“He was an attorney here in Boston until a year ago,” Patrick finally explained. “When he left for California, he offered Alden an apprenticeship.”
Victor stared down at the envelope before looking back up. “You think Alden went to California?”
Patrick nodded slowly. “I’m certain he did, but the dean doesn’t know.”
“How can you be so certain?”
He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I saw him the week after Christmas, walking toward the wharf in Boston with a black boy.”
“Go on,” Victor urged.
Patrick collapsed back down into his chair. “My curiosity got the best of me, and I followed them to the gangplank of a ship preparing to leave for California.”
“Blast,” Victor muttered. Of course, Alden had to complicate what should have been a simple search. “Why haven’t you told the school?”
Patrick blanched. “Alden’s always been a stellar student. I didn’t want to ruin his reputation.”
“I suppose you’ll be at the top of your class now?”
“Close to it,” he admitted. “I just assumed that Alden’s family knew where he went. I wasn’t trying to keep it secret from them.”
“I’ll tell his parents.”
Patrick opened the door. “You best leave now, or we’ll both be in trouble.”
Coward, Victor thought as he clutched the envelope in his hands.
“How exactly did you get inside the front gates?” Patrick asked.
Victor shrugged. “I walked through.”
And he walked right back out. The keeper tried to catch him, but he slipped away smoothly, blending into the darkness.
Chapter 15
Sacramento City
January 1854
Mr. Bridges paid us a visit while you were out this morning,” Fanny said as she emerged from her rooms, an apron strung over her arm. “He still hasn’t found his slave.”
Isabelle nodded as she picked out a freshly cut pansy from her bucket, delivered from Sutter Floral Gardens, and arranged it on a table in the dining room. Mr.Bridges had returned multiple times, but she hadn’t allowed him to search again. Even though Micah was gone, she didn’t want someone who owned slaves in her establishment.
Rodney had called twice as well in the past few weeks. They were seemingly friendly visits, but she suspected he was keeping his eye on her and her establishment. He hadn’t asked directly about Micah again, but he’d inquired about Stephan’s past. She told him the truth—that she didn’t know where Stephan had lived before California, but he was an honest and reliable steward who served this hotel well.
She’d been up until late last night, praying again that Micah was safely hidden away. She may never know what happened to the boy, but she had tried to be faithful in helping him escape slavery.
“Poor Mr.Bridges,” Fanny said with a sigh. “My daddy always said to never trust a slave. They’ll run if given half a chance.”
Isabelle pinched the stem of a flower between her fingers. How could a free woman—one who had traveled fifteen thousand miles to find her husband—judge someone who desired the same freedom? Ignorance and hypocrisy were both revolting to her, but keeping one’s views about slavery private was a fine line to walk. She couldn’t help anyone trapped as a slave if she divulged her own thoughts about abolition.
Fanny tied the apron strings around her back. Still exhausted from her long journey, she’d spent most of her morning resting in the back room. She probably wouldn’t survive a single day working as a slave.
“How many Negroes did you have on your farm?” Isabelle asked, focusing her attention back on the flowers to finish her last arrangement.
“Only two, but I’ve heard plenty of stories. Did your family ever own slaves?”
Isabelle turned the vase a half inch. “We lived in a small house in Baltimore.”
