In The Face Of Death (3 page)

“Missus Mullinton,” said their hostess. “How nice of you to join us.” She took Missus Mullinton’s hand and kissed the air near her right cheek. “This must be your new guest.” She turned to Madelaine. “I am Fanny Kent.”

“And I am Madelaine de Montalia,” she said, curtsying slightly to her hostess before taking her hand, though they made no other move toward each other.

“And my husband, the Captain,” added Fanny, indicating her husband. “My dear, you know Missus Mullinton. And this is Madame de Montalia.”

Horace Kent bowed over Madelaine’s hand. “Enchanted, Madame,” he declared, and then shook Missus Mullinton’s hand in a nominally polite way.

The four other couples in the room were presented, and by that time another pair of guests had arrived, and Madelaine gave herself over to the task of learning the names of the people in the room, hoping that she would not confuse any of them as their number steadily increased.

“I have already had the pleasure,” said the latest arrival, some twenty minutes later. Sherman bowed slightly to Madelaine.

“Yes,” said Madelaine, taking refuge in a familiar face. “I met Mister Sherman on my second day in the city.”

“At the bank, I suppose,” said the man accompanying him, another foreigner with a Russian accent. He beamed at Madelaine and continued in French, “It is an honor to meet such a distinguished lady traveling so far from home. We are two strangers on these shores, are we not?”

Sherman looked from one to the other. “Madame, let me present Baron deStoeckl. Baron, Madame de Montalia.”

“Delighted, Baron,” she said, and went on, “and I had thought that everyone in California except the Indians were here as strangers, and far from home.”

“Touché, Madame.” As the Baron kissed her hand, he said, still in French, “I hope you will excuse my friend’s curt manners. There is no changing him.”

“And remember,” said Sherman in rough-accented French, “he understands what you say.” With that, he gave Madelaine a polite nod and passed on to greet General Hitchcock, who had just entered the ballroom.

“He misses the army, or so it seems to my eyes,” said the Baron to Madelaine. “If you will excuse me?”

She gestured her consent, and a moment later had her attention claimed by her hostess, who wished her to meet Joseph Folsom. “He is one of the most influential men in the city,” Fanny confided. “And you will be glad to know him.”

Madelaine allowed herself to be led away; she saw Missus Mullinton deep in conversation with an elderly lady in lavish half-mourning, and thought it best not to interrupt her.

It was almost an hour later, after the string quartet had beguiled them with Mozart and a medley of transcribed themes from the opera
Norma
that Madelaine once again found herself in Sherman’s company. He had just come from the bustle around the punchbowl bearing a single cup when he saw her standing by the window looking out into the fading day. He strolled to her side, and remarked, “The fog comes in that way throughout the summer.”

She turned to him, a bit startled, and said, “So Missus Mullinton has warned me, and advised that I carry a wrap no matter how warm the day,” and went on, “What do you think of these musicians?”

“More to the point, Madame, what do
you
think of them? Undoubtedly you have more experience of these things than I do.” He sipped from his cup and then said before she could answer his first question, “I would fetch you something, but that would cause idle tongues to wag. With my wife away, I cannot risk giving any cause for gossip that would distress her.”

“Certainly not,” said Madelaine, regarding Sherman with some surprise. “Though on such an occasion as this—”

“You will forgive me, Madame, for saying that you do not know these sniping cats who have nothing better to do with their conversation than blacken the reputations of those around them.” He bowed slightly and was about to turn away when he looked down at her. “You may find it difficult to move about in society, single as you are. If you were not so beautiful a young woman, Madame, and so vivacious, there would be little to fear, but—” And with that he was gone.

As Madelaine and Missus Mullinton were taking their leave of the Kents at the end of the concert, Fanny Kent drew Madelaine aside, with signs of apprehension about her. She made herself come to the point at once. “I could not but notice that Mister Sherman spoke to you earlier.”

Madelaine knew well enough to laugh. “Yes; some minor matters about when I could sign certain papers at the bank. Mister Sherman wished to know when I would be available to tend to them. I gather they will be ready earlier than I had been told.”

