The Brideship Wife

by Leslie Howard

  “I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to do that. It’s just that when I saw you a while back, taking in everything Dick Canning had to say about Horsefly Creek, obviously believing every word of it, it struck me that you’re an innocent.”

  “What in heaven’s name do you mean by that?” I asked. The air in the back room suddenly felt quite close and warm.

  He picked up my unfinished drink and drained it. “It’s fine with me if you want to play the stock-trading game. Have at it. But there are things you need to know first, like the fact that Dick’s always pumped about one claim or another. We take his stories with a grain of salt. He’s not always wrong, but more often than not, he is.”

  “Thank you for your words of warning, but I can assure you I am not tempted to bet on the outcome of mining ventures.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” he said with that irritating slight smile of his. “In case you are interested, though, Horsefly Creek has come up bust. I doubt you could give the shares away now.”

  At his words, I tried to appear nonchalant, but I felt pricks of perspiration on my brow. Thankfully, we were interrupted by a call to take our seats for the second act, and I took my leave.

  For the rest of the show, I felt that my performance equalled that of Florence on the stage. I laughed when the audience laughed and enthusiastically joined in during the final singing of “Hail Columbia.” After the show, Sarah and I hurried backstage to congratulate Florence, and I was most sincere in my warm wishes for her. But inside I was deflated and angry at myself.

  Sarah and Louis were oblivious to my dark mood as they walked hand in hand, leaning into each other and talking in hushed tones. When she saw me straggling behind, Sarah broke away from Louis and circled back, linking arms with me. Her kindness cheered me, and I thanked the stars above that we were friends. I would somehow find a way to build my ranch, I told myself, and decided to give up fretting about it for now.

  We stopped often to admire the brilliant night sky, picking out the Big and Little Dippers and the North Star. Louis described the northern lights he had seen last September, multicoloured, flickering tongues of light that snapped and crackled across the darkened horizon. Sarah professed a great desire to see them when they made an appearance in the fall, and I wondered if John would be here by then and what might come of our relationship.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Life took on a bit of a dull routine in the weeks that followed, but time passed pleasantly enough. It was summer, precious days of warmth and light that shouldn’t be squandered in the north. And it was the time for love. Business was so brisk at the BC Express stagecoach company that they hired a second driver to spell Louis off. He had more time in town, and he spent most of it with Sarah. Seeing her happiness made me think often of John. I had started watching the calendar. Midsummer had passed, but it wouldn’t be long now.

  I had written Wiggles and sent along the photograph of me, Sarah, and Florence, and in her reply Wiggles had said that she had attended one of John’s last lectures at the society and she had been most impressed. In spite of the aggressive hecklers, John had spoken well and with conviction. I think she guessed there was something between the two of us, as she didn’t hesitate to tell me what a fine upstanding man he was.

  I avoided conversations with Jack Harris as much as possible. Eventually he seemed to take the hint and left me alone. He was right about one thing, though. I was naive. Horsefly Creek shares had plummeted. My tips were slowly building into a small nest egg, but I knew I had to adjust my expectations. I would never be able to afford anything other than a small acreage, maybe thirty acres, with a modest dwelling, nothing close to the 160 acres the government was giving away for free, but I was comfortable with that. Even if I married one day, I was determined not to participate in that scheme.

  It was a Saturday night and I came in to work early. The poker den was already thriving, and I was surprised to see Sarah with Jacob in her arms. She never brought him into the cardroom, as it was usually so smoky, but she was there, holding him with one hand as she carried him on her hip. He appeared mesmerized by the green Tiffany lamps. She rushed over to me and held out her left hand, fingers spread wide. Before I even saw it, I knew. There was a ring on the third finger.

  “Oh, Sarah, this is so very exciting.” I examined the slim gold band, an interesting creation with three small gold nuggets mounted in the middle. “I’m so happy for you,” I said, embracing her.

  “I couldn’t wait to tell you. The wedding’s going to be September twenty-fifth, just a month away. We’ll have it at the church. Louis already has permission. And you, Charlotte, you must be my maid of honour.”

