I’ve seen the barrels of gunpowder just outside the mine, protected from the rain by canvas. Another barrel sits in the foremen’s break area. Muskrat and Mary must be planning on using some of it for their distraction, but I have no idea how someone will pass it to me without being seen. In a jar? A folded-up handkerchief? Where could I possibly hide it?
I write: Where?
He shrugs. Then he gives a little start, and he writes:
I’m about to protest, but I remember how Mary empties the bucket every morning when she comes to make us breakfast, sometimes even before I’m awake.
I write: Smart.
We stare at each other through the glass. I suppose he’s said what he came to say, but I don’t want him to leave. I don’t ever want him to leave again.
Quickly I write: Hiram burned Daddy’s boots.
Tears leak from my eyes as I raise the slate back up to the window.
Jefferson’s face turns angry and fierce, and just being able to tell him, watching him be furious on my behalf, is the greatest comfort I’ve had in a long while.
He writes:
I erase and write: He says he’s my real father.
Jefferson gapes. Then he shakes his head. He writes:
His lips move: Never
I put my fingertips to the window, and he reaches up and mirrors me, finger for finger. Even though it’s dark, even though his black eyes are lost in shadow, I sense his agony. It’s in the set of his shoulders, his lips pressed tight. What are they doing to him? If they’ve hurt Jefferson . . .
One last time, he fogs the window and writes:
My heart races. I wipe off my slate, but then I stare at it, not sure what to write.
Jefferson answers my hesitation with a lightning grin that could brighten a whole dark night. He wipes off the window, erasing all traces of our conversation. He’s still grinning as he dashes away.
If he can find something to grin about in our situation, then maybe there’s reason to hope, after all. I only wish I felt it, too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You got chalk on your dress,” Hiram says with a frown.
We’re sitting at the breakfast table, eating fried eggs and buttermilk biscuits with honey.
“Sorry,” I mumble around a mouthful of eggs.
His frown deepens.
I mentally kick myself. I know better than to talk with my mouth full in my uncle’s presence. I swallow quickly and add, “I’ll wash up better before heading to the mine today.”
“See that you do.”
I nod as I take another bite.
“You’re developing a reputation as a fine young lady with proper airs and grooming. I want to keep it that way.”
I almost choke. “I am?”
“Indeed.” His smile makes my very toes shiver. “In fact, I’ve received two offers for your hand.” I’m not sure what that means at first. Does someone want my help with something? Finally it dawns on me. My hand in marriage.
“Who?” I squeak out.
“The Chinese headman,” he says. “He sent another man to suggest a wedding date and negotiate a bride price. Offered a tea set, can you imagine? Naturally I declined.”
“Naturally,” I say in a thin voice.
“Don’t worry, sweet pea. You’re young for marriage, but when I do consent to give you away, it will be to an upstanding American citizen with good breeding.”
I frown. I suppose my uncle would consider Jefferson to have terrible “breeding,” even though he can recite all the presidents backward and do long division in his head.
“You said two offers,” I remind him.
“The other was from Abel Topper.”
“What?” Is there anyone in this whole blasted territory who isn’t consumed with acquiring a woman?
My uncle grins. “Well, he asked to court you, with the intention of eventual marriage. Said you had grown into a fine, handsome lady, against everyone’s expectations. He was very clumsy about the whole thing. It made me shudder. I told him I’d think about it.”
“First you give my horse to him, and now—”
“Now, now, control your nerves, Leah. I have no intention of giving you to one of my foremen. We can make a much more advantageous match for ourselves than that. I expect you’ll meet far more eligible men at the Christmas ball.”
The eggs are like sawdust in my mouth. Hiram talks like I’m a prime breeding mare, to be dispensed with at auction to the best bidder. And why not? Hiram considers me his property.
“In the meantime,” he continues, “I’d appreciate it if you would be very polite to Mr. Topper. Even solicitous. We need to make quota every day until the ball, so I need him working hard.”
“You want me to string him along.”
He blinks. “Well, that’s a vulgar way of putting it.”
“Does your note come due soon? Is that why quota is so important right now?” I know this already, of course, but I want to see if he’ll tell me.
His gaze slides away from my face, and he becomes absorbed by the half-eaten biscuit on his plate. “Yes,” he admits.
“Who do we owe the money to?” I hate using “we” to discuss the mine, this camp, Hiram’s debt, but I’m hoping the gesture will make him trust me.
“No one you know. A very successful man who made his fortune, first with gold, then by selling land plots in Sacramento. He’s contending for California’s first governorship, though I expect he won’t get it.”
“I see.” James Henry Hardwick. James Henry Hardwick. “Will I meet him at the Christmas ball?”
“It’s very likely.”
I intend to be long gone by then, but I say, “I promise I’ll do my best to charm him utterly.”
Hiram gives me such a wide, warm, genuine smile that it takes me aback. “That’s my girl,” he says.
He excuses himself to run errands, making me promise to practice my penmanship. I breathe deep as soon as the cabin door shuts behind him. It always seems like the air is a little lighter, a little fresher, after he is gone.
“Mary,” I begin cautiously. There’s no one to overhear us that I know of, but she’s always so careful when she’s inside this cabin, and I follow her lead.