Beneath a Golden Veil

by Melanie Dobson

  Fanny’s eyes grew wide. “I thought Ross would take over the Golden again when he returns.”

  Isabelle poured the remaining tea into her cup. It had become clearer as the weeks passed that Fanny envisioned herself the owner and proprietor of this hotel one day, alongside Ross. While Isabelle enjoyed the daily company of another woman, Fanny had begun acting much less like someone working for room and board and more like a paying guest at her leisure.

  Isabelle sipped the tea. “I guess we’ll be able to resolve all this very soon.”

  “But I don’t want you to have to leave.”

  “Considering that my aunt owns this place, you don’t have to worry about that.”

  Fanny fidgeted again in her chair. “I can’t help but wonder—”

  Isabelle braced herself. “What is it?”

  “Were you and Ross ever . . .” Fanny took a deep breath. “Doesn’t it seem strange for a married man and an unmarried woman to partner together in a business venture?”

  “Are you talking about my aunt’s partnership or are you talking about me?”

  Fanny glanced down at her cup before meeting her gaze again. “Were you and Ross ever more than business partners?”

  Fanny had attempted to ask this question several times now, and each time Isabelle had been able to evade answering. Ross should be the one talking to his wife about the choices he made after he left for California, not her. The numbness in her heart and mind had dissipated, and she was furious at him for making her clean up his mess.

  As she contemplated her response, Isabelle looked out at the storm once more. This time, she saw Sing Ye stumbling along the boardwalk, holding an umbrella out in front of her like a warrior preparing to fight the rain.

  Another welcome interruption to prolong this conversation.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Fanny, standing up. Sing Ye rarely came to the hotel, and she never came this early in the morning.

  Isabelle hurried across to the lobby.

  Sing Ye shook off her umbrella outside the door and left it under the awning. When she stepped into the room, her hands trembled as she brushed the water off the jade-colored silk on her tangzhuang jacket, splattering the rug.

  She and Nicolas had married two weeks ago, but Nicolas agreed that Sing Ye should continue helping Aunt Emeline during her final days. Isabelle visited her aunt every evening for at least an hour after dinner so that Sing Ye could spend time with her new husband. When she had visited last night, Aunt Emeline never woke from her sleep.

  Isabelle stepped toward her. “What happened?”

  “She was in pain for most of the night,” Sing Ye said. “Now she’s asking for you.”

  “Did you send for the doctor?”

  “Yes, but the messenger said he can’t come until this afternoon.”

  Isabelle reached for her merino cloak. “Let’s go talk to him together.”

  Chapter 17

  Boston

  February 1854

  It seemed to Victor as if everyone in Boston were waiting for a ship to California. The line for the passage office snaked down the wharf and curled into an alleyway that stank of rotting fish and cheap liquor. Crates draped with mooring ropes and fishing nets were stacked along the wooden pier, and the snow had been replaced by broken lobster and crab shells that littered the ground.

  He’d been waiting more than a week for the ticket office to open. The proprietor at his hotel said to arrive early to secure passage, so he had, finding his way to the office while the oil lanterns were still burning. The proprietor never said anything about the hundreds—perhaps thousands—of people wanting passage on the same ship.

  Seven hours he’d stood in line now, clutching the leather portfolio with his papers and half of the coins he’d retrieved before he came north. Now that he knew where Alden was taking Isaac, it was such a waste to be stuck here. Waiting.

  He hated to wait.

  A fishing trawler crept toward the crowded wharf, searching for an available berth among the ships and boats loading and unloading.

  A clipper called Pharos, he’d discovered, had indeed set off for San Francisco on December 30, traveling around Cape Horn. Alden and Isaac may be ahead of him, but the man at his hotel said he knew of a much faster way to get to California. And he knew of a ship sailing to Panama tomorrow.

  Even though he was more than a month behind the Pharos, taking the journey across Panama would still get him to California before Alden.

  The line shifted ahead, and then he had to wait again.

