Jacob was fussy, protesting my attempts to dress him. He kicked his legs as I struggled to pin his fresh nappy, hitting my hand and plunging the pin painfully deep into my thumb. I sucked the oozing wound to stop the bleeding and tried to push away my growing anxiety. I talked to myself to settle my unease. There’s plenty of time—no need to panic. Mr. Roy will be here to help us soon. But my fingers became thick and sloppy, struggling to slide buttons through holes and attach hooks to eyes.
I reached for Jacob’s sweater, then thought better of it. He was dressed well enough to ward off any chill, and I didn’t want to take any more time. A quick check out the open window told me that the building on the far corner of our block was on fire. Oh my God. Florence’s theatre must have gone up. Sharp hissing and crackling noises filled the air as grey and black bits of ash floated through the open window. I grabbed my bag in one hand and scooped Jacob up with the other and made for the door, only to stop at the silhouette of a tall, slim man, dressed in all black.
“Oh my goodness, Mr. Harris, you gave me a nasty fright!” I held Jacob tight. “Are you helping with the evacuation? We’re ready to go.”
He didn’t move.
I stepped towards him and tried to hand him my bag. “Perhaps you can carry this? I have Jacob here.”
“Do you recall that day when you saw me in the mail office?” He spoke slowly, unfazed by the disaster around us. “I got a letter from Victoria, and you asked me if it was from family.”
Sudden loud popping noises in the back lane made me jump, and Jacob cried, a series of long, hiccupping howls. I had to shout. “This is no time for idle chat. We can talk about it once we’re outside.”
“No,” he said. “We’ll talk now.”
I swallowed hard, tasting a fine film of ash in my mouth. “I’m sorry if I offended you by prying into your business, but this is not the time or place for an apology. I’m getting out of here.” I advanced towards him, ready to push past him and down the stairs, but he held up his hands.
“Stop, there’s time. The fire’s a ways away yet.”
“Time for what?” I asked, a shiver of dread running down my spine.
“I’m a man for private hire—out of San Francisco. Folks want me to right wrongs they’ve suffered, real or imagined.” He smiled that mocking smile of his. “I have a client who paid me to track you down.”
Charles. Of course. “My former brother-in-law, Charles, has retained you to get the money, is that it?” I laid Jacob down on the bed and fished my jewellery box out of the bag. I flipped open the lid. “You see? It’s empty. I spent it. It was mine to spend anyway. Tell Charles you tried.” I could see smoke rising from the wood-shingled roof of the building two doors over. “For heaven’s sake, the fire is getting very close. Can we please just leave?”
“Your brother-in-law is not my client. George Chalmers is. I’m here to send you a message. You know, Miss Charlotte, this fire’s a gift, it helps me make my point so well.”
I heard a soft thud and turned to see that Jacob had rolled off the bed and was standing unsteadily on his legs. He started a wobbly walk towards me, and to Jack.
I ran my hands along the bottom of the jewellery box until my fingers found the latch. I pressed it and felt cold, hard gunmetal drop neatly into my hand. I levelled the revolver on Jack.
“Step away from the door or I’ll shoot,” I said, my voice shaking.
Jack almost stumbled over himself backing towards the door.
I held the gun in my damp, tremulous grip and took aim at his chest, hoping he would simply flee, and the gun exploded.
Jack flinched as if punched in the stomach, and we both stood perfectly still, watching a dark red stain grow on his shirt until he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
The hair trigger, I remembered. I killed him.
Jacob’s hysterical cries made me focus. I had to get moving. I swept him up in my arms, grabbed my bag, then hurried to the door, avoiding Jack’s blank eyes. Stepping over him, I pulled on the door, but the body blocked it from opening wide enough for me to get through. I tried again, pulling with all my might, but it was not enough.
