Worthy Brown's Daughter (6 page)

CHAPTER 11

M
illing crowds stirred the dust on the sun-baked streets of Portland into a swirling brown cloud that drifted upward toward the red, white, and blue banner that stretched across First Street. Matthew pressed his handkerchief to his mouth to keep from choking as he hurried along the plank sidewalk toward the waterfront and the strains of a rousing march. Most of the cheering throng was massed along the wharves, but some young men had climbed to the rooftops to get a better view. Sailing vessels, their masts furled, and steamers, their whistles blasting and their smokestacks ejecting plumes of smoke, jammed the Willamette River. At the center of this furor was the steamer
Pacific
, upon whose deck stood the Oregon Pony.

Matthew crossed the street, dodging a wagon and almost tripping over one of the gnarled and blackened stumps that were still in the ground years after Portland’s founding. Then the city had been known as Little Stump Town, and its single street ran from forest to forest, unpaved and ungraded, with potholes deep enough to drown a good-size child during the long rainy season, and only trails made by woodsmen leading through the stumps and logs out into the forest. No one called the city Little Stump Town anymore. This thriving waterfront community was the seat of the newly created Multnomah County and the center of everything moving up and down the Willamette and Columbia Rivers, which met at the town. Coastal steamers docked near Stewart’s Willamette Theater, which had been built exclusively for dramatic productions. There were three daily papers delivered to subscribers for twenty-five cents a week. In addition to livery stables, a public school, saloons, butcher shops, and grocery stores, the town boasted a bookstore, a private academy, a candy factory, and other establishments one expected to find in an up-and-coming metropolis. Today, most of these businesses were closed to celebrate the arrival of the Oregon Pony.

A grandstand decked out in patriotic bunting had been constructed opposite the spot on the river where the
Pacific
was docked. Seated in the stands were several dignitaries, including Benjamin Gillette, who was the president of the Oregon Railway and Navigation Company; Multnomah County district attorney W. B. Thornton, who was heavily invested in the company; and Jedidiah Tyler. Matthew found a place on the edge of the crowd as the mayor concluded a long-winded introduction of Joe Lane, the former United States senator from Oregon.

The Democrats had held their presidential nominating convention in Charleston, South Carolina, a month before the Republicans nominated Abraham Lincoln in Chicago. The delegations of eight cotton states withdrew after the convention rejected a plank that would have guaranteed slavery in the territories. Without these delegates no candidate was able to win the two-thirds majority required for the party’s nomination, so the convention adjourned to Baltimore and chose the fiery orator Stephen A. Douglas as the official nominee of the Democratic Party. The seceders held a rival convention, nominating James Buchanan’s vice president, John C. Breckinridge of Kentucky, as its presidential candidate and Joe Lane as his running mate.

A great cheer erupted from the crowd when Lane was introduced. He smiled and waved. There was another blast of steamer whistles and a flourish from the band.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is an historic day for Oregon, the West, and our nation,” Lane shouted when relative quiet returned. “In this, our second year of statehood, we are about to witness a first—the Oregon Pony! This steam locomotive, built by the Vulcan Iron Works in San Francisco, is the first ever constructed on the Pacific Coast, and it will be the first to run in our state. But,” Lane said, pausing for effect, “I promise you it will not be the last.”

Lane waited for the shouts and applause to die down. Then he pointed to the occupants of the viewing stand.

“Three years ago, the farsighted men sitting on this platform conceived the idea of building a railroad in this state. Someday soon, the Oregon Pony will run on tracks that will eventually stretch to the Atlantic Ocean. Today, we take the first step in fulfilling that dream.”

Hats flew in the air, the band blared, and the crowd cheered as the transfer of the locomotive from the deck of the
Pacific
to the dock began. People started moving from the grandstand to the spot where District Attorney Thornton’s portly wife, Abigail, would christen the Oregon Pony. After the christening, Lane, Thornton, and Gillette planned to ride in the cab with an engineer down a short stretch of specially laid track to the railroad bridge that was being built across the Willamette. After the ceremony, the locomotive would be ferried across to the other side of the river where they were laying the line.

