by Sarah Lark
Fleur did not really know what she meant by the word, but she was certain that Ruben had never set foot in this establishment. She nevertheless gave Daphne his name. She thought about it for a long time and finally shook her head.
“Never heard of him. And I have a good memory for names. So I guess your dear heart hasn’t made his fortune yet.”
Fleur nodded. “If he had made his fortune, he would already have come for me by now,” she said, full of conviction. “But now I need to go; it will be getting dark soon. Where did you say these camps were?”
Daphne sighed. “I can’t send you there, girl, not in good conscience and certainly not at night. I guarantee that you wouldn’t emerge intact. So there’s nothing left for me to do but rent you a room. For the whole night.”
“But I…I don’t want…” Fleur did not know how she was supposed to get out of this. On the other hand, there hardly seemed to be an alternative.
“Child, the rooms have doors, and the doors have locks. You can have room one. That normally belongs to the twins, and they rarely have customers. Come along, I’ll show you. The dog…” she indicated Gracie, who was lying in front of Fleur and looking up at her with her adoring collie gaze, “you can take with you,” she added when Fleurette hesitated. Then they climbed the stairs.
Fleurette followed nervously, but to her relief the second floor of Daphne’s Hotel more closely resembled the White Hart in Christchurch than some Sodom or Gomorrah. Another blonde woman—who looked astoundingly similar to the girl downstairs—was polishing the floor. She greeted them in surprise as Daphne led her guest past her.
Daphne smiled at her. “This is Miss…what’s your name again?” she inquired. “I’m going to have to get a hold of some proper registration forms if I’m going to start renting these rooms out for more than an hour!” She winked.
Fleurette’s thoughts raced. Surely it wouldn’t be a good idea to use her real name. “Fleurette,” she finally replied. “Fleur McKenzie.”
“Related by blood or marriage to a certain James?” Daphne asked. “He’s also supposed to have a dog like that.”
Fleur reddened once more. “Um…not that I’m aware of…” she stammered.
“They caught him, by the way, the poor fellow. And that Sideblossom from Lionel Station wanted to hang him,” Daphne explained, but then remembered her introductions. “You heard her, Mary—Fleur McKenzie. She’s rented one of our rooms.”
“For…the whole night?” Mary asked as well.
Daphne sighed. “The whole night, Mary. We’re becoming an honest establishment. So, here’s room one. Come in, girl!”
She opened the room, and Fleurette entered an astonishingly respectable little room. The furnishings were simple, roughly hewn from native wood, the bed wide and impeccably made. The establishment radiated nothing but cleanliness and order. Fleur resolved to think about nothing else.
“It’s lovely!” she said and really meant it. “Thank you, miss…or mistress…?”
Daphne shook her head. “Miss. In my line of work one rarely becomes an honest woman. Though judging from all my experiences with men—and there have been many, dear—I haven’t missed anything worth mentioning. Well, I’ll leave you alone now, so you can freshen up. Mary or Laurie will bring you water to wash up straightaway.” She was going to shut the door, but Fleur stopped her.
“Yes…no…I have to see to my horse first. Where did you say the rental stables are? And where can I perhaps find out something…about my fiancé?”
“The rental stables are around the corner,” Daphne informed her. “You can ask there, but I can hardly imagine old Ron knows anything. He is not exactly the brightest fellow, never pays attention to a client, his horse maybe, at most. Maybe Ethan would know something. He’s the postman. He also runs the general store and the telegraph office. You can’t miss him, just across the way. But hurry—Ethan is just about to close. He’s always the first one in the pub.”
Fleurette thanked Daphne again and followed her down the steps. She wanted to be done quickly too. She wanted to barricade herself in her room once business in the pub got underway.
The general store was easy to find. Ethan, a scrawny, bald, middle-aged man was just putting the display goods away in order to close.
“Yes, I know all the gold prospectors,” he responded to Fleurette’s initial question. “After all, I take the post to them. The address usually doesn’t say anything more than ‘John Smith, Queenstown.’ Then they have to pick it up here, though there’s a couple of boys that fight over the John Smith letters.”
