Josiah's Treasure (7 page)

“Miss Whittier,” Daniel called out and stood. She noticed and crossed to where he waited. “I didn’t expect a visit. Yesterday, you left me with the impression you’d had quite enough of me.”

“‘Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,’” she replied.

Shakespeare.
Well, there’s another surprise.
“Are you in misery?” “That rather depends on you, Mr. Cady.”

She swept past him, trailing the scent of rose water, and settled onto the chair across the table from his. Daniel understood why Josiah had taken to her. She might not be arrestingly lovely, but with her even features and a habit of looking people in the face, she was more appealing than most women Daniel knew.

Sarah placed her reticule on the table but forgot to remove her crocheted gloves. Nervous, then. Rightly so.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, retaking his seat.
Undoubtedly she was there to beg him to part with enough of Josiah’s money so she could make her way until she found employment. He might be willing to give her a small amount—say, thirty or forty dollars. Any more would make him a sucker for a pretty face. As bad as Josiah.

“The Occidental is a first-rate hotel, Mr. Cady. Better than where I thought you might be staying.” Her gaze slipped to the cuffs of his shirt. Looking for signs of wear, he supposed. “But in spite of appearances, I’d guess you are used to fine accommodations, since you’re the grandson of Addison Hunt of Chicago and your arrival in town warrants a mention in today’s
Daily Alta
. An announcement that saved me from having to hunt all over the city for you.”

So that was how she had found him. “I am indeed related to Addison Hunt.” Somehow. It was a mystery to Daniel how a man so cruel could’ve sired a daughter as gentle and loving as Grace Hunt Cady.

“What does he do?”

“He’s a railroad tycoon.”

“Then you can afford a room here, after all.” She tilted her head, showing off the curve of her neck above the lace trimming her collar. “Or maybe you’re counting on that inheritance to pay your bills.”

“I have enough money to pay my way, Miss Whittier, and the Occidental has affordable rooms, believe it or not.” A small reward after months of dusty boardinghouses and seedy rented lodgings. Besides, when he’d arrived in San Francisco he hadn’t been planning on staying long. “I hate to disappoint you by not occupying one of the hotel’s luxury suites, but my grandfather is the tycoon, not me.”

Sarah peered at him. Once again, he experienced the unsettling feeling she could read his thoughts. See the bitterness in his heart. “In that case, Mr. Cady, perhaps you will accept my offer.”

She retrieved a handful of bills from within her reticule, piquing
his curiosity. What was she up to?

Miss Whittier laid the money on the table. “Fifty dollars, for now. Five hundred as soon as it’s available.”

“A
bribe?”

Daniel Cady stared at the folded bills as if she’d just laid a pile of rancid fish on the table. Sarah swallowed, her tongue sticking to the dry roof of her mouth. She would really enjoy one of those lemonades the waiter was carrying past on a silver tray. It was hardly the right time to stop and order one, as if she were at the Occidental on a friendly social visit.

“Not a bribe, Mr. Cady,” she replied, trying not to notice how hard his eyes had gone. When he’d first called to her, he’d almost seemed glad to see her. Not any longer. “A settlement against Josiah’s estate. Fifty now with five hundred to follow.”

He pushed the bills toward her, knocking a few onto the floor. “Five hundred dollars won’t satisfy me, Miss Whittier, when I stand to inherit property worth thousands. I don’t know what makes you think I would be happy to take a dime less.”

Sarah scrambled to retrieve the fifty dollars, the stays of her corset jabbing her ribs. “I was thinking you might not ever prove you’re actually Josiah’s son and would be happy with the money.”
And go away.

“Oh, I’ll prove I’m his son, Miss Whittier. Whether he wanted to admit it or not. And I’ll get that estate.”

Sarah shoved the money into her reticule, snagging her glove on the teeth of a hair comb stored inside. “Is that all you care about, Mr. Cady? Getting hold of Josiah’s money?”