As the crowd swept Matthew toward the Pony, he spotted a young man with a slight build who stood five feet seven inches above the ground and sported bright red hair that contrasted sharply with his pale, freckled skin. At twenty-two, Orville Mason was Oregon’s youngest attorney. He had been given an eastern education by his father, the Reverend Ezekiel Mason, and his Harvard law degree made him an oddity in a state where most attorneys read law while serving as an apprentice to a member of the bar, and the only requirements for practicing law were a high school education, the ability to pass the supreme court’s test of knowledge, and membership in the male sex.

An outspoken supporter of Abraham Lincoln, Orville had been a delegate to the nominating convention of the six-year-old Republican Party and was gaining notoriety in politics. Recently, he had been instrumental in destroying Joe Lane’s presidential aspirations.

Early in the year, many had seen Lane, a Northern man with Southern principles, as the only candidate who could unite the Democratic Party, but a combination of Douglas Democrats and Republicans in the Oregon legislature had thwarted Lane’s bid to be reelected to the United States Senate. Orville Mason had worked hard behind the scenes to bring about Lane’s defeat, which had destroyed his viability as a presidential candidate. But his vice-presidential candidacy as a pro-slavery Democrat worried Oregon Republicans, who knew Lane had many supporters in his home state.

Some of the people standing next to Orville stepped aside, and Matthew noticed that Mason was talking to a young woman. He cut through the crowd to his friend’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I never thought I’d catch you within a mile of Senator Lane,” Matthew said.

“Joe’s not so bad. It’s his politics that stink. Besides, I’m not here to listen to that windbag. I’m here to witness the end of civilization.”

“You have no sense of history, Orville,” said the young woman, who Matthew guessed to be about eighteen. She was slender and dressed in a sky-blue frock outlined by white lace that tucked in to highlight her narrow waist. Above the waist, the material billowed out, hinting at the full breasts concealed by the soft fabric. A white bonnet decorated with yellow flowers covered her golden hair.

“It’s not history I’m worried about,” Orville joshed. “Those metal monsters belch black smoke that darkens the countryside and ruins every fabric on which it alights. I have also heard that they travel at speeds so great the passengers risk heart failure.”

The attractive young woman was so serious about the subject of locomotion that she did not realize that Orville was teasing her.

“The smoke is true enough,” she said, “but you simply shut your window. And I can assure you that no medical problem is presented by the speed. In fact, it is their speed that recommends them as a means of transportation. Think of how quickly you’ll be able to get to Washington when Mr. Lincoln appoints you to the United States Supreme Court.”

“I shall take a slow boat on that day, and live to serve my country.”

The woman turned to Matthew. “I hope you’re not as narrow-minded as Mr. Mason, Mr. . . . ?”

“Pardon me,” Orville said. “I assumed you knew each other. Heather, allow me to present my good friend and fellow attorney, Matthew Penny. Matthew, this is Heather Gillette.”

Before Matthew could respond, Francis Gibney materialized out of the crowd. “Miss Gillette, your father wants you to join him at the christening.”

“You two must accompany me,” Heather said, hooking Orville’s arm with her right and Matthew’s with her left. Before Matthew could say anything, she was steering them along the path Francis Gibney was clearing.

THE OREGON PONY
was stenciled in grand gold letters on the shiny black carapace of Oregon’s first locomotive. Miniature American flags decorated the cowcatcher. In the cab, waiting for Abigail Thornton to christen the Pony, was Joshua Coffee, an engineer sent from San Francisco to train an Oregonian in the secrets of locomotion. Mr. Coffee had tried to talk the well-dressed gentlemen out of their planned ride to the railroad bridge, but they would hear none of it.

“I was afraid you’d miss the ceremony,” Benjamin Gillette said to his daughter. Then he spotted Matthew. “Glad to see you again, Penny. Will you be at the reception?”

Before Matthew could answer they were interrupted by the sound of a champagne bottle shattering, an explosion of cheers, and the shrill of steamer whistles.

“See you tonight,” Benjamin said as Thornton and Lane dragged him toward the tender. Heather followed her father. Matthew held back for a moment.

“What reception is Gillette talking about?” he asked Orville.

“It’s at his mansion. They’re celebrating the off-loading of the Pony. Are you a friend of Ben’s?”

“No, an adversary, actually. I won a lawsuit against him in Phoenix a few weeks ago.”

