Читать книгу The Doctor's Newfound Family - Valerie Hansen - Страница 12

The more time Sara Beth spent at the orphanage, the more she remembered about her early life there. Although she had been five when Mama had married Papa Robert, there were familiar smells and noises in that big old house that tugged at her consciousness and made her heart pound.

Friends she had made back then, children she fondly remembered, were, of course, long gone. Those who had come along later and replaced them, however, were so like the ones she recalled that she suddenly pictured herself as very young. And very scared.

Lucas and Mathias had quickly found other boys to interest them and had wandered off to explore the facility, while Josiah had fallen asleep in Sara Beth’s arms. She didn’t mind carrying him. Truth to tell, she was loath to even consider putting him down. It was as if she needed the little one’s nearness to comfort her, rather than the other way around.

“Let’s get you something to eat and a nice cup of hot tea,” the matron said, ushering Sara Beth into the expansive kitchen where several other women were already hard at work.

The aroma from the pot of gruel bubbling on the top of the woodstove nearly turned Sara Beth’s stomach. That was another of those old, pungent memories, this one best forgotten, she realized with the first whiff. Mama had never prepared that kind of breakfast for any of her family after they’d left the orphans’ home, and Sara Beth assumed that memories of being destitute were at the heart of her mother’s choices. That certainly made sense.

She blinked in the steamy atmosphere, hoping she was not going to disgrace herself by becoming ill. She knew Mrs. McNeil did her best to stretch the meager rations and was not to be faulted if their palatability suffered as a result. That conclusion, however, did little to relieve her unsettled stomach.

“Ladies, this is Miss Sara Beth Reese, an old friend and former resident,” Ella told the other women. They looked up from their labors and she pointed to each in turn. “That’s Mrs. Clara Nelson, our cook, and Mattie Coombs, her helper.”

Sara Beth managed a wan smile. “How do you do?”

“Fair to middlin’,” Clara said with an impish grin, made more amusing by her twinkling blue eyes, apple cheeks and snow-white hair. “You visitin’ or stayin’?”

“Visiting. But I do want to make myself useful while I’m here. I’ll be glad to help however I can.”

Mattie snorted as if in disbelief, turning her thin wiry body back to the stove. Clara welcomed the offer. “You surely can,” she said. “As soon as you’ve eaten a bite you can help me serve the boys while Mattie takes care of the girls.”

“Oh, good. My brothers are here, too, and I’d like to look in on them.”

Mattie huffed. “I knowed she was stayin’. She’s got that look about her. Same as they all get.”

Did she? Sara Beth supposed there was a lost quality to her demeanor, although she was not about to openly acknowledge it under the present circumstances. As soon as she had a chance to talk to Mrs. McNeil in private, however, she intended to tell her everything and ask for advice.

The more she pondered the situation, the more she felt there had to be a connection between what she’d overheard her parents discussing and their untimely deaths. Not that their conversation made much sense, even in retrospect.

For one thing, Papa had mentioned someone he worked with in a disparaging manner. The Reese family had treated his partner, William Bein, as part of their intimate circle, including him in social events and even asking the children to call him “Uncle Will.” Surely he could not be responsible for anything that had happened.

But there certainly could be other nefarious forces at work, she reasoned. Papa had often expressed disdain for Sheriff Scannell, and that man was proving every bit as disreputable as rumor had painted him. Plus, there was the gold to consider. Anyone who knew that Papa worked for the new mint must also assume he would have samples of gold on hand in his lab. Sara Beth knew many a man had died for riches, especially in the years since 1849.

Reviewing the tragedy, her thoughts drifted to her new benefactor, Dr. Taylor Hayward. His was a difficult profession, one that rarely produced a better cure than most grannies could mix up from their favorite roots and berries. Men like him were an asset to the wounded in wartime, of course, but otherwise might just as well stay in their offices and let the citizenry treat themselves for the ague and such.

Chagrined, she felt empathy for the man. He had obviously attempted to help her parents, and for that effort alone she was grateful. His lack of ability was less his fault than the fact that doctors were little more than hand-holders and tonic dispensers—unless they had served on the battlefield or studied in one of those fancy hospitals back east. At least that was what Papa had always said when he’d gotten sick after spending long, tedious hours in his lab.

Dr. Hayward’s presence at the scene of carnage on the wharf had been very comforting, she admitted. But then, so had Abe Warner’s, and his calling was not in the healing arts.

Thoughts of the kindly old man brought a slight smile to her face. In a day or so, after she got her thoughts sorted out and decided what course to take, she’d have to walk over to the Cobweb Palace, thank Abe for everything and assure him that he needn’t worry.

Taking a deep breath and releasing it as a sigh, Sara Beth realized that she had no certainty that her family would be all right. The way things looked, she would be fortunate to salvage their personal belongings, let alone reclaim the house on Pike Street. And if Papa Robert’s laboratory was not safeguarded, there was no telling how much trouble the mint might cause her.

Surely they wouldn’t expect her to be responsible, would they? The sheriff was the one who had moved in and posted guards. Therefore if there were any discrepancies, the explanation for those should lie at Scannell’s doorstep.