Her raised voice drew censorious glances from two women seated on a nearby sofa, who fell to whispering.

“I’m not the only one here who wants Josiah’s money.” His eyes were growing harder and darker by the second. “Isn’t it your plan to use the proceeds from his estate to open some art studio to display the inferior creations of self-deluded society girls?”

“My students aren’t society girls.” She yanked the ribbons of her reticule. “They’re poor immigrant women who desperately need the work I intend to provide them.”

“A charity,” he scoffed.

Sarah scowled at him. “Is there something wrong with wanting to help those less fortunate?”

“I didn’t figure you to be the type who would throw good money after bad.”

“Mr. Cady, you can’t have failed to notice all the factories in San Francisco. Their smokestacks nearly crowd the skyline in some parts of the city. In some of those factories, women labor at menial tasks, barely able to make a living. Some resort to other means to support themselves and their families.” He seemed a well-traveled man of the world; she didn’t have to fill in the details for him about what those means were. “I want better for them, or those few I can assist who have some talent for art. Anything better than a life on the street or in some filthy and dangerous factory.”

“And you believe your studio is the solution,” he replied, his tone too flat to decipher.

“I had one particular ability when I came to San Francisco. I am an artist and reasonably talented. And I know how to teach others to sketch and execute designs.”
“Such talent, ma mie. Mon trésor.”
Sarah shook off the memory and focused on Daniel, looking skeptical. “My partner, Miss Charlotte Samuelson, and I have been selecting needy girls with demonstrated skill and training them to become first-class artists. We will specialize in chromolithography and colored photographs. Actually, any custom
artwork someone might desire. Those less artistic will run the press and work with the customers. In addition to the lessons in technique I give, Lottie teaches them grammar and arithmetic, if they’re not already proficient.”

“Setting up a business is an expensive proposition, Miss Whittier.”

“I do have financial supporters who believe in my cause.” She realized her mistake the instant his gaze flickered.

Daniel leaned into the padded back of the lounge room chair. “Doesn’t seem to me like you need Josiah’s inheritance, then. Seems like you’ve got matters under control.”

Sarah balled her hands into fists, the fine crochet stitching of her gloves preventing her fingernails from digging into her skin. He was a dreadful man. Arrogant. Selfish. Smug. He would never be generous with her or the girls. She felt lost and she hated it.

“What are
your
intentions for Josiah’s estate?” The two women seated near them rose and huffed off, likely tired of listening to her argue with Daniel. “As the grandson of a railroad tycoon, perhaps you’ve discovered a pressing need to build a mansion or purchase a yacht. Or perhaps to impress an heiress?”

He didn’t even flinch in response to her sarcasm. “I think I already explained I’m not the tycoon. But if you must know, I intend to start an import business and build a decent house for my two sisters with the money. We’ve been living in a cramped three-room apartment for too long and they deserve better.”

Her pulse was thrumming so intensely in her head it began to ache. She could just imagine what sort of house the grandson of a railroad tycoon thought would be decent enough. Probably one that would be a lot larger than the house on Nob Hill. “Ball gowns and tickets to the opera can be so expensive.”

“They are ten, Miss Whittier, and don’t need ball gowns.” Daniel pulled in his feet, preparing to stand. “I commend your noble goals, but I’m rather certain the probate court will rule that my sisters and I are the lawful heirs to Josiah’s estate. I’m
not going to apologize for that fact. Your bribes won’t change my mind about pursuing the case and neither will your attempts to make me feel guilty.”

Remorseful, she gripped his hand to stop him before he could rise. “I want you to see the shop. See what I intend to do.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

She very likely was. “My future and the futures of four girls are on the line, Mr. Cady. Everything we’ve dreamed of. Let me decide if I’m wasting my time or not.”

