Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(11)
“And where will I find the Custom House?” Becky persists.
“A block up the street, at Portsmouth Square,” Melanchthon says, pointing. “Follow the sound of hammers. The city burned near to the ground on Christmas Eve.”
“That was barely two months ago!” I say. No wonder there’s soot on the hull.
“That why they’re in such a hurry to rebuild.”
We were headed toward Portsmouth Square anyway, since the best hotels are found there. We thank Melancthon for his help and wish him well, then make our way back to Hampton and the wagon.
“Was the good news good enough, or was the bad news worse?” he asks, giving Peony a pat on her nose.
“Not sure yet,” I say.
“Our next stop is the Custom House,” Becky adds. “We have to clear some things up.”
Jefferson says, “Hampton, if you want to go check the post office, I’ll lead the horses and the wagon. Meet up at Portsmouth Square?”
Hampton brightens. “I’d be obliged.”
As he hands the reins over and takes off, Becky says, “Don’t you worry, Lee. We still have plenty of time to get this straightened out and shop for the wedding.”
I look to Jefferson for rescue, but he is wholly focused on tying up the horses to the back of the wagon. “Please, let’s not hurry,” I say. “All I need is Jefferson at my side, and my friends there to witness.”
She waves this off with a flutter of her hand. “Yours is going to be the first wedding in Glory, California. Ever. Not only will it set a precedent for a proper wedding to everyone that follows, but it’ll become part of the town’s history, and that will make it part of the history of the new state. Your betrothal was a bit . . . unconventional.” That’s a kind way to put it—I was the one who did the proposing, during the Christmas ball in Sacramento. “I wish I could have been there to guide you. But as your friend and bridesmaid, I have a responsibility to make sure everything else is done properly.”
I definitely consider Becky my friend. But she used to be my employer, and I will always remember the Mrs. Joyner who, on the wagon-train journey, served her husband’s every meal on a fancy table set with a perfect tablecloth and fine, fragile china. I sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”
It’s a short walk to Portsmouth Square, just as Melancthon promised. The Custom House is a long, low adobe building stretching the full length of the square. An American flag whips from a high pole out front—thirteen red and white stripes, and thirty stars in a block of five by six. They’ll have to figure out how to add another star once California officially becomes a state.
Along a wide veranda are three evenly spaced doors. The nearest is marked OWEN AND SON, BANKERS, the door in the middle has a sign for law offices with a much longer list of names, and the entrance at the far end is the Custom House. Jefferson offers to watch the wagon, and Becky and I line up behind a dozen others waiting to get inside.
The orderly, colorful crowd represents every corner of the globe—Peruvians and Chinese and a whole family of Kanakas from the Hawaiian Islands. It makes me feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself, something that involves the whole world.
The door opens onto a room with a long counter made from ship planking. Facing us from the other side is a small line of white men in starched shirts and perfectly barbered hair. Becky and I listen as, one after another, the people ahead of us receive answers to their problems.
The men in starched shirts are very sorry.
It isn’t their fault.
The claimant will have to take it up with the original ship owner.
No, they can’t help find the original ship owner.
The claimant might wish to go to a bank to solve that problem. They can recommend the one two doors down, the oldest and finest bank in San Francisco.
Unfortunately, the claimant will need to acquire legal advice to solve that particular problem. There are law offices all over the city, but perhaps they might care to try the services of the office next door.
Tears do not bring different answers.
Becky and I exchange a dark look. I’m starting to get a bad feeling.
Outrage doesn’t help the Chinese man in line ahead of us, although it does tend to quickly mobilize a couple of rough-looking men who stand at the ready in case of trouble.
The cheerful and helpful-sounding men in starched white shirts have an answer to every question, but no one leaves satisfied.
The line moves efficiently, and soon Becky and I reach the front. My view has darkened, as though I’m in a state of about-to-be-angry, but Becky stands patiently and confidently, with all the assurance of a person who is used to having things work out for her.
“Next!”
We step up to a clerk with a face as angular as a wedge of cheese, framed by a pair of bushy sideburns. Small wire spectacles sit on the end of his nose. When he looks up from his ledger and sees us—or, rather, sees Becky, who is a fine lady in California, and therefore dearer than gold—a delighted grin spreads across his face. He reaches up and straightens his collar.
“How can I help you, ma’am?” He eyes me over the top of his glasses and amends: “Ma’ams.” I’m still wearing my travel trousers, sure, but my hair has grown long enough to put up in a proper bun, and I’m no longer binding my chest with Mama’s old shawl, so the fact that I’m of the feminine persuasion is obvious to anyone paying attention.