  “I will be honoured.” Blinking away the tears that had come to my eyes, I focused on Jacob. “And maybe you can be the ring bearer?” I said to him. “You’re still a little unsteady on your legs, but I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “Of course,” she said, laughing. “Won’t you look handsome, Jacob?” She twirled him around, and I smiled, her excitement infectious.

  Later that night, after an exhausting shift, I readied myself for bed, thinking of the momentous day, and felt an odd sense of sorrow. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the source of my melancholy until it struck me. Sarah’s wedding date was September 25, a month away, so this must be August… I looked at my desk calendar and double-checked the date. Today was the anniversary of Hari’s death.

  I went over to my trunk and opened the lid, pushing my hand deep, through the stack-folded winter clothes. At the very bottom, my fingers hit something hard, and I reached for Hari’s black jewellery box that I hadn’t seen since that awful day on the Tynemouth, when Sarah helped me sort through Hari’s things. I let my fingers slide across the smooth surface of inlaid mother-of-pearl. My only memento of Hari. I flipped it over, my fingers hunting for the hidden recessed catch that I knew was there. As children, we had thrilled at the small compartment that the depressed latch revealed and had left secret messages to each other inside, away from the intruding eyes of our mother. I smiled at the memory. I found the latch and pushed it.

  Three slender gold wafers escaped from the compartment and slid onto my lap. I caught my breath, unable to believe the sight before me. They were pure gold, just as I had seen months before when the rich dandies poured a bag of nuggets on a table in the gambling den. These wafers had to have been purchased from the funds that Hari stole from Charles. Not stole, I corrected myself, recovered. They represented the dowry that Papa had set aside for me before he died, the legacy that Charles tried to keep for himself.

  Slowly, I picked up the wafers, letting them slip and slide between my fingers, watching the light play off them. This gold would allow me to have my dream—ranchland and a fine home. Ironically, my dowry would ensure my ability to live the rest of my life independently. I need never marry. Then I remembered who I owed my deepest thanks to. Harriet. How I wished she were here to share this moment with me. With a heavy heart, I put the slim bars back where I had found them and pushed the latch to reset it.

  A cascade of thoughts filled my head. Sarah would take her life in a new direction just as I would mine. Our friendship would change, but it could never die. I began to dream of what my new ranch and house would be like and decided I would call it Harriet House, in honour of my sister and the life she never had.

  Chapter Forty-three

  The next day, I told Mr. Roy of my plans, and he insisted he would help me. I readily agreed. I knew that I would have far greater success negotiating a land purchase and engaging a builder if I had a man with me.

  It would take months for a new house to be built, but first I needed to buy the land. Mr. Roy left his business in Sarah’s hands, and we took the coach south. I hoped to buy a spread on the beautiful ranchland I had heard about near a town called Lillooet.

  The town reminded me of Yale, where we had caught our stage on our way north to Barkerville. Men loitered everywhere, looking lost as they tried to secure mode
s of transport to take them to the goldfields. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the gold-laden bag on my lap. After checking into the hotel, I made it my first order of business to purchase a small revolver at the gun and rifle shop, where the owner gave me a brief lesson on its use.

  “This one’s got a hair trigger, so don’t point it at anyone you’re not intending to shoot,” he said.

  I felt much easier with the little derringer tucked in my bag as Mr. Roy and I rode off to view some parcels of land that were for sale outside of town. The rolling grasslands were dotted with groves of trembling aspen and poplar trees, their leaves already starting to change from green to a canary yellow in contrast to their white-barked trunks. Mr. Roy was as taken with the landscape as I was, but his was a more practical eye, pointing out the need for plenty of water on my future property and looking for promising building sites for my house and outbuildings.

  After two days of riding, we found the perfect spot: a shallow, flat-bottomed valley with a meandering stream running into a small, clear lake surrounded by trees. I could see myself living out my life there, watching the seasons come and go, tending to my animals, building the kind of existence I wanted. Surveying the gentle, undulating hills before me, smelling the dry grasses, hearing the shrill cry of the circling golden eagles overhead, I felt the first moments of true peace and joy that I had experienced in a very long time, since before Hari died and John left for England. I felt at home.

