Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (8 page)

I spent most of the week worrying about what to wear to the wedding on Saturday. My clothes were either dance hall–owner evening gowns or day dresses suitable for appearing in the streets. I did not want to look as if I were trying to upstage the bride, nor as if I were heading off to the shops. My only suitable dress was a white muslin two-piece with rows of fine tucks across the sleeves, but I could hardly wear white if the bride was in white.

It would have to be my green satin gown. The neckline was high, unlike most of my evening wear, covering the throat. Because the neckline was so high, I could be outrageously daring and go bareheaded in that outfit, with nothing but a green ribbon to hold my hair back. I didn’t have a hat to go with the green satin.

Most certainly I could not go to church without a hat.

Hadn’t I come to Dawson to get away from such formalities? I settled my face into a sulk. Pooh!

If I became Queen of Gold Mountain, I would dictate that women could wear britches whenever they liked. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

I would also outlaw unkempt beards and unwashed hair and hand out free toothbrushes.

I realized I was smiling. Perhaps I wouldn’t settle merely for being Queen Consort of Gold Mountain. I’d get rid of the self-anointed King and take charge myself.

All of which did nothing about fixing my current dilemma: what to wear to Martha’s wedding.

Nothing for it but to find a suitable hat. The pale green satin gown is beautiful, the colour of ice on the North Atlantic Ocean, with long slim lines and big leg-of-mutton sleeves. I’d never liked it much and had finally come to understand why. I’m black-haired and dark-eyed and that particular shade of green doesn’t suit my colouring. The late much-lamented seamstress had told me to dress in dramatic blues and reds. I could also get away, she said, with blacks and whites.

Any hat that would match the green satin dress would look simply awful on me.

Of course, when it comes to my appearance, awful is a relative term.

I took gold dust out of the bag in my bottom drawer, weighed it in the small scales kept on my desk for that purpose, wrapped it in a scrap of paper, noted the amount in my ledger, tucked the dust into my reticule, and set off to buy an ugly hat.

As I walked to the hat shop, a woman’s sudden scream caused me to whirl around. A child had dashed on to the road, into the path of a horse cart. The woman who’d screamed grabbed her little one by the arm in time to pull him to safety. Over the heads of the crowd, I caught a glimpse of a tall man darting into an alley.

Today was Thursday, and I’d left it late to finalize my wedding costume. Since that ridiculous conversation on Monday, whenever I’d ventured outside, I’d caught glimpses of Paul Sheridan following in my wake. No doubt the man thought he was being surreptitious lurking in shop doorways, hiding behind draft horses, and covering his face with a newspaper should I glance in his direction. I’d considered speaking to Richard Sterling about the matter, but as long as Sheridan kept his distance there wasn’t anything the police could do. Anyway, the man would be on his way to Gold Mountain soon enough. Highly unlikely he would ever return.

The milliner had nothing in pale green, thank heavens. After much debate and even more haggling over the price, I left the shop with a cream velvet hat that turned up on the left side, decorated with a contrasting black ostrich feather (if it was from a real ostrich I’d eat it), a clump of grapes, and a wide cream ribbon. It had a long lace train I didn’t fancy, so I had the shop owner tuck it up behind with a few impromptu stitches.

When the last minute adjustments were finished, I left the shop, thinking that after the wedding I might make some adjustments of my own — get rid of the grapes and add flowers, perhaps a more colourful ribbon — when Graham Donohue, the newspaperman, stepped into my path.

“Shopping, Fiona?”

I lifted the box. “A new hat. For the wedding.”

“I’m sure you’ll look positively spectacular in it.”

“I hope not,” I said, hiding a smile. “It’s not my role to look spectacular, but to ensure the bride does so.”

“Yeah. Anyway, Fiona, speaking of the wedding, I’ve been meaning to ask if I may have the honour of being your escort to that affair.”

“I’m going with Angus.”

