She looked surprised at his ability to read. “I’m certain you would make a fine guest, but there’s simply no room.”
“I can sleep in the alley,” Isaac offered.
Her lips opened to speak, but a Negro steward, dressed in formal attire, walked through the entrance at the side. “Did you need me, Miss Labrie?”
She nodded, pointing down at Isaac. “Could you bring my friend here a glass of lemonade?”
“Of course.” The steward bent down, talking to Isaac. “Are you staying at the hotel?”
Isaac shook his head sadly. “You don’t have any room for us.”
The steward glanced up at Isabelle before looking back at Isaac. “Fortunately, we just had a room open on the third floor.”
Miss Labrie’s eyes narrowed again as she faced the steward. “I’m afraid that room is already taken.”
“Our guest on the third floor is moving to a new place.”
Miss Labrie looked back at Alden. “Please excuse me while I consult with my employee.”
“Of course.”
After Miss Labrie left with her steward, the only sound remaining was the slow tick of the clock on the wall. Outside the window, he heard the whistle blast of a steamboat, the clank of wagon wheels plodding over boards in the road.
And he realized that his world had finally stopped rocking.
Isaac turned toward him. “Did you say something mean to Miss Labrie?”
“Did you hear me say something unkind?”
“No, but—I’m pretty sure that Missus Eliza liked me better than that Miss Labrie likes you.”
“It was nice of her to offer you lemonade.”
“You can have a sip of mine.” Isaac straightened his collar. “Maybe it will make you sweeter.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You have to compliment a woman, Master Payne. Or she’ll think you don’t like her.”
“I’m afraid a compliment from me would have made her more angry.”
“Or it might have gotten us a room,” Isaac replied. “I don’t want to go back to that hotel in San Francisco.”
“Me either.”
“Then think of something nice to say when she returns.”
Chapter 26
Sacramento City
May 1854
Isabelle paced in the kitchen between the wooden counter and oven. Stephan stood quietly by the bundle of flowers delivered from the gardens that afternoon, waiting for her to speak.
She was angry at her steward. Angry at herself.
She was supposed to keep her loathing of slavery secret, and yet the resentment inside her flared, jetting up like a waterspout. If she couldn’t control her anger, Alden might remember her too.