  The six hundred acres were owned by a Métis widow who wanted to move to Victoria to be near her daughter. The land had originally been a gift to her husband, a Hudson’s Bay factor, from Governor Douglas. With Mr. Roy at my side, we visited a land agent and made the purchase. Over the next three days, we engaged a builder and ordered a herd of cattle, arranging for them to be driven up from Washington Territory via the Okanagan Trail next year. People initially balked at doing business with a woman, but I soon saw the power of money. Once they discovered I had my own funds, they signed the contracts with a great flourish.

  To celebrate, I took Henry out for the best meal I could find in town, complete with a bottle of champagne, and we toasted my new venture.

  * * *

  When we returned, I was dying to tell Sarah all my news, but she was out with Jacob, so I headed upstairs to unpack. I put all my new paperwork neatly in my desk drawer and stowed my revolver away in my jewellery box’s concealed compartment for safekeeping. I wouldn’t need it in Barkerville. Coming downstairs I heard a sharp knock at the door. Opening it, I was startled to see the mail clerk standing on the stoop.

  “Looks like this is your lucky day, Miss Harding. A letter from England. I was passing by on my way home and thought to drop it off.”

  I examined the thick envelope and thanked him profusely, even as a sense of dread swept over me. It was addressed to me in a script I didn’t recognize. The return address was a law firm in London. It had to be from Charles’s solicitors. I couldn’t bring myself to break the seal. What does he want now? Why can’t he just leave me alone?

  I tossed the packet onto the dining table and went outside. Standing by Sarah’s flower garden, I let the warm afternoon sunshine wash over me and took a moment to calm myself, feeling the gentle caress of the warm breeze in my hair, hearing the languid droning of a passing bumblebee, smelling Earth’s pungent aromas, released from deep within her bosom. I breathed slowly and evenly.

  The sound of a crying baby pulled me from my musings. Sarah and Jacob must be home. I gingerly picked up the letter and went to find Sarah. She was curled up in an old brown velvet chair, rocking her child on her lap. She smiled a warm greeting, excitement shining in her eyes.

  “A letter from John?” she said softly, not wanting to unsettle her calming baby.

  I shook my head. “No, it’s something else.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s from some law firm in London. You read it, please—read it out loud to me. I think it’s from Charles.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow and pursed her mouth. “Me? I’m painfully slow—not much of a reader. You’ll be too impatient.”

  “No, no, slow is just what I want,” I insisted. “Skip the preamble and just read the heart of the letter. Find out what he wants from me now.”

  She nodded, but her lower lip protruded and her brow wrinkled as she accepted the envelope. She broke the seal and took a moment to find the right place to start reading out loud.

  No doubt you’ve heard from John Crossman’s brother, Andrew, by now, so I won’t repeat the sad details. We understand there have been no arrests, but the police informed me that they are investigating an extreme political group who challenged John’s beliefs. Suffice it to say that the beating Reverend Crossman endured left him non compos mentis, not mentally competent.

  Andrew Crossman has requested that our law firm contact John’s business and personal associates to inform them that we will be taking over all John’s private matters while he is incapacitated. Should John ever regain his metal capacity, we will relinquish our duty to him at that time. In the meantime, please address any future correspondence relating to John Crossman care of the undersigned.

  Sarah’s face flushed and she stopped reading. My heart stopped for a moment, and I felt as though I had stepped outside myself. Sarah’s voice seemed far away, and I could barely comprehend what she was saying. Then the reality of the news began to sink in. Poor John. He had been so full of life and promise. To have endured a beating so bad that it left him unable to function. It was all too awful to contemplate.

  Sarah tried to comfort me, but I gently told her that I needed to be alone. I had no appetite for dinner, so I headed up to my room, where I flopped on the bed and cried into my pillow. When I calmed and took a moment to reflect, I thought how John and I hadn’t even had a chance to explore our relationship, to discover our feelings for each other. But deep down, I already knew the truth. I had loved John from the first time we met. And now he was gone from me forever.

