Snow White and the Civil War, Part 2: Plot of Gold

By Cathleen Townsend

Jack has ridden away from Janet, maybe for the last time. He can see only one way they can be together again—he needs to find Miss Gwendolyn Hilton and claim the reward.  With that money he could pay back his father, and then he could have his life back. But no one seems to have seen Miss Hilton, and Jack can't find any reason to suspect anyone of lying. Most people seem either amused or bored by his search.

 

But with the first autumn rains, Jack turns back to town. There was no sign of Miss Hilton anywhere, and his last hope of a life with Janet is gone. Somehow, he'd figure out a way to win this contest with his father, but the cost was going to be far greater than he'd expected…

 

The thrilling conclusion to the tale begun in Snow White and the Civil War, Part 1.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cathleen Townsend
• Release date: Nov 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393300618

Book preview

Snow White and the Civil War

Part 2: Plot of Gold

Cathleen Townsend

Copyright © 2020 Cathleen Townsend

All rights reserved.

Published by Phoenix Flight Press

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781393300618

Cover art by Deranged Doctor Design

For Luke

Acknowledgements

Again, many thanks to my beta reader friends—Amphora Graye, Todd Strube, Jessica Forrister, and Diana Peach. Without them I don’t think I would have been able to get this book to publication, certainly not in this form.  I will be forever grateful for their guidance and editorial flair.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Historical Notes

Afterward

Stolen Legacy excerpt

About the Author

Chapter One

SEPTEMBER 1861, CALIFORNIA gold country

I dug my heels into Steady’s sides and rode away from Janet’s house at a gallop. I was leaving behind the most beautiful girl I’d ever known, simply because my father didn’t approve of her. He absolutely wasn’t worth this. But apparently, his money was.

Still, I had one last, desperate hope. All I needed to do was find Gwendolyn Hilton. My father had even offered to double the reward money—he was desperate for a share of Mr. Hilton’s trade with the Comstock mines in Nevada. With the reward I could pay Father back and get a start in a business of my own. Then he could disinherit me all he wanted. But I couldn’t lose everything. I needed the money my father had given me—and this had turned me into a cold enough man to break the heart of the girl I loved.

I pictured Janet as I’d last seen her, broken-hearted and in tears, and it was almost enough to get me to turn around and beg her forgiveness. But I couldn’t do that—

she would weep even more if she knew of the methods I was prepared to use. I’d grown up with a mother and three sisters to practice on; surely, I could figure out how to charm one willful teenager into returning to a life of luxury. With any luck, she’d be so tired of privation, all she’d need was the right push. And if I had to, I could probably get Miss Hilton to fall in love with me long enough to get the job done.

If I could just find the girl—that was the real trick. I hadn’t told Janet I’d already been searching for three weeks when I met her, nor that I still searched from time to time even when we were together. I initially figured I’d find the girl and double my grubstake, and later I looked because I hated being beaten. Now I was searching in earnest, to rescue something from the wreckage my life had become.

Father’s demand to repay the money he’d given filled me with impotent rage. The life I wanted was honorable, and it was a sound business idea. There was little food worth eating for sale in Coloma. And Janet’s pies were so good, people in Placerville and Auburn would clamor for them as well. All I had to do was find Miss Hilton, claim the reward, and I could have my life back.

My first campsite was upcountry and east of Coloma. It made sense that she’d avoid towns and head for the hills, although what she planned to do when she got there was beyond me. Maybe she was happily married to a miner and grubbing gold out of the ground with him. If so, my plan of charming her went out the window, but perhaps a letter from her, assuring her father of her well-being, would win me Mr. Hilton’s good will, if nothing else. I’d need it to get a start in business. I wasn’t asking any more favors from my father. They came with too many strings attached.

I’d met Miss Hilton’s parents coming through Placerville six months ago. Her father was blond and her mother a redhead, and I’d been told she took after her mother. How many red-headed girls wandering the hills could there be? There had to be at least some chance of finding her.

I shot a quail and experienced the first unpleasant reality of my new life. Janet wasn’t here to turn it into a culinary masterpiece. But I’d eaten my own cooking before, and I could get used to it again. I watched the flames dance as I turned the spit and ached for Janet. I’d done everything I could to get her to love me, and now I’d broken her heart.

It wasn’t too late. I could go back tomorrow, send my father his money, and pay him the rest out of profits later.

The interior voice shouting, No! surprised even me. Father had promised me this money since I was a boy. He’d told me that helping me get a start in life was one of the reasons he worked so hard to amass his large shipping network. He was not going to renege on that promise, no matter how badly his many business affairs had strained our relationship. I was going to prove I could be a success without resorting to the measures he used, and he was going to admit it, at least to himself.