Only that particular lawman’s reputation was built on graft, not honor, according to the talk she’d overheard at church and in her own parlor. His election had been questioned from the beginning, and ballot boxes with false bottoms had been written about in the evening Bulletin. Its publisher, Mr. James King, had been crusading against corruption in San Francisco for months and had even withstood threats on his life in order to continue to print the truth.

“That’s what I’ll do,” Sara Beth murmured, elated by her idea. “As soon as I have a chance, I’ll pen a letter to the newspaper and ask for information about my parents’ murders.”

Would Mr. King print such a thing? Oh, yes. He was an honorable gentleman who stood firm against the riffraff and evildoers who lurked among the good people of the city. He would gladly print her missive. And then perhaps she’d see her parents avenged.

Thoughts of allies and admirable men brought Dr. Hayward to mind once again. Not only did he cut a fine figure, there had been benevolence and caring in his gaze. As soon as she was able, she planned to somehow repay his kindnesses. Until then, she would simply take each moment, each hour, each day, one at a time.

To sensibly contemplate the future, when her heart was breaking and her mind awhirl, was more than difficult. It was impossible.

The sun was rising and the city was coming to life as Taylor drove slowly down crowded Sacramento Street and past the What Cheer House. Hotels had proliferated in San Francisco until there were nearly sixty, although none quite as accommodating as the one R. B. Woodward ran, especially if a fellow wanted a warm, clean bath and a decent meal.

Freight wagons and vendors made up the bulk of the traffic to and from the docks. This was not the best time of day to be trying to squeeze a flimsy doctor’s buggy through the main streets, wide though they were, so Taylor headed for the livery stable to leave his rig and complete his errands on foot.

There were times, like now, when he almost wished he were back studying at Massachusetts General Hospital. He had been happiest while learning his trade, always eager to follow successful medical men on their rounds and observe the latest techniques. Everyone agreed that the best teaching hospitals were in Germany but given the state of his purse, such a trip was impossible. Someday, perhaps, he’d manage to travel overseas to study. In the meantime, his place was right here in San Francisco.

“Helping Miss Reese,” he added with conviction. He had not been in time to save her parents, but he was going to assist her in every way possible. It was the least he could do.

Leaving his horse and buggy, he made his way along the boarded walk to the Plaza on Portsmouth Square and passed the Hall of Records. As soon as he’d talked to Coleman he’d come back here and see if he could find out who owned the house in which Sara Beth and her family had lived. If, as the sheriff had claimed, it belonged to the government, then he didn’t see how she’d ever win it back.

The thought of that sweet, innocent young woman having to take up permanent residence at the orphanage cut him to the quick. Yes, it was well-run. And, yes, it was useful as a temporary shelter. But that was where his approval ended. The place was too cramped, too crowded, and that meant that chances of sickness rose appreciably, especially when summer miasma engulfed the city.

He wasn’t sure he believed the experts who claimed that the air itself caused illness, but he did know from experience that the more children who were housed together, the greater the chances that they would catch whatever diseases their companions suffered from. That was a given. And as long as the Reese children and their sister resided with the other orphans, they would be in mortal danger.

The day sped past. Sara Beth saw to it that her brothers were settled in the boys’ dormitory and had gone with their fellows to afternoon classes at a nearby school. This new life seemed to suit them a lot better than it did her and Josiah. The little boy had fussed most of the day, wearing her patience thin until she had finally agreed to let him be taken to spend the daylight hours with the other babies under the age of three.

Their parting had brought tears to her eyes, especially when he had begun to sob and reach for her. “No, you need to go with Mrs. McNeil,” Sara Beth had said firmly. “Sister has work to do and I can’t do it if I’m toting you around.” She’d patted his damp cheek in parting. “Be a good boy, now. I’ll pick you up after I finish my evening chores. I promise.”

Now, up to her elbows in dishwater, she started to yearn for her former life, then stopped herself. “Don’t,” she said softly. “That’s gone. Over. You have to make do. Mama did and you can, too.”

“That’s the spirit,” Clara said as she added more soiled tin plates to the stack by the sink. “Never give up and you’ll be much happier. I know I am.”

“Have you worked here long?” Sara Beth asked.

“Since my Charlie passed on. Cholera got him right after we arrived. We was goin’ to start a little restaurant and get our share of the gold dust the honest way.” She sighed, her ample chest rising and falling noticeably with the effort. “I figure at least this way, my skills in the kitchen aren’t going to waste.”

“I wish I were talented in some special way,” Sara Beth said. “Mama had been training me to keep a nice house, just as she did. Beyond that I know very little.”

“You can read and write, can’t you?”

“Yes. Of course. As a matter of fact, there is a letter I plan to pen as soon as I have a spare moment. Do you know where I can find paper and ink?”

“Ella can give you whatever you need,” Clara said with a smile. “I swan, that woman could make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

“She is amazing, isn’t she? I don’t know what I’d have done if she hadn’t let me stay.”

“What about your parents? Are they both gone?”

Sara Beth nodded solemnly. “Yes. I shall have to pay to have them buried and I haven’t a cent.”

