Beneath a Golden Veil

by Melanie Dobson

  Victor lifted his chest. “What’s the name of this place?”

  “The Kirtland House. It’s over on the corner of G and Third Street.”

  He picked his bag up off the floor. “If Mr. Payne arrives, you can find me at the Kirtland House, then.”

  The man gave a sharp nod. “I will let you know if he appears.”

  Chapter 29

  Sacramento City

  July 1854

  An urgent knock woke Isabelle from her sleep. She didn’t remember her dream, but her cheeks were wet, her pillow damp. In the weeks since Alden and Isaac had arrived, she had awakened often to a bath of tears, to the return of her old nightmares and then the tremendous sadness of what she’d lost.

  While they were still in Baltimore, Aunt Emeline would come into her room after the nightmares, softly humming the hymn about God’s amazing grace. As a younger woman, she had embraced those lyrics, letting them settle into all the hidden places, in those dark corridors that she dared not open to anyone but a God who loved her.

  Now, in these early morning hours, she hummed the lyrics again on her own, trying to remind herself of all the blessings she’d gained in the past nine years. A family, for a season. Her freedom. A profession she enjoyed and a place where people respected her. And most important perhaps, the means to help other slaves whenever God brought someone like Micah or Isaac her way.

  The knock continued, growing louder, and she reached for her dressing gown, wrapping it securely around her waist. Then she lit a candle and hurried across the sitting room to find Stephan standing on the other side of the door, fully clothed.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “We need your help.”

  She scanned the empty dining room behind him. “Who needs my help?”

  Stephan motioned to the side, and a Negro woman stepped into the candlelight. “This is Persila.”

  Isabelle suppressed a groan, but she couldn’t stop the tears that flooded her eyes again. The woman’s hair was matted, her clothing torn and dirty. Blood trickled down from her right ear, and her face was bruised. “Who did this to you?”

  “My master,” the woman said painfully, leaning against Stephan to stand. “He thought I stole money from him.”

  “Did you steal something?”

  “No, ma’am. Master Webb lost most of his money gambling, but he can’t tell his missus what he done.”

  Her hands trembled with anger. It was a familiar story, both of men losing their money in the gambling saloons and of slave owners venting their fury on their slaves.

  Isabelle opened the door wide. “I’ll help you clean up.”

  “There’s no time.” Stephan glanced back over his shoulder. “We need to hide her.”

  Isabelle directed the woman toward the room behind her. “You can rest on my bed for a moment.”

  When she left, Isabelle turned back toward her steward. “Where did you find her?”

  “I saw her yesterday near the riverfront. When her master was distracted, I told her about a safe house for runaway slaves.”

  As much as she wanted to know the location of this house, she knew it would be better for all of them if it remained a secret. “Did she come tonight?”

  He nodded. “Mr. Webb passed out, and she was able to escape.”

  She was glad Stephan had brought her here, but the rugged hiding place between the walls downstairs was no place for an injured woman. “Can you take her back to the house?”

  “It’s no longer safe,” he said, shaking his head. “Rodney is there, searching every crevice. Her owner is spitting mad.”

  “It looks like he already took out his rage on her.”

  “Unfortunately, there’s more to be had.”

  Isabelle shuddered. They had no choice, then. “I’ll hide her right now.”

  But there was no time to move the woman to the lobby. Someone began pounding on the front door of her hotel, the sound thundering across the dining room. A tremor shot down her spine, and when she looked back at Stephan, she saw fear reflected in his eyes.

  “Take her through my window,” she urged, pulling him into the sitting room. “Sing Ye will hide her until you and your friends find another safe place.”

  She didn’t want to endanger Sing Ye, but she would want to help. And Isabelle prayed that Nicolas would want to help too.

  “I’ll take care of whoever’s at the front door,” she said, trying to assure him.

  Stephan hesitated for a moment, clearly torn. “I fear they’ll harm anyone who gets in their way.”

  She nudged him forward. “I won’t get in their way.”

  The hammering rattled the glass windows, and she realized whoever was out there intended to enter her hotel whether or not she unlocked the door. Best that she let them in on her own terms. She called out that she was coming, though she doubted anyone could hear her voice over the incessant noise.

  In the lobby, she set her candle on the counter and lifted the window curtain. Outside was the sheriff with one of his two deputies. Once Rodney saw her, he stopped pounding.

  She resituated her dressing gown, as if he’d just awakened her, before opening the door. Both men stormed into her lobby.

  She reached for her candle and held it to her chest. “What’s happened?” she demanded, her voice brimming with concern.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Labrie,” Rodney said. “We have to search your hotel.”

  She followed him into the dining room. “What are you searching for?”

  “We’re looking for another runaway.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think I’m collecting people?”

  “I surely hope not, at least not other people’s property, but seeing as Mr. Bridges never did find his slave, I have to start here.”

  She glanced up at the staircase. “Can’t it wait a few more hours?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He waved a piece of paper in front of her. “This is a warrant from the judge.”

  “You’d think the judge would wait until the sun rose to begin issuing warrants.”

