Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  Angus jumped to his feet. “I’ll walk with you, Mother.”

  “How nice.”

  He grabbed another cookie, barely avoiding having the lid snap down on his fingers.

  Angus enjoyed escorting his mother through town. Many of the men they passed knew her and quite a few of the women as well. Those who didn’t know her sometimes stopped and stared. Men whispered her name to their companions and women tugged at their husbands’ arms to get them moving. Tonight, her unbound hair was a sensation. She’d told him a few things about her life in London — the parties and dances, the dinners, the theatre or opera, late suppers in the Savoy Hotel. Tonight she looked every bit as regal as if she were off to Buckingham Palace to attend a ball. Except that the skirts of her scarlet gown were tucked into the belt to keep from dragging through the mud, her footwear — shockingly exposed — was sturdy practical boots, her jewellery was fake, and a dead dog lay in the middle of the road.

  “I keep meaning,” she said, as they skirted the dog, “to call on the dressmaker. I’ve bought all that fabric and it’s sitting at home doing nothing.”

  She’d told him about yesterday’s near-accident with the runaway horse. Hard not to as she was walking gingerly and protecting her side. Today she seemed so much better he’d almost forgotten about it. Until now.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  Was it an accident?

  The poker player had been following Miss Jennings. He’d been hanging around the Savoy.

  A man had been murdered behind the Savoy.

  Was Fiona in danger?

  “What’s the matter?” she said.

  “Nothing!”

  “Come along then. You’ve been acting quite strange this evening, Angus.”

  He gripped his mother’s arm tighter and picked up his pace.

  After he deposited her at the Savoy, and she went to the back to supervise preparations for the entertainment, Angus slipped into the gambling hall.

  The poker game was still in progress. The man he was interested in had a generous pile of chips stacked in front of him. Count Nicky was almost out. Roland checked his watch. “Time for me to go, chaps.”

  The unnamed man growled. “Can’t quit now.”

  “Duty calls.” Roland gathered up his small pile of chips. “I’ll be back later if you want to stick around, Turner.”

  Turner. Angus had a name.

  Roland spotted Angus watching them. “Hello, my lad. I haven’t seen you around much these last few days. What have you been up to?” He slapped Angus heartily on the back. The boy almost pitched forward into the faro table.

  “I’m working for Miss Jennings, the photographer, in the afternoons,” he said, once he’d recovered his balance.

  “Good boy. Keep busy. Help your mother support the family.”

  They stepped aside as the members of the orchestra walked through, lugging their instruments. “Showtime,” Roland said. “Time to regale the citizens of this fair town with feats of stunning derring-do and acts of spectacular magic.” He laughed heartily. “And then, I’ll go on. Come and watch the show, why don’t you?”

  Angus muttered something non-committal.

  “Interested in cards, are you?”

  “No. I mean, why do you ask?”

  “Because you keep glancing over at the game.” Roland dropped his voice. “The Russian can’t play to save his life. The guy on his right’s not half-bad but he’s not as good as he thinks he is. It’s all in the cards anyway. Don’t fall into it, my boy. The only winner is your mother and the house.”

  “Why do you play then?” Angus asked, genuinely interested.

  “Because I’m a sucker. I’m finished on stage by nine; if you’re still around, why don’t we go next door for a waffle?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m on again at ten-thirty, but that’ll give us time.” Roland slapped Angus’s back again. This time he was ready and managed to keep his footing.

  Ellie and Betsy sashayed through the room, wiggling their hips, tossing their hair, greeting men they knew. They made their way, slowly, into the saloon to remind those few who were so deaf they couldn’t hear the band in the street and the caller announcing the delights to be found within that the show was about to begin.

  When Angus turned his attention back to the poker table, the man, Turner, had half-turned in his seat. He was staring at Angus openly. He kept his cold dark eyes fixed on Angus’s face until, embarrassed, the boy dropped his head.

  * * *

  Undeterred, Angus remained in the gambling room. He pretended to be interested in the other tables, roulette, faro, another poker game, but kept his attention on the main table. No matter how much the Russian fellow lost, he kept playing. And drinking. He kept the waiter well-tipped for providing a constant supply of whisky.

  Angus had almost forgotten about the Russian and his crazy plan to capture the Yukon and trade it for Alaska. He wondered if he should alert someone in authority to the plan, but decided that if Count Nicky was spending all of his time, and money, playing poker and drinking he wasn’t too much of a threat to this remote section of Her Majesty’s Dominion. Miss Jennings told him the count had arrived for his appointment this morning. She’d taken his photograph and told him she was still composing an introductory letter to the president of the United States.

  Men parted as if they were the Red Sea and Angus’s mother were Moses. She walked into the gambling hall, all smiles and charm.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, catching sight of Angus trying to disappear behind a fat, cigar chomping man.

  “I’m interested in the psychology of gambling,” he said the lines he’d prepared in expectation of such a question.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Psychology is a new form of medicine, Mother. The study of the mind.”

  “Pooh.”

  “Really. It’s very interesting. The mind can express itself without a person even being aware of it. That’s called the subconscious.”

  “Humph.”