  Alden may have outsmarted him for the moment, but Victor would find him in Sacramento. Then he would retrieve Isaac, and they would sail immediately back to the East Coast.

  When he returned home, he would be the hero of the Payne family and Alden the fool.

  Perhaps, with the absence of Alden, John would reward Victor with the plantation. He’d rule over Scott’s Grove soon, his only son at his side.

  Chapter 18

  Pacific Ocean, Near Cape Horn

  February 1854

  Land had been spotted on the starboard side of the clipper, and it was a good thing. After two months traveling south, the Pharos’s crew was running short on supplies. They’d planned to stop in Rio de Janeiro to restock, but a storm kept them from making port.

  The last remaining food supplies consisted of beans, salt jerk, a keg of beer, two pigs for slaughter, and three barrels of fresh water. It was not enough to last more than a day or two for the 117 passengers on board. If they didn’t get supplies soon, Captain Baxter Crandall was going to have a mutiny on his hands.

  Lowell’s brother hadn’t made any promises for Alden and Isaac’s passage agreement beyond feeding them and providing a berth to sleep below deck. And requiring that they work from sunup until long after it went down.

  Alden had worked harder in these past two months than he’d ever worked in his life. He and Isaac had washed mounds of dishes. Mopped the decks. Caulked the ship’s seams with oakum. They’d also tried rigging the masts, but the captain kept Alden and Isaac mainly in the kitchen now, saying they made lousy sailors. Only another two months or so left. Then they would be in California, free to work as they liked.

  The stack of tin plates beside him rattled with the ship. He picked up a plate and washed it in a bucket of saltwater. No soap. Then he stacked it on the opposite side to air dry.

  In the first few weeks of their journey, he’d scraped food off most of the dishes, tossing the bigger pieces to the pigs and throwing the crumbs overboard to the dolphins that had served as the ship’s companions as they sailed down the Atlantic. These days, there wasn’t a morsel left to feed the dolphins, pigs, or even the rats that kept him company in the galley. Every passenger cleared his or her plate and most of them asked for more. Unlike Alden and Isaac, the passengers had paid for the finest cuisine.

  Captain Crandall said they’d be having pork chops tonight for dinner. After that, it would be salt jerk and beans until they were able to restock the hold with provisions.

  The Pharos had rounded the tip of South America a few days ago, the waves crashing up against their ship with such force that he’d thought they would surely capsize. Captain Crandall required that all the men, even those who’d paid for fancy staterooms, help the crew bail. The captain was master on a ship, judge and king, but he didn’t have to put any of his passengers in chains. For an hour, their ship had been trapped in a black squall as the men threw bucket after bucket of water back into the sea, skirting dangerously around the cluster of jagged rocks that made up Cape Horn. The sea tossed them around like a tobacco leaf in the wind until it finally dumped them back out to finish their journey.

  Now it was directly north to San Francisco, stopping only for supplies in Valparaiso, Chile—hopefully before the beans and water ran out.

  Persila, a pretty black woman, entered the galley. She was a few years older than Alden and dressed in a simple cotton wrapper with a handkerchief tucked back over her ears, hidi
ng her hair. She grabbed a wooden bucket and filled it with murky water from the barrel.

  “The captain wants me to scrub the aft deck again, but it seems like Mother Nature gave it a good enough scrubbing already.”

  Alden nodded. Captain Crandall liked to keep them busy, as if a moment of rest might provoke a rebellion.

  Persila leaned back against a crate. “Where’d Isaac go?”

  “He took Mrs. Dawson a bowl of beans.”

  Isaac carried a tray twice a day to a female passenger in one of the stateroom berths. They didn’t have a doctor on board, but a man from Erie was the son of a doctor. He thought Mrs. Dawson had cholera, so the captain gave the job of feeding her to Isaac. When Alden protested, the man said he would leave them at Valparaiso if the boy didn’t cooperate. They could try their luck against dengue and yellow fever.

  Isaac, however, didn’t protest. He said he liked the woman in room 4 well enough. And she enjoyed listening to him read.

