Chapter 19
Sacramento City
February 1854
Isabelle leaned back against the pillows on the feather bed, holding Aunt Emeline in her arms as if she were a baby. She didn’t want to let her aunt go, afraid she might slip away for good.
Sing Ye said that Emeline had awakened during the night, asking for her, but her aunt had fallen back asleep before Isabelle arrived that morning. And she’d yet to awaken again.
After much pleading, the doctor had come to the cottage, but he didn’t stay long. After listening to the whisper of Aunt Emeline’s heartbeat with his wooden stethoscope, he spooned a bitter syrup of black tea and morphine between her lips. Then he left Isabelle the bottle.
The morphine relieved her pain, and while Isabelle was grateful for her relief, there were so many more things she wanted to say. It was long past noon now. Even though Sing Ye had tried to coax her into the next room to eat, Isabelle refused to leave until she thanked her aunt one last time.
Stephan would oversee dinner tonight at the hotel and any needs of their clientele while she was gone. Fanny would loathe answering to Stephan, but her steward knew how to care for their guests. And he was completely reliable.
On the painted wall at the end of the bed was the picture she’d given Aunt Emeline for Christmas—the one of the port at Marseille. Beside it was a portrait of Uncle William and Aunt Emeline together in her flower garden on the outskirts of Baltimore, years before Isabelle met them. Uncle William had a thick mustache that masked most of his lips, but his smile flooded up into his eyes. Aunt Emeline’s hair had been rolled tightly into curls on both sides of her head, a sprig of flowers pinned in the middle. A lace collar draped wide over her shoulders, and her smile was as infectious as her husband’s.
Uncle William had been an ardent abolitionist, using his mercantile as a meeting place for like-minded people. Aunt Emeline had cared well for the people who spent a night or two hiding out in their home.
They had both done so much for her—educating and supporting her, bringing her to California with them. She’d never known what a family was until they adopted her into theirs.
Her heart ached.
She couldn’t envision what her life would be like with her aunt gone. Couldn’t fathom the future without her. Aunt Emeline was her anchor. Her lighthouse in the storms. Her savior.
Almost a decade ago, when the doctors thought Isabelle would die, Aunt Emeline had nursed her back to health. Then she’d risked everything for Isabelle, just as she had done when she purchased Sing Ye from the steamer in San Francisco.
If only she could rescue her aunt now.
This morning, Isabelle asked the doctor if she could bring Aunt Emeline to the hospital, but he’d said she was too ill for the journey across the city. And she would surely be more comfortable spending her final hours at home.
Isabelle wanted to fight him—the man didn’t know for certain that these were Aunt Emeline’s last hours—but she’d finally concurred after the doctor said Isabelle would be a greater help to her aunt by easing her pain instead of trying to cure a body beyond repair.
Tears trickled down Isabelle’s cheeks, and she wiped them off with the sleeve of her blouse. She knew her aunt was sick, but she’d fought so hard against the realization that Aunt Emeline might really leave her, like Uncle William had done. That Isabelle would be alone once again.
The room was plenty warm from the fireplace that Sing Ye kept burning in the next room, but Isabelle still shivered.
She hated being alone.
The hours passed, and Isabelle dozed off, her head back against the pillows. The sky was dark when she woke again, a lantern glowing on a small table near the windowsill.
Aunt Emeline began to stir. Then she opened her eyes.
A smile graced her lips when she saw Isabelle. “Child,” she said softly. “Why are you holding me?”
Isabelle looked down at her, returning her smile. “Because years ago, you used to hold me.”
Carefully she scooted to the edge of the bed, laying her aunt gently on top of the quilt and cushioning her fragile body with pillows and blankets.
Aunt Emeline’s soft gaze lingered on her. “You were always such a good girl, Isabelle.”
“I didn’t want you to stop loving me.”
“Oh, honey.” Aunt Emeline took her hand. “I would never have stopped loving you.”
When she started coughing, Isabelle reached for the syrup on the nightstand. “You need more medicine.”
Aunt Emeline shook her head, the wisps of white hair sweeping across her face. Isabelle brushed them away.
“I don’t want to sleep now. I want to talk.”
“What do you want to talk about?” Isabelle asked.
“I heard a woman showed up at the hotel a few months ago, asking for Ross.”
Isabelle’s chest clenched, her fingers curling tightly around the glass bottle. “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Aunt Emeline said. “Is he really married to someone else?”