  “How’s the stage?” He changed the subject. His mother didn’t mind him coming to the Savoy during the day, but she chased him out at night. It would be hard for him to protect her if he wasn’t allowed to be near her.

  “Seems to be satisfactory. The hole was fixed and some less-trustworthy boards replaced and new nails put in to be sure. Then Ray and the men jumped up and down on it. Everything seemed to hold. I can only hope …” Her voice trailed off.

  She was staring at the poker table. Turner had leaned back in his chair and was openly studying her. His look was insolent and not at all friendly.

  “Who’s that man, Mother?”

  “I don’t know. But I know I don’t like him. Isn’t it time you were off home?”

  “I’m having a waffle with Roland when he finishes.”

  “That’s nice. It’s time I had a word with Ray.” She walked away, and Angus let out a long breath.

  A chorus of cheers and stomping feet announced that Roland the Magnificent had reached the end of his act and the women were coming on stage.

  Roland took Angus next door to the so-called bakery run by the Vanderhaege sisters. They only thing they baked was waffles, which they sold for twenty-five cents each, but they did a roaring trade late in the evening (early morning rather) when custom in the dance halls began to trail off. This early there was no line. Roland went up to the plank laid in front of the open door that served as a counter. The shop had burned down not long ago, but the sisters had rebuilt quickly. The interior of the bakery was festooned with flags, most prominently the Union Jack and the red-white-and-blue of Holland along with colourful orange banners. The Stars and Stripes were only slightly less noticeable than the Union Jack. Anike, who’d suffered minor burns in the fire, greeted Angus with a wide smile.

  “Two of your best waffles, please,” Roland said, digging into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I’ll have a coffee also. Angus?”

  “No thanks
, sir.”

  Roland passed over some coins, and Anike placed hot, steaming waffles into their hands. Later in the night, when the women were rushed off their feet and many of the customers too drunk to care, the waffles would be cold and either undercooked or burned.

  Angus and Roland leaned against the shop front and watched the passing parade, munching in contentment.

  “Your mother and Ray Walker are partners in the Savoy?” Roland asked.

  “Yup.”

  “More than partners?”

  “What do you…? Oh. No. They own the Savoy together and that’s all.”

  “I thought so. They seem an unlikely couple, even just as business partners.”

  “Mother says neither one of them could make a success of it on their own. She’s a woman, so would have trouble being the boss of men, and the Mounties might not let her anyway. Ray doesn’t have a head for business, so Mother handles the money.”

  “Knew each other in the old country did they?”

  “No. They met in Skagway. Mother planned to stay in Alaska, but that didn’t work out. Ray was coming to the Yukon, but he was ready to believe what anyone told him. He would have had trouble making it this far ahead of the crowd. They teamed up and here we are.” Angus tossed the last bite of waffle into his mouth and wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers.

  “Another?” Roland asked.

  “Sure.”

  Roland handed Angus a quarter. “I guess it helped, both of them being Scottish.”

  Angus shrugged. Anike called to her sister in the back for another waffle. “My mom’s not really Scottish. She was born on Skye, but she moved to England when she was a girl. She never went back. Ray’s Scottish though. From Glasgow.”

  “Did your mother like England?”

  Angus bit into his waffle. “Well enough, I guess. I don’t remember England much. I remember seeing a castle once. And a park with big trees. We came to Canada when I was four.”

  “Why?”

  “Better opportunities, she said. You might have noticed, sir, that my mother is somewhat unconventional.”

  Roland smiled. “I did notice. Is this unconventional mother of yours interested in politics? She ever talk about the ownership of the Yukon, say, or the situation in Canada?”

  “She didn’t like Skagway. Alaska’s too lawless. She says people need a stable government and a belief in law and order to be able to do business successfully.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “She thinks women should be allowed to vote. She says they can’t make much worse decisions than men make.”

  Roland chuckled. “She’s probably right about that. Tell me about Walker. He ever talk about Scotland?”

  “Told me once it was not the place for a poor man like him.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “He’d like to go back some day. Visit his sisters, see his nieces and nephews again. Show them all that Ray Walker had made something of himself.”

  “Resentful is he?”

  “I don’t know about that. Everyone comes to the Klondike expecting to make it rich. We came over the Chilkoot together. Plenty of nights sitting around the campfire, talking about our dreams.” He didn’t mention that he and Ray talked while Fiona nursed her sore feet, melted snow to wash in, attempted to mend her tattered skirts, and swore she would never set foot outside a city again.

  “Does Walker have many Scottish friends?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. I don’t think he has many friends of any sort.”

  “Get a lot of Scottish people in the Savoy?”

  Angus thought while he chewed. Everyone came into the Savoy. His mother had once said she wouldn’t be surprised to one day see a Hottentot or the king of the Zulus walk through the doors. Some men came in who spoke with the same accent as Ray. He always seemed glad to see them. “Quite a few, yeah. They put their heads together and talk about Scotland.” Angus didn’t know what they talked about. But if Roland wanted to make conversation, Angus thought it would be polite to make conversation back. He remembered something he could tell Roland. “Scotland would be a fit place for a Scot to live, Ray says, if the English would leave.”