“Come on, Fiona, say yes. We rarely ever get the chance to spend time in each other’s company lately, what with you always working and all. If you won’t allow me to be your escort at the wedding, how about we do something on Sunday? A stroll perhaps, followed by tea.”

I stopped walking. We were almost at the Savoy, standing on the stretch of boardwalk outside the small bakery operated by my neighbours the Misses Vanderhaege. Like so much in Dawson, calling the place a bakery was a considerable exaggeration. They sold waffles for twenty-five cents each and undrinkable coffee.

I was about to remind Graham that we had tea less than a week ago. Instead, I said, “Sunday. Excellent idea. Why don’t you come for a late breakfast? Say around ten o’ clock.”

Graham’s eyes almost popped out of his handsome face. “Breakfast?”

“I’ve decided to start a new fashion. Rather than wait until tea time, I will entertain in the morning. Mr. and Mrs. Mann will be home from church by ten.” And if for some reason they were delayed, I’d have Graham to chase off Sheridan should the fool become overly persistent. Much better than spending the day hiding out in Ray Walker’s lodgings, which had been my original plan. I’ve never been to Ray’s lodgings, but I knew he lived in a men’s boarding house. I could only imagine the place would be quite foul: cramped and dirty, with the smell of unwashed men and stale liquor and too much cigar smoke.

I do not entertain on Sundays, my only day of rest. I usually wash my hair, drying it in the sun if it is nice out, or by the stove if not. Perhaps in the late afternoon I’ll put on a suitable afternoon dress and go for a walk, to catch some of the news. I spend six days week being charming and friendly and beautiful. I do not wish to do so on the seventh. Except for being beautiful. That I can always do.

Just this once, I would make an exception to my routine.

I took a quick peek around. The streets were busy with the usual packs of wandering layabouts, respectable women going about their family’s business, the occasional less-than-respectable woman looking for her own business, miners either heading for the creeks or returning from them, pack horses and donkeys, dog-trains, and feral dogs. About 90 percent of the people were men, and there were very few children.

“Are you expecting someone, Fiona?” Graham asked, also surveying the streetscape.

“No,” I said brightly. “No one. Until Saturday, Graham.”

“And breakfast on Sunday,” he said in a voice designed to carry.

I gave him a smile and took my new hat home.

Saturday was a glorious day. The sun shone warm in a clear blue sky, but a pleasant breeze kept it from getting overly hot. I was at Martha’s hotel before noon, supposedly to help her prepare for her grand event. Never in my life had I assisted a woman to dress. Fortunately, my role was strictly a formality, for Helen had created a beautiful, yet entirely practical, wedding gown. It was in two pieces, and each piece could later be altered slightly and matched with a skirt or blouse of colour to create two new outfits. The expensive lace was attached with large, well-spaced stitches so it could be removed. Used for a christening gown, perhaps, Martha said as her cheeks flamed.

She was no beauty, Martha. Tall and sturdy with a large bosom trapped beneath a rigid corset, she had a nose like a bird’s beak and small dark eyes. Her cheeks were too round, her chin too small, and her complexion too ruddy to be fashionable. An Englishwoman of a respectable but impoverished family, she’d travelled to the Klondike in the guise of a writer, hoping to pen a book to provide her with much-needed income. At the advanced age of thirty-three years, she (and her family) had given up hope she would ever marry, and it had become necessary for her to make her own way in the world. Instead, she had found Reginald O’Brien.

Which was just as well. I had seen samples of her writing and thought it unimaginative rubbish. Martha managed to make the Klondike sound as rigidly boring as afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace.

We were not friends. As I’ve said, I have no women friends. Angus was much closer to Martha than I. He’d been her assistant when she’d been dashing about town making notes of everything she saw and generally getting in everyone’s way. Angus could hardly be a bridesmaid, and Martha had no one else to ask.

She chattered and fussed and twitched constantly as she dressed. Her hat was a small neat affair, and the train came only as far as her shoulders. I had lent her a pair of gold earrings, which toned down the over-red face fractionally.

She looked, I was surprised to see, absolutely lovely.