“I’m afraid it’s true, though he hasn’t come back yet from the fields to confirm it.”
Aunt Emeline looked over at the picture of her husband before she continued. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Isabelle placed the medicine bottle back on the stand. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I pray, child. Not worry.”
Her aunt seemed fully coherent now. Alive. Perhaps the doctor was wrong. Perhaps all she needed was this medicine and some rest to recover from whatever it was that ailed her.
“I want you to find a man you can trust, Isabelle. Someone who will cherish you for a lifetime, like my William did with me.”
Isabelle’s eyes wet with tears again. “I’m afraid there was only one William Labrie.”
“There is a man out there who will fit perfectly with you. A man who will think you are much more valuable than any nugget of gold.”
Isabelle leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I can’t bear to lose you.”
“This is only a temporary good-bye. Not forever.”
Isabelle hated good-byes, no matter how temporary.
“After I’m gone,” her aunt continued, her voice stronger now, “I’m giving this house to Nicolas and Sing Ye.”
“Of course.”
“Everything else I have is yours.”
Isabelle shook her head. “You’ve already given me enough.”
“Judah Fallow has all my legal papers,” Aunt Emeline said. “I’ve transferred the hotel into your name, and you will be an honored guest in the cottage with Nicolas and Sing Ye whenever you want to come.”
“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”
“I still need to give you your Christmas gift.” Aunt Emeline tried to push herself up with her elbows. “I should have given it to you a long time ago.”
“Where is it?” Isabelle asked, gently placing her hand on her aunt’s shoulder to stop her from rising any farther.
Aunt Emeline pointed her finger toward the cypress writing desk. “In the second drawer.”
She pulled out the deep drawer and found a quill and inkwell inside. “What am I looking for?”
“A box.” Aunt Emeline glanced at the inkwell in Isabelle’s hands before pointing toward another drawer. “Try the third one.”
There were gloves and other sundries inside, but she didn’t see a box.
“Keep pulling.”
Isabelle tugged harder, and the drawer slid out of the desk. It was much shorter in length than the drawer above it.
“Feel the back,” Aunt Emeline instructed.
There was a clasp against the wood at the end, and when Isabelle turned it, the panel folded out toward her. Reaching inside, she pulled out a small chest.
Her aunt sighed, sinking back into her pillows. “I knew it was there.”
Isabelle returned to the bed and examined the box. There was nothing exceptional about it—an olivewood trinket box with a lock, about a foot long and six inches wide. The top was inlaid with a painting of a red rose and a chapel on the edge of steep sea cliffs. A rendition of Aunt Emeline’s beloved Marseille.
“What’s inside?” Isabelle asked.
Aunt Emeline smiled again. “My greatest gift to you.”
But she didn’t want gold or jewels or whatever the chest contained. She wanted her aunt to stay with her.
Aunt Emeline placed her hand on the lid of it. “I made it for Rose.”
“Who’s Rose?”
But her aunt didn’t answer the question. “The key is in the top drawer. For years, I wore it around my neck.”
Isabelle remembered well that key. She’d worn the lockbox key on her necklace, just like Aunt Emeline. “Thank you.”
“One day, you’ll find a man who will love you for exactly who you are.” Aunt Emeline brushed her hand over the olivewood again. “Then you can be proud of this.”
“I will treasure whatever it is.”
“Sing me that song, Isabelle,” she said, her voice fading. “The one you used to sing when you couldn’t sleep at night.”
She’d been terrified all those years ago. Of the darkness and the light. Of being with someone else and being alone.
But she hadn’t sung in a long time.
“The one about going to Jesus,” Aunt Emeline prompted.
Isabelle took a deep breath, and for her aunt, she began to sing.
My Lord, He calls me, He calls me by the thunder
The trumpet sounds within my soul
I ain’t got long to stay here
“Such a beautiful song,” Aunt Emeline whispered, her eyes closed. “He’s waiting, isn’t He?”
Isabelle’s eyes flooded with tears. “Yes, He is.”
“Keep singing,” her aunt said, clutching her hand.
Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus
Steal away, steal away home
I ain’t got long to stay here
Aunt Emeline’s hand dropped back down onto the yellow quilt, and all Isabelle heard was the steady drum of the rain beating on the roof. She sang the last stanza of the spiritual softly, the trumpet sounding in her own soul.
The Lord wasn’t calling her away yet, but it was time for Aunt Emeline to go home.