  Rodney shrugged before turning to his deputy. “You take the top two floors, and I’ll search the dining room and cellar.”

  “But my guests are still asleep,” she insisted.

  “They’ll have to rise early this morning.”

  She followed Rodney as he looked under each table and through the kitchen, praying the darkness would hide Stephan and Persila until they reached the cottage.

  The sheriff didn’t ask permission to enter her private quarters, but he did instruct her to light the oil lanterns in both rooms. He glanced around at the furniture in the sitting area, but when he stepped into her bedchamber, his eyes fixated on the window. It was open, about an inch, and a stripe of copper-red streaked across the white-painted windowsill.

  “What is this?” Rodney asked, striking his finger through the fresh blood.

  She froze, her lips pressed together.

  He swung toward her. “Miss Labrie?”

  She leaned forward, studying the smear. “It appears to be blood.”

  “Do you have any recollection as to how it got here?”

  When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to find out in court.”

  The bell of her lobby chimed, and she hurried back toward the front door, the sheriff behind her. Several of her guests lined the staircase, looking down at them. She tried to reassure them with her smile, even as her heart was pounding, knowing that they all might vacate if they found out what she had done.

  When she arrived in the lobby, all the pounding in her heart seemed to crash in on itself. There were two more white men before her—the second deputy and a man she assumed to be Persila’s master. Secured in the deputy’s hands was Stephan, his hands tied behind his back. And Mr. Webb gripped Persila’s upper arm.

  Tears streamed down the woman’s cheeks, and Isabelle wanted to hug her, give her the same hope that Aunt Emeline had given her, but she could do nothing for P
ersila or her faithful steward right now. The men that held them were much stronger than she—and the law was on their side.

  Loneliness gripped her. And fear.

  How could she help them now?

  Rodney studied the man secured in the deputy’s grasp before looking back at her. “It appears that your steward was an accomplice to this crime.”

  “It depends on what you think is criminal.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Labrie.” Rodney opened the front door for his deputies. “Take Stephan and this woman to the jailhouse.”

  Mr. Webb didn’t release the woman. “She’s coming home with me.”

  Rodney shook his head. “Not until she goes before the judge.”

  Mr. Webb looked as if he might fight the sheriff, but he relented, releasing Persila to the sheriff’s care. “I’m following you to the jailhouse,” he said.

  Rodney didn’t speak to Isabelle again, but when the door closed behind him and his men, she knew his inquiry about her involvement had just begun.

  Chapter 30

  Sacramento City

  July 1854

  The accommodations at the Kirtland House were modest but sufficient. Last night, the proprietor’s wife had flaunted her beauty over dinner, regaling him with stories about her hometown of New York, telling him to call her Fanny instead of Mrs. Kirtland. He had an appreciation for fine food and an even greater appreciation for the familiarity.

  Mr. Kirtland hadn’t extended the same courtesy in the use of his first name, but he seemed delightfully unengaged with the comings and goings of his friendly wife.

  Victor removed his leather portfolio from the plain bureau and took it down to breakfast with him. If Fanny wasn’t available for hire, perhaps the women in the Sacramento brothels would be more accommodating than the ones in Panama. Or the woman he’d paid back on the ship.

  After breakfast, he found Mr. Kirtland in the cramped lobby, drinking a cup of coffee at his desk. His hair was askew, his eyes streaked with red as if he’d been up and perhaps away from the hotel for most of the night.

  Victor smiled to himself. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to pay the wife after all.

  When Mr. Kirtland saw him, he set down his cup. “Did you sleep well?”

  Victor shrugged. “Well enough.”

  “This town never seems to sleep.”

  Victor sat in the chair beside the desk, the handle of his leather portfolio case secure in his hands. “How long have you and your wife lived in Sacramento?”

  “I arrived here in 1850, but I spend half my year in the goldfields.”

  “Does Mrs. Kirtland run this establishment while you’re gone?”

  He took a sip of coffee before shaking his head. “We just purchased this house from a man on his way to look for gold. It’s a constant ebb and flow here of people moving between the city and diggings, depending on the weather.”

  Victor leaned forward. “I’m actually looking for someone who’s either here in Sacramento or out in the mines.”

  Mr. Kirtland raised his eyebrows. “Is it your wife?”

  Victor snickered. “I wouldn’t be searching for my wife.”

  The proprietor didn’t laugh. “Who are you looking for?”

  “My slave.” He slipped his drawings of Isaac out of the portfolio and spread them across the desk. “Someone kidnapped him and brought him to California.”

  The man picked up a sketch. His eyes flickered as he looked at Isaac’s portrait, his lips pressed together. Then he dropped it.

  Victor leaned forward. “Have you seen him?”

  Mr. Kirtland pushed the sketch away. “No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Of course I’m certain,” the man snapped.

  Victor slowly collected the pictures. First the law clerk and now this man—why did people keep lying to him?

  Fanny swept into the room, smiling at him before looking at her husband. “There’s a big trial down at the courthouse this afternoon.”

  “We have plenty of work to keep us occupied here today,” Mr. Kirtland said.