Daniel’s irritation had eased by the time they had gone a block. He’d been insulted by her attempt to buy him off and angered by her implication that the promises he’d made to Lily and Marguerite were a less worthy use of Josiah’s money than her plans, but the walk in the refreshing afternoon air had cleared his head and let him think. Miss Whittier was merely fighting for her cause. He would do the same in her shoes. He
was
doing the same, fighting to win his proper inheritance. For his sisters’ sake. For the vow he’d made to his mother on her deathbed.

The woman marching along the sidewalk beside him hadn’t said a word since she’d stalked out of the Occidental, Daniel in her wake. Sarah’s face was as stern as a schoolmarm’s, the ribbons of her hat fluttering beneath her chin. She couldn’t possibly hope she would convince him that her shop would detach him from his . . . from Josiah’s money. But then, Sarah Whittier wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met. Maybe she did.

And maybe she would.

Sarah looked over and caught him staring. “Debating how to tell me you don’t want to see my shop after all, Mr. Cady?”

“No, Miss Whittier, that’s not what I’m thinking about in the least.”

“I won’t ask you to elaborate,” she retorted.

Spunky and determined. Could be a dangerous combination in a woman.

He almost smiled at the thought as they hurried across the street, dodging a draft horse with a shopboy astride its broad flanks, his feet barely reaching the stirrups. Going the other direction, a wagon carrying what looked to be freshly arrived Chinese trundled up the road, each of the men—and many boys—perched atop a canvas bag probably filled with their belongings, their eyes downcast and shoulders slumped.
Interesting place.

Sarah reached the curb before Daniel, evading his attempt to take her elbow to assist her onto the sidewalk. Typical for her, he decided.

Sarah stopped at an empty corner storefront and pulled open the beaded reticule suspended from her wrist. “Here we are.”

She turned a key in the lock and stepped through the doorway ahead of him, the shop bell jingling over their heads and the musty smell of unused space swirling in the air. “Don’t lean against anything. I only received the keys yesterday and haven’t had a chance to clean.”

“The dirt doesn’t bother me.”

“It does, however, bother
me
,” she replied, sounding impatient that he didn’t understand that she would want everything to be perfect.

Removing his hat, Daniel wandered through the rooms, his footsteps breaking a trail through the dust coating the scarred wood floor. Lined on two sides with large windows, the store comprised a medium-sized space walled off in the corner to form a separate set of offices. An iron staircase against the separating wall punched through the ceiling, leading to the upper floor. Given the location—at the center of the city’s commercial district—and the size, the shop had to have come with a hefty price tag. But he already could see why she’d selected it—the space was perfect.

While he wandered, Sarah explained her plans in a carrying
voice. How the main floor would be used to display samples and would be where they’d interact with customers. That design work and painting would take place upstairs, where the windows were large and airy. That the gas-lit room right behind him was for a girl named Emma’s business office.

“The lithography area will be located against the back wall,” she was saying. “The stones are heavy to move and have to be near the press, so it’s critical to have a large ground-floor workspace. Also, there’s a sink and plumbing available for washing away etching solutions and inks, along with these wonderful windows to work by.”

The more she talked, the stronger and more confident she sounded.

Daniel fiddled with his hat brim and observed her, took in the gratified smile curving her lips, the assured sweep of her arms as she gestured to point out this or that. She was too young to comprehend all that might go wrong in spite of her best intentions. Naive about the world. If her donors withdrew their financial support, the loss of the store would be a terrible blow. With no one he could see to pick her back up.

The guilty spasm in his gut that had taken hold in the Occidental’s lounge tweaked harder and forced him to look away.

“Whoever rented this storefront before left in a hurry,” he observed, having to say something, anything other than what was on his mind.

“A milliner.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that her gaze followed his, scrutinizing the countertops and display shelving tacked to the walls, grime darkening their surfaces. Pausing where a table edge had rubbed a hole in the striped pale green wallpaper and been left unrepaired. Noting the water stain on the ceiling. “I don’t know what happened with her.”