Chapter 30
Sacramento City
July 1854
The accommodations at the Kirtland House were modest but sufficient. Last night, the proprietor’s wife had flaunted her beauty over dinner, regaling him with stories about her hometown of New York, telling him to call her Fanny instead of Mrs. Kirtland. He had an appreciation for fine food and an even greater appreciation for the familiarity.
Mr. Kirtland hadn’t extended the same courtesy in the use of his first name, but he seemed delightfully unengaged with the comings and goings of his friendly wife.
Victor removed his leather portfolio from the plain bureau and took it down to breakfast with him. If Fanny wasn’t available for hire, perhaps the women in the Sacramento brothels would be more accommodating than the ones in Panama. Or the woman he’d paid back on the ship.
After breakfast, he found Mr. Kirtland in the cramped lobby, drinking a cup of coffee at his desk. His hair was askew, his eyes streaked with red as if he’d been up and perhaps away from the hotel for most of the night.
Victor smiled to himself. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to pay the wife after all.
When Mr. Kirtland saw him, he set down his cup. “Did you sleep well?”
Victor shrugged. “Well enough.”
“This town never seems to sleep.”
Victor sat in the chair beside the desk, the handle of his leather portfolio case secure in his hands. “How long have you and your wife lived in Sacramento?”
“I arrived here in 1850, but I spend half my year in the goldfields.”
“Does Mrs. Kirtland run this establishment while you’re gone?”
He took a sip of coffee before shaking his head. “We just purchased this house from a man on his way to look for gold. It’s a constant ebb and flow here of people moving between the city and diggings, depending on the weather.”
Victor leaned forward. “I’m actually looking for someone who’s either here in Sacramento or out in the mines.”
Mr. Kirtland raised his eyebrows. “Is it your wife?”
Victor snickered. “I wouldn’t be searching for my wife.”
The proprietor didn’t laugh. “Who are you looking for?”
“My slave.” He slipped his drawings of Isaac out of the portfolio and spread them across the desk. “Someone kidnapped him and brought him to California.”
The man picked up a sketch. His eyes flickered as he looked at Isaac’s portrait, his lips pressed together. Then he dropped it.
Victor leaned forward. “Have you seen him?”
Mr. Kirtland pushed the sketch away. “No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain,” the man snapped.
Victor slowly collected the pictures. First the law clerk and now this man—why did people keep lying to him?
Fanny swept into the room, smiling at him before looking at her husband. “There’s a big trial down at the courthouse this afternoon.”
“We have plenty of work to keep us occupied here today,” Mr. Kirtland said.
“But I have a new gown to wear,” Fanny insisted. “And this is an opportunity for us to find better clientele for our house, like Mr. Duvall here.”
Mr. Kirtland sighed like a man who’d repeated a conversation one too many times. “Running this house well will attract the best clients.”
“Nonsense,” she said, clapping her gloved hands together. “We need to be socializing with the residents of this city.”
“It’s not like attending an opera,” the man said, clearly frustrated with his wife. He opened a ledger on the desk and began to review it.
His disinterest didn’t stop her. “The sheriff caught a runaway slave last night,” she continued. “Lorinda said this will be the biggest trial they’ve had around here in ages.”
Victor clutched his portfolio to his chest, processing her words. Was it possible the law had found Isaac before he did? If so, what would they do with him?
“And you’ll never guess who they think is involved,” she said, leaning closer to the men as if they were conspiring together.
Mr. Kirtland glanced up from his work. “President Pierce.”
“Of course not,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Then I can’t imagine who it might be.”
“Your Miss Labrie.”
The man spilled his coffee on the ledger. “That’s ludicrous!”
“Not according to Lorinda,” she said, seeming quite pleased that she had secured her husband’s attention. “Frankly, it doesn’t surprise me one bit. Another slave disappeared at the hotel while I was staying there.”
Mr. Kirtland looked as jarred as he had when he saw the sketches of Isaac. Yet his demeanor remained resolute. “I don’t have time to go to a trial.”
She stuck out her bottom lip. “But I need someone to escort me.”
Victor glanced over at Fanny, her lips still puckered in a pout, before looking back at the proprietor. “Perhaps I could accompany your wife,” he offered.
Mr. Kirtland studied him for a moment and then waved his hand. “By all means—be my guest.”
Fanny promptly recovered her enthusiasm. “You are a saint, Victor Duvall.”
