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  ’Til Morning Light

  The Gracelin O’Malley Trilogy, Book Three

  Ann Moore

  For Rick, Nigel, and Grace—

  my family

  I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed,

  you can say to this mountain, “Move from here to there”

  and it will move.

  Nothing will be impossible for you.

  —MATTHEW 17:20

  One

  Hundreds of square-rigged vessels listed aimlessly in San Francisco Bay, eerie for the mist that swirled up and over their neglected decks, through the gaping holes punched port and starboard by lumber scavengers who took what they wanted, then deserted the ships a second time, leaving them half-submerged in murky waters. These ruined schooners, clippers, and whalers were not the only ships in the littered harbor—plenty more were battened down and well tended, safe at anchor—but it was the appearance of hasty, reckless abandonment that gave Gracelin O’Malley pause as her eyes scoured the bay for the proud masts of the Eliza J.

  It was the earliest of morning, barely dawn, and Grace told herself that the ship was in, the ship was there, only shrouded by fog, and that was why she could not see it from her place on the wharf. Even if she’d found it, she reminded herself, she had no boat with which to row out. And surely Peter and Liam would not be sleeping aboard anyway; they would be at home, in the house they shared with Peter’s partner, Lars Darmstadt, and Darmstadt’s wife, Detra, somewhere in the city on the hill that rose up behind her. She turned her back on the harbor now and considered the city, its streets unfamiliar and difficult to follow in the hazy light. It had been dark when she arrived last night; it was dark still, but she had written instructions, which she pulled out of her pocket and consulted.

  Tightening her grip on her young son’s hand, she towed the sleepy four-year-old away from the Jackson Street Wharf, up block after block, until she came to the opera house on Montgomery; from there she turned south on Montgomery until she found California Street, and then she began to search out the houses on a plaza surrounded by banks, warehouses, shipping offices, and import merchants. Slowly, she walked up the street, each structure emerging from the fog as if it were the only one in the world. Some had numbers, some had signs, others had nothing, but finally she arrived at the one she wanted—of course, it faced the waterfront—and then she stopped abruptly, her eyes traveling the walkway, the entry, the first floor, the second, the third; it was bigger than she had imagined. Even though Grace realized that it housed Peter and Liam, Lars and Detra, and their servants, the address had given no clue as to the grandeur of the place itself. Swallowing hard, she looked down at Jack, straightened his cap and then her own bonnet, then determinedly pushed open the heavy iron gate.

  “Does the captain live here, Mam?” It was Jack’s turn to lift his eyes from the long dark windows on the first floor to the smaller windows on the second, and then to the tiny casements on the third.

  “I think so.” She led the way up the gravel path to the entrance, the crunch of their boot steps loud in her ears. “Watch yourself, now, son.” She supported him under the arms so that he could take the tall steps required to reach the front door.

  “Big.” He yawned when they’d gotten to the top.

  “Aye.” She smiled down at him and pointed to the bell. “Go on, now; have a pull.”

  They listened as it rang inside the house; when the echo faded, it was again deathly still, and they looked at one another, Jack shrugging his little shoulders. He had reached out to pull again when Grace put a hand on his arm; somewhere inside the house a door opened and closed, and then another, the slow tip-tap of footsteps growing louder. After what seemed an eternity, the front door was opened by a man holding a lamp that merely served to shed light on the fact that he’d been roused from his bed and forced to dress hastily. His frown deepened as he looked Grace up and down and saw the state of her own clothing—the muddy, stained cloak and battered hat, the dirty leather moccasins, her peeling sunburned face, the equally weather-beaten and bedraggled boy by her side—and then his eyes narrowed with intense disapproval as he realized that she was wearing what appeared to be men’s trousers.

  “Servants and tradesmen around back,” he directed scornfully and started to close the door.

  “I’m no servant,” Grace told him quickly before it was shut in her face. Mustering her confidence, she announced, “Missus Donnelly to see Captain Reinders, please.”

