In The Face Of Death (4 page)

Sherman nodded, his expression distant. “And the matter of a staff? You said two or three?”

“If you will recommend someone to help me in hiring them, I would appreciate it.” Why was she feeling so awkward? Madelaine wondered. What had happened in the last few minutes that left her with the sensation that she had done something inappropriate? Was it something in her, or was it in Sherman?

“There are employment services in the city,” said Sherman, looking directly at her. “I will find out which are the most reliable.”

Madelaine was surprised at the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know what to say to you, Mister Sherman, but thank you.”

He rose stiffly. “On Monday then, Madame.”

She took his hand; it might as well have been made of wood. “On Monday, Mister Sherman.”

San Francisco, 6 June, 1855

It is still in his eyes. When Mister Sherman and I met at the soirée given by General Hitchcock I saw him watching me; never have I experienced so searching an expression, as if he wanted to fathom me to the depth. It is not like Saint-Germain, who looked at me with knowing; Sherman is questing. This considered inspection had nothing to do with the soirée: the fare was musical, for the General has some talent for the flute, and he, with the accompaniment of Missus Kent at the piano, regaled his guests with a variety of airs by Mozart and Handel, all very light and pleasant. Yet for all his watching me, Sherman hardly spoke to me during the evening. If he seeks to avoid gossip in this way, he will not succeed, for his Russian friend deStoeckl asked me why Sherman was making such a cake of himself, a question I cannot answer. . . .

I have been given the description of three houses Mister Sherman thinks would be suitable to my needs. One is on Shotwell Street, with a simple front and the amount of space I would like, but lacking a second chimney at the back of the house, which causes me some concern. There is a second house, on Franklin, somewhat larger than the first, and quite new, having been built only two years ago, and in the second-most-fashionable part of town. It is all quite modern, and comes with many furnishings included. It would take three servants for maintaining the place, doubtless. The third is on Bush Street, where the hill becomes steeper; it has a small stable behind it, which affords some advantage, but is not as well-situated as the second. I will go to inspect them in the next few days, to make up my mind. . . .

The rooms in the house on Franklin Street echoed eerily as Madelaine made her way from the front parlor to the withdrawing room.

“I am sorry that the landlord has not carpeted the place,” said Sherman, walking slightly behind her. “I have discussed the matter with him, and he is willing to make an adjustment on the rent charged because of the lack. You will be expected to provide those, as well as the draperies and bed. The rest is as you see,” he added, indicating the furniture all swathed in Holland covers.

“Actually, I don’t see,” said Madelaine, “but I know the furnishings are here.” She continued through the withdrawing room to the hall leading through the dining room to the kitchen and pantry beyond. “And the servants’ quarters? Where are they? Upstairs?”

“They are in the rear of the house,” said Sherman, the roughness in his voice not entirely due to a recent attack of asthma. “A detached cottage with three apartments.”

Madelaine paused in the door to the kitchen, thinking that having the servants out of the house at night could be a real advantage. “Are they adequate? Do they have sufficient heat? If the summers are as chilly as you say they are, Mister Sherman, it will be necessary to provide adequate heating for them.”

“There are stoves in each of the apartments,” said Sherman stiffly. “That will be sufficient to their needs.”

“And they dine in the kitchen?” she said, looking into that room.

“Naturally,” said Sherman, and veiled a cough.

“What of this location? Is it . . . acceptable?” she asked.

“It is well enough,” answered Sherman, and added as if against his will, “I have only recently moved from Green Street, which crosses Franklin a block from here, to a house on Rincon hill; our house was three blocks short of being fashionable. To please my wife.”

“Who is visiting her family,” Madelaine finished for him.

“Yes.” He waited until the silence was too laden with unspoken things; he then chose the most trivial of them to break it. “There are so few areas where women may live safely alone in this city, though this comes as close to being that as any of them do. The location is not the most fashionable, but it is not inappropriate for a single woman keeping her own house, conserving her money, and assuring her good reputation in society.”

