“It makes no sense to me.” Fanny picked at the edge of her apron. “How can one black man be free and another be a slave?”
Isabelle sighed. “Californians are still trying to figure that out.”
With her apron neatly covering her calico dress, Fanny hastened toward the kitchen. She wasn’t the first person who’d balked at working with Stephan, as if she were somehow better than the man because of her skin color. As Aunt Emeline liked to say, “God created every person equal. It was man who ascribed worth.”
People may be equal in God’s eyes, but they were often afraid of what they didn’t understand. The entire hierarchy of freedom was absurd, founded on fear and greed and a pompous sense of self-regard.
Isabelle picked up the bucket in her free hand and began walking toward the lobby. From the Garden of Eden until today, man and woman alike tried to usurp power from the God who made them. Slavery, in her opinion, was the apex of power. One man controlling another.
After she stepped up to her desk, Stephan walked into the room. He closed the door between the lobby and dining room, then moved over to the counter.
“I saw a friend on the way to the post office,” he whispered.
Her eyebrows slipped up. “Yes?”
“I wanted you to know”—he hesitated, glancing back at the door before he spoke again—“that your package is gone.”
She sighed with relief. “Do you happen to know its particular destination?”
“The Colony of Vancouver Island,” he said. “It’s on a steamer from San Francisco with twenty others. They should arrive in about three days.”
She’d read in the paper that the British were welcoming Negroes onto the island to help populate the country, like they’d opened their borders to the runaway slaves back east. Micah and the others would be safe there. “Very good.”
Stephan placed his elbows on the polished counter, studying her for a moment. “Why did you help him?”
The answer was too complicated to explain now so she chose one of her many reasons. “Because I believe all people should be free.”
He smiled, the kindness radiating across his face. “You are a good woman, Miss Isabelle.”
“No better than any other.”
“Much better than any I’ve ever worked for.”
She brushed a lock of stray hair back over her ear. “You let me know if anyone bothers you, Stephan.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Then let me know if I can help someone else.”
When he left, she fanned the stack of letters out on her desk. In the middle was one postmarked from Marysville, the town close to where Ross had mailed his last letter to her.
Her joy at Stephan’s news plummeted as she picked up her letter opener and slowly slit the envelope.
She moved closer to the coal stove, warming herself as she unfolded the sheet of paper. Ross’s script looked hurried, and there was a copper-colored smudge on the right-hand corner as if he’d written it while sifting the dirt for gold.
Dearest Isabelle,
I’m still digging on the fields near Marysville. I won’t say much in the letter, in case someone intercepts this, but you will be quite pleased with my findings here.
There isn’t much to report outside my digging—I eat beans and dried pork every day, sleep when I can, and if I’m lucky, dream about you at night. We’ve only had mild bouts of rain this month, and my tent stays quite dry. I will continue digging until the weather won’t let me continue, reaping a harvest for our future.
In your capable hands, I’m certain the hotel is running quite well. While I’m grateful for the placid weather, I eagerly await the rains so I can return to you.
With what I’ve earned here, I will buy you a wedding gift that will last a lifetime. Just think—in a few short months, we will be husband and wife.
Yours forever,
Ross