  The butler hesitated, clearly suspicious, lifting the lamp to better see her face as he weighed her credibility. Finally, much to Grace’s relief, he saw fit to answer.

  “Captain Reinders is at sea, madam.”

  Grace blinked. At sea. Of course he was at sea. Of course. “Will he …?” Her mind was racing. “When do you expect his return?”

  “Not for some time. Good day.” Again the butler began to close the door.

  “Wait!” Grace stuck out her foot, planting it firmly on the threshold. “I must get a letter to him.”

  Certainly, it wasn’t the first time an unknown woman had come knocking for the captain, the butler reminded himself, but usually they were not so bold; he glanced pointedly at the foot he wished removed from the territory he was charged to protect.

  “Impossible, madam.”

  Instead of withdrawing, Gracelin took another step forward, pushing her shoulders back and standing as tall as she could. The butler leaned back, nostrils flared as if suddenly assailed by a most unpleasant odor; he was also slightly fearful—a woman in trousers was an unpredictable creature, most certainly, but he would not allow her to bully her way in here. He opened his mouth to shoo her away, but she spoke before he could.

  “Look, you—Captain Reinders is my close friend. And”—sensing the butler’s uneasiness, she leaned even closer—“his ward, Liam, is my son.” Adopted son, she mentally corrected, though no need to explain that to this dullard.

  “Master Kelley?” The butler’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly as he considered this new information, but he did not open the door any wider.

  “Aye.” Grace’s gaze did not waver. “Now call Mister Darmstadt here to me, or his wife.”

  “They, too, madam, are away.”

  Grace studied the butler’s impassive face but could not discern whether this was the truth or not.

  “Where is Captain Reinders?” she asked, determined to maintain her outer composure though her heart and head were pounding.

  “Panama City, madam.”

  Panama City? Where in Heaven’s name was Panama City?

  “I do not expect him for some weeks. Perhaps longer.”

  Grace bit her lip, her stomach now in a knot. “I’ll leave a message for him, then,” she decided. “Bring me paper and pen, please.”

  Since the woman had not resumed her proper place on the other side of the door, the butler reluctantly left it ajar and fetched the required items from the drawer of the writing desk in the foyer. The realization that this “Missus Donnelly” could not write where she stood and that she would only make more fuss if he tried to make her do so perturbed him, so, grudgingly, he motioned her in.

  With Jack at her side, stealing sidelong glances at the formidable butler, Grace bent over the desk, dipped her pen, and began to write.

  Dear Peter,

  ’Tis unexpected, but I’ve come now with the children. Mary Kate is ill, but not with the cholera, thank God, and is at hospital with the Sisters of Mercy. We’ll stay in
the city ’til your return—I’ll let your man know where we’re lodging. Please come to us as soon as you can.

  She quickly reread her note before signing her name, hoping it did not sound as desperate as she felt. She’d not planned on arriving like this, not dirty and tired and sick; instead, she’d envisioned herself strong and self-sufficient on a small farm up the coast in Oregon, the determined widow woman of a sea captain who loved her and wanted to marry her one day. But did he still? she asked herself. A wave of dizziness brought on by fatigue and anxiety washed over her then, and she leaned against the desk, closing her eyes and pressing the palm of her hand to her forehead.

  “Madam?”

  There was a note of concern in the butler’s voice, but Grace supposed it was more for the mess he might have to clean up should she vomit in his foyer. She pulled herself together, folded the note, slipped it into an envelope, and handed it to him.

  “See that Captain Reinders gets this the moment he returns,” she ordered, looking him square in the eye though it hurt her head to do so.

  “Of course.” The butler held open the door until she and Jack were back on the other side, then closed it firmly behind them.

  Jack was frowning. “Don’t like him.”

  “Nor I, but I suppose we gave him a start, looking as we do. Not exactly proper callers, are we? Come on, then.” She took his hand. “Let’s get ourselves back to Mary Kate, and I’ll give you a roll to eat on the way. What do you say, my Jack?”