“Ah, the infamous duel.”

Matthew blushed. “That’s been greatly exaggerated.”

“Well, you must have made an impression on Gillette if you whipped him and he’s still inviting you.”

“How do you know Gillette’s daughter?” Matthew asked, regretting the question as soon as he’d asked it. Rachel had been dead little more than two years, and he castigated himself for having an interest in any woman.

“The Gillettes attend my father’s church. Heather just returned from Boston, where she finished her schooling. She was bringing me up to date on my old stomping ground when our debate over the merits of locomotion sidetracked us.”

Lane, Thornton, and Gillette climbed into the tender just as Matthew and Orville reached the spot where Heather was standing. Gillette waved at his daughter, and she waved back. Then Mr. Coffee blew the whistle, and the crowd went wild as the locomotive started chugging slowly down the track. The crowd flowed along, shouting encouragement. Heather laughed and cheered like everyone else. The mood was contagious, and Matthew found himself joining in the revelry.

All went well for the first quarter mile. Then, without warning, the engine started spitting water and smoke out of her stack in a regular stream. Dirty water and cinders rained down on the occupants of the tender. Gillette, the district attorney, and Senator Lane tried to duck, but there was no place to hide in the cab. By the time they arrived at the end of the line, their white shirts were black and soggy and their beaming faces were streaked with grime.

“I do believe they’re the dirtiest bunch I’ve ever seen,” shouted Heather, who was laughing so hard she could not stand up straight.

“Thornton’s such a stuffed shirt,” roared Matthew. “Look at him try to maintain his dignity.

“Oh, my,” Heather giggled. Then they both started laughing again.

The Pony halted at the railroad bridge, and Benjamin Gillette jumped down, waving his plug hat above his head.

“Your father seems none the worse for wear,” Matthew observed.

“He’s a boy at heart, and boys love to get dirty. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get Father home and dried out before he catches his death of cold. I’ll see you at seven.”

CHAPTER 12

T
he two Yankee settlers who’d flipped a coin to decide if their proposed town would be called Boston or Portland had situated it in the most idyllic setting imaginable. On clear days a man could look east across a vast expanse of emerald green and feast his eyes on the Cascades, where snow-covered Mount Hood, Mount Adams, and Mount St. Helens pointed toward heaven. On the west side of the river, forest backed up onto two high hills. Gillette House was a solitary gem set in the deep green of the northwest hill. Building anything in that rugged forest was a major undertaking, and the mansion’s isolation was a testament to the wealth and power of its owner.

Gillette House could be reached only by a corduroy road that wound upward from the outskirts of town and ended at a curved driveway where carriages discharged those fortunate enough to receive an invitation to feast in the oak-paneled elegance of the dining room or dance in the crystal-lit ballroom. Gillette, who pioneered the use of brick in his bank, broke with convention again by using brick to construct part of the ground floor, but the rest of the mansion was built of solid, horizontal board, painted dark blue to contrast with the white borders of the gables.

The mansion’s upper stories projected past those below, and a three-story tower, capped by a conical roof, dominated the northwest side of the house. Broad bay windows on the east side provided a view of the city, the river, and the mountains. The house was situated on the edge of a meadow, and the wide back porch, shaded by a gable, overlooked a garden in which bloomed every conceivable variety of rose. Beyond the rose garden, trails led into the thick evergreen forest.

The sun was still shining, and a piney odor drifted out of the woods as Matthew rode up from the town at a lazy pace. He had pressed a white shirt, and his black silk cravat was neatly tied. A swallowtail coat, light-colored vest, and striped trousers completed the ensemble. When Matthew rode into the large front yard, several prominent citizens in fancy dress were ascending the broad steps to the front porch. He skirted their carriages and secured his horse to a hitching post.

This was the first time Matthew had been invited into the home of anyone of distinction in Portland, and he found the prospect of mingling with high society daunting. After dismounting, he pulled his coat down nervously and adjusted his britches before climbing the porch steps.

