The clerk peers at the calendar on the wall and says, “A week from Tuesday, at the Hardwick Warehouse on Montgomery Street.”
A little chill goes through me at the mention of the name Hardwick—most likely the very same fellow Jefferson is hoping we’ll run into. James Henry Hardwick funded my uncle Hiram when Hiram kidnapped me. Then Hardwick took every penny we could raise in Glory in exchange for a promise to charter our town . . . a promise that hasn’t yet been delivered. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I’ve worried ever since that Hardwick may be no better than my uncle.
“There’s no way we can retrieve Mr. Joyner in Glory and return by then, not with this weather,” Becky says. “The winter roads are terrible—you know this to be true.” I clear my throat, hoping she’ll understand my message: “Stop talking.” Becky is smart, but she’s accustomed to getting her way. She has no idea how, as a woman with no husband and no property, the world is not on her side anymore.
The clerk rubs his cheese-wedge chin thoughtfully. “You could always buy the house at auction.”
I was already thinking the same thing. It would attract more attention than we want, but I can afford it. Thanks to my gold-witching ways, I can afford to do a lot of things for my friends right now. “That’s a good idea,” I say.
“Where will we get the money to do that?” she asks tightly.
He says, “If you need a loan, you might go to a bank to solve that problem. I can recommend the one two doors down.”
“And how am I supposed to get a loan without my husband’s signature?” Her voice is sharp enough to shave with, and I imagine it taking the fellow’s whiskers clean off.
“I see the problem,” he says. “But the law’s the law. Perhaps you might wish to consult with an attorney. I can recommend you to the gentlemen in the office next door.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry. I’ve done everything I can here to help you.” He looks past us to the next group in line, a Chinese family trying to speak through an interpreter who’s dressed in black like a missionary. “Next!”
I’m willing to stand our ground and keep arguing, but Becky, ever conscious of protocol, turns and leaves. I follow her outside to the cold shade of the veranda, where Jefferson waits.
“So, how did it go?” he asks.
Becky’s glare is so withering that he takes a step back.
“Not well,” I say. “They’ll accept Mr. Joyner’s signature only, and no substitutes.”
“Coverture is a barbaric doctrine,” Becky says. “What am I, a piece of property to be handed around from one man to the next like a gambling chit? Now that Andrew’s passed on, I suppose I’m covered by my father-in-law, a man who still despises me. Given half a chance, he’ll take Andrew Junior to raise as his heir and send me off to a convent or something.”
Jefferson and I exchange a surprised glance. We’ve heard more and more of Becky’s opinions since the death of her husband, enough to know she’s been thinking them in the quiet privacy of her own mind for a long time, maybe years. But this is one of the strongest we’ve heard pass her lips.
“We could always buy the house at auction,” I suggest.
“Or have a man buy it for me, you mean,” Becky says.
“Or that.”
“No. I won’t pay again for something that’s rightfully mine.”
“If the law’s involved, we should talk to Tom about it,” Jefferson suggests, and I could kiss him, because that’s the perfect next step. Actually, I could kiss him anyway. “You should have let him come with you.”
“He had his own worries,” Becky says.
“Not sure it matters now,” I say. “He’s out looking for space to rent, which means he could be anywhere.”
“Just saw him,” Jefferson says. “Went next door. Said he was having trouble finding a place in his price range. He’s rethinking his plan to go independent.”
“Fine,” Becky fumes, stomping away. “Let’s go see Tom.”
Chapter Four
If anyone can help us, it’s Tom, and Becky holds her head high and marches into the law office, me following behind.
It’s the same size as the Custom House, with comparable furniture and decor, but that’s where the similarities end.
Instead of orderly lines, calm voices, and every nationality, I see only well-dressed white men, smoking cigars while talking over one another. The song of gold is loud—the main chorus comes from the bank next door, but notes of it sing from fine pockets around the room. Voices suddenly crescendo to threatening shouts, and I tense, ready to grab Becky and run, but laughter follows a split second later, accompanied by hearty slaps on shoulders.
“There’s Tom,” Becky says. He’s been tromping around the city half the day, but I don’t see a speck of mud on him. Though he dresses plain, it always seems he rolls out of bed in the morning with his hair and clothes as neat and ordered as his arguments.
We walk over to join him, and he acknowledges us with a slight, perfectly controlled nod.
He’s one of the college men, three confirmed bachelors who left Illinois College to join our wagon train west. Compared to the other two, Tom Bigler is a bit of a closed book—one of those big books with tiny print you use as a doorstop or for smashing bugs. And he’s been closing up tighter and tighter since we blew up Uncle Hiram’s gold mine, when Tom negotiated with James Henry Hardwick to get us out of that mess.
“How goes the hunt for an office?” I ask.
“Not good,” Tom says. “I found one place—only one place—and it’s a cellar halfway up the side of one those mountains.” Being from Illinois, which I gather is flat as a griddle, Tom still thinks anything taller than a tree is a mountain. “Maybe eight foot square, no windows and a dirt floor, and they want a thousand dollars a month for it.”
“Is it the cost or the lack of windows that bothers you?”
He pauses. Sighs. “Believe it or not, that’s a reasonable price. Everything else I’ve found is worse—five thousand a month for the basement of the Ward Hotel, ten thousand a month for a whole house. The land here is more valuable than anything on it, even gold. I’ve never seen so many people trying to cram themselves into such a small area.”
“So it’s the lack of windows.”
He gives me a side-eyed glance. “I came to California to make a fortune, but it appears a fortune is required just to get started. I may have to take up employment with an existing firm, like this one.” Peering at us more closely, he says, “I thought you were going to acquire the Joyner house? I mean, I’m glad to see you, but it seems things have gone poorly?”
“They’ve gone terribly,” Becky says.
“They haven’t gone at all,” I add.
“They’ll only release it to Mr. Joyner,” Becky says.
Tom’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I did mention that this could be a problem, remember?”
“Only a slight one,” I say with more hope than conviction.