Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  “Word’s spreading,” Angus said.

  She smiled. “I developed the batch I took over the weekend. Most satisfactory. I haven’t heard from Inspector McKnight about my request, but seeing as to how I now have his acquaintance, we’re going to call on his office this afternoon. I’m going upstairs to change. If you like, you can have a look at the pictures drying in the darkroom. Don’t touch anything.”

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  Miss Jennings had a small room built against one wall of her studio. The door was open now, and the kerosene lamp lit. Angus slipped in. A red cloth was draped over the small window, casting the room in an eerie red glow. A drying rack held six glass plates, and when Angus bent to look he could see the image in reverse. Black was white and white was black. Paper was laid on the countertop, the photographs drying, a roll of blotting paper to one side. He studied the pictures. He recognized Betsy from the dance hall, posing in her bloomers and shift, peeking coyly from behind an opened fan. Rather, she was trying to peek coyly. Even Angus, young as he was, knew there was nothing at all alluring about the sturdy farm girl.

  Two men posed stiffly, arms straight at their sides, hats equally straight on their heads, staring at the camera, eyes held wide open, expressions frozen. Angus leaned closer and he fancied he could see defeat in their faces. The brows were heavy, skin lined, eyes empty. What an amazing thing this photography was! It showed people as they were, not as they wanted to be, which is what you saw in paintings.

  He smelled chemicals, heard fabric rustle, and turned to see Miss Jennings standing in the open door. “Like them?” she asked. Her head was tilted to one side as she also studied the pictures.

  “Yes.” No further words were needed.

  “I’m anxious to do your mother.”

  Angus shook his head. “She won’t agree.”

  “How about if you propose a portrait of the both of you? A memory of your youth. She won’t be able to resist that.”

  Angus hesitated, and Miss Jennings laughed. “Never mind. I don’t want to pressure you into doing anything you’d rather not. Plenty of other subjects in this town.”

  She turned at a knock. The door to the street opened. “Put out that lamp, will you, Angus? Mr. Donohue, what a pleasant surprise.”

  The American newspaperman held his hat in his hand. “I was passing and thought I’d drop in. Oh, Angus, you’re here.”

  “Yup,” Angus said, smiling.

  Miss Jennings gathered up her hat and gloves. “We’re off to the fort to pay a call on Inspector McKnight. Why don’t you come with us, Graham?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Angus, I’ve changed my mind. Rather than try to make an appointment to photograph the police, I’m going to take the camera with me. Present them with a fait accompli, so to speak. Bring it, will you.”

  Angus gathered up the camera case. Before they could leave, the door opened once again. This time it was the Russian count. He doffed his hat and bowed stiffly to Miss Jennings. “I hope I am not interrupting anything of importance.”

  “We’re on our way out, but I can spare a minute. Are you here to make an appointment? Angus, get out the book.”

  “Yes, I will do that. But, as Mr. Donohue is here, I have a request.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You are a newspaperman, correct?”

  “Chief correspondent for the San Francisco Standard. Do you have a story, Count?”

  “Please, please, call me Nicky. It is the American way, correct?”

  “Yeah. We don’t hold with titles or royalty or such. What’s on your mind, Nicky?”

  The count glanced around the room. “Is it just we three here?” he said.

  Angus should be offended at not being considered worth counting, but he was more interested in what this fellow thought was so secretive. He remained silent.

  “There’s no one hiding in the back rooms, if that’s what you’re asking,” Miss Jennings said, her tone harsh.

  “It never harms one to be sure.” Nicky leaned forward. Donohue and Miss Jennings instinctively followed, as did Angus, from the other side of the table. “I would like,” Nicky whispered in conspiratorial tones, “for you to arrange a meeting for me with the American consul.”

  “What?” Donohue whispered. He shook his head, straightened up, and continued in his normal voice. “Well, Nicky, I’m afraid we aren’t quite that equal even in America. I don’t happen to know Mr. McCook, and the one time I did try to interview him he refused to see me. He’s none too fond of the press, I’ve heard.”