That evening had been awful, the one where I discovered what went on in the billiard rooms. It had been the third time I was invited, and I’d sat in the corner with a volume of Wordsworth, flipping through poems and listening idly to the conversation. I’d become absorbed by one poem in particular when Father’s associate said, I’m not sure your son is up to it, John.

I closed the volume and stood. Up to what, sir?

What do you think, John? he said. Is Jack ready to go to Ah Toy’s place and see how business really happens?

I turned to Father in shock. Everyone knew of Ah Toy’s establishment, built during the wild days of the gold rush. It was a brothel, pure and simple.

Father smiled and said easily, Perhaps another time for him. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.

Our conversation the next day hadn’t been even remotely amicable. I was incensed at the disloyalty to Mother, and to the rest of us by extension, and Father was vicious, defending himself. He explained the unwritten rules of the business circle in which he dealt, which paid for our living even as it made our lives unbearable. I shouted I would never be like him—I’d succeed and prove it was unnecessary.

Father laughed. If you can do that, then I will give it up, Jack. But it will never happen.

At the time I’d thought if I could prove it to him, he’d keep his word, and we could be a family again like when I was a boy in New England. But as I grew older, I realized those days were irrevocably gone.

Part of the deal between Father and me, if one could consider voices raised in absolute fury an agreement, was my silence on the matter around his associates. Otherwise, I’d be banished from his presence, and he would do nothing to help me get my start. I’d agreed to his terms and set myself to learn the ins and outs of the shipping business, insofar as it was conducted at respectable homes, offices, and warehouses. I studied people, what made them do the things they did. That could give me the edge I needed. I wanted no more surprises that made me feel like a fool.

Slips of the tongue fascinated me. They were most reliably made when men drank, and something about the competitiveness of poker seemed to bring them out, too. I watched poker for some time before I played, and I quite often won, at least until I met Janet’s family. Othmar and company were absolutely ruthless players, and it was all for a lark. Socks and cookies. But I’d learned more about the game from them than I had from anyone in Father’s set.

Janet’s face intruded into my thoughts again, but I had no business missing her; I’d done my best to ruin her life. If I couldn’t find Miss Hilton, Janet should forget about me and find happiness with a man who wasn’t crippled by being my father’s son. The thought of Janet forgetting me was painful, and I pulled out a flask to make it go away.

I ate my uninspiring quail and slept under my crude tent. I was going to search for Miss Hilton until the first rain. I’d posted letters telling Father of my activities—even he would agree that any attempt to conduct business with Mr. Hilton would be improved if it came on the heels of an earnest effort to find his daughter. If I could find her and talk her into going home, I could not only think about Janet, I could spend the rest of my life with her. But it was a thin chance, and the least I owed her was a clean break, with no false hope.

I’d at least timed the thing right in terms of weather. September and October were beautiful months in the foothills, the weather having cooled and the leaves on the oaks shading to gold. I poked my nose into every cave-like crevice and rude crumbling shelter I could find. I talked to miners, shopkeepers, farmer’s wives, and anyone else my path crossed. Most were plainly amused at my attempt to find a girl everyone thought was either gone or dead. I couldn’t detect even a hint of nervousness to justify looking further.

The first rain came in the last week of October, and I turned Steady’s nose back to Placerville, my tears mingling with the raindrops as I rode. I was going to win this contest with Father, but the cost was much higher than I’d imagined.

Steady was happy to see the stables in Placerville, and the hotel was dry, even if everything was red or covered in gold-leaf. I had no idea how this color scheme came to be so popular, but somebody should think of another. I missed the warmth of wooden floors and ceilings—Janet’s house had been quite restful, even with the bear skull.

Stop thinking about her, Jack. You’re never going back there.

I got a room and wrote a letter to Mr. Hilton, enclosing a proposal from my father for supplying the mines in Nevada. After I paid a boy to deliver it, I went to a saloon, looking for a poker game. Might as well see what my improved skills in this area were worth.

It wasn’t much of a contest—the hardest part was dumping my drinks under the table with no one the wiser. My fellow players were unencumbered by such considerations as sobriety, and as a result they were also relieved of fourteen dollars and fifty cents by the time the evening was through. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about ready cash.

The next morning, after eating my porridge and eggs, a letter came from Mr. Hilton, inviting me to dinner that night at his home. I purchased a bottle of wine and paid to have my one good suit pressed. Then I strolled up and down Main Street, chatting with shopkeepers about Gwen Hilton and learning nothing but speculation. So, I turned the talk to her family, to see if I could get some clues as to Mr. Hilton’s emotional state, but people were curiously reticent. As I’d found most folks were rarely unwilling to gossip, this seemed a notable omission.

The only thing I knew that would curb wagging tongues was the fear that it would come back to haunt them. Mr. Hilton could probably make life difficult for the shopkeepers; maybe he even owned the shops. And in that case, there was something wrong with his mourning. Excessive grief over the loss of his daughter would have been pardoned. He would’ve been called a poor soul with much head-wagging, although privately some would’ve enjoyed seeing a rich man suffer. And that meant most people felt Mr. Hilton didn’t mourn enough.

