sure it does.”
I never did meet with Mr. Sheridan to discuss horses. The following day, with the help of his friends, Angus found six men willing to carry our goods over the Chilkoot Pass. Ray Walker and I met for what passed for tea and discussed a joint business venture. A dance hall and saloon. Each of us owning one half of the business.
I had one more encounter with Mr. Jefferson Smith. We were preparing to board a boat that would take us up the Lynn Canal to Dyea and from there to the Chilkoot. Smith was mounted on a white horse, looking every inch the Southern gentleman.
He swept off his hat as Angus and I approached. “Mrs. MacGillivray. I’m sorry to see you leaving. I’d hoped we could do business. Your grace and beauty would be a valuable asset not only to me, but to the town of Skagway. If I offended you by my crude offer of employment, I apologize. How about we become partners? Equal shares in the theatre?”
I looked at Angus. His sweet open face, his trusting blue eyes.
He believed in me.
“Goodbye, Mr. Smith. I don’t expect we will meet again.”
We arrived in Dawson in September of 1897. And the long, dark, cold winter settled in.
Chapter Eleven
Spring finally arrived in late May of 1898, the ice on the rivers broke, and thousands upon thousands of people floated down the Yukon River to the mudflats, where the Yukon met the mouth of Klondike and the town of Dawson had been carved out of the wilderness. By summer, despite the hordes of people constantly milling about on the streets, many of whom were out of luck and out of money and wanted nothing more than to go home again, it was not possible for me to continue to avoid Mr. Paul Sheridan.
He was waiting as I came out of the Bank of Commerce on Monday morning.
“Go away,” I said. I continued walking.
He fell into step beside me. “Now Fiona, you haven’t even heard my offer.”
“I have no need to hear it. Mr. Sheridan, I’m pleased you’ve given up your life of crime. Congratulations. I wish you the best.”
“Let me buy you lunch and I’ll tell you my plan. You’re going to be impressed.”
“Mr. Sheridan ...”
“Please, Fiona, call me Paul.”
“Mr. Sheridan. I’m off home for an afternoon’s rest before returning to the Savoy for the evening. I am not lunching. With you or anyone else.”
“I’ll walk with you, then.”
The last thing I wanted was this ridiculously persistent man knowing where I lived. “No.”
“It’s no trouble,” he said. His smile hadn’t faltered in the least. I peered into his eyes, wondering if he might be simple. His smile grew broader.
I caught a glimpse of scarlet on the other side of the street. “There’s my escort now.” I lifted my hand and waved. “Corporal Sterling, over here!”
Richard waited for a sled pulled by six big dogs to go by, nodded to a woman in a nurse’s uniform, her skirt and apron thick with mud, and crossed the street. He touched the broad brim of his uniform hat. “Mrs. MacGillivray. Good day.”
I slipped my arm through his. “I’m sorry I’m late. Off we go now. Goodbye, Mr. Sheridan.”
Richard gave the man a long look. I tugged at his arm, and he allowed me to lead him away.
“That man bothering you, Fiona?” he asked. “I had a word with him on Saturday. He says he’s not here to work for Soapy and I can’t run him out of town unless he does something.”
“He simply doesn’t know the meaning of the word no. It’s becoming quite tedious. He has some wonderful plan to make a fortune, which he’s sure I’ll be interested in. I do believe he thinks I’m teasing when I insist I don’t want to hear it.”
“Let us know if he does anything more than insisting.”
“He’s harmless.” We reached the corner and I snuck a peek behind me. Sheridan was still standing on the sidewalk, like a rock rising out of the sea, while the crowd ebbed and flowed all around him. He waved at me, and I almost jerked Richard off his feet as I changed direction and charged down Queen Street.
Once we were out of Sheridan’s line of sight, I did not, however, release Richard’s arm. It was a very warm day and the blue sky held no threat of rain. Hopefully, things could dry out a bit before the clouds next opened up.
We arrived in front of my lodgings in due course. Angus and I had taken rooms at Mr. and Mrs. Mann’s boarding house. It was a rough wooden building, thrown up almost overnight — as most of the houses in town were. Every scrap of furniture was mismatched at best and broken at worst; the floor creaked and wind blew through cracks in the walls and sought out gaps around doors and windows. The garden was a patch of weeds and dirt, overseen by the neighbours’ privy. Steam and heat bellowed from the shed in the back, where Mrs. Mann operated a laundry.
I felt more at home here than I had in my townhouse in Belgravia, where all the furniture was fashionable and expensive and the garden in riotous bloom, with a butler to open the front door and a maid to lay out my gowns and arrange my hair.
Wasn’t I becoming a sentimental old fool?
“Do you have time to come in for tea?” I asked Richard. Mrs. Mann was in the laundry shed and Mr. Mann would be at the store with Angus. It was hardly proper for me to entertain a gentleman without other company present, but propriety was never something I cared much about, no matter in what circumstances I was living. “Mrs. Mann always keeps the kettle hot and ready.”
“Another time, perhaps,” he said with a smile. “I have a meeting with the inspector later and have to get my reports finished.”
We bid each other a good day and I went inside.
I removed my jewellery, struggled with the row of tiny buttons on my dress, discarded my petticoat, over-corset, corset, stockings and undergarments, pulled on my night-gown, and crawled into my narrow bed with the lumpy mattress and broken springs for my midday nap.
* * *
I was to have the role of matron-of-honour at the marriage of Martha Witherspoon and Reginald O’Brien. Another first for me: I’ve never been in a wedding party. Mainly, I suspect, because I’ve never had female friends, not since I was a child.
The best dressmaker in the Yukon had gone out of business abruptly. Irene Davidson, who’d been friends with the woman, had swooped in and scooped up the best bolts of cloth before anyone else could get their hands on them. Where the rest had gone, I did not know. I kicked myself at being too slow off the mark: by the time I got to the abandoned shop, all that remained were some lengths of black homespun and a cotton in a colour that would make a horse look anaemic.
It was, therefore, to Irene that Martha and I had to go.
Where we would beg for material to make a wedding dress.
Irene and I did not like