  Nicky appeared confused. “Miss Jennings?”

  “Don’t look at me. I wouldn’t know the fellow if he ran down the street naked whistling Dixie.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She means,” Donohue said, “she can’t help you either. What do you want to talk to him about anyway?”

  “It is a matter of vital importance. The very destiny of North America hangs in the balance.”

  “Is that so?” Donohue said. “You can tell me, pal. When I know what’s up, I’ll help you get in to see McCook.”

  Miss Jennings smiled encouragement. Nicky looked uncertain. He glanced behind him. The door was closed, but they could hear people and wagons passing on the street outside. A man shouted and another answered.

  Donohue lifted his eyebrows in Angus’s direction and pulled a face. He was all smiles and serious interest when Nicky’s attention returned.

  The count stepped further into the room. Donohue and Miss Jennings followed.

  “This might not be suitable for your ears, Miss Jennings.” He gave her another bow. “I am here to discuss … politics.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. If you insist.” She turned her back and made a show of arranging the papers on her desk. Angus’s mother had told him many times that men believe women possess a certain intuition, when they merely know how to listen without appearing to do so.

  “Mr. Donohue, you are an American, correct?” Count Nicky said lowering his voice once again.

  “Yes.”

  “You are therefore naturally interested in seeing the disputed border between Canada and the United States settled in your country’s favour?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess I would. What’s this about?”

  “I have an offer to make to the American authorities.”

  “Will you look at the time?” Donohue said. “We’d best be off, Eleanor, or you’ll miss your appointment.”

  “Alaska,” Nicky shouted, “in exchange for the Yukon.”

  “Well, as nice an offer as that is, Count, you don’t exactly own Alaska. And we don’t own the Yukon. Even in Dawson, man can’t bet what he doesn’t own against another man for something he doesn’t own.” Donohue’s laugh was not friendly.

  “Hear me out, sir. Russia is in decline. Trapped in a feudal society, falling further and further behind the other great powers every day that passes. Nicholas is a know-nothing fool, totally unable to manage affairs of state. Yet he is determined to maintain the absolute authority of his father. The rest of the world changes, yet the leadership in Russia, a weak collection of aging aristocrats determined at all costs to keep their own privilege, will not, indeed cannot, change with it. Or even see the need for change.”

  “As fascinating as that is,” Donohue said, “I fail to see how I can help you.”

  “Myself, and a group of like-minded, progressive …”

  Miss Jennings snorted.

  “… members of the aristocracy, have decided it is too late to save Russia. Therefore …” he paused for effect, “… we wish to move it. To start anew, so to speak. A new Russia. In a new world.”

  “If you and your friends want to come to America, just say so,” Miss Jennings said, forgetting that her simple woman’s mind was not to be bothered about such things. “Our doors are open to all comers.”

  “You misunderstand me, madam. I am not surprised you fail to grasp the larger implications. We
do not want to become Americans. We are proud Russians. We wish to create a separate Russia. A new Russia. I have like-minded friends, ready to come with their servants and peasants. We wish to settle in Alaska. Our county made a mistake selling Alaska to the United States, and we would like it back.”

  “Sure,” Donohue said, “help yourself. Ready, Eleanor?”

  “Do not mock me, sir.” Nicky stretched himself to his full height and puffed up his chest. His eyes glowed with fever. “This is not a laughing matter. Allow me to finish my proposal. In exchange for Alaska, the boundaries still to be determined, my compatriots and I will provide an army to take the Yukon and hand it over to the United States. You will surely agree this is the more valuable territory.”

  “May I ask where these compatriots are? I don’t hear rumours of a Russian army massing on the borders.”

  “I am merely the advance guard,” Nicky replied with a sniff. “They wait in Russia for my orders.”

  “Next time I’m talking to President McKinley, I’ll mention your plan,” Donohue said.

  Nicky smiled broadly. “You have that gentleman’s acquaintance? Excellent.”