After Fanny rushed out of the lobby, presumably to retrieve her new gown, Mr. Kirtland motioned him closer to the desk. Victor thought he was going to warn him in some way, tell him to treat his wife like a lady.
“She always gets what she wants,” Mr. Kirtland warned.
He nodded, understanding. “I never let a woman control me.”
Mr. Kirtland leaned back in this chair. “We’re all controlled by something.”
Victor disagreed. “Only if we give our power away.”
He promised to escort Mrs. Kirtland to the trial, but didn’t say he would escort her home. If the law had found Isaac, he wouldn’t leave the courthouse without him.
Rain poured on Sacramento all morning, a methodic trickle that turned the planked streets into streams of mud. Rodney had locked Stephan and Persila in the jailhouse until the trial, and no amount of pleading on Isabelle’s part would convince the judge to release them into her care.
Judge Snyder hadn’t jailed her, but he made it quite clear that he would do so if she didn’t appear at the courthouse again by two. The ultimatum wasn’t necessary. She wouldn’t run away from her steward or the woman he’d tried to rescue.
Mr. Webb had already secured one of the two attorneys left in Sacramento. The other lawyer would gladly take her money, but he wouldn’t fight well for them—only Judah had the reputation for opposing slavery, and she didn’t know where to find him.
Because they were Negroes, the law wouldn’t allow Persila or Stephan to testify this afternoon, even to defend themselves against the charges. But the judge would let Isabelle testify, and she didn’t need a lawyer to speak the truth.
After today, every resident in Sacramento would know that she opposed the institution of slavery, but no one must find out that she was also a runaway slave. If her secret were exposed, Persila and Stephan wouldn’t have anyone to speak on their behalf.
She dressed in a simple black gown, and the keys to both her boxes hung around her neck. In her hands, she carried the small Oxford Bible that Aunt Emeline had given her long ago. She would pretend that her aunt was in the courtroom with her, praying as she spoke.
When she opened her door, the dining room was empty except for Isaac. He was sitting at the piano, fingering the keys.
She brushed her hand across the piano’s rosewood case. “Have you ever played?”
He flashed a smile. “A few times.”
“You’re welcome to practice on this.”
“Thank you,” he said, his smile growing. “Are you walking to the flower gardens?”
She shook her head. “I have an appointment to keep.”
“I can watch over the hotel while you’re gone.”
Turning, she glanced up at the staircase. “Where is Mr. Payne?”
He tilted his head, a quizzical look straining his eyes. “He went to San Francisco yesterday.”
In all the confusion, she’d forgotten that she had sent him on a steamboat with instructions for commissioning a seamstress to make new tablecloths for the dining room. And now he wouldn’t return until this evening—much too late to manage the place in her absence.
It had been a strange position for her, delegating work to a member of the Payne family. She’d thought it might give her some sense of satisfaction, justice, even, for what had happened to her as a girl, but Mr. Payne willingly agreed to do even menial chores these past weeks without complaint.
She sat on the piano bench beside Isaac and listened to him play a simplified version of “The Watchman.” While she appreciated Mr. Payne’s willingness to work hard, the fact remained that he owned a slave. And her affection grew every day for the boy sitting beside her.
“Is Mr. Payne still treating you kindly?”
“He always treats me kindly.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said and waited as he played a few more notes. He played well for a child but especially for a slave, typically banned from an owner’s piano.
“Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be free?” she asked.
“Think about it all the time, but Master Payne treats me as if I’m free.”
“As your owner, he could sell you at any time.”
“Master Payne wouldn’t do that,” he said, returning his hands to his lap.
“Unfortunately, it’s happened many times to slaves with decent owners.”
He nodded. “My old owner gave me away, and I was plenty glad of it.”
“When you’re ready, I can help you find a place where you’ll be completely free.”
“Thank you, Miss Labrie.”
“And now . . .” She listened as the clock in her room struck one. Sing Ye may not have heard about the trial yet, but perhaps she would assist Isaac at the hotel. “Can you ask my friend to help you look after the hotel until Mr. Payne or I return? Her name is Sing Ye—Mrs. Barr.”
“Where are Stephan and Janette?”
“Janette’s not working today, and Stephan . . .” She hesitated. “He has been detained for a few hours.”
He seemed to contemplate her words before responding. “Missus Barr and I will take good care of this place.”
“I know you will.”
After she gave him the address, Isaac skipped off between the tables toward the front door. Then she stood slowly and began her short walk to the courthouse.
How was she supposed to stay hidden in the shadows now?