The boy rubbed his hands together. “Master Bridges is gonna kill me.”
“You’ll be safe in here,” she assured him. “If you move quickly.”
He glanced back at the window and then climbed down into the dark room. Isabelle replaced the rug and sat back on her chair to continue recording expenses in her ledger.
While California was officially a free state, slaveholders who were just passing through didn’t relinquish the ownership of any slaves traveling with them. Some slave owners spent months in the goldfields, claiming they weren’t going to stay permanently, and the law seemed to be on their side. She’d seen advertisements of slaves even being sold in San Francisco, and now other blacks—freed men and women—were in danger of being kidnapped and sold too.
It didn’t matter to her whether or not this boy hidden below her was legally free. In her mind, no person should be bought or sold.
The front bell chimed as Mr.Bridges stepped into her hotel. In his fingers, he clutched a cheap cigar, the stench overpowering the scent of lemon verbena in the lobby.
“Micah!” he shouted. His head continued its strange ticktock rhythm, looking back and forth as if she weren’t even there.
Her heart pounding, Isabelle looked up casually from her accounts, pointing with the wooden handle of her pen at the list of rules hung beside the counter. “Rule number six,” she stated. “There is no smoking inside this establishment.”
Mr.Bridges held up the cigar and made a grand sweep with it, trailing the smoke through the room before he spoke again. “Where’s the proprietor of this place?”
She closed the ledger, tapping the sole of her patent boot on the rug. “How can I assist you, monsieur?”
“I want to speak with the person in charge.”
“I am the person in charge.”
His eyes narrowed in on her. “You own this hotel?”
“I’m the manager.” She dipped the nib of her pen into the inkwell. “Would you like to reserve a room for the evening?”
He shook his head. “I’m looking for my slave. Someone said they saw a colored boy run in here.”
“What does he look like?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.
His eyes narrowed, searching her face as if trying to determine if she was being obstinate or if she was just inept. “The same as any other darky, only shorter.”
A retort rose in her throat, but she swallowed it. In this situation, honey would be a more effective deterrent than rebuke.
She rose slowly, directing the man away from the hiding space. “Come with me,” she said as she walked through the entrance into the restaurant. “I will enlist my staff to search for him.”
Mr.Bridges followed her through the open doorway into the vacant dining room and reluctantly sat at a table near the kitchen. Then he took a draw on his cigar and puffed out the smoke in her face.
She waved her hand in front of her face, resisting the urge to gag. She would have required any other man to extinguish his cigar, but she would appease Mr.Bridges this afternoon, for Micah’s sake.
“Stephan,” she called. When her dark-skinned steward came up from the cellar, she waved him toward her. “This gentleman is looking for a Negro boy.”
Mr.Bridges ignored him. “Micah’s a slave,” he reminded her. “Eleven or twelve years old and darn good at hiding.”
“He said that Micah came into the hotel,” she told Stephan, nodding toward the steps. “Could you please search the rooms upstairs?”
“You’re sending him to search for Micah?” the man asked incredulously, as if Stephan wasn’t standing right there—as if her steward were incapable of looking for a missing person because his skin was a shade darker than the man across from her. Her blood felt as if it might boil over, but she maintained her composure on the outside, for Micah’s sake. Stephan’s face remained aloof as well.
“He is quite capable,” she explained. “Stephan will search the top floors of the hotel, and I will look on the bottom.”
Mr.Bridges returned to his feet. “I will search with you.”
She shook her head. “Only guests and my employees are allowed upstairs.”
Stephan moved toward the steps, and Fanny appeared in the kitchen doorway, flour sprinkled on her apron. She’d spent her day helping Janette, the hotel cook, prepare for their evening meal.
“Could you please bring this gentleman some of the raspberry tarts you baked?” Isabelle asked.