“All of which is important.” Madelaine turned to him. “I will need to find a good draper. I will need heavy curtains and draperies for the windows in the front parlor and the withdrawing room, as well as for the bedrooms.”

He looked impressed by her resolution. “You have not yet seen the third house, Madame de Montalia.”

“Why should I waste your time and my own when this suits my needs so well?” Madelaine asked, coming toward him.

Again he masked a cough, a sign of discomfort in him. “You haven’t seen the bedrooms upstairs. They might not suit your purposes, or you could decide that the withdrawing room will not serve you well as your study,” he pointed out. “I do not want you to contract for this house and then complain to me later that it is not what you wanted.”

Madelaine smiled at him, annoyed that he would not admit she knew her own mind, and decided to enjoy herself at his expense. “Dear me, Mister Sherman, are you always so hesitant?” She could see that he was uneasy with this challenge, and she pressed her advantage, feeling his uncertainty about her as if there were a third person in the house with them. “From what General Hitchcock told me the other afternoon, I thought you were decisive. Captain Buell says the same thing.”

Stung, Sherman regarded her through narrowed eyes. “What do you mean, Madame?”

“I mean that you doubt my capacity to choose that which suits me,” she answered, coming closer to him again. “This house will do well. The cellar is large enough and secure enough for my purposes, the rooms are pleasant, the location is satisfactory, as you yourself have indicated, and it requires very little attention from me. You tell me the rent is not too high for the house. Since it is all those things, I am willing to take it on a lease through . . . shall we say September?”

“You will have your book written in that time?” He flung this back at her, his face nearly expressionless.

“The greater part of it, certainly,” she answered, unflustered; she enjoyed the awkwardness he felt in response to her confidence.

He shrugged, making it plain that he washed his hands of the affair. “Be it on your head then, Madame.” His eyes belied the indifference in his demeanor. “I will arrange for the lease to be drawn up this afternoon; you may sign it at my office this evening, if that is convenient.”

“Excellent,” she said. “And perhaps you can recommend a firm to move my things to this house at the beginning of next week? We might as well be about this as soon as possible.”

He offered her a small salute. “Certainly, Madame.”

“When I have established myself here, you must advise me how best to entertain, so I will not offend any of the important hostesses of San Francisco.” She meant what she said, and was relieved that for once Sherman seemed convinced of that.

“If my wife were here. . . .” he began, then let his words trail off as he stared at her.

“If your wife were here, we would not be having this conversation, Mister Sherman,” said Madelaine, being deliberately provocative, and wondering what it was about him that so intrigued her, beyond his apparent fascination with her.

“No,” he said, and looked away toward the vacant window and the view of the street beyond.

San Francisco, 10 June, 1855

I am now in my house on Franklin Street, near the intersection with Newcomb Street, and very pleasant it is, too. The draper is making up curtains, draperies and valences for me, and they will be installed by the day after tomorrow, or so he has assured me, which will do much to make the place more comfortable during the day. With my chests of native earth in the basement, and my mattress and shoes relined, the house is already quite pleasant. In a week or so, it should all be in order. I think I will go on very well here.

This part of the city is quite new and was not in place to be burned in the fire of four years ago. Houses are being put up just two blocks away, and occasionally I can hear the hammering, but nothing so loud that it disturbs me. This part of the city attracts newcomers of some means, and there are almost none of the shacks one sees in so many other places. There is a family in the house on my right, four children and a fifth to come. On my left there live two brothers and their sister, who inform me that just ten years ago, the land this whole block is sitting on could have been bought for $16. Now the price for the land alone, not even considering the new buildings on it, would be much higher. There are men charging upward of $1,500 for the rental of a warehouse, rates which are being paid gladly, so great are the profits being realized now.

