Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“Do you know how lucky we are, Mary? Mr. Johansen told me that many of the ships take a good eight months to navigate from New York around Cape Horn to San Francisco. And we’re going to reach San Francisco in three months.”

Three months of miserable food, cramped quarters, and near-death, Mary thought. “I suppose it’s better than struggling overland through that awful-sounding Panama place with all its fevers and vicious natives! And just thinking about riding in those dreadful wagons across the interior of America, thirsting to death in the desert or losing your head to those red Indians—”

“Scalps, Mary, not heads.”

“The result is the same, miss!”

“Indeed,” Chauncey said absently, no longer paying attention, her thoughts inevitably going to the man in San Francisco. “Soon, Mr. Delaney Saxton,” she said softly. “Soon.”

The Eastern Light didn’t pass through the Golden Gate until five days later. There was another storm to ride out, not so severe as the one that had sent the ship diving into the trough of incredibly deep waves off Cape Horn, its white sails beating against the savage burst of rain and wind. But still the rolling and bucking decks were enough to send Mary to her knees in devout and loud prayer and to make Chauncey’s stomach roil in protest.

“Another trip safely done,” Captain Markham said with simple pride as he stood by Chauncey on the quarterdeck as the ship neared its berth on what the captain called the Long Wharf. “More changes, I see,” he continued. “Every time I return, the city has stretched itself outward. That area yonder—but two years ago it was still bay. A lot of bay has been filled in since the first argonauts arrived for gold in forty-nine, and more miles of wharf than you’d imagine. You’ll find many streets paved with wooden planks now, Miss Chauncey. Lucky they are, else after the rains you’d sink to your knees in the mud. And I heard that we’ll have gas lights soon. Not a dismal little village any longer. No, as bustling a port as New Orleans.”

“Just look at the hills,” Chauncey said in some awe.

“That’s Russian Hill,” Captain Markham said, following her pointing finger. “And there is Telegraph Hill, called that because of the semaphore atop it. And there is Fern Hill. Houses are starting to creep up them now, but it’s tough going. On the ocean side, there’s naught but rolling sand dunes, no hills.”

“The city looks quite modern. All the brick buildings.”

“Aye, that’s true. Used to be all wooden shanties, but fires have been a problem. Lucky in the long run, I guess. After each fire, San Francisco rebuilt better than before. Brick replaced wood. Makes men proud of their city.”

It required another three hours before Chauncey and Mary, their luggage piled high in a dray, were on their way to the Oriental Hotel on Market Street at Battery. “The only proper place for a lady to reside,” Captain Markham had told her at least ten times. She had bid the captain an affectionate good-bye, promising to dine with him two evenings hence.

Their dray made its way ponderously down a bustling street lined mostly with brick buildings and colorful signs proclaiming the type of business. “What a beautiful and . . . unusual city,” Chauncey said to their driver.

“Montgomery Street,” their loquacious driver told them. “All the bankers, assayers, gold buyers, and jewelers have businesses here.”

Delaney Saxton’s bank must be somewhere close. “Where is the Saxton, Brewer, and Company bank?” she asked.

“There, miss, on the corner of California Street. A good solid bank. You’ll do well there.”

You may be certain that I shall, she thought, her eyes darkening as she stared at the brick-faced building. She thought of the thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds carefully sewn into the hem of her gown. Oh yes, I will be giving Mr. Saxton a good deal of business.

“Forgive me, miss,” the driver said, turning slightly to look at Chauncey. “You here to meet your parents?”

“I am here to visit your beautiful city,” she said.

“Well, miss, San Francisco ain’t as wild as it was in forty-nine, but if you don’t mind me saying so . . .”

Another lecture from a well-meaning man, she thought, and cocked her head to one side, giving him her complete attention.

The Oriental Hotel was a pleasant surprise. Porticoes embellished its four-story facade and formed a shaded gallery on the entrance level. There was a wide wooden-planked sidewalk in front of the hotel and a gold-liveried employee met her at the front door.

On their short ride from the wharf, Chauncey had been aware of men who simply stopped in their tracks and stared at them. Some of them looked quite disreputable with their slouched hats and flannel trousers, and others, oddly enough to Chauncey, looked like gentlemen straight off St. James Street in London, replete with frilled white shirts and black frock coats. It was no different in the lobby of the Oriental Hotel. There were a half-dozen gentlemen seated in comfortable chairs in the lobby, and upon her entrance she could feel their eyes studying her as if she were a rare and exotic specimen. The man behind the desk merely blinked at her once, then with a good deal of aplomb inquired politely what she wished.

I want to become quickly well-known as a young English lady of wealth, she thought, and informed the clerk that she wished the best accommodations available. She also informed him of her name in a rather carrying voice.

“Welcome to San Francisco, Miss Jameson.”

There, she thought, following a young man and their luggage up the beautifully carved winding staircase, soon I should be the talk of San Francisco. I hope.

Chauncey wasn’t aware that Mary, following in her wake, was waving her umbrella toward the hungry-eyed men who looked ready to follow her young mistress.

“Is the weather always so lovely and clear?” she asked the young man.

“ ’Tis changeable, miss, if you know what I mean, it being March and all. You’ll see fog soon enough. Thick white stuff that covers everything in sight, ’cept of course the tops of the hills. Now, when it rains, there’s the problem. Always carry an umbrella, miss, and wear sturdy boots. The streets get real nasty. In fact, last month a gentleman was walking on the sidewalk, and before he knew it, the wooden planks sank and he was up to his knees in muck! Such language.”

Chauncey’s suite of rooms on the top floor of the Oriental was more beautiful than her rooms at the Bradford Hotel in London. Perhaps more gawdy, she amended, smiling at the vivid crimson draperies, held in place with thick loops of gold velvet.