Like a River Glorious (31 page)

T
om, Henry, Jefferson, Mary, and I ride into Sacramento on Christmas Eve. It's a muddy, busy town, and even though it's new, it's already bigger than Dahlonega. It snugs up against the water, just south of the convergence of the Sacramento and American Rivers, which creates a wide, watery highway that isn't nearly as awe-inspiring as the Mississippi, but respectable just the same.

The river is muddy brown with autumn flooding, filled with detritus and boats. Most are sailboats of various sizes, but a few are large paddle steamers, and for the life of me, I can't figure how they can all maneuver without crashing into one another.

“Town's built too close to the river,” Jefferson observes.

“Yep,” Tom agrees. “If we'd built Glory this near the creek, it'd flood come spring for sure.”

“It's bigger than I expected,” I say. Though regular two-story buildings make up the heart of town, tents and shanties extend east almost as far as the eye can see.

“They say San Francisco is even bigger,” Henry says. “Four or five times bigger.”

We all turn to stare at him.

“Cross my heart!” he says.

“We ought to find a hotel,” Tom says, so we follow his lead and urge our horses forward.

The hotels are all booked full for the holiday, and we are forced to try a saloon, but Tom comes back outside with a frown, saying, “No place for young ladies.” Finally a kind soul points us in the direction of a boardinghouse one block off the main square. The gentleman running the place insists we pay for two separate rooms—one for the men, one for Mary and me—which is a ridiculous expense, since we've all been sleeping side by side on the trail for days. But now that we're in a city, I guess we have to start behaving in city ways.

Becky's gown, along with a corset and petticoat, has been folded up in my saddlebag. I don't have an iron, and I'm not sure how to take care of silk, anyway, so I just shake everything out and hang it on a peg to air, hoping it will be suitable enough.

In the evening, we begin to get ready. My hair is almost long enough to put up, but not quite. I settle for parting it down the middle and pinning it smooth over my ears. Becky gave me a little bauble of lace and yellow rosettes, and once I pin it in place, it almost looks like I have a proper bun.

The gown is still a bit wrinkled, but not too badly. It slips over my corset and petticoats with ease. Mary helps me lace up the back and ties a perfect bow.

“You sure you don't want to go to the ball?” I ask her as I give the skirt an experimental swish. I'm delighted with the way it moves around my ankles, like flowing water. “I'd love to have your company.”

“I'm sure. It's bad for business, to show up at these sorts of things.”

I have no idea what that means, so I just shrug. Then I remember something else.

“Is Mary your real name?” I blurt clumsily.

Her eyes narrow.

“I mean, is there another name you'd like me to call you? A Chinese name?”

Maybe I've overstepped my bounds. Maybe, where Mary comes from, a name is an important thing, like it is among the Maidu. A meaningful thing not blithely shared.

But her gaze softens, and she says, “When I was in China, my name was Chan Suk Yee, or Suk Yee Chan, in the backward way you do names here. But I'm not sure that girl even exists anymore.”

“Oh.” I think I know what she means. The Leah Westfall of Lumpkin County, Georgia, feels like another life, another girl.

“How did you get here? To California, I mean.”

“I walked across the ocean. On water, like your Jesus.”

It takes a split second to realize she's funning me.

“On a ship, you dolt. In the hold, actually. I stowed away. But I was caught a week before we hit San Francisco.”

My eyes widen. “That sounds terrifying.”

“Maybe I'll tell you about it someday.” She gives the ribbon
at my back a finishing flick and shoves me out the door before I can ask any more questions. I vow silently to ask them soon, though. After what happened to Therese, I won't waste an opportunity to have a friend.

I haven't been this dressed up since Mama and Daddy's funeral, except this time, I'm wearing a bright, happy color. It feels right, like I'm finally in my own skin. Which is not to say I'd wear this getup to bag a deer; Lee-in-trousers is an important part of me, too. But for tonight, I like the way I feel in a fancy dress.

We convene outside the boardinghouse before walking to the hotel together. Sure enough, Becky's gown ripples like liquid gold in the light of the gas lamps. Jefferson eyes widen when he sees me. “Oh, Lee,” is all he says, but it makes my skin warm all over.

