Into the Bright Unknown by Rae Carson
The innkeep at the City Hotel is gambling in the smoky parlor with some of his customers. When we ask after our friends, he grunts in the direction of the stairway. Jefferson is taking care of the horses and wagon, so Becky, Hampton, and I tromp up the narrow staircase to the garret, following after the sound of laughing children.
Becky dashes down the hall to an open door. There’s little space in the tiny room, so Hampton and I hover in the doorway. Olive, seven years old and a hundred years curious, peppers her mother with questions, while Andy plays on the floor with clever wooden animals carved by the Major. Major Wally Craven sits on one of two canvas cots in the room, feeding something mushy and unidentifiable to Becky’s baby girl.
We met the Major on the wagon train west, and he’s been a good friend ever since Jasper amputated his leg to save his life. He’s a large, strong fellow, clever with his hands, who wears a wooden leg of his own design. Becky won’t travel anywhere without her children, and she doesn’t trust anyone but the Major to watch over them.
“The room’s barely larger than a wardrobe,” Becky says, hunching over to avoid the bare rafters. “But the children have endured worse.”
The Major shifts the baby to his shoulder and pats her on the back to burp her. “There were only two rooms available. Twenty-five dollars each per week, rent paid in advance. I took them both. Apparently a fire took out a lot of buildings last month.” He points up to the bare rafters. “They barely finished this place before they moved on to the next. We’ll have to sleep in shifts.”
“Oh, dear,” says Becky, in a tone that I’m pretty sure means This won’t do. “San Francisco has not been kind to us so far. At least Hampton got his freedom papers!”
Hampton waves them triumphantly.
I sense someone approach and turn to see Henry, clean-shaven and hair slicked neat as you please. A silk cravat hangs around his neck, a brighter blue than fashionable.
I say, “I thought you’d be out looking for a teaching job.”
“The new state constitution requires public schools,” Henry says, “but it seems no one has gotten around to building them. I was told the first school will be built in Monterey.”
“So what are you going to do?” I ask.
“Some wealthy white and Mexican families hire tutors, so I’ve set up a few meetings.”
“Poor Henry,” I say. “Sounds like you’ll have to get up early for a change.”
“No. I’ll meet them tonight.” His eyes sparkle. “In gambling dens.”
“Oh, dear,” Becky says again.
“You’re a terrible gambler,” I point out. “Even I can tell when you have a good hand.”
Henry blinks. “I’m only doing it to make connections, of course.”
Jefferson, having stabled the horses and wagon, makes his way down the hall with our bags. He drops my saddlebag on the floor with a heavy thump. “What did you pack, Lee, a bunch of rocks? Oh, hello, Henry.”
“Have you seen Tom?” Henry asks. “I hope he had better luck than I did.”
I say, “He’s interviewing for a post with Hardwick. And I have a bad feeling.” I explain everything that happened.
“You don’t have to worry about Tom,” Henry assures me.
“I wish I could be sure. He’s . . . different.”
“Working in your uncle’s mine was hard for him. He . . .” Henry hesitates, considering. “Well, he gets wound up at night and can’t sleep because of it.”
“I can understand that,” I admit.
“Tom has been hard to read lately, it’s true,” Jefferson says.
“He’s the one who should be a gambler,” the Major points out. “He has such a poker face.”
“No one should be a gambler,” Becky says.
Henry squeezes my arm. “Give Tom some time. I know he’s intently focused right now. He thinks we’ve got a better chance to practice our professions here, and the sooner we get to work, the more of a head start we’ll have on everyone else.”
I can’t help the little sigh that escapes. “Sometimes I just wish things could go back to the way they were, when it was just us, relying on each other. Looking to stake our claims and make a better life for ourselves.”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Henry says. “We’re just staking a different set of claims now.”
“But if the three of you stay in San Francisco, I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too,” says little Andy from the floor. I should have realized he was listening carefully to every word. “I’ll miss you the most.”
“Then you must continue to work on your letters,” Henry says. “So we can write to each other every week.”
The stairs creak, and Jefferson says, “Hey, Tom. We were just talking about you.”
“Speculating on my prospects of future employment?” Tom asks as he strides toward us.
“Praising your immaculate presentation and good looks,” Henry says.
“Don’t let me interrupt you then,” he says dryly.
“Did Hardwick offer you a job?” I ask.
“He did.”
“Did you take it?” My voice is a lot louder than I intend.
Tom pauses. “I asked for time to consider his generous offer.”
I want to follow up, demand to know why he didn’t reject it outright, but a door to another room slams open. A large man reeking of booze and wearing only an undershirt, thrusts his bald head into the hall. “If you all want to have a confab, that’s why God invented parlors. Get yourselves downstairs and use one—some of us are trying to sleep!”
He slams the door shut again.
After a brief pause, Henry whispers. “Anyone else tempted to start a rousing chorus of ‘Used Up Man’?”