That was good news for me. Mr. Hilton could play the part of a grieving parent, but it wouldn’t interfere with business. Although very little did—I’d seen Father set up business meetings at funeral receptions, albeit discreetly.

I strolled to the Hilton residence that evening and was struck by the obvious wealth spent on the place. White-painted and multistoried, on expansive grounds, it would’ve been notable even in San Francisco. A maid took my coat at the door, and Mr. Hilton stepped forward to greet me.

No swordstick? he asked as he shook my hand. I thought they were the all the rage among young men these days.

I shrugged. I’ve always thought guns were quicker. And they’re better for hunting.

Mr. Hilton smiled. I used to enjoy shooting deer myself. We have plenty in the hills nearby.

I’ve spent several months doing that very thing. I followed him to his parlor.

Why so long? he asked, sounding surprised.

Father wanted the effort made to find your daughter, sir. I was at loose ends, so I was sent. I might as well hold up the fiction of family unity; nobody expected the unvarnished truth at business meetings anyway.

But Mr. Hilton appeared to take it at face value. That’s quite a gesture, Mr. Grady, as the reward can’t be much incentive to a family such as yours.

How little you know, sir.

We entered the parlor, which was furnished with marble-topped tables and crystal chandeliers, with a large gilt-framed mirror hanging over the divan. Mrs. Hilton turned to greet us, as did a pretty blonde lady. The blonde sat next to a man who was in his thirties, with dark hair like mine. Mr. Hilton introduced them as Adam and Lucy Evans, explaining that Mr. Evans was a business associate of his. I gave my name as Jack Grady. I quite disliked being called John.

Mrs. Evans seemed like a calm, motherly sort, and I found out she had a baby at home. Adam likes me to come with him in the evenings, she confided, and I assured her we were all delighted by her presence.

Mr. Evans smiled. What’s the point of being rich if I can’t show off my pretty wife? Besides, Lucy’s advice is often quite valuable.

He might be one of the lucky few who had what I thought of as a real marriage. If so, he was rich, and at least he had the decency to appreciate it.

But none are as rich as I am, Mr. Hilton declared. I am married to the most beautiful woman in all of California.

Mrs. Hilton smiled. You flatter me too much, Fred.

Mrs. Evans accepted this without blinking an eye, and nobody else seemed to think it extraordinary, especially not Mrs. Hilton. I was having trouble figuring the latter’s age; my best guess was an exceptionally well-preserved thirty-five. She had an air of absolute self-possession you just didn’t see in women in their twenties.

When Mr. Hilton handed around glasses of wine, I raised mine and said, To the incomparable Mrs. Hilton and the lovely Mrs. Evans. The almost palpable air of approval told me I’d gotten it right. Curious.

Conversation at dinner focused on events in town. I gathered there had been an amusing play recently, along with several activities at the church. I made polite noises and studied the guests.

Mrs. Evans was the least polished. She seemed to feel genuine affection for her husband, but she was not completely at ease. She was familiar with her surroundings; she’d walked to her chair at the dining table without hesitation, expecting to sit there. But every word and gesture spoke of caution. Her pale blue frock was flattering and expensively tailored, but not at all flamboyant.

That seemed to be Mrs. Hilton’s prerogative. Her green gown, sewn with coordinating fabrics and trimmed with pearls, was the height of current fashion, and set off her red hair well. Her jewelry was rich but not overdone, and she had the satisfied air of a woman who lives in a circle of admirers. Her comments were intelligent but not intellectual, articulate but lacking substance. She kept her husband dancing attendance most of the time, and I was willing to bet a fair number of others, too.

Mr. Hilton managed to give the impression of openness by gallantly seconding the opinions of others, especially his wife, but he communicated nothing of importance. He seemed content with his fine house and beautiful wife; and I suspected he evaluated most things by how they enhanced his social position.

Mr. Evans appeared to be cataloguing his own impressions of everyone present, including me. This was a man I would avoid at the poker tables. He gave away nothing other than the confidence that goes with success.

After dinner we read poems in the drawing room. I contributed Shelley, as Longfellow and Wordsworth were unbearable to me now, and Mr. Hilton read The Charge of the Light Brigade. I shut my eyes at the memory of Janet reading the same piece. There were no other uncomfortable poems read, thank heaven, and the men soon retired to the billiard room. I used to attempt to prolong the poetry readings, but now I was simply glad it was over. The changes in me had already begun.

I’m afraid we need to get straight to business, Fred, said Mr. Evans. Lucy wants to get home to Luke before much longer. His smile was fond without being condescending. He really did value her opinion, even in front of men.

