  “I’d like to speak to him,” Rodney said.

  Isabelle’s confidence began to falter. “I don’t know if he’s available.”

  “Miss Labrie”—Rodney’s smile was condescending—“I’m certain you can open up his availability.”

  As far as she knew, the sheriff didn’t drink, at least not while he was on duty. She’d have to think of another way to distract him until Stephan returned.

  She stood slowly before stepping around the counter. “I’ll retrieve him from the kitchen.”

  “There’s no need,” Stephan said from the doorway. “How can I help you?”

  Mr. Bridges took a cigar from his cloak pocket along with a box of matches. He lit the cigar as Rodney turned to speak with Stephan. “I’m told you helped search for a runaway slave this afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you locate him?”

  “I did not.”

  Rodney moved closer to him, studying his black waistcoat and trousers along with the linen draped over his arm. “Did you go out this evening, Stephan?”

  “The dining room is full, sir. I’ve been quite busy serving Miss Labrie’s clientele.”

  Rodney paused. “If I find out you left the hotel, I’ll take it before the judge.”

  Stephan nodded calmly, though Isabelle knew he must be terrified inside. A colored person wasn’t allowed to testify before a judge, even if there was a crime. Her steward may have achieved freedom to work and live in California, but his tongue wasn’t free here, at least not in a courtroom.

  “You won’t find out anything different,” Stephan assured him.

  Rodney tilted his hat toward her. “Good evening, Miss Labrie.”

  “But . . . ,” Mr. Bridges protested.

  Rodney glared at him and the cigar in his hand. “It seems to me, sir, that you need to keep as good account of your slaves as you do your cigars.”

  Chapter 13

  Boston

  December 1853

  Plumes of snow piled up outside Crandall Livery & Stables in Boston, creating white pilasters along the building’s gray walls. Wind spiraled a troupe of new flakes as they fell to the ground, adding their company to the growing columns.

  Alden stomped his feet inside the open doorway of the livery. If the snow didn’t stop soon, all of Park Square would be buried in a white shroud before dark.

  The boat from Alexandria had taken him and Isaac to New York, then the train had transported them the remaining way to the depot here in Boston two days ago, but the accumulating snow had canceled the service of his typical coach over to Cambridge indefinitely.

  Fellow boat and then train passengers had watched him and Isaac for their entire journey, as if they were traveling performers about to entertain. Some of the people around them were curious. Others seemed hostile at his apparent ownership of a young slave.

  When someone appeared too intrigued with their arrangement, he would demand that Isaac fetch his bag or something to eat. The boy did the work swiftly, usually with a smile. And no one had asked for his papers yet.

  Still Alden feared that someone would guess that he was trying to secure Isaac’s freedom. Or that his father would find out that he’d taken a slave. After what his father had done to Benjamin, Alden could only imagine what he would do if he found them.

  While Isaac read a new novel in the hotel room, Alden had set out to rent a rig for the last six miles of their journey. After Isaac was on his way to Canada, Alden would return the rented horses and carriage.

  Horses neighed on both sides of the stables, and Alden’s boots sunk into the wet straw as he strode down the alley between the stalls. The livery opened up into a storage arena that held four wagons and two carriages. The only man he saw was attending to a horse inside one of the stalls, across from the wagon storage.

  The man removed his foot from a stool. “How can I help you?” he asked, transferring a brush between his hands.

  “I want to rent a horse and runabout,” Alden replied, pointing toward the carriages. He’d hire a coach to deliver his trunk to Harvard after the snow melted.

  The man looked him up and down, at his black woolen cloak and felt derby hat. “You know how to drive a runabout?”

  “Of course I do.”

  The man returned to brushing the horse’s coat. “I should be able to rent you something by Friday.”

  “I can’t wait that long.”

  The man shrugged. “I
can’t afford to lose one of my horses in a blizzard.”

  “It’s not far to Harvard.”

  The man looked at him like he was crazy. In Virginia, an enslaved coachman would drive him, no matter the weather, but he had no power over this man.

  “Are you Crandall?” Alden asked, pointing back toward the wooden sign hanging over the open doorway.

  The man nodded. “Lowell Crandall.”