Becky can’t hide her grin as she waves us all into the tiny room, then closes the door behind us. We take seats on the cots, the two small chairs, the floor. I grab a spot beneath the single window. The rough wood of the unfinished wall makes my back itch. Jefferson squeezes in beside me, and Andrew comes over to show off his wooden animals. Jeff agrees that they are very fine animals and makes an appropriate variety of barnyard and woodland sounds, which somehow makes me want to kiss him even more than usual.
Becky drags one of the room’s two chairs to the center of the floor and sits like a queen on her throne, hands folded in her lap. “Our original plan to come to the city, get the house, and depart directly isn’t going to work,” she begins.
“I’ve got my freedom papers, but I don’t have any word on Adelaide,” Hampton adds. “The postmaster says it could be a few days or a few months until the mail comes next. It all depends on when the ships arrive. So I might have to stick around.”
“Hardwick’s going to break our agreement and cheat Glory out of its charter if he can,” I add.
This is news to some, including the Major, who frowns. “People could lose their homes,” he says.
“Once word gets out that our charter’s not coming,” Becky points out, “we’ll start having trouble with claim jumpers again. The promise of a proper town has given us a lot of protection.”
“Once California is declared a state,” Tom says, “we’ll have legal recourse. Until then, the contract gives him a loophole.”
“By then it might be too late,” I say.
Becky says, “But one thing at a time. Right now the problem I care about is my house. Tom, did you think of something?”
He shakes his head. “Hardwick wants my help with his auctions—many involving properties of dubious provenance—and he needs legal assistance managing the contracts and bills of sale to alleviate questions of legal ownership. Your house is currently stored in one of his warehouses. Working for him might give us another option for recovering it.”
Maybe that’s why Tom was so eager to hear Hardwick out—so he could help us. Henry was right; Tom would never betray us.
“What if we buy it?” I suggest. I reach out with my gold sense, assuring myself that all the money we
“The auction is a week from Tuesday,” Becky says. “Staying almost two weeks in this city will cost a mother lode. And there’s no guarantee we’ll be the highest bidder.”
“Almost every item has a ‘buy now’ price,” Tom says. “I could find out the price for your house. It’s likely to cost twice as much as you’d pay for it at auction.”
“Let’s do it,” I say. “I’ll chip in. Let’s just buy it and get out of town.” And away from Hardwick and Frank Dilley and everything else that’s making me feel as tangled up as a squirrel’s nest. The wind blows outside, shaking the roof tiles. “There’s something bad here,” I say. “It’s like . . . it’s like a snake’s rattle, warning us to back off. Let’s buy the house, however much it costs, and get on our way.”
It’s a reasonable request. Everyone can see that, I’m sure.
But Becky’s frown deepens, and she raises one finger in the air.
“So let me get this straight,” she says. “My dear late husband, Mr. Joyner, already paid once in full to ship this house to California for me. Now the petty self-appointed bureaucrats of this territory want me to pay a second time to reacquire my property. And if I want it in a hurry, without the disadvantage of bidding against strangers after a costly stay away from home, then I have to pay for it a third time.”
“That’s about the size of it,” the Major grumbles.
“No!” She jabs her finger at him. “It’s wrong, and it won’t stand.”
“So what are we going to do about it?” he asks. The baby is nearly asleep on his shoulder. She has recently discovered the wonder that is her thumb, and her tiny cheek pulses with drowsy sucking.
“Have you decided to steal it back?” Tom asks, brightening.
“I can’t steal back what’s already mine,” she says. Olive, sensing the tension in the room, scoots over to lean against her mother. Becky strokes her daughter’s bright blond hair and says, “But I have a plan.”
“Sounds intriguing,” Henry says.
“Henry Meek,” she says. “How would you like to be my husband?”
“What?” Henry gulps.
“What?” the Major adds.
“She just wants someone to pose as her husband,” I say gently. “Remember? We discussed the possibility last fall in Glory.”
“I can do that,” the Major says, a little too eagerly.
Becky shakes her head. “The Joyner family is well known back in Tennessee, and it’s possible there are a few folks right here in San Francisco who are familiar with my late husband, at least distantly. Henry can pass for Andrew at a glance. But you, Wally, you’re . . .” A little smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “You’re as different as can be.”
Henry straightens. “I was quite the thespian in college,” he says. “And I would be honored to pose as your fine gentleman spouse.”
The Major does not seem convinced, but Becky brightens, saying, “Then this is what we’re going to do.”
Chapter Six
Noon the following day finds me and Jefferson sitting on the wagon bench in front of our hotel, keeping an eye on the Custom House across the plaza. Jeff’s arm is settled across my shoulders, and I lean into him, loving how easy it is now that we’re affianced. When I want to hold his hand, all I have to do is reach for it. When he wants to press his lips to the top of my head, he doesn’t hesitate.
Hampton has gone off in search of his supper. Wisps of fog still dally with the hilltops, and the air is thick with chilled wetness. I wear a floppy straw hat, in part against the cold, in part to cover my face.
The clerk who helped Becky and me yesterday entered the office right when it opened this morning, and he hasn’t yet emerged. For Becky’s plan to work, he needs to take a break. Then, we’ll approach one of the other clerks, who won’t remember our failed attempt to acquire the house once already.