Fanny looked reassured, her rosy cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “Oh, Madame, I am so sorry. I have mistaken the
. . .
. But as you have just come here, and have not yet learned . . . I was afraid you were wanting to fix your interest . . . oh, good gracious.”

“Dear Missus Kent,” Madelaine said pleasantly enough but with grim purpose, “I am aware that Mister Sherman is a married man.”

“Yes, he is,” said Fanny Kent flatly. “With three hopeful children.”

“And I have no intention of making life awkward for him. What a goose I should be to do so foolish a thing. Great Heaven, Missus Kent, he is my banker. I rely on him, to look after my financial welfare while I am in San Francisco.” She smiled easily. “And because he is, I will have to speak to him upon occasion, and call at his office to take care of transactions that married women leave to their husbands to perform, but which I must tend to for myself. I hope that people understand the reasons are those of business; I have no motives beyond that.”

“Of course, of course,” said Fanny hastily.

“It would be most inconvenient to have to contend with malicious speculation over such minor but necessary encounters.” This time her smile had purpose to it.

Now Fanny let out a long sigh, one hand to her opulent bosom. “It is very sad that Missus Sherman has had to be away from him just now,” she said. “The run on the bank has left him exhausted, and his asthma, you know, has been particularly bad. To care for those two children as well—” She put her hand to her cheek. “Not that you have any reason to be concerned. I’m sure the worst is behind him. He managed the crisis of the run quite successfully and now Lucas and Turner is likely to stand as long as the city. It would be a terrible thing if scandal should fix to his name after he has won through so great a trial.”

Madelaine blinked as she listened, and realized that Sherman had been right to warn her about gossip.

San Francisco, 29 May, 1855

My first monograph is complete and I am about to send it off to the publisher in Amsterdam on the steam packet leaving port tomorrow, with another to follow in two weeks. It is my hope that some of what I have written may awaken others to the plight of the Indians, for they are sorely tried, and it is distressing to consider what could become of them as the United States continue their expansion. . . .

I must also look for a house. I need some place where I can lay down my native earth and restore myself through its strength, and I do not want to have to pay Missus Mullinton another $75 for my apartment, pleasant though it is. Some of the other women are starting to question how I live, especially my refusal to dine with them, and I must make an effort to stop their speculations as soon as possible. If I had an establishment of my own, and my own staff, I could deal with these problems more summarily. No doubt Lucas and Turner can assist me in finding what I want. . . .

“This is an unexpected surprise,” said Sherman, coming out of his office to greet Madelaine shortly before noon two days later. He motioned Jenkins aside and indicated he expected her to follow him. “I have the papers ready for you to sign. They’ll go off on the next steamer and the funds will follow quickly. In these days we can handle these transactions in less than two months. But let us discuss your matters less publicly. If you will be kind enough—?”

“Of course. And I thank you for giving me a little time; I am sure you are very busy.” As she made her way back to his office, Madelaine realized that many of the customers and about half the staff in the bank were staring, either directly or covertly, at them. She knew it was not just because she had worn her newest walking dress, a fetching mode in grape-colored fine wool; she drew her short jacket more closely around her as she took the chair Sherman offered her, realizing that once again he had left the door half-open.

He settled himself behind his desk. “Now then, Madame, what are we to have the pleasure of doing for you?”

Madelaine squared her shoulders. “I want to rent a house. At least through August, possibly for longer.”

Sherman stared at her. “Rent a house?” he repeated as if she had spoken a language he did not adequately understand.

She went on without remarking on his surprise. “Yes. Something not too lavish, but as comfortable and suitable as possible. And I will need to hire a staff for it. Probably no more than three or four will serve me very well.”

“You want to rent a house,” Sherman said again, as if he had at last divined her meaning. “But why? Is there something not to your liking at Missus Mullinton’s?”

