Gold Fever (8 page)

“I don't want to be in the papers, ma'am,” Angus said. He meant it. His mother was particularly averse to having her exploits recorded, and Sterling had told him that a Mountie never sought glory for his own sake.

“Nonsense, all boys want to be famous.”

“I'd rather not, ma'am.”

“Very well, Angus will do. I am not a newspaper reporter. I am a book writer.”

“Books, ma'am?”

Miss Witherspoon tucked her writing implements away and slipped one arm through Angus's. “I am here in the Yukon to research a book I intend to write about the gold rush. People in California and New York are dying for news about this wonderful place. They want much more information than they get from a few newspaper accounts. I want to see everything, and meet everyone, and tell all about it in my book. Isn't that exciting?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Miss Witherspoon had a contagious eagerness about her. When she talked about her project, her voice rose and her eyes glistened, and Angus couldn't help but be caught up in her enthusiasm.

“I was saying to Miss Forester that we must find ourselves a guide to this exciting town. Didn't I say that, Euila?”

“Yes, you did, Martha,” Miss Forester said softly. She, for one, didn't appear to be too caught up in Miss Witherspoon's enthusiasm.

“How does two dollars a day sound?”

Two dollars a day sounded great! Angus opened his mouth to say “yes”, but then he remembered he had responsibilities. Miss Witherspoon remembered also. “Your employer told me you work at the shop every morning. So you are free in the afternoons and on Sunday to show us around, isn't that right?”

“Uh, would that be two dollars for the afternoon, or only one?”

“Two.”

Ron and Dave wouldn't care too much whether he showed up or not, and two dollars a day was as much as a man might make, more than a constable earned. And for only an afternoon's work at that. “Sure,” he said.

“Wonderful!” Miss Witherspoon nodded. “Before we begin, I am simply starving. And so is Miss Forester, I am sure. What would be a nice place for afternoon tea?”

“I don't quite know about tea, ma'am. Maybe your hotel? Or the Regina Café serves good soup and light lunches, I've heard. I'll show you where it is.”

“You will eat with us.”

“Uh, I don't have any money.”

“Did I not mention that all your expenses will be paid while you are in my employ? Come along, lead the way to the Regina Café.”

The walk to the café took a long time, as Miss Witherspoon wanted to stop and look at everything then ask questions about everything she stopped to look at.

She paused in front of the Monte Carlo. “Tonight I want to go to one of the dance halls. It is not at all a place for a respectable lady, so you'll have to remain in the hotel, Euila. As I will be in my capacity as a writer, I'll venture in. Will you accompany me, Angus?”

“I'm sorry, Miss Witherspoon, but I'm not old enough to go inside. The police are strict about things like that. I can only go into the Savoy because my mother owns it.”

“Tell me about your mother. Such a gracious lady. So quick to help Miss Forester. She owns a dance hall? Most convenient. What would be a good time?”

“The dance hall opens at eight, although the bar and the gambling rooms are open all day.”

“Then eight it will be. How did your mother come to be the owner of a dance hall? The Savoy, you called it? Named after the hotel of that name in London?”

As they settled into a table by the window, Miss Witherspoon plied Angus with questions. He chattered on about Dawson, about the Chilkoot trail, about the Savoy and Ray Walker, his mother's business partner. He talked about Mrs. Saunderson, tragically widowed then cheated out of her claim by her own brother.

Miss Witherspoon jotted everything down in her notebook while she consumed every scrap of beans, boiled potatoes, and pork chop on her plate. Miss Forester said almost nothing and picked at her lunch with an expression of distaste.

“Tell me, Angus,” Miss Witherspoon said, placing her knife and fork neatly across her scraped-clean plate. “I've heard the words sourdoughs and cheechakos. What's the difference? Would you care for pie?”

“Yes, ma'am! A cheechako means a newcomer. A sourdough is an old timer. Although a sourdough doesn't have to be old—he only has to have spent a winter in the Yukon.”

“So you're a sourdough?” Angus had never thought of it that way. He rolled the word around inside his head. “I guess I am. It was some winter, let me tell you. There was talk of Dawson being a starvation camp.”