I surveyed the room. The carrier. I quickly strapped Jacob into it so he couldn’t move, then laid him on the bed. I took hold of Jack’s fine leather boots and dragged him, but his dead-weight was such that he moved only a few inches. Hitching up my skirts, I straddled his waist and took hold of his suspenders, heaving the top half of his body away from the door. The door finally swung open. I moved to grab Jacob and flee, but something grasped my ankle, sharply twisting and tripping me, and I sprawled on the ground. Jack hovered over me, blood dripping from his shirt, and he reached for my throat, squeezing. I clawed at his hands, fighting for breath, but the pain in my neck was excruciating, and I felt as though I was drowning.
Blackness hovered, circling the edges of my eyes, and I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears as if my eardrums might burst. I could taste blood. Through it all, I heard Jacob crying.
I had to save him. With my last bit of strength, I kicked both feet wildly in all directions until I connected with something and a new shriek filled my ears. Suddenly, air gushed into my lungs. Taking great long, jagged drags of air, I struggled to my knees and drew Jacob to me, half sliding, half dragging us both across the floor, away from Jack, who lay inert by the door.
Behind him was an even more horrifying scene. Sheets of flames shot up the stairwell. Our only avenue of escape was gone. There was a sharp snap of shattering glass from the drawing room two floors below. Thick, choking smoke was funnelling up the attic stairs.
With Jacob in my arms, I ran to the window. Thank God. Below, Mr. Roy was climbing the wooden ladder affixed to the wall. The ladder didn’t reach all the way to attic, so I leaned out the window and passed Jacob to the strong arms of his grandfather. The attic’s temperature was becoming unbearable. A quick glance over my shoulder told me that flickering tongues of flame were seeping into my room. I had mere seconds until the room would be enveloped.
I tossed my bag out below, then clambered onto the windowsill. I crouched there for a brief second, facing into the room, before I gripped the edge tightly with my fingers and dropped down. My fingertips burned on the ledge as I desperately sought the top rung of the ladder with my feet before my fingers failed me. And then I felt Mr. Roy guiding my toes into position. As I let my feet take my weight, I let go of the sill with one hand and searched for something to grasp with my fingers. By holding on to bits of wooden siding that had weathered and warped, I managed to inch my feet one rung lower on the ladder.
Another explosion rocked the Wake Up Jake, and I looked up and watched in horror as flaming window curtains billowed silently towards me before wrapping themselves around my head. Needles of pain sliced my skin. I swiped desperately at my face as I lost my balance and slipped from the ladder, falling backwards, and everything went black.
When I opened my eyes, I was in a makeshift hospital tent. Both my left arm and right leg were in a brace, and there was some sort of heavy bandage on one side of my face. I became aware of dulled pain, and my entire body ached. There was a gurgling noise to my right, and I slowly shifted my head. It was Jacob, laughing and giggling in Sarah’s arms, holding out his fingers to me. Sarah touched my hand lightly, and I heard her sniff.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Jacob was safe. I smiled and let myself drift away.
Chapter Forty-five
Six weeks after the fire, Barkerville looked a little more like itself. Over ninety buildings had been rebuilt, including the Wake Up Jake, which Mr. Roy had worked tirelessly for four weeks to erect, taking the opportunity to modernize the restaurant with running water and gas lights. The town was bigger and better, and the main street was wider and straighter. St. Saviour’s Church replaced the old church and was a much more elegant place of worship, with a steepled roof, lancet windows, and board-and-batten walls. It was the perfect place for Sarah and Louis’s wedding, which had been p
ostponed until after the reconstruction.
“Hold still,” I said to Sarah as I pinned a wreath of white silk roses in her long gleaming hair. Sarah and I were getting ready in a small room at the back of the church.
“I’m trying to, but I’m just so nervous.” Sarah was shivering with pent-up emotion.
The fire and its aftermath had left me emotionally fragile, but today I felt nothing but joy at Sarah’s happiness. A warm glow pulsed from my heart like gentle waves lapping a shoreline. “You are the most beautiful bride this town has ever seen,” I said.
“Oh go on, and you are the most beautiful maid of honour.”
