Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(12)

Becky smiles at the clerk like he’s a perfect piece of cake. “I believe that a house, disassembled for shipping, was delivered aboard the Charlotte out of Panama, and before that from New Orleans, and originally Chattanooga. Mr. Melancthon Jones, formerly the ship’s carpenter aboard the Charlotte, reports that unfortunately, due to the irresponsible behavior of the captain, who, I understand, also neglected his duty to compensate his crew, the cargo of the ship has now been entrusted to your authority for rightful delivery to its proper owners. Here is the letter we received stating that the cargo was ready for collection.”

She hands the letter over, and I want to whistle my appreciation. That was a mouthful to be sure, but Becky made it flow like fresh cream over strawberries.

The clerk appreciates it also, to judge from his childlike grin. “That’s an excellent summary, Miss . . .”

“Mrs. Joyner.”

His face falls a little. “Of course, Mrs. Joyner. You have to understand that very few people come prepared with all the appropriate information.” He reads the letter and hands it back to her. “So the house is in the name of . . .”

“My husband, Mr. Andrew Joyner Senior.”

She doesn’t mention that he’s dead. She may be scrupulously honest, but I notice that doesn’t extend to volunteering information that hasn’t been requested.

“Of course,” the clerk replies. He rises from his seat and goes to a stack of record books on another table behind the counter.

“I’ll be so glad when this is resolved,” Becky says.

“I thought we’d have more trouble.”

“I did, too. But these are clearly very capable, competent men doing their best in difficult circumstances.”

I gape at her. Becky sees men with authority as associates. I see them as adversaries. It might be the biggest difference between us. Rather than explain, I say, “You must have really missed that house, sleeping in the wagon for months.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle. “It was our honeymoon cottage, on Andrew’s father’s plantation. I was seventeen when we got married—just a little older than you and Jefferson.”

“You must have a lot of happy memories of it.”

“Oh, goodness, no. We were far too young to marry, even Andrew, who was eight years older. It’s one thing to be in love at that age, but it’s another entirely to go live with someone.”

I stare at her. Becky has never been forthcoming about her marriage.

“Don’t act so surprised. Men are difficult and uncouth. And it didn’t help that Andrew’s father didn’t approve of me, and he didn’t want us living in the big house with them. Andrew was wild then—always a gambler. I suppose I was a bit wild, too.”

I’m not sure what Becky considers “wild.” Daring to go without a hat or bonnet on occasion? Using the dessert fork first? Before I can ask, she says, “I had several miscarriages before I became pregnant with Olive. That’s when I finally began to settle, I think. After she was born, Andrew’s mother put her foot down, and we moved into the mansion. And finally, after I bore a male child, we were set up with an inheritance and a place of our—”

She doesn’t finish because the clerk returns, his thumb marking the spot in an open ledger.

“Found it,” he says. “So many people have unsolvable problems. It’s a pleasure to help somebody with an easy solution.”

Becky smiles at me as if to say “I told you so.”

“Now if you’ll just have Mr. Joyner come in and sign this release form . . .”

Becky reaches for the pen on the counter. “I’ll sign on his behalf.”

The clerk jerks the ledger away, and his smile falters. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that.”

“But I’m his wife.”

The clerk’s smile fades a little more. “Have you heard of coverture, ma’am?”

Becky’s answer has a strong streak of vinegar. “Are you a lawyer, sir? Do you presume to lecture me on the law?”

“If you know the law, you know that a wife has no legal standing. All her rights are covered by, and thus represented by, the rights of her husband. Thus, coverture. It’s the law everywhere in the United States, and California will soon be confirmed as part of the United States.” He slams the ledger shut. “Mr. Joyner’s signature is absolutely required.”

“But—” Becky says.

I squeeze her hand, hard, and she falls silent. “But what if her husband is up in the hills protecting their gold claim and working the land?” I say. “He can’t be in two places at once.”

I’m careful to phrase it as a possibility, because I don’t want to lie direct and offend Becky’s sense of propriety. She squeezes my hand in response.

“He’ll just have to make the trip down here,” he says.

“When is the auction scheduled?” Becky asks.

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.