He was scraping up the last of his pie when Miss Irene, his mother's best dancer, came into the café. She was with a plainly dressed older woman, and they made for a table in the dark back corner of the room, although there were window tables still available. Angus waved cheerfully as Irene and her companion crossed the room. Irene tossed him a friendly smile and gave his companions a curious look.

Miss Witherspoon followed his gaze. “Who is that?”

“That's Miss Davidson, Lady Irenee is her stage name. She's the headliner at the Savoy. The main attraction in the dance hall, I mean. My ma tells me she's popular with the men. Worth her weight in gold, my ma says. Don't know the other woman, though.”

Miss Witherspoon watched the two women settle at their table. Irene fluffed her skirts around her and drifted into her chair like the first leaf of autumn falling graciously to the ground. Her companion plunked herself down and looked around. She saw Angus and Miss Witherspoon watching. She gave Miss Witherspoon a sharp look before turning her attention back to Irene.

Miss Witherspoon flushed and turned away. “Waiter,” she cried, snapping her fingers. “Our account, if you please.”

She fumbled in her bag, searching for money. “Now, Angus dear, you must get Miss Forester to tell you what caused her to faint at your shop this morning. She refuses to say a word to me.”

“There is nothing to say, Martha. I told you. It was the heat and the mud and all those men gathered so closely. Quite unbearable. I knew it was a mistake to come here.”

“Euila spent her childhood on the Isle of Skye. Didn't you mention that's where your mother originated, Angus dear? I find that rather hard to believe because they both have such proper English accents. Almost identical, one might say.”

Angus remembered his manners. He hadn't spoken to Miss Forester during the entire meal. “Are you a writer also, Miss Forester?”

“Heavens no.” Miss Forester looked quite startled, whether at being mistaken for a writer or being spoken to, Angus didn't know.

“What brings you to Dawson, then?” he asked, simply trying to be polite. His mother hated men who only talked about themselves.

“The fishing fleet,” Miss Witherspoon said, carefully counting out the money for the bill.

“Fishing? The salmon'll be running soon. We weren't here last year for the salmon run, but they say it's really something. I can't see that you'll… I mean, you don't look like…” Angus fumbled for the words.

“Martha,” Miss Forrester said, “please be quiet.” “Nothing wrong with it, my dear.” Miss Witherspoon waved at the waiter once again. “The fishing fleet, Angus, is what they used to call the pack of Englishwomen who set sail once a year for India in search of a husband.”

“Oh.” “Miss Forester is looking for a husband. A wealthy one.

Fallen on hard times, haven't you, dear? Such a tragedy when the great families can't pay off their debts.”

Miss Forester turned an unattractive shade of red and gathered her gloves. “That is none of the boy's business, Martha.”

“We met in San Francisco,” Miss Witherspoon continued, as if her companion hadn't spoken. “Euila's brother was most grateful to find her a respectable companion to take her off his hands.
He
was no match for the Klondike, let me tell you. Now, where shall we go next? You may lead the way, dear boy. But remember: I want to see everything!”

Helen Saunderson and I collected the good soap, which cost an absolute fortune, and walked back to town. Mrs. Saunderson was telling me something about one of her children who was having problems with a tooth. I scarcely heard one word in ten. What did Irene think she was doing! Having an assignation—and with a woman at that!—on the street. She must be mad. We sold dreams as much as dances and drinks in the Savoy. The men paid to see the show or to have a brief turn on the floor with one of the girls because they needed some happiness in their generally miserable lives. They admired Irene on the stage and imagined, however foolishly, that one day she might be theirs. Let a little reality into the room—such as a female lover—and the effect would be like a magician telling the audience everything he was doing. Illusions once shattered can not be put back together like a piece of old china. Irene would no longer be the most popular dance hall girl in the North. She would be lucky to be able to make a living as a percentage girl.

What would Ray have to say if his illusions of living happily ever after with Irene were so brutally shattered? He'd probably fire her on the spot. And let everyone in earshot know why.