“Only the price and the lack of privacy,” said Madelaine as politely as she could. “That is not to say anything against Missus Mullinton. She has been all that is courteous and attentive, and Missus Mullinton’s establishment is a fine one, but not for what I am engaged in doing.”

“And what might that be?” asked Sherman, disapproval scoring his sharp features.

“I am writing a book,” said Madelaine candidly.

Sherman’s glower vanished only to be replaced by an indulgent smirk; Madelaine decided she liked the glower better, for it indicated genuine concern, and this showed nothing of the sort. “A book?”

“On my studies here in America,” she said with a coolness she did not feel.

“Have you any notion of what must go into writing a book? It is far different than making entries in a diary; it requires discipline and concerted effort.” He continued to watch her with a trace of amusement.

Stung, Madelaine said. “Yes. I have already written three volumes on my travels in Egypt.”

“When you were an infant,” said Sherman. “You told me you have spent your time here at school, and before that—”

“Actually, I said I had been studying,” Madelaine corrected him. “You were the one who said I had been at school.”

Sherman straightened in his chair. “You were not in the convent!” He declared it with conviction. “You have not the manner of it.”

Now Madelaine had managed to regain control over her impulsive tongue, she said, “That is nothing to the point. All that matters is that I find an appropriate house to rent. If you are not willing to help me in this endeavor, you need only tell me, and I will go elsewhere.”

This challenge put Sherman on his mettle. “Certainly I will do what I can. As your financial representative, I must question anything that does not appear to be in your best interests.” He gave her a severe stare. “If you will let me know your requirements and the price you had in mind to pay, I will have Jenkins begin his inquiries.”

“Thank you,” said Madelaine, her temper beginning to cool. “I will need a small or medium-size house in a good location, one with room for a proper study. I will need a bedchamber and dressing room, a withdrawing room and a parlor, a dining room, a pantry and a reasonably modern kitchen, with quarters for a staff of two or three.” She had established these requirements for herself over eighty years ago; one more thing she added in an off-handed way. “Also, I must be able to reach the foundation with ease.”

“The foundation?” Sherman repeated in astonishment. “Why should the foundation concern you?”

Madelaine thought of the trunks of her native earth and felt the pull of it like exhausted muscles yearning for rest. “I have learned that it is wise to know what the footing of a house may be,” she answered.

“Most certainly,” Sherman agreed, pleasantly surprised that Madelaine should have so practical a turn of mind. “Very well, I will stipulate that in my instructions to Jenkins.” He regarded her with the manner of one encountering a familiar object in an unfamiliar setting. “How soon would you like to occupy the house?”

“As soon as possible,” said Madelaine. “I want to get my work underway quickly, and I cannot do that until I have a place where I may examine my notes and open all my records for review; at the moment most of them are still in trunks and are of little use to me.” She smiled at him, noticing for the first time that he had dark circles under his eyes. “If you will excuse me for mentioning it, you do not appear to have slept well, Mister Sherman.”

He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “My son was fussy last night; he is very young and he misses his mother. I wanted to comfort him, and so I . . . .” He made a brusque gesture of dismissal, then relented. “And for the last few days my asthma has been troubling me. It is a childish complaint, one that need not concern you, Madame.”

Madelaine regarded him with sympathy. “I know what it is to suffer these conditions, for I, myself, cannot easily tolerate direct sunlight.” She hesitated, thinking that she did not want to create gossip about the two of them. Then she offered, “I have some preparations against such continuing illnesses. If you would let me provide you with a vial of—”

“I have nitre paper,” Sherman said, cutting her off abruptly. He stared at the blotter on his desk. “But I thank you for your consideration.”

“If you change your mind, you have only to let me know,” said Madelaine, noticing that Sherman’s face was slightly flushed. “Think of it as a gesture of gratitude for finding my house.”

He nodded stiffly. “If you will call back on Monday, I will let you know what Jenkins has discovered. What was the price you had in mind, again?”

“Anything reasonable. You know what my circumstances are,” said Madelaine as if she had lost interest in the matter. “And you know what is a reasonable amount for a landlord to ask.”