  “What if I hired you to drive me?”

  Lowell pressed the brush bristles into his palm, nodding toward the gusting snow that veiled the bank building across the street. “I’m not going to get stranded in this weather.”

  “I’ll pay you twice your usual fee.”

  “Twice of anything’s not worth my life or the lives of my stock.”

  When Alden looked back at the snow again, he blinked. Then his heart seemed to stop. He thought his father might come to Harvard after him, but it wasn’t his father standing outside the livery door. It was his brother-in-law.

  He glanced at the alley and then toward the carriages. The only exit was the one where Victor seemed to be standing guard. Alden slipped into the stall where he’d found Lowell.

  The man eyed the door, and when he turned back toward Alden, his eyes narrowed. “I think there’s more to your story.”

  Alden kept his back against the stall’s low wall. “There’s always more to a story.”

  “You in trouble with the law?”

  He shook his head. “I’m in trouble with my family.”

  “Ah,” Lowell said. “I’ve spent a lifetime in trouble with mine.”

  When Alden glanced over the wall, he saw Victor walking toward them.

  “I would appreciate your confidence,” Alden said.

  “I’ll determine that in due course,” Lowell replied. “In the meantime, this here is Daisy Sue. You two can get to know each other while I talk to this family member of yours.”

  Alden sank down onto the wooden stool, the stench of horse manure stinging his nose. Thankfully, Daisy Sue ignored him, keeping her distance across the stall. As he waited, Alden silently begged God to convince the owner of the livery to conceal the truth.

  “How can I help you?” he heard Lowell ask Victor.

  “I want to rent a carriage and driver,” Victor said.

  “I don’t hire out drivers,” Lowell told him. “Check down by the train depot.”

  “No one there will drive in this snow.”

  Through the cracks in the wood, Alden watched Lowell and Victor. As the men talked, he wrestled with his own thoughts.

  If Victor was Isaac’s father, should he return the boy to him? A boy should be with his father, especially if Victor treated him well. But Eliza clearly wasn’t enamored with him. She was willing to give him away, and he feared his sister wouldn’t hesitate to sell him.

  “Where are you going?” the livery owner asked Victor.

  “Harvard.”

  “You work there?”

  “No. I’m on my way to get my slave back.”

  “Your slave?” Lowell asked, his tone tightening like a jack-in-the-box about to spring.

  He nodded. “Someone kidnapped him.”

  “Why would someone take your slave to Harvard?”

  “My brother-in-law is planning to free him,” Victor said, as if he were indicting Alden in the worst possible crime.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely,” Victor replied. “I’m going to find my slave and make sure my brother-in-law is flogged for stealing him.”

  “How about the slave?”

  “Perhaps I’ll have him flogged too.”

  The image of his own father flashed into Alden’s mind, the whip in his hand ready to lash Benjamin, and he shuddered. He would return a son to his father, but not a slave to his master. He had to keep Isaac away from Victor, even if he had to escort the boy up to Canada on his own.

  “I have a friend named Jameson who runs a livery ten blocks north of here, next to Park Street Church,” Lowell directed. “He rents out coaches for hire, and his horses are much better in the snow than mine.”

  Victor stepped toward the door. “I’ll find him before dark.”

  “I’m always glad to help someone of a like mind.”

  “I thought Boston was chock-full of abolitionists.”

  “Only a few of them around here.”

  Alden stayed in the stall several more minutes until he was certain Victor was gone. “What’s ten blocks north?” Alden asked when he stepped back into the alley.

  Lowell smiled. “The burying ground.”

  Alden laughed.

  “He’ll never even make it there tonight in this snow,” Lowell said. “You aim to keep that boy as a slave?”

  Alden shook his head. “I’m trying to find him a way up to Canada.”

  The man eyed the snow again. “Perhaps I will drive you to Harvard myself.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to change my plans.” Again. Victor may not be able to get transportation today, but he wouldn’t be far behind Alden and Isaac on the route to Cambridge.

  “There aren’t many places you can go by foot or carriage in this weather,” Lowell said. “Certainly not up to Canada.”

  The banknotes his mother had given him for tuition were back in the room. She may have meant for him to finish his schooling, but she’d also told him to use his education for good.