“My friend’s name is Ruben O’Keefe,” Fleur explained eagerly, though her brain was already telling her this was a dead end. If what Ethan said was true, her letters must have ended up here. And apparently, no one had picked them up.
The postman thought about it for a while. “No, miss, I’m sorry. I know the name—letters come for him all the time. They’re all lying right here. But the man himself…”
“Maybe he’s been using a different name!” The thought brought Fleur relief. “What about Davenport? Ruben Davenport?”
“I have three Davenports,” he said casually. “But no Rubens.”
Bitterly disappointed, Fleur started to leave, but then decided to give one last try. “Maybe you remember what he looks like. A tall, thin man…well, more a boy. He’s eighteen. With gray eyes a bit like the sky before it rains. And dark brown hair, tousled, with a streak of chestnut red…he can never comb it right.” She smiled dreamily as she described him, but the postman’s expression sobered her up again.
“Don’t know him. What about you, Ron? Any idea?” Ethan turned to a short, heavyset man who had just entered and now leaned expectantly on the counter.
The heavy man shrugged. “What sort of mule did he have?”
Fleurette remembered that Daphne had called the rental stables’ owner Ron, and found renewed hope.
“He has a horse. A little mare, very solidly built, like mine over there.” She gestured out the open window to Niniane, who was still standing in front of the hotel. “Only smaller, and a sorrel. Her name is Minette.”
Ron nodded thoughtfully. “Nice horse!” he declared, though it wasn’t clear whether he meant Niniane or Minette. Fleurette could hardly stand still she was so impatient.
“Sounds like little Rube Kays. The one who has that funny claim over by the Shotover River. You know Stue. He’s the one—”
“The fellow who always swears my tools aren’t worth anything! Oh yes, I remember that one. And the other one too, though he didn’t say much. That’s right; they have a horse like that.” He turned to Fleur. “It’s too late to ride there tonight, lady. That’s at least two hours into the mountains.”
“But will he be happy to see you?” Ron asked pessimistically. “It’s not my place to say, but if a fellow goes to the trouble of changing his name and hiding in the farthest corner of Otago to get away from you…”
Fleurette began to glow red but was too happy about her discovery to be angry.
“He’ll definitely be happy to see me,” she assured him. “But it’s true that it’s too late for me to ride out today. Can I leave my horse with you, mister…sir?”
Fleur spent an astoundingly peaceful night in her room at Daphne’s. True, she could hear someone playing the piano below, and yes, there was dancing in the pub—and there was a lively coming and going in the hall until about midnight—but she herself remained unmolested and eventually fell into a deep sleep. She woke up early, not particularly surprised that no one else seemed to be up yet. She was surprised, however, to find one of the blonde girls waiting for her downstairs.
“I’m supposed to make breakfast for you, Miss McKenzie,” she said dutifully. “Daphne says you have a long ride up the Shotover ahead of you to meet your fiancé. Laurie and I think that’s very romantic!”
So this was Mary. Fleur thanked her for the coffee, the toast, and the eggs and did not feel bothered when Mary sat down next
to her confidingly—after she had served Gracie a little bowl of leftover meat. “Sweet dog, miss. I knew one like that once. But it was a long time ago.” Mary’s face looked almost wistful. The young woman did not look at all how Fleur pictured a whore.
“We used to always think we’d find a nice boy too,” Mary chatted on, petting Gracie. “But the stupid fact of the matter is that a man can’t marry two women. And we don’t want to separate. We need to find twins.”
Fleurette laughed. “I thought in your line of work, people didn’t marry,” she repeated Daphne’s remark from the day before.
Mary looked at her very seriously with her round blue eyes. “But that isn’t our line of work, miss. We’re good girls; everyone knows that. We dance a bit is all. But we don’t do anything dirty. Well, nothing really dirty. Nothing with men.”
Fleurette was astonished. Could an establishment as small as Daphne’s really afford to keep two girls in the kitchen?