  Roland drained the last of his coffee. He made a face. “Disgusting.”

  24

  After doing the banking Wednesday morning, I took my bolts of cloth to the dressmaker, who oohed and aahed over the quality of the fabric. We had a consultation, and I was poked and prodded and measured. I’d decided to get two gowns. Extravagant, certainly. I excused the expense on the grounds that I hadn’t made the final payment on the dress left unfinished when the previous dressmaker died.

  New gowns naturally require new hats. New jewellery would be nice also, but I drew the line there. Besides, not much of quality could be found in Dawson. Those dance hall girls who’d been favoured by newly rich miners sported belts or necklaces made of gold nuggets strung together.

  Valuable to be sure, but dreadfully tacky.

  My rear end was still badly bruised — the colour of an approaching thunderstorm — but the soreness was fading and my limbs were no longer quite so stiff.

  I returned home via York Street, slowing as I approached Miss Jennings’ photography studio. I wondered what I would look like in a photograph. It wouldn’t hurt, surely, to have one taken. I would wear one of my new dresses. The navy blue perhaps. With a lovely hat. I would insist on posing against a plain backdrop — I needed no distracting props.

  Perhaps I could have Angus with me. Something for him to cherish as he grew up, for me to look back on in my later years.

  One photograph, for my own purposes. It would never get to London or Toronto where there might still be men searching for me.

  Although she had said she could make copies. Could I trust Eleanor to destroy the original?

  As I stood kitty-corner to the studio contemplating the wisdom of surrendering to vanity, the front door opened. Irene came out, followed by Eleanor herself. Eleanor wore her usual skirt and blouse, but Irene was dressed in the red-and-black gown she wore most evenings for the dancing.

  At six o’clock this morning, as the Savoy was closing, Ray Walker suggested Irene join him for breakfast. She’d batted her stubby eyelashes, said she had a terrible headache and would he mind if, just this once, she declined.

  He’d offered to walk her home, whereupon she’d said she needed a quiet time to enjoy the cool air. Alone.

  Clearly she had not exactly meant alone. Probably not quiet time either.

  Irene set off down the street, heading away from me. Eleanor glanced over and saw me watching. She didn’t smile or wave, simply stood looking at me, her hands folded across her stomach. A horse came between us, pulling a cart, straining against the mud. When it passed Eleanor had gone back inside and closed her door.

  I decided not to get my photograph taken today.

  A small boy collided with me. “Sorry, miss,” he mumbled, darting around my skirts. He bolted across the street. I glanced around, hoping to see his mother following him.

  Instead I saw John Turner leaning against a shop front, smoking. He made no effort to pretend he wasn’t watching me; his gaze was open and impertinent.

  I hiked up my skirts and, after checking for oncoming runaway horses, waded into the street. Turner tossed his cigar onto the boardwalk and crushed it with his heel. He stood his ground and watched me approach.

  “You, sir. I demand that you stop following me.”

  “Following you, ma’am?” he said, in a voice so lazy it bordered on insolence. “Now why would you think I’d be doing that?”

  “I’ve seen you watching me, and I do not care for it.”

  “Seems to me if you don’t like it, ma’am, you shouldn’t dress to attract attention. Shouldn’t frequent a dance hall either.”

  “As you are well aware, I own a dance hall.”

  “My mamma always told me, yo
u aren’t gonna find a lady in a saloon.”

  I bristled. Clearly I had been insulted. I wasn’t exactly unaccustomed to men looking at me. And I hadn’t actually seen Turner following me. I’d turned around and there he was, standing on a street corner. Had he been standing on that street corner all along?

  I knew better than to let the slightest doubt cross my face. “If I see you watching me again, I’ll have the police on you.”

  “Yellow Stripes lock up every man in town who looks at you, ma’am, there won’t be many left to drink in your bar.”

  That might have been a compliment. I did not take it as such.

  “You have been warned.” I lifted my head and sailed off.

  I rounded the corner walking fast, not looking back. I kept walking, in case he truly was following me.

  That encounter had been a mistake. If Turner had not been following me, I’d made myself look like a fool. A lot of people passed through this town, but it wasn’t all that large. I ran into plenty of people I knew every time I set foot out the door.

  On the other hand, if he was following me, then I’d let him know I was aware of it. Would that discourage him, or make him bolder?

  I remembered Eleanor at her door, bidding Irene a fond good-bye.

  Was it possible Turner had not been following me, but watching Eleanor and Irene?

  * * *

  I scheduled Colleen to perform her solo song at ten o’clock. While I’d been home having my afternoon nap, she and the musicians gathered in the back to rehearse. I didn’t bother to listen in. It would be acceptable or it would not. If not — meaning only if the audience didn’t like it — I’d drop it. I’d asked Angus to write a sign to place beside the photograph of the girls with a big arrow pointing to Colleen that said: “Solo performance tonight!”

  Irene was in a black funk. As expected, she hadn’t been the least bit pleased when I informed her we were giving Colleen the ten o’clock song. Irene was accustomed to singing a cheerful ditty that had the miners clapping and stamping their feet. She’d tried to argue, but I wasn’t having any of that and went on my way, daggers piercing my back.