“Some wealthy white and Mexican families hire tutors, so I’ve set up a few meetings.”
“Poor Henry,” I say. “Sounds like you’ll have to get up early for a change.”
“No. I’ll meet them tonight.” His eyes sparkle. “In gambling dens.”
“Oh, dear,” Becky says again.
“You’re a terrible gambler,” I point out. “Even I can tell when you have a good hand.”
Henry blinks. “I’m only doing it to make connections, of course.”
Jefferson, having stabled the horses and wagon, makes his way down the hall with our bags. He drops my saddlebag on the floor with a heavy thump. “What did you pack, Lee, a bunch of rocks? Oh, hello, Henry.”
“Have you seen Tom?” Henry asks. “I hope he had better luck than I did.”
I say, “He’s interviewing for a post with Hardwick. And I have a bad feeling.” I explain everything that happened.
“You don’t have to worry about Tom,” Henry assures me.
“I wish I could be sure. He’s . . . different.”
“Working in your uncle’s mine was hard for him. He . . .” Henry hesitates, considering. “Well, he gets wound up at night and can’t sleep because of it.”
“I can understand that,” I admit.
“Tom has been hard to read lately, it’s true,” Jefferson says.
“He’s the one who should be a gambler,” the Major points out. “He has such a poker face.”
“No one should be a gambler,” Becky says.
Henry squeezes my arm. “Give Tom some time. I know he’s intently focused right now. He thinks we’ve got a better chance to practice our professions here, and the sooner we get to work, the more of a head start we’ll have on everyone else.”
I can’t help the little sigh that escapes. “Sometimes I just wish things could go back to the way they were, when it was just us, relying on each other. Looking to stake our claims and make a better life for ourselves.”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Henry says. “We’re just staking a different set of claims now.”
“But if the three of you stay in San Francisco, I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too,” says little Andy from the floor. I should have realized he was listening carefully to every word. “I’ll miss you the most.”
“Then you must continue to work on your letters,” Henry says. “So we can write to each other every week.”
The stairs creak, and Jefferson says, “Hey, Tom. We were just talking about you.”
“Speculating on my prospects of future employment?” Tom asks as he strides toward us.
“Praising your immaculate presentation and good looks,” Henry says.
“Don’t let me interrupt you then,” he says dryly.
“Did Hardwick offer you a job?” I ask.
“He did.”
“Did you take it?” My voice is a lot louder than I intend.
Tom pauses. “I asked for time to consider his generous offer.”
I want to follow up, demand to know why he didn’t reject it outright, but a door to another room slams open. A large man reeking of booze and wearing only an undershirt, thrusts his bald head into the hall. “If you all want to have a confab, that’s why God invented parlors. Get yourselves downstairs and use one—some of us are trying to sleep!”
He slams the door shut again.
After a brief pause, Henry whispers. “Anyone else tempted to start a rousing chorus of ‘Used Up Man’?”
Becky can’t hide her grin as she waves us all into the tiny room, then closes the door behind us. We take seats on the cots, the two small chairs, the floor. I grab a spot beneath the single window. The rough wood of the unfinished wall makes my back itch. Jefferson squeezes in beside me, and Andrew comes over to show off his wooden animals. Jeff agrees that they are very fine animals and makes an appropriate variety of barnyard and woodland sounds, which somehow makes me want to kiss him even more than usual.
Becky drags one of the room’s two chairs to the center of the floor and sits like a queen on her throne, hands folded in her lap. “Our original plan to come to the city, get the house, and depart directly isn’t going to work,” she begins.
“I’ve got my freedom papers, but I don’t have any word on Adelaide,” Hampton adds. “The postmaster says it could be a few days or a few months until the mail comes next. It all depends on when the ships arrive. So I might have to stick around.”
“Hardwick’s going to break our agreement and cheat Glory out of its charter if he can,” I add.
This is news to some, including the Major, who frowns. “People could lose their homes,” he says.
“Once word gets out that our charter’s not coming,” Becky points out, “we’ll start having trouble with claim jumpers again. The promise of a proper town has given us a lot of protection.”
“Once California is declared a state,” Tom says, “we’ll have legal recourse. Until then, the contract gives him a loophole.”
“By then it might be too late,” I say.
Becky says, “But one thing at a time. Right now the problem I care about is my house. Tom, did you think of something?”
He shakes his head. “Hardwick wants my help with his auctions—many involving properties of dubious provenance—and he needs legal assistance managing the contracts and bills of sale to alleviate questions of legal ownership. Your house is currently stored in one of his warehouses. Working for him might give us another option for recovering it.”
Maybe that’s why Tom was so eager to hear Hardwick out—so he could help us. Henry was right; Tom would never betray us.
“What if we buy it?” I suggest. I reach out with my gold sense, assuring myself that all the money we need is right there. In my mind, my saddlebag shines brighter than a full moon.
“The auction is a week from Tuesday,” Becky says. “Staying almost two weeks in this city will cost a mother lode. And there’s no guarantee we’ll be the highest bidder.”
“Almost every item has a ‘buy now’ price,” Tom says. “I could find out the price for your house. It’s likely to cost twice as much as you’d pay for it at auction.”
“Let’s do it,” I say. “I’ll chip in. Let’s just buy it and get out of town.” And away from Hardwick and Frank Dilley and everything else that’s making me feel as tangled up as a squirrel’s nest. The wind blows outside, shaking the roof tiles. “There’s something bad here,” I say. “It’s like . . . it’s like a snake’s rattle, warning us to back off. Let’s buy the house, however much it costs, and get on our way.”
It’s a reasonable request. Everyone can see that, I’m sure.
But Becky’s frown deepens, and she raises one finger in the air.
“So let me get this straight,” she says. “My dear late husband, Mr. Joyner, already paid once in full to ship this house to California for me. Now the petty self-appointed bureaucrats of this territory want me to pay a second time to reacquire my property. And if I want it in a hurry, without the disadvantage of bidding against strangers after a costly stay away from home, then I have to pay for it a third time.”
“That’s about the size of it,” the Major grumbles.