Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“Lawks, Miss Chauncey,” Mary breathed in awe after the young man had reluctantly taken his leave. “You’ll not believe my room. It’s a bloody palace! Prime, everything!”

Chauncey privately thought her own huge bedroom looked more like a harem suite than a hotel, but she held her peace. It was spacious and the view from the wide window was indeed beautiful. She could see all of the downtown area, the high-jutting barren hills, and the sparkling blue water of the bay, dotted with at least a hundred ships. So many buildings and so many people, she thought, trying to visualize a San Francisco of ten years before, a village of a mere one hundred souls. She walked to the vast bed and ran her hand over the soft dark blue velvet spread. Prime indeed, she thought.

“Look, Miss Chauncey,” Mary said, “you’ve even a private bathing area behind this screen. Your own tub, too!”

“Prime,” said Chauncey.

Chauncey paused a moment and looked up at the imposing bright-blue-painted sign: “Saxton, Brewer, and Company.” For several moments her legs simply would not carry her forward. I am become a coward after all these months, she thought. What if he recognizes my name? Don’t be a fool, she chided herself. Elizabeth Jameson is a stranger; he will never make a connection. She became aware suddenly that a group of men had stopped their progress along Montgomery Street and were staring openly at her.

She forced her shoulders back, raised her chin, and marched through the huge oak door into the vast interior of the bank, Mary close on her heels. It wasn’t quiet, as were the banks in England, she thought, smiling to herself when she remembered she had visited but one. Men were arguing, talking in small groups clustered about black-frocked men, employees, she supposed, of the bank. Slowly the boisterous talk quieted as the men noticed her presence.

A tall, good-looking man, dressed in well-cut somber black, detached himself from a group and walked toward her, his face a study in curiosity and pleasure. He is young, Chauncey thought as he approached her, not much above thirty. Her heart began to pound and her mouth was suddenly dry.

“May I help you, miss?” the man asked, his voice pleasantly deep and vibrant.

Get a hold on yourself, you si

lly fool! “Yes, I am here to see Mr. Saxton. It is my intention to visit San Francisco and I wish to open an account in your bank.”

He was silent a moment; then a wide smile split his mouth and she saw a small space between his two front teeth. “You are English,” he said. At her nod, he continued, “I am Mr. Brewer, Miss . . .”

“Miss Jameson. Elizabeth Jameson.”

“Yes, Miss Jameson. I am sorry, but Mr. Saxton is not here.”

Chauncey felt like howling her disappointment. To come all this way and the wretched man was gone. “When do you expect Mr. Saxton, sir?”

Daniel Brewer pulled on his left earlobe, a habit of long standing. “He is currently in Downieville, visiting the mines, ma’am. I expect him to return in another week or so. May I help you?”

Mines? Her father’s mines?

“Miss Jameson?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Brewer. Of course you may help me.” She paused a moment, gathering her wits and suppressing her raging disappointment. “Let us go to your office, sir. And we will need the services of an honest jeweler.”

Their business was transacted quickly and Chauncey was pleased with the result. The jeweler assessed several of the diamonds she wished to convert into cash at a slightly higher value than had the man in London. Mr. Brewer provided her with an account book, telling her that it was never wise to carry much money on her person.

“May I escort you ladies back to your hotel?” he asked solicitously.

Mary was not the least surprised when Chauncey gave Mr. Brewer a dazzling smile and agreed. She’ll pry every bit of information out of the poor man, she thought, walking sedately behind Chauncey, her umbrella held tightly in her fisted hand.

“Would you like tea, Mr. Brewer?” Chauncey asked politely.

Mr. Brewer beamed.

Over tea, Chauncey, not one to rush her fences, inquired politely about Mr. Brewer and his antecedents. He was from Atlanta, he said, his father a clerk in a mill. He had been in San Francisco for two years now, and had no intention of ever returning to the South. After his second cup of tea, she asked casually, “You said that Mr. Saxton would not return for a week, sir?”

“That’s right, Miss Jameson. I do know that he will be back for the Stevensons’ masked ball. Promised to be here, and of course he wouldn’t let down Miss Stevenson.”

Miss Stevenson! She sipped her tea. “A young lady, I gather?”

“Yes, Miss Penelope is Henry Stevenson’s only daughter. Pretty girl, and much sought after, as you can imagine, miss. It shouldn’t be long before an announcement is made. Where did you meet Mr. Saxton?”

Chauncey’s eyes flew to his face in momentary consternation. “Captain Markham of our ship, the Eastern Light, recommended him to me. He assured me that Mr. Saxton was a most . . . honest man.”

“Del is that. He’s one of the original argonauts and one of the few men to make a fortune in gold and not lose it. Now he’s into banking and shipping, even politics. It’s my pleasure to be his partner.”

Chauncey sloshed the tea around the bottom of her cup. “And Mr. Stevenson? Is he equally as honest and well-to-do as Mr. Saxton?”