“There’s plenty of paupers’ graves in Yerba Buena Cemetery. That’s where my Charlie is laid to rest. The only thing that bothers me is not having a headstone. Practically no one does, so I guess that makes us all equal, rich and poor.”

“I suppose so. Mr. Warner has promised to make the arrangements for me.”

“Old Abe Warner? Then let him. He may live like poor folks but that saloon of his has to be rakin’ in the gold dust by the bucketful. How’d you come to know him, a fine lady like you?”

That question amused Sara Beth. “Mama loved his menagerie. We used to take our constitutionals down by the waterfront and we’d often stop to feed the monkeys or those beautiful big birds he kept. I even saw a bear there once.”

“I reckon he needs all those critters to clean up the garbage. From the looks of his place, he could use a few more, too.” She chuckled, then added, “That’s better. I know you could smile if you tried.”

“I hate to. I mean, it seems wrong, somehow. My family has been decimated and we’re in such dire straits we may never recover, yet part of me feels a sense of joy.”

“That’s the Lord tellin’ you He’s got the answers,” Clara offered. “They may be a while in comin’ and may not be the ones you asked for, but He’ll look after his children. I’ve been sure of that ever since I walked through these doors and found my own place of refuge.”

“Do you think it’s ungrateful of me to wish to leave?” Sara Beth asked.

“No, dear, not at all. Just keep an open mind and heart and listen to God’s leading.”

“Even when I feel as if I’m spinning in circles?”

“Especially then,” the cook said, pausing to give her a motherly hug. “Now, get to washin’ them dishes so we can bank the stove and get ready for bed. I don’t know about you, but I’m plum tuckered out.”

Turning back to the pan of sudsy water, Sara Beth gave silent thanks that Clara was such a wise woman. Now that Mama was gone she’d need friendly counsel like hers and Ella’s in order to reform her life, plan her future.

Was it possible to decide anything this soon? she wondered absently. Not really. What she could do, however, was follow through on her idea to contact the Bulletin and see if they would champion her cause in regard to her home. They had often taken up the needs of the community and had revealed corruption in city government in spite of threats to their presses and persons. Surely, given this situation, Mr. King would take pity on her plight.

But first he must be properly informed, she added. Her jaw muscles clenched and she nodded to affirm her decision. As soon as she had brought Josiah to her cot in the girls’ quarters and had gotten him settled for the night, she would begin to write to the newspaper.

Such a letter would require much thought and careful expression but she was capable. Her penmanship was beautiful and her mind keen. All she’d have to do was make certain she didn’t alienate too many important people and yet stated her case in indisputable terms.

Such a goal seemed unattainable, yet Sara Beth was resolute. She could not hope to seize control of her assets by force so she would do it by her wits.

Finishing the dishes, she toted the heavy dishpan to the back door and threw the water onto the steps to clean them, too. At home, she might have tarried long enough to sweep the porch, but not tonight.

Tonight she had a letter to write. A letter that might very well be the most significant missive she had ever composed.

Taylor Hayward had been disappointed in his earlier meeting with W. T. Coleman. The man had been too secretive to please him and had beat around the bush regarding what the Vigilance Committee might be able to do in respect to the contested Reese holdings.

“That’s up to Bein,” Coleman had insisted. “He was Reese’s partner and as such has control of the assay office.”

“Fine. But what about the family home at the same address? Surely we can’t allow him to pitch the surviving family members out into the streets.”

Coleman’s thin shoulders shrugged and he blanched enough that his already pale skin whitened visibly. “It’s not that simple. Not anymore. Governor Johnson is talking about putting that general, Sherman, in charge of the militia, and Mayor Van Ness agrees. If they do that, we’re in trouble.”

“I’ve never known you to back down from a fair fight,” Taylor said.

“I didn’t say I was backing down. I’m just telling you that it would be wiser to bide our time. All the newspapers except the Herald are already on our side.”

“Which is to be expected since James Casey is running it and he’s as crooked as they come,” the doctor argued. “I’d heard that Casey was thrown out of the Drexel, Sather and Church building by Sherman himself over an editorial so full of lies that even a mule could have recognized its falseness.”

“Doesn’t matter. We still have to tread softly.”

Taylor was beside himself. He paced across the office, then wheeled to face the man he had been counting on for aid. “Suppose there’s more to it than what appears on the surface? Suppose Bein is trying to pull a fast one on the government? What then?”

“Then the sheriff should be in charge.” Coleman raised his hands, palms out, as if prepared to physically defend himself. “I know, I know. Scannell bought the office for a whole lot more than he’ll ever earn legally. That’s common knowledge. But it doesn’t change anything. We can’t wrest control of the whole city from the hands of those criminals unless we’re sure of major citizen support. That’s all there is to it.”

“What will it take to gain that?”

“I don’t know,” the obviously weary and worried businessman said. “But we can’t continue this way for long. When the time is right, we will act, I promise you.”

“What if it’s too late for the Reese children?”

“That can’t be helped.” Coleman ran a slim finger beneath his starched collar as if his cravat were choking him. “I’m not looking forward to the bloodshed that may result.”