I knew it was meant as a compliment, but my hand automatically went to the angry red scar on my cheek. I wished there was some powder or hair arrangement that could cover it. All I could do was hope it would fade in time. The worst of my injuries had healed fairly well. The broken arm had set perfectly, but the leg had not yet, leaving me with a limp. The emotional scars would take longer.
I had told no one of Jack’s death and my role in it. It was a secret I would take to the grave. The Colonist reported that a Mr. Jack Harris of San Francisco was missing and presumed to have been caught up in the Barkerville firestorm. No body had been found in the wreckage, though. I wondered what George thought happened to Jack, but I would never know. According to the Colonist, he returned to England with Lady Persephone and Sir Richard a week after the fire.
I’d also read that the long-discussed merger between the colony of Vancouver Island and the colony of British Columbia had been announced, solidifying British rule. What that would lead to, I had no notion, but what did delight me was the news that Governor James Douglas was stepping down and Queen Victoria was to knight him. I thought of Miss Hardcastle in the tearoom, obliged to drop a curtsey to the new Lady Douglas, and I smiled.
I turned my attention back to Sarah, sweeping my hand over her silk dress. Kwong Lee had received a wonderful shipment of fabrics from China and offered Sarah first choice for her wedding.
“This is such a perfect dress for you, white like Queen Victoria’s wedding gown,” I said. “The silk makes it so special.”
Sarah’s smile was radiant as she admired herself in the mirror.
There was a knock on the door, and Florence poked her head in. “Everyone decent?” She was carrying a bouquet of dried roses. The real ones were long gone at this time of year.
“Oh, Sarah, you are stunning,” she said, handing her the flowers.
“Thank you.” Admiring the roses, Sarah said, “This is kind of you. I know the rebuilding has kept you very busy.”
“Thanks to your father and his dear friends, the theatre is largely finished. We’ll be opening with Dickens’s A Christmas Carol on December first.”
“How lovely,” I said, remembering my run-in with that very author. “I’ll look forward to seeing it.”
When we heard the first stirrings of the wedding march—played on the only two musical instruments left in town after the fire, a pair of fiddles—Florence excused herself and joined the rest of the wedding guests. Sarah and I took a moment and stood facing each other.
“Thank you for being my maid of honour. You’re the best friend I could have ever hoped for,” she said.
“And you, mine,” I answered. I thought over the events of the past year and all that Sarah had meant to me. I didn’t think I would have survived those first days after Hari’s death without her. She had been there for me with gentle encouragement and understanding. Then she had welcomed me into the bosom of her family here in Barkerville and had helped me build a new life. I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes and saw Sarah’s well up too.
“Charlotte, I can never thank you enough for saving Jacob, not once but twice. I would be lost without him. I owe you so much. When you move to your ranch, you must remember to come and visit us as much as you can. You must never feel alone, because you will always be in my heart.” She paused. “Do you still have any regrets, about coming here? About John?”
“I have absolutely no regrets about leaving England and coming to Barkerville,” I said. “And John? I’ve made my peace with it. I’ve let it go. What about you? Any regrets?”
“Not a single one. Coming here is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
An understanding passed between us. We knew we would always have each other no matter what the future brought.
I squeezed her hand. “Let’s go find your father and Jacob.”
They were waiting for us outside the door. When he saw his daughter, Mr. Roy looked proud enough to burst. Sarah took her father’s arm and began to walk down the aisle. I gathered up Jacob in my arms and followed behind. At the altar, a nervous-looking Louis waited, but the moment he looked up and saw Sarah smile his nerves seemed to melt away. They gazed at each other with such love and I felt an ache in my heart at the thought that I would never see John waiting for me in such a place, and an ache for all that I had lost. I cuddled Jacob closer to me and scanned the faces in the crowd and reminded myself of how much I had gained. I was a pebble tossed upon a foreign shore, but I had persevered and found the life I wanted, a future of my own choosing.