  “How big?” He looked up, his silver spectacles askew, and a wave of tenderness for him clutched her heart as it always did.

  “Biggest I can find,” she promised, straightening the specs.

  He laid his forehead against her for a moment, and Grace was surprised; before leaving Kansas, Jack had not been a child to show affection, and she’d often had to resist the impulse to sweep him into her arms and cover him with kisses. Though she’d worked mindfully to make him her own again, he still sometimes kept her at arm’s length. Julia Martin had been the first woman he’d ever called “Mam,” and though he’d been transferred ever so carefully to his true mother over a period of months, Grace knew that Julia’s eventual departure had confused and saddened him; she only hoped that as he got older and was better able to understand the extraordinary circumstances of his birth, his heart would heal. She was encouraged by the fact that he adored his sister but knew that even Mary Kathleen did not receive many embraces from the stalwart little fellow. Grace’s step quickened at the thought of her daughter, and her hand tightened around Jack’s. Even though the doctor had seen Mary Kate upon their arrival last night, and Sister Joseph was with her this morning, Grace was anxious to return to her daughter’s side.

  The mist still clung stubbornly in glistening droplets to overhangs and rail posts, but it was just beginning to evaporate now that the sun was coming up; Grace could feel the first tentative rays of warmth pushing through her cloak. Despite her fatigue, her feet did not fail to move, and this brought a wry smile to her lips, for these feet had just carried her across two thousand miles in the past four months. Even in her dreams, her feet traveled, one foot in front of the other, walking endlessly across sage-covered prairies and hot salt deserts that tormented even the hardiest pioneers, through deep, slippery mud and the high grass of lush valleys, over mountain passes so narrow and high she had wondered whether it was even possible to cross. She and the children had walked and walked and walked, some days getting only two miles farther on, other days making twenty good miles. She knew now in her heart that should she die on the spot, her feet would continue to twitch and turn, as if she were walking all the way to Heaven.

  As she and Jack left Peter’s house to return to the hospital, they could appreciate the view he had of the waterfront and its activity, as well as the city to the south up to its highest point, Alta Loma, which Sister Joseph had told her was called Telegraph Hill, as from the semaphore station on top, house flags were flown, identifying the various ships coming into port. The sister had told her that there was never so much commotion as when the Pacific Mail steamers arrived every two weeks with their precious cargo, and that had brought Grace to mind of the letters she must write now that she was here.

  From Peter’s descriptions, Grace knew that San Francisco never really went to bed at night, that its evenings were loud and raucous, its mornings the quietest time of the day. As early as it was even now, however, the place was coming more fully awake and Grace could see that there was much to learn about it. When Mary Kate was well again, she decided, they would explore the city at length, for this would be their home now; she had promised the children on the steamship from Oregon that they would never have to leave another home, and she intended to keep that promise, no matter what it took.

  She and Jack retraced their route back down Montgomery, stopping on Clay Street to stare at the Niantic, one of the ships abandoned at the start of the gold rush.

  “Did it sail right up on land?” Jack asked, baffled.

  “The captain wrote about this,” she told him. “This land we’re standing on now used to be the waterfront, but as the hills are behind, they started filling in between those long wharves to make more space for building.” She considered what she was saying. “’Tis amazing to think about, really. Filling in the bay. Anyway, you saw all the deserted ships in the harbor this morning—the Niantic was abandoned when her crew and captain left off to find gold.”

  “Is there still gold?” Jack asked, hopefully. “Will we get some?”

  “Not lying about the rivers like it used to be. But still out there, and plenty of people still looking to get rich quick by it. We’re not going to be miners, though, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

  “Oh.” His face fell.

  “Oh,” she repeated in his exact tone of voice, then winked. “We’d best hurry now, and find your breakfast.”

