Into the Bright Unknown

  “And where will I find the Custom House?” Becky persists.

  “A block up the street, at Portsmouth Square,” Melanchthon says, pointing. “Follow the sound of hammers. The city burned near to the ground on Christmas Eve.”

  “That was barely two months ago!” I say. No wonder there’s soot on the hull.

  “That why they’re in such a hurry to rebuild.”

  We were headed toward Portsmouth Square anyway, since the best hotels are found there. We thank Melancthon for his help and wish him well, then make our way back to Hampton and the wagon.

  “Was the good news good enough, or was the bad news worse?” he asks, giving Peony a pat on her nose.

  “Not sure yet,” I say.

  “Our next stop is the Custom House,” Becky adds. “We have to clear some things up.”

  Jefferson says, “Hampton, if you want to go check the post office, I’ll lead the horses and the wagon. Meet up at Portsmouth Square?”

  Hampton brightens. “I’d be obliged.”

  As he hands the reins over and takes off, Becky says, “Don’t you worry, Lee. We still have plenty of time to get this straightened out and shop for the wedding.”

  I look to Jefferson for rescue, but he is wholly focused on tying up the horses to the back of the wagon. “Please, let’s not hurry,” I say. “All I need is Jefferson at my side, and my friends there to witness.”

  She waves this off with a flutter of her hand. “Yours is going to be the first wedding in Glory, California. Ever. Not only will it set a precedent for a proper wedding to everyone that follows, but it’ll become part of the town’s history, and that will make it part of the history of the new state. Your betrothal was a bit . . . unconventional.” That’s a kind way to put it—I was the one who did the proposing, during the Christmas ball in Sacramento. “I wish I could have been there to guide you. But as your friend and bridesmaid, I have a responsibility to make sure everything else is done properly.”

  I definitely consider Becky my friend. But she used to be my employer, and I will always remember the Mrs. Joyner who, on the wagon-train journey, served her husband’s every meal on a fancy table set with a perfect tablecloth and fine, fragile china. I sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”

  It’s a short walk to Portsmouth Square, just as Melancthon promised. The Custom House is a long, low adobe building stretching the full length of the square. An American flag whips from a high pole out front—thirteen red and white stripes, and thirty stars in a block of five by six. They’ll have to figure out how to add another star once California officially becomes a state.

  Along a wide veranda are three evenly spaced doors. The nearest is marked OWEN AND SON, BANKERS, the door in the middle has a sign for law offices with a much longer list of names, and the entrance at the far end is the Custom House. Jefferson offers to watch the wagon, and Becky and I line up behind a dozen others waiting to get inside.

  The orderly, colorful crowd represents every corner of the globe—Peruvians and Chinese and a whole family of Kanakas from the Hawaiian Islands. It makes me feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself, something that involves the whole world.

  The door opens onto a room with a long counter made from ship planking. Facing us from the other side is a small line of white men in starched shirts and perfectly barbered hair. Becky and I listen as, one after another, the people ahead of us receive answers to their problems.

  The men in starched shirts are very sorry.

  It isn’t their fault.

  The claimant will have to take it up with the original ship owner.

  No, they can’t help find the original ship owner.

  The claimant might wish to go to a bank to solve that problem. They can recommend the one two doors down, the oldest and finest bank in San Francisco.

  Unfortunately, the claimant will need to acquire legal advice to solve that particular problem. There are law offices all over the city, but perhaps they might care to try the services of the office next door.

  Tears do not bring different answers.

  Becky and I exchange a dark look. I’m starting to get a bad feeling.

  Outrage doesn’t help the Chinese man in line ahead of us, although it does tend to quickly mobilize a couple of rough-looking men who stand at the ready in case of trouble.

  The cheerful and helpful-sounding men in starched white shirts have an answer to every question, but no one leaves satisfied.

  The line moves efficiently, and soon Becky and I reach the front. My view has darkened, as though I’m in a state of about-to-be-angry, but Becky stands patiently and confidently, with all the assurance of a person who is used to having things work out for her.

  “Next!”

  We step up to a clerk with a face as angular as a wedge of cheese, framed by a pair of bushy sideburns. Small wire spectacles sit on the end of his nose. When he looks up from his ledger and sees us—or, rather, sees Becky, who is a fine lady in California, and therefore dearer than gold—a delighted grin spreads across his face. He reaches up and straightens his collar.

  “How can I help you, ma’am?” He eyes me over the top of his glasses and amends: “Ma’ams.” I’m still wearing my travel trousers, sure, but my hair has grown long enough to put up in a proper bun, and I’m no longer binding my chest with Mama’s old shawl, so the fact that I’m of the feminine persuasion is obvious to anyone paying attention.

  Becky smiles at the clerk like he’s a perfect piece of cake. “I believe that a house, disassembled for shipping, was delivered aboard the Charlotte out of Panama, and before that from New Orleans, and originally Chattanooga. Mr. Melancthon Jones, formerly the ship’s carpenter aboard the Charlotte, reports that unfortunately, due to the irresponsible behavior of the captain, who, I understand, also neglected his duty to compensate his crew, the cargo of the ship has now been entrusted to your authority for rightful delivery to its proper owners. Here is the letter we received stating that the cargo was ready for collection.”