Angus was waiting for us in the hotel lobby. He jumped to his feet as Martha and I descended the stairs. His jaw dropped open, and his eyes bulged. “Miss Witherspoon,” he cried. “You look ... very nice.”

Martha smiled. “Thank you, my dear boy.”

Angus looked nice also in a clean jacket and new white shirt, highly starched. His face was scrubbed, his blond hair was combed, and he’d slicked the unruly cowlick down with a touch of oil. I myself do not care for oil in a man’s hair and told him to go easy on it.

A small crowd had gathered outside the Richmond Hotel, hoping to get a glimpse of the bride. They broke into applause when we exited. Someone, probably Angus, had swept the boardwalk.

The carriage Mouse O’Brien had hired to take Martha, Angus, and me to the church was waiting when we exited the hotel. “Carriage” being a bit of an exaggeration: it was a wooden cart pulled by an aging horse. But the horse had more meat on its bones than many around town, and it had been brushed to a shine, with white ribbons braided through its mane. The cart had only one proper seat, where the driver and a single passenger could sit. Angus assisted Martha to climb up while I held her skirts and tried to keep the white cloth away from the none-too-clean undercarriage. In the open back there were two bales of hay, covered by blankets. Once Martha was seated, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes alight and face burning with embarrassed pleasure, I eyed my own chair with some degree of trepidation.

“Mother,” Angus said, extending his arm. I don’t know what we would have done if it had been raining. I lifted the skirts of my green satin gown to shocking heights, clutched the bunch of cloth in my right hand, gripped Angus’s arm with my left, wished I had a third to hold onto my hat, and hoisted myself up. For a moment, I balanced precariously on the lip of wood running along the outside of the cart, but my son pushed against my bottom (I hope it was my son) and shoved me over the edge and into the back of the cart like a sack of feed.

I attempted to retain some shreds of dignity and settled into my make-shift chair, adjusting the long strand of fake pearls around my neck — equally fake pearls were in my ears. Angus leapt up beside me, and the driver yelled to his animal to proceed. The crowd cheered. I began to lift my hand to wave, but Angus grabbed it and shook his head, reminding me I was not the centre of attention on this day.

Helen met us as we alighted from the cart outside St. Paul’s Church, ready to adjust Martha’s garments should such be required. Helen had earlier festooned the ground with petals of blue larkspur, yellow buttercups, and purple fireweed.

Reginald O’Brien’s nickname was intended to be satirical. He resembled an ox more than a mouse. He neared seven feet tall, and his shoulders and thighs were massive. But he was soft-spoken and unfailingly polite. He dressed well and was fastidious about his grooming. Today, he’d outdone himself. He looked resplendent in his black trousers and grey frock-coat, red waist-coat with heavy gold chain, crisp white shirt, and black tie secured with a gold stickpin. His boots were polished to a high shine, and not a speck of dust marred the grey hat with a band which matched his waistcoat.

He stood by the front door of the church beside Reverend Bowen and Richard Sterling, handsome in dress uniform, who would serve as the groomsman. Mouse’s face lit up when he caught his first glimpse of his bride bouncing along in the horse cart. He settled his face into solemn lines before stepping forward and helping her out of the cart. Angus leapt down and assisted me.

The wedding party shifted and we arranged ourselves. Helen slipped into the church to take her seat.

Mouse and Richard entered first, followed by me, and then Angus and Martha. Angus was acting the role of Martha’s father, somewhat unusual considering that he was twelve years old, but Martha had been insistent.