“We also clean for Mr. Ethan and at the barber’s, Mr. Fox’s, to earn our keep. But always honest work; Daphne sees to that. If someone tries to touch us, she gives them trouble. Real trouble!” Mary’s child’s eyes took on a misty look. She really seemed to be a bit slow. Was that why Daphne took care of the girls? But now she had to be on her way.
Mary waved dismissively when she wanted to pay for the room. “You can sort that out with Daphne when you come back by. In case things don’t work out with…with your friend.”
Fleurette nodded gratefully and smiled to herself. Evidently, she was already the talk of Queenstown. The community did not seem very optimistic about her romantic endeavors. But Fleurette was happy as she rode south out of town along the lake and then turned westward up the broad river. She did not pass any gold-mining camps along the way. Those lay on old sheep farmland, and most of them were closer to Queenstown than Ruben’s claim. The men had built up colonies of barracks there, though in Mary’s eyes they were more like new renditions of Sodom and Gomorrah. The young woman had elaborated on that in vivid detail; the girl evidently knew her Bible. Fleur was happy not to have to look for Ruben among this horde of rough men. She directed Niniane along the riverbank, joyful in the clear though rather cold air. In late summer, it was still warm in the Canterbury Plains, but this region lay higher, and the trees along the way offered a foretaste of the autumnal play of colors that could be expected. In a few weeks, the lupines would bloom.
Fleur nevertheless found it strange that the region was so devoid of people. If one could set down claims here, then it really should have been crawling with prospectors.
Ethan the postman kept precise records of each individual claim’s position and had given her a detailed description of Ruben and Stue’s claim. It would not have been all that difficult to find anyway. The two men were camped along the river, and both Gracie and Niniane became aware of them before Fleur did. Niniane’s ears stood on end and she let out a deafening whinny—which was immediately returned. Gracie then caught wind of Ruben and darted off to greet him.
Fleur saw Minette first. The mare stood tied next to a mule off to the side and looked over at her, excited. Closer to the river Fleur could make out a campfire as well as a primitive tent. Too close to the river, the thought shot through her head. If the Shotover suddenly swelled—which often happened with rivers fed by mountain streams—it would carry the camp off.
“Minnie!” Fleurette called to her mare, and Minette answered with a deep, happy neigh. Niniane hurried over to her. Fleur slipped down from her saddle in order to embrace her horse. But where was Ruben? From the sparse woods just behind the camp she heard the sound of sawing and hammer blows—which suddenly went still. Fleurette smiled. Gracie must have found Ruben.
Indeed they came running out of the woods. To Fleurette, the whole thing seemed like a dream come true. Ruben was there; she had found him! At first glance he looked good. His narrow face was tanned, and his eyes lit up like they always did when he saw her. But when she put her arms around him, she could feel his ribs; he was horribly thin. His features were marked by mental and physical exhaustion too. Ruben clearly still had no gift for manual labor.
“Fleur, Fleur! What are you doing here? How did you find me? Did you lose patience and run away? How terrible of you, Fleurette!” He laughed.
“I thought I’d take fortune-hunting into my own hands,” Fleur replied, pulling out her father’s purse from the pocket of her riding dress. “Look, you don’t need to look for gold anymore. But that’s not why I ran away…I…”
Ruben ignored the pouch, taking her hand instead. “Tell me later. First let me show you our camp. It’s beautiful here, much better than the awful sheep farm where we were housed at first.”
He pulled her along with him in the direction of the woods, but Fleur shook her head.
“We have to tie up the horse first, Ruben! How did you even manage not to lose Minette in all these months?”
Ruben grinned. “She was careful not to lose me. That was her assignment, remember? You told her to watch out for me!” He petted Gracie, who hung around him whining.
When Niniane finally stood reliably secured next to Minette and the mule, Fleurette followed an excited Ruben through the camp.
“This is where we sleep…nothing grand, but it’s clean. You have no idea what it was like on the farm…and here’s the stream. That’s where the gold flows!” He pointed to a narrow but lively little stream flowing into the Shotover.
“Where do you see it?” Fleur inquired.