It’s a pity our wives seem to have nothing to discuss without us, Mr. Hilton said as he passed Mr. Evans my father’s letter containing the proposal that they join forces to corner the market supplying the Comstock mines. What’s your role in all this, Jack?

First and foremost, I am my father’s agent, and as such it is my duty to see to his bottom line. After that... I shrugged. I have a small amount of my own capital I’m looking to increase.

How small? Mr. Hilton smiled at the amount, but then he said, I started with less. Perhaps as a bonus for the time spent searching for my daughter, what would you say to the possibility of a fifty percent return on your money in a short time? You should even be back for the holidays.

I met his cagey gaze and answered, I’d be wondering what the catch is.

He laughed. About what I’d expect from John Grady’s son. You’ll have to accompany Adam on a trip to San Francisco. He can assess your skills as you two put together a cargo.

Is the cargo headed for the mines?

He nodded as if I had passed a test. Over the Sierras in a wagon train.

It was very late in the year for that run—the winter snows had killed in that pass before. But if the possibility for profit was that high, it could put me immediately solvent. And what was my life about if I didn’t show a profit? I’d have given up everything for nothing.

Could I risk only a portion, perhaps five hundred? I countered. Not only could I ill afford to put it all on a single throw, I was also curious as to how he would respond.

That would be less than a third of your capital, but still enough to profit nicely if it pays out, he replied. My father would’ve said it was damned foolish. Perhaps Mr. Hilton was more of a gambler than he.

I reached into my coat pocket for my wallet and counted it out. Mr. Hilton wrote me out a receipt and said, We can consider your father’s offer when you return. It’s best to know if we can work together before committing to a venture of that magnitude.

Great, Jack. If you fail, you’re not only out money you can’t afford to lose, you also ruin Father’s deal of the century. He’d been trying to get Fred Hilton with him instead of against him for years.

No second thoughts about handing over that much to men you just met, Jack? asked Mr. Evans with a small smile. He couldn’t have known I’d met Mr. Hilton before when I’d passed through Placerville on the way to Coloma.

I hardly think the two of you got to where you are by being untrustworthy, I replied. Confidence men never put down roots and stayed. Honor was another thing entirely, though.

It’s pleasant working with someone who already understands the rules, Mr. Hilton said. We’re off to a good start.

We rejoined the ladies afterward, and that was probably the shortest time I’d ever spent in the billiard room, with some of the least objectionable conversation.

That was quick, Mrs. Hilton said, interrupting Mrs. Evans’s reading of Shakespeare.

Jack comes to us well-trained, my dear. Mr. Hilton strolled to the sideboard and poured out glasses of wine before handing them around. A toast to the new venture. May it provide our ladies with the means to sparkle over the coming holidays.

His wife would likely require a sizable portion of the profits with her dressmaker bill alone. I was glad it wasn’t my problem. She’d have gone through my modest means in a season.

May we offer you a ride home, Jack? offered Mr. Evans as we walked toward the door.

I’m staying at the hotel on Main if it’s not too far out of your way, I said.

No trouble at all, he replied, and we bade farewell to our host. As soon as Mrs. Evans settled herself in her carriage, she breathed a sigh of relief. So, was the Hilton home the source of her discomfort?

I put her at ease by encouraging her to tell me about her son, and by the time we arrived, I could see the thoughtful woman Mr. Evans had fallen in love with. So, she was able to put up a front, but not comfortable with doing so. She was younger than me and probably not born to this life. Mr. Evans had likely married her for herself, rather than her family connections. Lucky him.

When shall we get together to discuss particulars, Mr. Evans? I asked, hoping it would be soon. Thanksgiving was only a month away, and wagons didn’t travel that fast.

Mr. Evans met his wife’s gaze before replying. How would you like to dine at our home tomorrow? His eyes held a gleam of mischief as he added, The food is better.

I would be delighted, I said as I opened the carriage door.

I’ll send the coach for you around seven.

I stepped out and shook his hand. Until tomorrow evening. As I entered the hotel, I checked my watch. Half-past ten—I still had time for some poker.

It was late in the morning when I woke, but I was seventeen dollars and change richer. As I shaved, I decided to put my money in the bank, or at least most of it.

An hour later, my wallet was stripped of a thousand in cash, which was now safely residing in a vault. It was even going to earn interest. I might as well feel good about it, for it was likely to be the only birthday gift I got. To hell with it. I ducked into another shop and purchased a new shirt. Then I pushed open the door to a bookstore.

The bell jangled overhead, and as always when I entered, I had a mad desire to purchase the entire selection. I’d decided long ago that being wealthy included a fine library, which was one place Father had not stinted. I chose a copy of Childe Harold and strolled out the door whistling.

After lunch, I brought my book to the hotel lounge and was briefly disgusted with myself. Was Byron really the best I could do? He was gifted, but I’d always turned