The chandelier that illuminated the foyer of the mansion made the fixture in Harry Chambers’s inn look insignificant. Oil paintings decorated the brocaded wall of the stairwell. Matthew followed the curve of the polished wood banister to the second-floor landing and found himself in a ballroom where skirts swirled, glasses of golden champagne picked up the crystal light of many more chandeliers, and laughter competed with the strains of a waltz. And there, framed in the sunlight that shone through one of the ceiling-high windows was Heather Gillette. Clothed in a white satin gown, her golden hair done up and her elegant neck graced by a diamond necklace, she was chatting amiably with a small group of her father’s friends and acquaintances.

Matthew felt guilty about the excitement he felt when he saw Heather. He was still very much in love with his wife. Death didn’t put an end to love; it only made a great love more poignant. But Matthew was still a young man, and there had been occasions when he had felt an attraction to a woman he’d seen or met. Whenever this happened, he felt disloyal to Rachel’s memory. To date, it had been easy to avoid attachments because no woman had come close to Rachel’s combination of warmth, intelligence, and beauty. But something about Heather Gillette created a great conflict in Matthew, and he’d found himself thinking about Benjamin’s daughter a lot since parting from her.

Matthew worked his way through the dancing couples, watching Heather every step of the way and failing to notice Caleb Barbour, who turned from the group surrounding Benjamin Gillette.

“What are you doing here, Penny?” Barbour blurted out.

“He’s my father’s guest,” answered Heather, who had not heard about the incident in Phoenix and was shocked by the intensity of Barbour’s anger.

“I hope we’re not rehashing old business,” Benjamin cautioned his attorney.

“I would assume Mr. Penny hasn’t much business since he’s stooped to representing niggers against men of his own race,” Barbour answered.

“That we’re of the same race is a source of deep embarrassment to me, sir,” Matthew said.

“Enough, gentlemen,” Gillette said forcefully. “We’re here to celebrate an historical event, not to talk business.”

“Do you dance, Mr. Penny?” Heather asked.

“Not well,” answered Matthew, who was still staring angrily at Barbour.

“We’ll see,” Heather said as she took his hand and led him toward the dance floor and away from Barbour.

“Why is Mr. Barbour so angry?” Heather asked as soon as there was a barrier of dancers between them and Benjamin’s attorney.

“Caleb brought two slaves with him when he moved here from Georgia, a father and daughter. The father learned that slavery is banned in Oregon and insisted on his freedom. Barbour ran him off his property, but he’s keeping the child as a servant. I’ve sued on the father’s behalf to make Barbour give her up.”

“Father is letting me write articles for
The Spokesman
,” Heather said, naming a newspaper that Gillette owned. “Your lawsuit will make a great story.”

To Matthew’s relief, Heather’s fascination with Worthy’s case made her forget about dancing, and he went into detail about Worthy’s plight to distract himself from the feelings Gillette’s daughter was evoking.

“Surely Barbour won’t win,” Heather said when he finished.

“If Worthy was white, I would be very confident. But it will be difficult for a judge to side with a Negro. And Barbour will fight to the bitter end, if for no other reason than to torture Mr. Brown for daring to stand up to him.”

“I detest Barbour. I can’t understand why Father keeps him on.”

“He’s a good lawyer.”

“But you’re better. At least, that’s what Orville Mason says. Oh, my, you’re blushing, Mr. Penny.”

Heather laughed, and Matthew’s blush deepened.

“I’m glad you came,” Heather told him. “Orville said you might not.”

“I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see Gillette House,” he said, though this was only a partial reason for his acceptance of Benjamin Gillette’s invitation.

“You’ve never been here before?”

“Your father and I travel in different circles.”

“Would you like me to show you the grounds while it’s still light?”

“I’d enjoy that.”

The music stopped, and Heather led Matthew away from the dance floor, almost colliding with Sharon Hill at the entrance to the ballroom.

“Good evening, Mr. Penny. How nice to see you again. Has Mr. Lukens recovered?” she asked with fake solicitousness.

“He was well enough to leave Portland,” Matthew answered stiffly.

“Tell him I bear him no ill will, if you see him again, won’t you?” Hill said. Then she headed across the crowded ballroom in Benjamin Gillette’s direction without another word to the young couple.

“Who is that woman?” Heather asked as she watched Hill walk toward the crowd surrounding her father.

“Sharon Hill.”

“You seem to dislike her.”