  Grace followed carts loaded with chicken crates and produce into a large plaza, around which sat hotels, restaurants, theaters, casinos, saloons, and a host of other shops. Jack stopped abruptly and stared as a Chinaman hurried past in a long blue tunic over cotton pants; on his head he wore a wide straw hat that tied neatly under the chin, a long black queue falling down his back. Across his shoulders he carried a long pole with a basket attached to each end. On his feet were black slippers on wooden patens; he kept his eyes lowered. Grace had seen China people in New York City, but never this close; Jack, she knew, had never seen anyone like this at all.

  “A Chinaman,” she explained quietly. “From the other side of the world. They call them Celestials out here. Do you see his long braid, then?”

  Jack nodded.

  “If he cuts it off, he can never return to China.”

  “But hair grows back,” Jack pointed out.

  “Aye. Takes years, though, maybe never gets long again.” She paused and sniffed the air. “Is that fresh bread I’m smelling?”

  Jack sniffed, too, then nodded enthusiastically.

  “I think it’s coming from over there.”

  Grace led him around the side of the plaza to a street lined with market stalls. She stopped at a stall piled high with hot, fresh breads and bought a roll from the man for Jack, who tore into it ravenously, causing her to turn back immediately and buy three more, though the price was astonishingly high. Bread in hand, they continued moving along from stall to stall, making additional purchases of fresh yellow cheese and a piece of hard salami on a string. From the back of a farm wagon, she bought a handful of small tomatoes, a dozen reddish apples, and a woven basket in which to carry her marketing. Her money pouch, though considerably lighter, was still full enough to keep them for a short while, depending on what she owed at the hospital. Soon, however, with prices like these, she would need to find work as well as lodging. Having experienced firsthand the unpredictability of a sea voyage, she knew it could be months instead of weeks before Peter actually returned.

  “Will we get anything else, Mam?” J
ack spewed bread crumbs as he spoke.

  “Not today, love. Time to go.”

  Jack did not put up a fuss, had not put up a fuss for some time now, and by this, Grace knew how worried he was about his sister. When Mary Kate had started to fall ill on the trail, he’d watched her carefully, helping her with chores and trying to give up bits of his food to her. By the time they’d reached the settlement in Willamette, Mary Kate had barely been able to lift her head for the pain of it, and she’d no longer eaten much or drank. There’d been no reliable doctors in the settlement and, with the steamer about to depart for San Francisco, Grace had not hesitated in her decision to ensure passage for them all, counting upon the readily available medical care Peter had described in his letters—from true doctors as opposed to the hundreds who simply hung out a shingle offering to purge, blister, cup, or cauterize. Jack had been obedient and helpful on the voyage south, had helped her get Mary Kate and their single trunk to the hospital, had slept uncomplaining on the floor by her side last night as she waited first to see whether Mary Kate would survive, and then for dawn and the chance to see Peter.

  “You’ve been a good boy, Jack,” Grace praised him as they left the plaza. “A big help to your mam. Now, which way did we come in?”

  “Over there.” He pulled at her hand. “I’ll show you.”

  Jack led Grace across the enormous plaza, which dazzled them with its huge stone buildings and columns, lavish storefronts, parade of Peruvians, Chileans, and Mexicans in colorful dress, local Indians in beads and blankets, black men in formal dress and mining clothes both, Chinamen in tunics or silks, their long queues topped by wide-brimmed straw hats or small embroidered caps, Bohemians and Gypsies with their flamboyant shirts and vests, broad-chested Kanakas from Hawaii; all of their accents combined with those of the French, Germans, Italians, Turks, Russians—the flood of emigrants still hoping to find nuggets of gold awaiting them in the California desert rivers, though ready to turn their hand to any job that appeared lucrative. The smart ones, it occurred to Grace, had taken up the building trade. She followed Jack through the maze of humanity, picking her way around the droppings of horses, oxen, mules, dogs, as well as those left by the more exotic pets of the city—the bears, foxes, goats, and deer on leads, the parrots and falcons on shoulders, the snakes around necks. Eccentric dress, eccentric pets, flashy silver and gold accessories, and weapons of every sort—it seemed to Grace that San Francisco was one enormous circus.