“You don’t see it; you feel it,” Ruben instructed her. “You have to pan for it. I’ll show you how it works in a minute. But we’re building a sluice as we speak. Here, over here, this is Stue.”
Ruben’s companion had left where he was working and approached the two of them. Fleurette liked him from the start. He was a muscular, light-blond giant with a wide, friendly face and laughing blue eyes.
“Stuart Peters, at your service, madam!” He held a powerful paw out to Fleurette, which her delicate hand completely disappeared into. “If I may say so, you’re just as pretty as Ruben said.”
“You’re a flatterer, Mr. Peters!” Fleurette said, laughing, and cast a glance at the structure Stue had just been working on. It consisted of a wooden sluice box that was lowered on posts and fed by a little waterfall.
“That’s a gold sluice,” Ruben explained enthusiastically. “You fill it with soil, then let water flow through. It washes out the sand, and the gold gets stuck here in the gutter.”
“Groove,” Stuart corrected him.
Fleurette was impressed. “You know something about gold prospecting, Mr. Peters?” she asked.
“Stue. Just call me Stue. Well, really I’m a blacksmith,” Stuart admitted. “But I’ve helped build something like this before. It’s really very simple, though the old miners down there want to make a science out of it. On account of the stream’s speed and all.”
“But that’s nonsense,” Ruben agreed with him. “If something is heavier than sand, it will take longer to wash out; that’s just logical. Regardless of how fast the water flows. So the gold has to remain in here.”
Fleurette did not agree. Given the rapid flow of the stream, the smaller grains of gold would be flooded out. But, of course, it depended on what size nuggets the boys were after. Maybe you could manage to sieve out the larger nuggets with this. So she nodded politely and followed the two of them back to camp. Stue and Ruben quickly agreed to take a break. Shortly thereafter, coffee was brewing in a primitive contraption over the fire. Fleurette took stock of the prospectors’ meager assortment of cookware. There was only a pot and two plates, and she had to share a coffee mug with Ruben. It did not look like a successful gold-mining operation.
“Well, we’re just getting started,” Ruben said defensively when Fleur made a cautious remark to this effect. “We just laid out the claim two weeks ago and are building our first sluice box.”
“Which would be going a lot quicker if Ethan, that
highway robber in Queenstown, would sell us something other than bottom-of-the-barrel tools!” Stuart cursed. “Seriously, Fleur, we’ve worn out three saw blades in two days. And yesterday a shovel got bent out of shape. A shovel! Those things normally last your whole life. I have to trade out the shaft every other day, and it never quite fits into the shovel head. I don’t know where Ethan gets this stuff, but it’s expensive and doesn’t work.”
“But our claim is pretty, don’t you think?” Ruben asked and looked wistfully at the banks of their stream. Fleur had to agree. But she would have found it prettier if she had also seen gold.
“Who…um, advised you to make this claim?” she inquired cautiously. “I mean, it looks like you’re all alone here. Was it some sort of secret tip?”
“It was intuition,” Stuart declared proudly. “We saw this place and—bingo! This is our claim. We’ll make our fortune here.”
Fleurette frowned. “You mean…no one has found any gold in this area yet?”
“Not much,” admitted Ruben. “But no one has looked either.”
The two boys looked at her, expecting praise. Fleur forced a smile and decided to take matters into her own hands.
“Have you at least tried panning for gold yet?” she asked. “In the stream, I mean. Didn’t you want to show me how that works?”
Ruben and Stuart nodded simultaneously. “We’ve found a little bit that way,” they said, reaching for a gold pan.
“We’ll show you how to do it and then you can pan a little while we continue working on the sluice box,” Ruben suggested. “No doubt you’ll bring us luck!”
Since Fleurette surely did not need two teachers and Stuart wanted to give the two of them a chance to be alone, Ruben’s companion withdrew upstream. Over the next few hours, they did not hear a word from him—other than the occasional curse whenever another tool broke.
Fleurette and Ruben used their first moment of seclusion to properly greet each other. They had to reestablish how sweet their kisses tasted and how naturally their bodies responded to one another.