  She hands the letter over, and I want to whistle my appreciation. That was a mouthful to be sure, but Becky made it flow like fresh cream over strawberries.

  The clerk appreciates it also, to judge from his childlike grin. “That’s an excellent summary, Miss . . .”

  “Mrs. Joyner.”

  His face falls a little. “Of course, Mrs. Joyner. You have to understand that very few people come prepared with all the appropriate information.” He reads the letter and hands it back to her. “So the house is in the name of . . .”

  “My husband, Mr. Andrew Joyner Senior.”

  She doesn’t mention that he’s dead. She may be scrupulously honest, but I notice that doesn’t extend to volunteering information that hasn’t been requested.

  “Of course,” the clerk replies. He rises from his seat and goes to a stack of record books on another table behind the counter.

  “I’ll be so glad when this is resolved,” Becky says.

  “I thought we’d have more trouble.”

  “I did, too. But these are clearly very capable, competent men doing their best in difficult circumstances.”

  I gape at her. Becky sees men with authority as associates. I see them as adversaries. It might be the biggest difference between us. Rather than explain, I say, “You must have really missed that house, sleeping in the wagon for months.”

  The corners of her eyes crinkle. “It was our honeymoon cottage, on Andrew’s father’s plantation. I was seventeen when we got married—just a little older than you and Jefferson.”

  “You must have a lot of happy memories of it.”

  “Oh, goodness, no. We were far too young to marry, even Andrew, who was eight years older. It’s one thing to be in love at that age, but it’s another entirely to go live with someone.”

  I stare at her. Becky has never been forthcoming about her marriage.

  “Don’t act so surprised. Men are difficult and uncouth. And it didn’t help that Andrew’s father didn’t approve of
me, and he didn’t want us living in the big house with them. Andrew was wild then—always a gambler. I suppose I was a bit wild, too.”

  I’m not sure what Becky considers “wild.” Daring to go without a hat or bonnet on occasion? Using the dessert fork first? Before I can ask, she says, “I had several miscarriages before I became pregnant with Olive. That’s when I finally began to settle, I think. After she was born, Andrew’s mother put her foot down, and we moved into the mansion. And finally, after I bore a male child, we were set up with an inheritance and a place of our—”

  She doesn’t finish because the clerk returns, his thumb marking the spot in an open ledger.

  “Found it,” he says. “So many people have unsolvable problems. It’s a pleasure to help somebody with an easy solution.”

  Becky smiles at me as if to say “I told you so.”

  “Now if you’ll just have Mr. Joyner come in and sign this release form . . .”

  Becky reaches for the pen on the counter. “I’ll sign on his behalf.”

  The clerk jerks the ledger away, and his smile falters. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that.”

  “But I’m his wife.”

  The clerk’s smile fades a little more. “Have you heard of coverture, ma’am?”

  Becky’s answer has a strong streak of vinegar. “Are you a lawyer, sir? Do you presume to lecture me on the law?”

  “If you know the law, you know that a wife has no legal standing. All her rights are covered by, and thus represented by, the rights of her husband. Thus, coverture. It’s the law everywhere in the United States, and California will soon be confirmed as part of the United States.” He slams the ledger shut. “Mr. Joyner’s signature is absolutely required.”

  “But—” Becky says.

  I squeeze her hand, hard, and she falls silent. “But what if her husband is up in the hills protecting their gold claim and working the land?” I say. “He can’t be in two places at once.”

  I’m careful to phrase it as a possibility, because I don’t want to lie direct and offend Becky’s sense of propriety. She squeezes my hand in response.

  “He’ll just have to make the trip down here,” he says.

  “When is the auction scheduled?” Becky asks.

  The clerk peers at the calendar on the wall and says, “A week from Tuesday, at the Hardwick Warehouse on Montgomery Street.”

  A little chill goes through me at the mention of the name Hardwick—most likely the very same fellow Jefferson is hoping we’ll run into. James Henry Hardwick funded my uncle Hiram when Hiram kidnapped me. Then Hardwick took every penny we could raise in Glory in exchange for a promise to charter our town . . . a promise that hasn’t yet been delivered. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I’ve worried ever since that Hardwick may be no better than my uncle.

  “There’s no way we can retrieve Mr. Joyner in Glory and return by then, not with this weather,” Becky says. “The winter roads are terrible—you know this to be true.” I clear my throat, hoping she’ll understand my message: “Stop talking.” Becky is smart, but she’s accustomed to getting her way. She has no idea how, as a woman with no husband and no property, the world is not on her side anymore.

  The clerk rubs his cheese-wedge chin thoughtfully. “You could always buy the house at auction.”

  I was already thinking the same thing. It would attract more attention than we want, but I can afford it. Thanks to my gold-witching ways, I can afford to do a lot of things for my friends right now. “That’s a good idea,” I say.

  “Where will we get the money to do that?” she asks tightly.

  He says, “If you need a loan, you might go to a bank to solve that problem. I can recommend the one two doors down.”

  “And how am I supposed to get a loan without my husband’s signature?” Her voice is sharp enough to shave with, and I imagine it taking the fellow’s whiskers clean off.