I sighed so heavily, a passing man paused in the act of lifting his hat to me. I tossed him a self-conscious grin and shrugged slightly. Mrs. Saunderson chattered on. The man walked away with a huge smile on his face. He was perfectly ugly and desperately in need of grooming and the attentions of Mrs. Mann's laundry, but his eyes were kind, and I was pleased to have made his day.

“Madame MacGillivray, how pleasant to run into you.”

Joey LeBlanc, the most notorious whoremonger in Dawson, had planted her tiny self firmly in front of us, blocking the boardwalk. There was nothing pleasant about the look on Joey's face. For some reason she'd hated me since the day she arrived in town—only a week after Angus and I—although I don't recall having done anything to offend her, other than hold my nose (figuratively speaking) whenever we passed. She was less than five feet tall, and her bones were so fine, I sometimes wondered if she would be carried away by a middling wind. As though defying anyone to guess at her occupation, she dressed in the plainest of clothes. Her grey hair was scraped back so tightly that the skin beside her eyes stretched upwards, and her head was topped with a straw hat about two sizes too small. She wore no jewellery save a woman's simple wedding band, although there was never any sign of a Monsieur LeBlanc.

I didn't bother to be polite. This was no London drawing room where one cooed over the cut of one's worst enemy's new dress (“My dear, I simply loved that frock when I saw it on Lady Morton last month”) or her husband's new position (“So nice for you that he will be able to dine at home regularly”) and where the sharpest battles were fought with words that could wound more deeply than swords.

In Dawson, I could be so much more blunt. “Get out of my way, Joey.”

She looked at me with eyes as cold as the frozen earth out of which the men pulled their gold. “Is that any way for a lady to talk?” She took the thickness of her Quebec accent up a degree.

I wasn't about to stand there all day wondering who would step aside first. I lifted my skirts and stepped off the boardwalk, carefully avoiding a recently deposited pile of dog droppings. From an extremely large dog. I tugged on Helen's sleeve, and she reluctantly stepped into the road beside me. Helen could be even more blunt than I, and I didn't want a scene.

“You 'ave something what belongs to me, MacGillivray,” Joey said.

Despite my better instincts, I turned around. “I beg your pardon?” I asked in my best dealing-with-the-peasantryvoice, something that I've noticed a Canadian or an American can't quite pull off.

We were attracting a crowd. Some people in Dawson had far too much time on their hands. Joey lowered her voice. “The Indian bitch is mine,” she hissed. “Bought and paid for.”

I wiped spittle off my face. “No longer, it would appear.” I turned and started to walk away, still tugging at Helen's sleeve.

“I want 'er back.”

This time I kept walking.

“And 'ow are you, 'elen?” Joey called after us pleasantly, her voice back at a normal street level. “Enjoying your employment at the Savoy?”

I whirled around. “Is that a threat, Joey? If you have anything to say, you'd better say it to me.”

“Me?” Joey said. “I make no threats.” This time it was her turn to walk away, head held high under its plain straw hat.

“I've encountered the likes of her before, Mrs. Mac,” Helen said. “Not fit to walk on the same sidewalk as decent women, she ain't. Imagine forcing a lady such as you into the street!”

“I'd rather walk in the mud than engage in a contest of wills with her and create a public spectacle.”

“What do you suppose that was really about?”

“Nothing good, Helen. Most certainly nothing good. If you see her around the Savoy…if you ever see her anywhere near Angus, let me know right away, will you?”

“You think she'd harm Angus?” At the very thought, Helen Saunderson looked ready to go after Joey and clobber her with the package of good soap.

It was an exceedingly hot day, but I felt a shiver under the strings of my corset. Against the likes of Joey LeBlanc I had few defences. It was unlikely she would be reduced to blubbering idiocy by a witty yet scathing comment about the style of her hair or worry overmuch about being cut out of polite society by a well-placed whisper of scandal. “I think she'd do most anything to harm me. If she could.

Take that soap to Mrs. Mann. Tell her I expect to wear the dress tomorrow.”

I didn't tell Helen that my earlier misgivings about letting Mary stay at the Savoy had disappeared the moment Joey LeBlanc stepped in front of me. It might not be in my best interests, but I wasn't about to give LeBlanc the satisfaction of letting her think she'd won.