  “You don’t treat Isaac like a slave,” Persila said.

  Alden shrugged.

  “What happened to his mama?”

  He dipped another plate into the saltwater and added it to the stack. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s sad, isn’t it?” she asked, speaking more to herself. “Every boy should have a good mama.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “I had a child once,” she said sadly. “A long time ago.”

  “I bet you were a good mother.”

  She wiped her sleeve across her face. “He was a good son.”

  She lifted the mop and bucket, but as she moved toward the door, a man with a sunburned nose and thinning black hair stepped into the kitchen, stopping her. “The missus wants her tea.”

  She showed him the bucket. “Captain Crandall told me to mop the deck.”

  “You can do that, after you make Missus Webb tea.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man glanced over at Alden before looking back at her. “There’s no time for socializing.”

  Alden wanted to say they had endless amounts of time on this boat, but he held his tongue. Mr. Webb couldn’t whip him, but his snide comments might earn Persila a flogging.

  She set the mop back against the wall. “I’ll start the tea.”

  The man gave a sharp nod, then ducked out of the room.

  Alden glanced up at the bare shelves. “Where will you find tea?”

  “Missus Webb brought plenty in her trunk with her, along with sugar.”

  “I thought Mr. Webb hired you out.”

  She nodded. “My work is paying for most of his passage, but he still wants me to attend to him and his wife.”

  Alden turned to stir a pot of beans on the stove while Persila began heating a kettle of water.

  He clung to the hope that Isaac and Persila would be free once they got to California. He still hadn’t mentioned freedom to Isaac, afraid that someone on the Pharos—a slave owner like Mr. Webb—might do something to hinder his plan. Much better to wait until Isaac was firmly on free soil to talk about the boy’s future.

  “What are your plans when you get to San Francisco?” he asked the woman.

  “I’ll do whatever Master Webb tells me to do, I suppose.”

  “But California is a free state.”

  She glanced back over at him. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From a friend.”

  “Master Webb said there ain’t gonna be no freedom for me there.”

  The door opened again, and the captain barged into the galley, staring at Persila. “Why aren’t you mopping the deck?”

  “Master Webb told me to make tea.”

  “I’m the only master you have on this boat.” Captain Crandall took the kettle off the stove and set it back on the shelf. “I’ve paid good money for you and your work, and I expect you to answer only to me.”

  Persila’s shoulders sank. “Yes, sir.”

  Alden stepped forward. “I can mop the deck.”

  “I told you to do the dishes.”

  Alden stood taller. “I can do both.”

  Captain Crandall scrutinized him for a moment. “Fine.”

  Persila reached for the teapot again, but the captain slapped her hand. “You and Payne can mop the deck together. If your master has a problem, tell him to discuss it with me.”

  The captain waited until Persila left with her mop and bucket before he turned back to Alden. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop pandering to slaves.”

  Alden braced himself. That was the same word his father had used back in the curing barn. He wanted to fight both this man and Mr. Webb, but he could almost hear his dean’s words ringing in his ears: Passion is most powerful when bridled by restraint.

  Passion only sparked a fire. If you wanted to keep it burning, you needed to feed the smoldering flames.

  “I’m not pandering,” he finally said. “I’m trying to protect her.”

  “Little good it will do you, here or in California,” Captain Crandall said before stomping out of the galley, the dishes rattling again.

  The ship swayed to his left, and Alden swayed with it. Unlike in the rest of their country, slaves were supposed to be free in California, but what if things had changed in the past months?

  It was too late for him and Isaac to change course now. Others gambled on finding gold out west. He supposed he was gambling on finding freedom.

  After he finished drying the dishes, he reached for a second mop and climbed up the steps to Mrs. Dawson’s room. Isaac answered his knock, slipping out into the corridor.

  Alden held up his mop. “I’m going to the top deck.”

  “Missus Dawson just fell asleep,” he said, carefully closing the door. “It took an hour of reading.”

  “Is she well?”