St. Paul’s Church was full. Martha knew no one in town except for Angus and me, but Mouse knew everyone, and the forthcoming nuptials had been the talk of the Savoy all week. We’d closed for the afternoon in order that the staff could attend the ceremony. Sergeant Lancaster, my erstwhile suitor, was present, hair thick with oil, seated in a group of Mounties including Inspector McKnight. Graham Donohue had had a haircut, and Mr. and Mrs. Mann were dressed in their Sunday best. Ray Walker sat next to Irene Davidson, her arm tucked into his, at the end of a row of dance hall girls looking as bright and colourful as hollyhocks in an English garden. Barney and many of his bar-mates were in attendance. Some of them had even gone to the trouble of washing their face and hands. Jake, the head coupler at the Savoy, was at the back, with the bartenders Murray and Not-Murray. Belinda Mulrooney was in attendance, dressed as always in a prim starched navy blouse and dark skirt, her hair in a severe bun atop her square face. Belinda’s Fairview Hotel would be opening in a couple of weeks, and it was going to be the biggest and most luxurious in town. Big Alex McDonald, whom they called the King of the Klondike, was seated in the row behind Belinda, tugging at his tight shirt collar. They were business rivals, never friends, and the rivalry could get extreme at times.

To be honest, I’d worried about Martha. She was making a big step, committing herself, body and soul, to a man she scarcely knew, in a place far from home and family. But as I looked around the crowded church, I realized that this was now Martha’s home, and we, a rough-and-tumble collection of miscreants and adventurers, were her family.

I took my place at one side of the altar and peeked at Mouse standing stiffly opposite. His chest bulged with pride, his face glowed with happiness. And I knew that Reginald O’Brien truly loved the annoying Englishwoman.

Mouse had rented the top floor of the dance hall for his wedding party. He wasn’t rich, but he’d done better than most on the Creeks and, quite by accident, had found a small productive claim. He gambled, but never played more than he could afford to lose. He liked the dance hall girls, but didn’t try to get them drunk or ask them to meet him after hours. He was fond of champagne, but only bought one bottle at a time and shared it freely with his dance partner and people in adjoining boxes or tables. He was a giant of a man, and today he resembled a mischievous schoolboy at his birthday tea.

After the bridal party had been settled in the upper level, Mouse stood up, leaned over the balcony, and announced that for the next five minutes all drinks were on him.

As could have been expected, the rush for the bar was instantaneous. Word spread up and down the street, and the saloon got so crowed, Ray had to order his men to guard the front door lest folk be trampled to death.

Ray and I stayed for a glass of champagne, Mumm Extra Dry, quite delicious, and a toast to the happy couple. We slipped away as Helen and Not-Murray were clambering up the stairs, bearing platters of sandwiches and sliced meat. Mouse had spared no expense: a boiled egg was served to each of his guests, and a bowl of almonds sat on every table.

It had been a lovely wedding, but for Ray and me, it was now just another Saturday night in Dawson, and we had a business to run.

When Angus came down to tell me Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien were leaving, Ray and I met them at the door to say goodbye and extend our best wishes. Mouse would be heading back to the Creeks on Monday. He’d rented a small house on Seventh Avenue, where Martha would live. Even though her writing skills were non-existent, I’d suggested she continue collecting stories, as any news (no matter how poorly written) from the Klondike was eagerly devoured in the Outside, but she had recoiled as if I’d struck her and said that, naturally, once a married woman, she would never offer her husband such an insult as to do a job of work. She did not consider that her proposed collection of tips for women coming to the Yukon was a job, merely a service to help others.

Unlikely Martha would again come into the Savoy. It was not a suitable place for a married woman. Chances were, even though she was now clinging to me and whispering in my ear that we would always be friends, I’d not see her again, other than around town or in the shops. I considered making a ribald joke about the joys of the wedding night, but that would spook the poor thing too much. Now that the formalities of the wedding were over and she and her husband were heading off to their home and bed, she looked nothing but terrified.

I wondered if, in the absence of her mother, I should explain something of what was to be expected. But I held my tongue. She’d find out soon enough. As I had.

I felt sorry for Martha suddenly. As I struggled to get out from her embrace, I whispered, “Relax and have fun.”

She pulled back, eyes as round and white as a horse smelling fire. Without another word, she dashed for the street, leaving a startled husband to follow.

Ray lifted one eyebrow and looked at me. I chuckled, told Angus it was time he was heading home, and went back inside.