  “But I have a new gown to wear,” Fanny insisted. “And this is an opportunity for us to find better clientele for our house, like Mr. Duvall here.”

  Mr. Kirtland sighed like a man who’d repeated a conversation one too many times. “Running this house well will attract the best clients.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, clapping her gloved hands together. “We need to be socializing with the residents of this city.”

  “It’s not like attending an opera,” the man said, clearly frustrated with his wife. He opened a ledger on the desk and began to review it.

  His disinterest didn’t stop her. “The sheriff caught a runaway slave last night,” she continued. “Lorinda said this will be the biggest trial they’ve had around here in ages.”

  Victor clutched his portfolio to his chest, processing her words. Was it possible the law had found Isaac before he did? If so, what would they do with him?

  “And you’ll never guess who they think is involved,” she said, leaning closer to the men as if they were conspiring together.

  Mr. Kirtland glanced up from his work. “President Pierce.”

  “Of course not,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “Then I can’t imagine who it might be.”

  “Your Miss Labrie.”

  The man spilled his coffee on the ledger. “That’s ludicrous!”

  “Not according to Lorinda,” she said, seeming quite pleased that she had secured her husband’s attention. “Frankly, it doesn’t surprise me one bit. Another slave disappeared at the hotel while I was staying there.”

  Mr. Kirtland looked as jarred as he had when he saw the sketches of Isaac. Yet his demeanor remained resolute. “I don’t have time to go to a trial.”

  She stuck out her bottom lip. “But I need someone to escort me.”

  Victor glanced over at Fanny, her lips still puckered in a pout, before looking back at the proprietor. “Perhaps I could accompany your wife,” he offered.

  Mr. Kirtland studied him for a moment and then waved his hand. “By all means—be my guest.”

  Fanny promptly recovered her enthusiasm. “You are a saint, Victor Duvall.”

  After Fanny rushed out of the lobby, presumably to retrieve her new gown, Mr. Kirtland motioned him closer to the desk. Victor thought he was going to warn him in some way, tell him to treat his wife like a lady.

  “She always gets what she wants,” Mr. Kirtland warned.

  He nodded, understanding. “I never let a woman control me.”

  Mr. Kirtland leaned back in this chair. “We’re all controlled by something.”

  Victor disagreed. “Only if we give our power away.”

  He promised to escort Mrs. Kirtland to the trial, but didn’t say he would escort her home. If the law had found Isaac, he wouldn’t leave the courthouse without him.

  Rain poured on Sacramento all morning, a methodic trickle that turned the planked streets into streams of mud. Rodney had locked Stephan and Persila in the jailhouse until the trial, and no amount of pleading on Isabelle’s part would convince the judge to release them into her care.

  Judge Snyder hadn’t jailed her, but he made it quite clear that he would do so if she didn’t appear at the courthouse again by two. The ultimatum wasn’t necessary. She wouldn’t run away from her steward or the woman he’d tried to rescue.

  Mr. Webb had already secured one of the two attorneys left in Sacramento. The other lawyer would gladly take her money, but he wouldn’t fight well for them—only Judah had the reputation for opposing slavery, and she didn’t know where to find him.

  Because they were Negroes, the law wouldn’t allow Persila or Stephan to testify this afternoon, even to defend themselves against the charges. But the judge would let Isabelle testify, and she didn’t need a lawyer to speak the truth.

  After today, every resident in Sacramento would know that she opposed the institution of slavery, but no
one must find out that she was also a runaway slave. If her secret were exposed, Persila and Stephan wouldn’t have anyone to speak on their behalf.

  She dressed in a simple black gown, and the keys to both her boxes hung around her neck. In her hands, she carried the small Oxford Bible that Aunt Emeline had given her long ago. She would pretend that her aunt was in the courtroom with her, praying as she spoke.

  When she opened her door, the dining room was empty except for Isaac. He was sitting at the piano, fingering the keys.

  She brushed her hand across the piano’s rosewood case. “Have you ever played?”

  He flashed a smile. “A few times.”

  “You’re welcome to practice on this.”

  “Thank you,” he said, his smile growing. “Are you walking to the flower gardens?”

  She shook her head. “I have an appointment to keep.”

  “I can watch over the hotel while you’re gone.”

  Turning, she glanced up at the staircase. “Where is Mr. Payne?”

  He tilted his head, a quizzical look straining his eyes. “He went to San Francisco yesterday.”

  In all the confusion, she’d forgotten that she had sent him on a steamboat with instructions for commissioning a seamstress to make new tablecloths for the dining room. And now he wouldn’t return until this evening—much too late to manage the place in her absence.

  It had been a strange position for her, delegating work to a member of the Payne family. She’d thought it might give her some sense of satisfaction, justice, even, for what had happened to her as a girl, but Mr. Payne willingly agreed to do even menial chores these past weeks without complaint.

  She sat on the piano bench beside Isaac and listened to him play a simplified version of “The Watchman.” While she appreciated Mr. Payne’s willingness to work hard, the fact remained that he owned a slave. And her affection grew every day for the boy sitting beside her.

  “Is Mr. Payne still treating you kindly?”

  “He always treats me kindly.”