  “Tolerable. She’s tired of the beans.”

  “I’m afraid we all are.”

  “I’ll help you mop,” Isaac said, as if it were a game.

  “You go rest for a bit downstairs.”

  “I’ve been resting, Master Payne. I need to earn my keep.”

  “What do you think about borrowing Persila’s mop, then?”

  Isaac nodded.

  There were only two mops in the galley. Perhaps the captain would let Persila make her missus tea if Isaac joined him in the labor.

  The sun beat down on Alden’s back as he wet his mop. Off the leeward side, a school of bluefish escorted them through the water, and when Isaac joined him on deck, the boy leaned over the railing as if he might jump overboard to swim with the fish. Like Benjamin and his diving stage.

  Isaac didn’t need to find a field of gold in California. He needed to play the games that Alden and Benjamin once played. He needed an education so he could use his mind and not have to hide behind ignorance any longer. A place to read and grow and change the ignorance of others. Perhaps a black family would adopt him into their home in San Francisco so he could have a mother and father to care for his needs.

  As he and Isaac mopped together, Alden prayed this new state would remain true to moral law, offering freedom to all men, women, and children. Black and white.

  Chapter 19

  Sacramento City

  February 1854

  Isabelle leaned back against the pillows on the feather bed, holding Aunt Emeline in her arms as if she were a baby. She didn’t want to let her aunt go, afraid she might slip away for good.

  Sing Ye said that Emeline had awakened during the night, asking for her, but her aunt had fallen back asleep before Isabelle arrived that morning. And she’d yet to awaken again.

  After much pleading, the doctor had come to the cottage, but he didn’t stay long. After listening to the whisper of Aunt Emeline’s heartbeat with his wooden stethoscope, he spooned a bitter syrup of black tea and morphine between her lips. Then he left Isabelle the bottle.

  The morphine relieved her pain, and while Isabelle was grateful for her relief, there were so many more things she
wanted to say. It was long past noon now. Even though Sing Ye had tried to coax her into the next room to eat, Isabelle refused to leave until she thanked her aunt one last time.

  Stephan would oversee dinner tonight at the hotel and any needs of their clientele while she was gone. Fanny would loathe answering to Stephan, but her steward knew how to care for their guests. And he was completely reliable.

  On the painted wall at the end of the bed was the picture she’d given Aunt Emeline for Christmas—the one of the port at Marseille. Beside it was a portrait of Uncle William and Aunt Emeline together in her flower garden on the outskirts of Baltimore, years before Isabelle met them. Uncle William had a thick mustache that masked most of his lips, but his smile flooded up into his eyes. Aunt Emeline’s hair had been rolled tightly into curls on both sides of her head, a sprig of flowers pinned in the middle. A lace collar draped wide over her shoulders, and her smile was as infectious as her husband’s.

  Uncle William had been an ardent abolitionist, using his mercantile as a meeting place for like-minded people. Aunt Emeline had cared well for the people who spent a night or two hiding out in their home.

  They had both done so much for her—educating and supporting her, bringing her to California with them. She’d never known what a family was until they adopted her into theirs.

  Her heart ached.

  She couldn’t envision what her life would be like with her aunt gone. Couldn’t fathom the future without her. Aunt Emeline was her anchor. Her lighthouse in the storms. Her savior.

  Almost a decade ago, when the doctors thought Isabelle would die, Aunt Emeline had nursed her back to health. Then she’d risked everything for Isabelle, just as she had done when she purchased Sing Ye from the steamer in San Francisco.

  If only she could rescue her aunt now.

  This morning, Isabelle asked the doctor if she could bring Aunt Emeline to the hospital, but he’d said she was too ill for the journey across the city. And she would surely be more comfortable spending her final hours at home.

  Isabelle wanted to fight him—the man didn’t know for certain that these were Aunt Emeline’s last hours—but she’d finally concurred after the doctor said Isabelle would be a greater help to her aunt by easing her pain instead of trying to cure a body beyond repair.