  “I see the problem,” he says. “But the law’s the law. Perhaps you might wish to consult with an attorney. I can recommend you to the gentlemen in the office next door.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve done everything I can here to help you.” He looks past us to the next group in line, a Chinese family trying to speak through an interpreter who’s dressed in black like a missionary. “Next!”

  I’m willing to stand our ground and keep arguing, but Becky, ever conscious of protocol, turns and leaves. I follow her outside to the cold shade of the veranda, where Jefferson waits.

  “So, how did it go?” he asks.

  Becky’s glare is so withering that he takes a step back.

  “Not well,” I say. “They’ll accept Mr. Joyner’s signature only, and no substitutes.”

  “Coverture is a barbaric doctrine,” Becky says. “What am I, a piece of property to be handed around from one man to the next like a gambling chit? Now that Andrew’s passed on, I suppose I’m covered by my father-in-law, a man who still despises me. Given half a chance, he’ll take Andrew Junior to raise as his heir and send me off to a convent or something.”

  Jefferson and I exchange a surprised glance. We’ve heard more and more of Becky’s opinions since the death of her husband, enough to know she’s been thinking them in the quiet privacy of her own mind for a long time, maybe years. But this is one of the strongest we’ve heard pass her lips.

  “We could always buy the house at auction,” I suggest.

  “Or have a man buy it for me, you mean,” Becky says.

  “Or that.”

  “No. I won’t pay again for something that’s rightfully mine.”

  “If the law’s involved, we should talk to Tom about it,” Jefferson suggests, and I could kiss him, because that’s the perfect next step. Actually, I could kiss him anyway. “You should have let him come with you.”

  “He had his own worries,” Becky says.

  “Not sure it matters now,” I say. “He’s out looking for space to rent, which means he could be anywhere.”

  “Just saw him,” Jefferson says. “Went next door. Said he was having trouble finding a place in his price range. He’s rethinking his plan to go independent.”

  “Fine,” Becky fumes, stomping away. “Let’s go see Tom.”

  Chapter Four

  If anyone can help us, it’s Tom, and Becky holds her head high and marches into the law office, me following behind.

  It’s the same size as the Custom House, with comparable furniture and decor, but that’s where the similarities end.

  Instead of orderly lines, calm voices, and every nationality, I see only well-dressed white men, smoking cigars while talking over one another. The song of gold is loud—the main chorus comes from the bank next door, but notes of it sing from fine pockets around the room. Voices suddenly crescendo to threatening shouts, and I tense, ready to grab Becky and run, but laughter follows a split second later, accompanied by hearty slaps on shoulders.

  “There’s Tom,” Becky says. He’s been tromping around the city half the day, but I don’t see a speck of mud on him. Though he dresses plain, it always seems he rolls out of bed in the morning with his hair and clothes as neat and ordered as his arguments.

  We walk over to join him, and he acknowledges us with a slight, perfectly controlled nod.

  He’s one of the college men, three confirmed bachelors who left Illinois College to join our wagon train west. Compared to the other two, Tom Bigler is a bit of a closed book—one of those big books with tiny print you use as a doorstop or for smashing bugs. And he’s been closing up tighter and tighter since we blew up Uncle Hiram’s gold mine, when Tom negotiated with James Henry Hardwick to get us out of that mess.

  “How goes the hunt for an office?” I ask.

  “Not good,” Tom says. “I found one place—only one place—and it’s a cellar halfway up the side of one those mountains.” Being from Illinois, which I gather is flat as a griddle, Tom still thinks anything taller than a tree is a mountain. “Maybe eight foot square,
no windows and a dirt floor, and they want a thousand dollars a month for it.”

  “Is it the cost or the lack of windows that bothers you?”

  He pauses. Sighs. “Believe it or not, that’s a reasonable price. Everything else I’ve found is worse—five thousand a month for the basement of the Ward Hotel, ten thousand a month for a whole house. The land here is more valuable than anything on it, even gold. I’ve never seen so many people trying to cram themselves into such a small area.”

  “So it’s the lack of windows.”

  He gives me a side-eyed glance. “I came to California to make a fortune, but it appears a fortune is required just to get started. I may have to take up employment with an existing firm, like this one.” Peering at us more closely, he says, “I thought you were going to acquire the Joyner house? I mean, I’m glad to see you, but it seems things have gone poorly?”

  “They’ve gone terribly,” Becky says.

  “They haven’t gone at all,” I add.

  “They’ll only release it to Mr. Joyner,” Becky says.

  Tom’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I did mention that this could be a problem, remember?”

  “Only a slight one,” I say with more hope than conviction.

  “Without Mr. Joyner’s signature,” Becky explains, “they’ll sell my wedding cottage at auction. Our options are to buy back what’s ours, which I don’t want to do, or sue to recover it, which is why I’ve come to find you.”

  If I didn’t know Tom so well, I might miss the slight frown turning his lips. He says, “There’s no legal standing to sue. Andrew Junior is of insufficient age, and both his and Mr. Joyner’s closest male relative would be the family patriarch back in Tennessee. You see, it’s a matter of cov—”