  “Count Nicholas,” Miss Jennings said, “I’d be thrilled to hear more about this delightful plan.” Angus wondered if something was wrong with her voice. It had lifted a couple of octaves and was almost dripping with honey. “I know people who can help you. Make an appointment with Angus to have your photograph taken and we can talk at that time. We don’t want the Canadian authorities to catch word of what you have in mind, now do we. I can act as an intermediary. A messenger.”

  “An excellent plan. Tomorrow morning?”

  “Miss Jennings is free at nine,” Angus said, consulting the appointment book.

  She crossed the room and held open the door. “Until tomorrow.”

  Nicky bowed deeply, put on his hat, and left.

  When Miss Jennings had shut the door behind the Russian, Donohue burst out laughing. “The man’s as mad as a hatter.”

  “I can’t wait to tell my mother about this,” Angus said, also laughing. “I can see his army of Russian peasants armed with pitchforks attacking Dawson now.”

  “One look at the dance halls, and they’ll be deserting en mass.”

  “Don’t say anything to your mother, Angus,” Miss Jennings said. She had not joined in the laughter.

  “Why not? It’s funny.”

  “Madness is rarely funny. Although in this case I have no doubt his ambition considerably exceeds his reach. Poor man, searching for a past that will never come again. I doubt our count has any intention of forming his peasants into a voting democracy. Get them out of decaying Russia and under his control more likely. He plans to set himself up as czar of all the Alaskas, I suspect. Nevertheless, you know how rumour spreads. We don’t want news going around that the Russian army is preparing to attack the town, now do we?”

  “You’re right,” Donohue said reluctantly. “Better to keep it to ourselves. Why did you agree to meet with the man, Eleanor? You should have sent him off with a flea in his ear.”

  “I think it wise to get rid of him. Although it’s none of my business, and he certainly isn’t interested in my opinion. I’ll hand him a letter addressed to the president at the White House and tell him it’s an introduction. I suspect that’ll be enough to have him scurrying south on the next boat.”

  “That’s a grand idea, Miss Jennings,” Angus said. “We don’t need trouble of that sort here, where the Mounties don’t have the resources to deal with it.”

  She smiled. “Precisely what I was thinking.”

  19

  The air moved as the horse leapt over me. The world went dark. Men yelled and footsteps pounded. I felt hands on my body and a woman said, “Stand back, you fools. Don’t move her.”

  I opened my eyes, which I’d snapped shut in order not to see the horse’s feet crashing down into my face. A sea of faces, full of concern, gazed down at me. A large, plainly dressed woman crouched beside me, her hands moving across my chest. “Stay still,” she ordered.

  I breathed and nothing hurt. I wiggled my toes and then my fingers. “I’m all right. Help me up.”

  The woman rose and held out her arm. I rolled to one side and realized that a man lay close to me. A couple of men got behind me and, with a suck of mud, I was levered ungraciously to my feet. Others helped the fallen man rise. He winced with pain and held his arm across his chest.

  Roland the Magnificent. “A close call, madam,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “What on earth happened?”

  “That horse was heading straight for you,” the woman said. “This gentleman was nearby. You’re darned lucky he was here and fast on his feet. If you’re not hurt, Mrs. MacGillivray, I suspect he needs attending to.”

  Roland’s face had turned the colour of my fine lace. “My arm,” he said, “doesn’t seem to be responding to instructions.”

  “I’m a nurse. Let me see.” She took the offending limb tenderly in large capable hands. He sucked in a breath.

  A crowd was gathering.

  “You woulda been killed, if that man hadn’t pushed you outta the way,” someone yelled.

  Men began to murmur. Hands reached out to slap Ronald on the back. He cowered in terror, protecting his arm, and the nurse growled at them to stay back.

  “Is that true?” I asked Roland.

  He shrugged. “Horse came out of nowhere, out of control. I saw it heading straight for you, and did what I could to assist.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Come on. Better get you to the doctor. I suspect your shoulder’s been dislocated,” the nurse said.