  At four in the morning, I rose, lit a candle, and wrote a letter to John’s brother, Andrew. I sent him and his family my condolences and my fervent hope that in spite of John’s distressing injuries, he was in fact making a full recovery. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was just wishful thinking, something one tells the family of the grievously injured in the face of a dire prognosis, but I expressed the sentiments anyway, clinging to a slender thread of hope.

  Chapter Forty-four

  “I’ve got a fitting at the dressmaker in Wells; it’s two hours away and Father is busy with customers,” Sarah said. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind watching Jacob. The wedding’s just two weeks off.”

  “Of course,” I said. I was letting myself get swept up in the wedding preparations. Being busy was a tonic for me, and, while still grieving, I was determined not to let my personal misery ruin Sarah and Louis’s special day. But more than that, Sarah needed my help. Watching Jacob was at the top of her list, since at just over a year old, he was beginning to feel the need to explore his world, taking his first tentative walking adventures.

  Mr. Roy had created a carrier for Jacob out of a miner’s rucksack. I strapped it to my back, so that we could walk to the stagecoach to wave goodbye. I knew the adventure would help to calm his fussing over Sarah’s leaving. He was just tall enough to see over my shoulders, and the rucksack afforded him a princely view of all he surveyed.

  He was getting almost too big and heavy for the carrier. Children grow so fast, I thought with some regret. I’d dearly miss not seeing him regularly once I moved to my ranch. I had held him almost every day over the past year, and his gurgling laugh had become one of my favourite sounds. My heart had been broken and scarred in many ways, but the memory of his birth always flooded me with warmth.

  On the way back, we sauntered lazily along, enjoying the warm September day. By the time we reached home, his eyes were drooping, and we were both ready for a midday snooze, me on my bed and Jacob in his little crib next to me. I thre
w a shawl over myself and drifted off into a deep slumber.

  I didn’t know how much time had passed, but I awoke with a start at the high-pitched clang of the Theatre Royal’s bell. Fire! My heart leapt to life, thumping in my chest. Jumping to my feet, I ran to the window and saw men in the back lane drop what they were doing and run in the direction of the fire hall.

  Mr. Roy called upstairs to me. “Pack a bag, Miss Charlotte, for you and Jacob, just in case,” he said. “I’ll be back to check on you if things get bad.” Then I heard the sharp bang of the front door of the Wake Up Jake, and in less than a minute, I caught a glimpse of him racing up the street through a gap in the buildings.

  Miraculously the commotion had not woken Jacob. I went to the small attic window and leaned out. While I had been asleep, the weather had changed. A hot, dry wind had picked up, and with it came a restless feel to the air—edgy, unstable, with sudden wind gusts swirling dust and grit. I didn’t smell a fire, but one slender plume of white smoke hung in the air about two blocks away. I knew that with the wind, things could move fast.

  I quickly but quietly sorted Jacob’s things, filling a satchel with them, then went to Sarah’s room and filled the bag with things I knew she’d want saved—her wedding shoes, gloves, and the red silk corsage she had made for Louis. Then I checked the window once more.

  The smoke had ceased to be a slender plume. It had turned black and thickened, billowing and rising to higher and higher heights. The breeze stiffened, blowing the unmistakable smell of burning wood into the courtyard below and then up to my room.

  I grabbed the bag and took it outside, hiding it in Sarah’s garden. I had just started back upstairs when a loud explosion stopped me in my tracks. Jacob awoke with a cry, and I raced up the attic stairs. My chest heaving, I scanned the horizon once more. A great, thick black cloud of smoke blocked much of my view. I took a reflexive step backwards as red fingers of flames sliced skywards, dissecting the angry cloud. It was time to go. I filled another bag with my few valuables and precious papers—the deed to my property, my bankbook, my saved letters—and John’s vaccination equipment. I threw Hari’s and my jewellery boxes in as well. Then went to Jacob.