Epilogue
October 30, 1864
Sarah’s first wedding anniversary had been an excuse for a wonderful party, but I was happy to return to my ranch. It was a grey day in Barkerville, with the sun doing its best to peek through the clouds, and I hurried as fast as my limp would allow towards the BC Express office with my travel satchel in hand. I took the back route up the laneway just as the sun finally burst forth and flooded this little part of the world with cheerful, warming sunshine.
My route took me past the share exchange hut where a crowd had gathered. Men were shouting and waving their hands in the air. The shrill voice of the clerk stopped me cold. “Bids, gentlemen, one at a time, please—and who is offering to sell Horsefly Creek shares? Sellers, speak up!”
Had I heard him correctly? Was this frenzy over buying shares of Horsefly Creek? I still possessed ten shares, and if they were worth more than pennies now, I might as well sell them. I had never removed them from my purse, the one I was carrying now. I searched its bottom and came up with a frayed, crumpled piece of paper. I pushed my way into the crowd.
I called to the clerk and tried to catch his eye, but he ignored me. Taking my handkerchief from my purse, I waved it in the air and called to him, but to no avail. I was clearly invisible to these men. With a smile, I remembered Alice forcing her way into the ticket booth and grabbing the clerk by the collar. I needed to be a little more like her now. I pressed my way to the front until I was standing next to the clerk. He continued to ignore me. I slowly but deliberately stood on his foot.
He flinched and turned to me. “Madam, you are standing on my foot, and let me assure you, you are not a featherweight.”
“I beg your pardon, but I saw no other way to get your notice. I have ten shares of Horsefly Creek, and I wish to sell them to the highest bidder as soon as possible.”
His bushy eyebrows shot up and he called to the crowd, “Gentlemen, the lady here has ten shares. What am I bid?”
“Three!” someone shouted from the back.
“Four!” came another voice.
I did the math; forty dollars would be a wonderful windfall. I thought of the new smallpox vaccination supplies I could buy with the money.
“Gentlemen,” the clerk said, “I hear four hundred dollars. Is there a higher bid?”
I gasped. Four hundred. Did I hear him right?
“Four fifty!”
“Five!”
“Anyone else?” the clerk asked. There was silence. “Sold! Ten shares of Horsefly Creek for five hundred US dollars a share. Buyer and seller see the clerk inside.”
Dazed, I entered the hut where a second clerk bade me sit next to him and sign the back of the certificate. Then he picked up the pile of United States dollars beside him and began counting. I held my breath as he counted, still not quit
e believing it.
“Why does everyone want these shares all of a sudden?” I asked.
“Horsefly Creek hit a big vein and they don’t have a lot of shares in the public domain, miss,” he answered, unfazed. He kept counting. “Five thousand US dollars minus our five percent commission.” He pushed a note over to me. “Sign here.”
I assumed it was a receipt for the money, but I couldn’t focus well enough to read and, in fact, could barely produce a shaky signature on the note. A line had formed behind me, and the clerk asked me to move along, so I gathered up the bank notes. I pushed them into my purse, but there were so many, I struggled to close the clasp.
I wandered onwards in a fog, but once I settled in the stagecoach heading south, I started to think about what I would do with the money. I could use some to build a clinic, I realized. I could finally provide medical care, including vaccinations, to those who lived in these northern reaches, to anyone who needed medicine. I knew, in a way, that I was too late. That smallpox had ravaged the Native population already. But if I could give back to the first peoples of this land, even in a small way, I wanted to do it. After all, my windfall was a result of the harm my people had done to the land and its occupants.
I thought of John. If I was never to see him again, I wanted to remember the love we shared and to honour him and his chosen calling. I would use part of the money to build a church that opened its doors to all. I had witnessed much lawlessness and had even killed a man myself. It had been an accident, but I needed a place of solace to come to terms with my deed. Others might yearn for a similar sanctuary to find comfort. The rest of the funds I would tuck away as insurance against some future need.
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