  “It can’t be. I can’t perform stunning feats of magic with a bad shoulder.” His tone was light, but his face showed a great deal of pain.

  “Come to the Savoy when you’re released from the hospital. We’ll make an arrangement.”

  He nodded, and allowed the nurse to lead him away. The crowd respectfully stepped aside to let them pass.

  “Here you go, miss.” A boy handed me my bolts of fabric. The yellow was cheerful and sunny no more, and the white lace would do for a vampire’s wedding dress. Protected to some degree by being in the middle, the blue velvet didn’t look too bad. I took the pile.

  The cloth was disgusting, but it was only mud (and whatever filth was mixed in there) so Mrs. Mann should be able to get it clean.

  I had almost lost my life because I was too stubborn to throw the fabric aside and flee.

  The crowd shifted again and a Mountie came through. Young Constable McAllen. “Mrs. MacGillivray, are you all right? I heard something about a horse?”

  “I’m fine, Constable, thank you. I seemed to have survived.” I shivered, despite the heat of the sun, and clutched the bolts of fabric to my chest. “My rescuer didn’t fare so well, and he’s been taken to the doctor.”

  “Let me see you home, ma’am. You,” he addressed a boy, “carry Mrs. MacGillivray’s shopping.”

  “Someone needs to stop that horse,” I said.

  “Constable FitzHenry’s gone after it.”

  I handed my package to the lad indicated. I’d intended to go directly to Mrs. MacDonald, the dressmaker on Front Street, but aside from the condition of the fabric, I didn’t trust my own condition. My legs were wobbly, my head spinning, and an ache was beginning to spread through my bottom. I needed to get home, sit down, and have a cup of tea.

  McAllen held out his arm. I took it gratefully.

  He walked me home, slowly, while about a hundred men followed and a dirty-faced boy carried my bolts of cloth. A lame dog brought up the rear.

  Mrs. Mann screamed at the sight of me. Alerted, no doubt, by the noise of the procession, she’d been standing in the patch of dirt and weeds that passed for a front yard when we rounded the corner. She ran forward and grabbed my free arm. Her hands were still hot from the laundry she’d been doing in the shed. “What on earth have you done this time?”

&n
bsp; “Mrs. MacGillivray’s unharmed,” Constable McAllen said, “but she needs to lie down. An incident with a runaway horse. Nothing serious, fortunately.”

  I nodded. McAllen led me toward the front door.

  “My cloth!” I shouted over my shoulder. “Helga, get that fabric.”

  * * *

  Richard Sterling headed down Queen Street back to the detachment office. He was thinking about his evening escorting Eleanor Jennings around the various dance halls when he heard a commotion up ahead. A stream of men came east on Fifth Avenue, chattering excitedly. A crowd could form in this town for pretty much anything, so aimless was the pack of men, and he didn’t pay undue attention. Whatever had happened, the show was over. He fell in behind a dusty group. The boardwalks were crowded so they walked down the centre of the road.

  “Saw it all,” one man said. “She woulda been killed, I tell you. Killed. ’Course I tried to reach her myself but she were too far away.”

  “Pull the other one, Danny,” his companion said with a sneer.

  “Man aughta get a medal,” a third fellow said. “Can’t imagine this town without Mrs. MacGillivray.”

  Sterling groaned. He had never met a woman, a person, who could get themselves into so much trouble. What had she done now? He lengthened his stride and came up beside the men. “Excuse me. Couldn’t help overhearing. What happened back there?”

  “Mrs. MacGillivray, what owns the Savoy, almost got her pretty self killed, that’s what happened.” The man spat a lump of tobacco into the roadway.

  “Woulda too, if’n that English fellow hadn’t been right there.”

  “I repeat,” Sterling said, “what happened?”

  “Outta control horse. Almost ran her down. The English fellow who does magic tricks pulled her out of the way in the nick of time.”

  “Where is she now? Was she taken to the doctor?”

  “Nah. The Englishman was hurt, but Mrs. MacGillivray went home. Young constable escorted her.”