  “How about a ship to California?” he asked.

  The man eyed him for a moment. “We’ve got two kinds of ships that leave from our harbor. The slow boat goes all the way down around Cape Horn, ending up four or five months later in San Francisco if the weather’s decent. Seven months if Mother Nature’s fighting you.”

  “What about the faster route?”

  “Those ships stop at the Isthmus of Panama, and you have to cross over that neck of land to catch a ship on the other side.”

  “Any idea how much the passage would cost?” Alden asked.

  “About two hundred dollars per person to go around the Horn. More like three hundred dollars to cross over the isthmus.”

  His heart sank. Even if he wanted to take Isaac to California, he didn’t have enough money for both of them to travel.

  Lowell lowered his voice. “My brother commands a clipper ship called Pharos that leaves in the morning for California. Won’t matter if it’s sunny or snowing.”

  “I don’t have enough money for the boy and me to both sail.”

  Lowell tugged on his jacket sleeves. “If you are willing to work, I might be able to get you passage.”

  “We’re willing to work as hard as we can.”

  “Meet me down at Lewis Wharf before daybreak,” Lowell said. “And pack light.”

  “Thank you.”

  He didn’t have to ask Isaac about this new journey. It seemed the boy was going to achieve his dream of going to California after all.

  Chapter 14

  Harvard College

  January 1854

  Victor rattled the iron gates that led into Harvard Yard until the gatekeeper stepped up to speak with him. The man was clearly exasperated, his long sigh more like a groan. “You again.”

  “Of course it’s me,” Victor said. “I’m not going to stop until you let me speak to my brother.”

  “It’s not for me to say whether or not you can go to his room.”

  Victor wanted to slap the man silly, preferably with something like a frying pan. They’d had this conversation repeatedly during the two weeks the students and professors were away on holiday—and in the week since they’d been back—but the guard refused to listen to him.

  “I can’t obtain permission if you won’t let me inside.”

  “Maybe you’ll change your mind and send your brother a message. Or at least give me his name.”

  An icy raindrop splashed on Victor’s face, and he flicked it away. “I want to surprise him.”

  “It’s my job to snuff out surprises.” The guard�
�s eyes narrowed. “And people who try to climb the fence.”

  “If you’d unlock it, I wouldn’t need to climb.”

  The man stepped away without another word. Victor rattled the gate again, shouting for him to come back, but the guard ignored him.

  His arms crossed over his coat, he stepped under the nearby tree where he’d spent much of the last three weeks waiting for Alden to walk through the gate. He’d failed in his repeated attempts to climb the fence, and he’d failed to even catch a glimpse of Alden and Isaac.

  The sunlight faded as he watched the gate, and rain began to pour from the sky, veiling the iron slabs before him with a hazy gray. Isaac was behind the gate, protected by this imbecile who refused to let Victor pass. Perhaps Alden had even told the man to keep him locked out.

  But they wouldn’t keep him out forever. Eventually he’d find a way to get in.

  He stood up a little straighter under the tree, a new idea forming in his mind. He could go straight to the police chief of this little town and tell him that Alden Payne was harboring a runaway. Then he’d smirk at the keeper when the chief demanded he unlock the gates. Perhaps he’d tell the chief that the gatekeeper was collaborating with Alden to steal his slave.

  He stepped away from the tree, intent on finding the station until he heard the clamoring of a dozen voices, laughing and shouting as if they had more drink than sense running through their brains.

  Victor smiled when he saw the large group of students dressed in long coats and bowler hats round the corner. Perhaps he wouldn’t need the police chief after all.

  The students didn’t seem to notice him as he elbowed his way into the middle of the herd, the rain dousing all of them. And the keeper didn’t notice Victor either as he unlocked the gate. He seemed anxious to get the rowdies off the streets, back inside his fence.

  The men floundered into the muddy yard, and Victor laughed along with them as they wobbled in unison toward the dormitory.

  Once they were inside, Victor asked one of the men where Alden Payne’s room was.

  “Third floor,” he directed sluggishly. “But Alden’s not there.”

  “Where is he?”

  The man leaned against the paneled wall. “He—”