“I think Sharon Hill is very dangerous,” Matthew said. Then he told Heather about Clyde Lukens’s criminal case and his suspicion that Hill had stolen Lukens’s money and lied for revenge.

“If she’s just arrived in town, I wonder how she came by an invitation to our reception.”

“She knows your father. He gave her a ride in his carriage when he returned to Portland from court.”

A frown shaped Heather’s brow for a moment. Then her eyes met Matthew’s, and the frown became a smile.

“Come, I’ll give you a tour of the grounds. But we have to hurry or we’ll lose the light.”

Matthew followed Heather downstairs and along a narrow hallway that ended at a door near the kitchen. Outside, the smell of roses was overpowering, and the splashes of red, yellow, pink, and a myriad of other colors delighted Matthew’s eye. Heather hooked her arm in his as she had that afternoon, and they walked through the grounds in silence until they arrived at a gazebo on the edge of the forest. There were benches along the latticework wall and a view of the mountains. They sat down, and Matthew felt awkward. He had not been alone with a woman in a long time.

“This is my favorite place,” Heather said. “I read here every afternoon when the weather permits.”

“What do you like to read?”

“I’m addicted to Shakespeare, I’m afraid.”

Matthew smiled. “He’s a favorite of mine, too.”

“You know, I have it on good authority that Charles and Ellen Kean have been enticed to perform
The Merchant of Venice
at Stewart’s Willamette.”

“The Keans of London?”

“They’re on an international tour,” Heather answered.

“But how?”

“It was all spur of the moment. They’re in San Francisco. John Potter, who manages Stewart’s Willamette, convinced them to come north.”

The Keans were among the most esteemed actors in Britain and were touring Australia, North America, and Jamaica, to rave reviews. Stewart’s Willamette had never had anyone like them on its boards. Their
Merchant of Venice
would be the cultural event of the decade.

“Would you like to see it, Mr. Penny? We have a box.”

Matthew hesitated. There was no question he wanted to see the Keans’ performance, and he was thrilled by the thought of spending an evening at the theater with Heather Gillette, but what would it say about his feelings for Rachel?

“I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind,” Heather went on, and Matthew wondered if he wasn’t making too much of the invitation. It was only an invitation to an evening at the theater, not a love affair.

“This is very kind of you,” he heard himself say. “I accept.”

WITH HEATHER BY HIS SIDE,
the hours at the reception had flown by. At one point, it had dawned on him that he was actually happy. The feeling departed as rapidly as it had come to him, banished by uneasiness and guilt, but it had been there, and that gave Matthew hope.

Matthew was reluctant to go home when the party wound down, but the guests began leaving, and Heather had started to yawn. It was dark and cool when Matthew crossed the yard to his horse. He’d just untied the reins when he sensed someone behind him. The incident with Caleb Barbour had made him nervous, and he whirled around faster than he would have under other circumstances. To his relief, it was Francis Gibney who stood before him.

“A word, Mr. Penny?”

“Certainly.”

“Just some advice. You’ve had two run-ins with Caleb Barbour, and there’s this lawsuit.”

“Yes?”

“Barbour is a man who should be taken seriously. He won’t come at you himself unless the odds are heavily in his favor, but he’s not above having others do his dirty work.”

“Are you saying that you know of a plot by Barbour to harm me?”

“No, nothing like that. But he’s been Mr. Gillette’s lawyer for a while, and I’ve seen the way he works. Do you go armed, Mr. Penny?”

“Not normally.”

“Then change your ways and learn to shoot. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to return Miss Hill to town.”

Gillette’s bodyguard walked away, and Matthew thought about his warning. If Gibney was right, he would have to be alert at all times. That was no way to live, but he would not run from a man like Barbour, and he would not betray the trust of Worthy Brown by resigning from his case.

Matthew sighed. Coming west had been nothing like he’d imagined. Losing Rachel had broken his heart, and he’d continued on to Oregon because he knew that he would be reminded of her every day if he went back to Ohio. Matthew had hoped that it would be easier to work through his grief in new surroundings. That hadn’t happened, and his law practice had not been much of a success. Now there was Barbour. He wished that life were not so full of the unexpected. All he really wanted was peace, but it looked as if that state of bliss would have to wait. His new priority was learning to shoot a pistol with great accuracy.