Jefferson stands tall in a new suit he bought at Mormon Island, and with his hair combed back and his fancy lace cuffs, he is as handsome as I've ever seen him.

“You look very nice,” I tell him.

He grins wider than the Mississippi. “You never give compliments,” he says.

“Only when they're well deserved.”

Tom also wears a nice suit, a little less fine perhaps, but he looks every inch the college-educated lawyer.

Henry is the last to join us, and I gasp a little because he wears the finest black vest and trousers I've ever seen, set off by a bright blue silk cravat. His face is cleanly shaved, and his scant hair is covered by a shining black top hat. He beams
with such delight that I say, “That's a lovely color for you, Henry. Your eyes are as blue as I've ever seen them.”

Henry beams. “Truth is, I love to dance,” he says. “I never run out of partners, so long as I'm dressed like a duke.”

“You can take all of my partners,” I say.

“You have the invitation?” Tom asks me, but his eyes are on Henry so I wave it in front of his face. “Let's go, then.”

Each of us carries a fair bit of gold—we decided it would be safer to divvy it up—so as we walk the single block toward the hotel, stepping carefully to avoid mud, I feel as though I'm surrounded by a miasma of light and buzzing warmth.

We arrive at the City Hotel—built brand-new just last summer—at precisely seven o'clock in the evening. Before we enter, I pause to take a deep breath.

“You can do this, Lee,” Jefferson whispers as others pass us, waving their invitations to be let inside.

“I can,” I say. “And I will.” I have one goal. Find the man who loaned my uncle so much money. James Henry Hardwick. He's sure to be here. He might even find me first.

The doorman lets us pass, and we wander through a large carpeted lobby that smells of tangy pine boughs and the giant Christmas tree at its center, decorated in gold ribbons. Beyond it are double doors leading to the ballroom. There, another doorman asks our names. I tell him, and he turns to announce us.

My heart pounds as he booms, “From Glory, California. Miss Leah Westfall! Mr. Jefferson Kingfisher! Mr. Thomas Bigler! Mr. Henry Meek!”

I hold my head high and sweep inside as if I belong. The ballroom is packed, and all eyes turn toward me. Perhaps they've all heard of the Golden Goddess and her motley friends. I expect hostility toward us. Suspicion. Maybe even anger.

Instead, the gazes leveled at us are friendly and curious. Some are openly smiling. I force myself to smile back as we drift farther into the room.

Chandeliers bright with candles hang from the ceiling. Tables heaped with food line the walls. There's even a sparkling glass punch bowl. In the far corner a small orchestra plays “Greensleeves.” I'm one of the few women in the room. I count three others, all much older, one of whom is a beautiful Mexican woman with gray streaks in her glossy black hair and a ruffled, multicolored skirt. She hangs on the arm of a man who wears a tight, high-waisted red vest with shining rows of brass buttons.

She gives me a smile and a wave, even though I'm a total stranger to her, and the gesture fills me with warmth.

Two men wear dresses. One sports an enormous beard and mustache. Both are already dancing with partners, and by all appearances having a grand time of it. It's a sight I'd never see in Georgia, and it puts to mind what a strange and marvelous place California is.

“I should have worn a dress,” Henry says, his voice full of wonder.

Suddenly men are approaching me from all directions, congregating into an eager gaggle, but a stocky fellow with long
brown sideburns reaches me first. “You look ravishing, Miss Westfall,” he says. “Are you . . . unattached?”

Well, he sure didn't waste time getting to the point. “I am unmarried,” I say, before I can think better of it. I resist the urge to step back, a little closer to Jefferson and Tom and Henry.

He grins, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “I'm delighted to hear it. I'm Matthew Jannison, carpenter by trade. May I have this dance?” And he extends his hand to me.

I've never been much for dancing, much less with strangers, but it's better than standing around growing increasingly nervous about meeting my uncle's patron, so I place my hand in his sweaty one and allow him to lead me onto the floor. I feel Jefferson's eyes on my back as we step away.