This afternoon I interviewed over thirty applicants for my three staff positions, and have chosen a housekeeper-cum-maid who has but recently arrived from Sweden, a woman of middle years named Olga Bjornholm. Her English is passable, and her French is adequate. She tells me she came here to be with her sister and her husband, but that they have disappeared; she wants to work until she finds them, which I have said is satisfactory to me. I have found a man-of-all-work, named Christian van der Groot. He is a strapping fellow who tells a tale of a merchant family bankrupted by the incursions of war. He came here to find gold, but realized that he could do better helping to build houses and guard them than he could panning in the mountain rivers, and so here he is. I have yet to find a cook for the household. I am reluctant to ask Mister Sherman for more assistance, for I sense that his attraction is deepening, which causes him distress. It is apparent when he speaks to me that he does it with confusion springing from his increasing attraction.

If only my attraction were not deepening as well. It has been so long since I have let myself be loved knowingly; for the last decade I have taken my pleasure, such as it has been, in the dreams of men who have been interested in me. And it suffices me, that gratification, but it is not nourishment. For that, there must be intimacy without fantasy. And I cannot help but long for more, for knowledge and acceptance, though why I believe I should find either from William T. Sherman, I cannot tell, except for what is in his eyes.

Tomorrow I will have a desk delivered, and I can begin my work in earnest, at last.

Olga Bjornholm’s hair was mouse-colored and done up in a coronet of neat braids as she presented Madelaine with her cloak. “For it is getting cold tonight, I think,” she said. “Tell the coachman to keep the top up.”

“Yes, thank you, Olga,” said Madelaine, half-pleased and half-annoyed to be fussed over in this way. She went down the steps to the carriage, and waited while the coachman opened the door panel for her and assisted her into his vehicle.

“It’s the French theatre, isn’t it, Madame?” asked the coachman, knowing the answer already.

“Yes, Enrique; and the theatre will arrange for a carriage for me to come home. You needn’t wait,” answered Madelaine as she pulled the fur rug across her lap and drew up the hood of her cloak in anticipation of the cool embrace of the fog. She desired as well to conceal all the jewels she wore, for there were brazen gangs of thieves who would not hesitate to attack a lone woman and her coachman if the plucking looked promising enough; the fine necklace of pearls and diamonds at her throat, and the pearl-and-diamond drops in her ears were more than enough temptation for such street hooligans.

They arrived at the French theatre on Montgomery Street fifteen minutes later, and found themselves in a crush of carriages trying to get into position at the front of the theatre, where the sidewalk was broader and two wide steps were in place for those leaving their carriages. Ushers were at the edge of this boardwalk helping the arriving audience to alight.

“I don’t think I can get much closer, Madame, not in another ten minutes, and you would then be late,” said Enrique as he looked over the line of vehicles waiting to discharge their fares. “It is less than a block from here.”

“It is satisfactory, Enrique,” said Madelaine with decision, handing him a small tip. “I will walk the rest of the way; if you will watch me, to be sure I am not—”

“I will watch, Madame,” he said, drawing up his carriage to the boardwalk. “Do you need the steps let down?”

“No,” she replied, “I can manage well enough. The street is well-lit and I doubt anyone will opportune me with so much activity about.” With that, she opened the door panel, set the rug aside, and stepped down from the carriage into the street, swinging the door behind her to close it. She was about to turn when she felt her cloak snag on the door-latch; as she struggled to free it, she stumbled back against the coach.

“Allow me, Madame,” said a voice from behind her; William Sherman reached out and freed her cloak, then held out his hand to assist her to the wide, wooden sidewalk. “Good evening, and permit me to say that I am surprised to see you here.”

“At the French theatre? Where else should I be?” Madelaine recovered her poise at once. “Thank you for your concern, Mister Sherman. Why should you be surprised.”

He looked at his pocket-watch. “The curtain will rise in five minutes. You will have to join your company at once.”

“Then we will have to hurry,” said Madelaine, starting along the boardwalk in the direction of the French theatre. “But there is no one I am joining, Mister Sherman. Or who is joining me. I am a Frenchwoman here for the pleasure of hearing her own language spoken, not to indulge society.”