Becky strides toward us from across the square, accompanied by a tall gentleman in a fine suit. For a split second, I wonder where Henry is, even though he was supposed to accompany her, preparing for today’s adventure.
Of course, the finely dressed gentleman is Henry, and I let out an appreciative whistle. “Hello, Mr. Joyner.”
He preens, but Becky scowls, and Henry slips into a dour expression that reminds me so much of the late Andrew Joyner that’s it’s almost a punch in the gut.
“What do you think?” Becky asks.
The resemblance is uncanny. “How?”
“We visited a variety of shops,” Henry says in a perfect Southern drawl, turning so I can see him from every angle. “Until I found the perfect suit. You’d be surprised at the items that have made their way out here. Why, I could dress myself like anyone—from a Japanese samurai to a French countess.”
He extends his arms so we can admire the flashy cufflinks on his shirt. They’re exactly the sort of thing Mr. Joyner would have bought.
“You even sound like him!”
“He used to imitate my husband,” Becky says. “To amuse the other bachelors when he thought no one else was listening.” She scowls up at him. “But I was listening.”
“The lesson is that someone’s always listening,” Henry says without breaking character, though he does manage a small amount of shame. Mr. Joyner was an uppity ne’er-do-well and few cared for him at all. But he was Becky’s husband, and I hope Henry’s imitations haven’t pained her.
Jefferson says, “I swear you’ve aged a decade since yesterday.”
“Sleeping on the hard floor of a garret, with six people in a room meant for two, will do that to a soul,” Henry says.
“Stop bellyaching,” Becky tells him. “We all slept in much worse conditions while crossing the continent.”
“But if you recall, I always slept on a feather mattress!” Henry says, fully into his character.
It’s the worst thing he could say. Mr. Joyner packed a whole household’s worth of fine furniture for their journey west, including a full-sized bed that filled most of their wagon. It was the furniture that killed him, in an accident high in the Rocky Mountains. He sacrificed his life trying to save a huge oak dresser, and I can still picture him smashed and bloody in the dust, broken pieces of wood scattered all around him.
Henry sees the expression on my face and says, “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s good,” Becky says, and maybe I’ve overestimated her heartache. “That’s exactly the kind of thoughtless thing he’d say. You stay in character until we have my house.”
Henry gives her a small bow. “Your wish is my dearest desire.” He turns to Jefferson. “We stopped at a ladies’ store to sample some of the maquillage. It makes a lady look younger, but a gentleman much older.”
“It’s astonishing,” I tell him, because it is.
Becky nods toward the shaded veranda of the Custom House. “Has our helpful friend from yesterday taken a break from his duties yet?”
“Not yet,” I say.
“And we’re sure no one is using the back door?” she asks.
Jefferson shrugs. “I circled the whole building. Nothing back there but trash.”
“A flaw in our plan, perhaps,” Henry says.
“I’m optimistic he’ll leave through the front, just like the others,” Becky says firmly.
As I settle back into the crook of Jefferson’s arm, our friend Jim appears around the corner and heads for the front of the hotel. He carries a large rolled blanket. I shout hello to him, and he changes course, waving to us.
Jefferson tips his hat. “Free Jim,” he acknowledges.
“Just Jim now,” Jim and I say in unison.
“Well, all right then,” Jefferson says, with a hint of a smile. “Jim it is.”
“Glad I caught you,” Jim says to me. “Was afraid you’d be out and about, and I’d miss seeing the look on your face when you opened this.”
He hands the long package up to me, and I lay it a
Polished wood and steel glint up at me.
“Lee?” Jefferson says. “That’s a dead ringer for your daddy’s Hawken rifle.”
“It is my daddy’s Hawken.” I examine the stock and find familiar scratches, plus a few more. I hold it up and sight along the barrel. “Jim—where . . . ? How . . . ?”
He smiles like the cat that ate the canary. “Remember when we saw each other last? In Independence? It was on a rack in that general store, and I recognized it right away. I figure somebody carried it west, and then traded it for a pan and shovel. That, or you were so desperate for money you had to pawn it yourself. I snapped it up right before I left, but then I couldn’t find you again.”
A laugh bursts out of my chest, a pure clean feeling of delight. I jump down from the bench and throw my arms around him and give him the tightest hug, and I don’t care what anybody thinks.
Jefferson climbs down and shakes his hand. “We appreciate this a great deal, Jim,” he says as I take a step back and admire the rifle all over again.
“Reuben Westfall bought that gun in my store when you were barely toddling around,” Jim says.
I can’t stop staring at the rifle. Three brothers robbed me of it last year, when I was barely out of Georgia. I never thought I’d see it again. “This is the last thing I have to remember Daddy by,” I tell Jim.
“Aren’t those his boots you’re wearing?”
I look down at the boots and scuff them in the dirt. They aren’t the same, no matter how much they look like Daddy’s boots, but I’m grateful to have them. “Nah. The Major made these for me. They fit me a lot better. I’d have had fewer blisters had I hiked west in these.” I hold up the rifle again, just to admire it. “But Jim! This gift—it’s . . . it’s . . .”