“Where are you from, Miss Westfall?” he asks as we fall into time with the orchestra. His hand remains acceptably high on my waist, and he maintains a proper distance between us, so I relax enough to tell him the truth.

“Lumpkin County, Georgia. And you, Mr. Jannison?”

“Boston. You came by ship, I assume?”

“No, sir. Wagon train.”

His eyes widen. “But you're so . . .”

“I'm not at all a proper lady, and don't you dare imply that I am.” I say it with a smile, hoping he understands my mood.

“I wouldn't dream of making such a gauche insinuation!” he declares with mock affront. “Did you arrive with your parents?”

“I came alone. But I'm not alone anymore.”

“But you said you are unmarried.”

Beside us, Henry is now dancing with a strange man, chatting at him with as much comfort and animation as I've ever seen.

“I have many friends,” I say, smiling.

“I see.” But I can tell he doesn't, and this conversation is growing tiresome.

“Mr. Jannison,” I say, “do you happen to know a Mr. James Henry Hardwick? He's a business partner of my uncle's, and I'd dearly love to make his acquaintance.”

Mr. Jannison's cheeks are already bright red with the exertion of dancing. “All of Sacramento knows Mr. Hardwick!” he says. “He's a member of the city council, and he owns more acreage than—”

“Oh, I'd be so delighted if you could introduce me!”

“Of course! He is a personal friend, you know. Right this way, my dear.”

Well, that was easy.
I allow him to lead me away, but I quickly cast around the ballroom for my friends. Henry sees me first, and when I nod to him, he makes apologies to his dancing partner and moves to follow. Jefferson stands beside one of the food tables, staring glumly into a cup full of punch as if trying to augur something. My gesture to get his attention is less than subtle, and he sets down his cup and follows too.

I sense the two of them falling in line behind me as we make our way to a curved stair with a shiny banister wrapped in garlands. I don't see Tom anywhere nearby, but hopefully he'll notice us and join soon.

Several smartly dressed men cluster together on the steps. It seems as though they are deep in counsel, purposely posed in a spot from which they can survey their domain—and easily be seen, as well. I feel my hackles go up, and I'm not sure why, except maybe that they remind me of my uncle. Even the way they stand, the way they talk and carry themselves, speaks of power and a deep sense of their personal place in the world.

“Excuse me, good sirs,” Mr. Jannison says. “Please forgive the interruption.”

The men cease their discussion to turn as one and stare at us.

“This young lady would like to make the acquaintance of Councilman Hardwick,” he continues blithely. “Naturally I thought to bring her over before her dance card filled.”

“How gracious of you,” a man with white hair says dryly. He has harsh cheekbones and sideburns as fluffy as rabbit cottontails.

Mr. Jannison beams, but it occurs to me that Mr. Jannison's assertion of personal friendship might be much exaggerated.

“You are Miss Westfall, I presume?” the white-haired man says. “I heard you announced as you entered.”

“Yes. Are you Mr. Hardwick?”

“I am he.”

“Then I believe we have some business to attend to.”

He smiles down at me as though I'm a favorite hound. “I'm attending to business right now, with these gentleman. I can make some time for you tomorrow.”

The gazes of his companions are apprising rather than
friendly; calculated and prim. They are so like my uncle that I almost walk away, defeated.

“You will treat with me now, sir,” I say in as firm a voice as I can muster. “I'm in Sacramento today only. Surely these gentlemen would not begrudge a lady in need this small bit of your time?”

One of the other men laughs. “We'll continue this later, James,” he says, placing a companionable hand on Hardwick's shoulder.

Hardwick frowns. “Thank you, Governor Burnett.”

My eyes widen. The governor?

Governor Burnett turns to me. “It's nice to finally see you in the flesh. Though you are markedly less golden than advertised.”

I force a smile and wave nonchalantly. “You know these miners and their tall tales.”

“Indeed.” And with a look of dismissal, the governor steps down the stairs and onto the dance floor, the other men following in his wake.

Now it's just me and a flustered Mr. Jannison, Jefferson and Henry at our backs, gazing up at my uncle's patron. I don't like having him look down on me from the stairs, so I step up beside him, bringing us closer to eye level. He frowns.