Читать книгу Gold Fever - Vicki Delany - Страница 4

Mary didn’t speak a word over dinner; she stared into her plate and moved the food around. Mr. Mann huffed a bit and maintained his scowl, but he never had much to say to me at the best of times, so I ignored him. Mrs. Mann, on the other hand, seemed to love having a distressed guest and encouraged Mary to eat up. She declined politely. She looked seriously underfed to me, but I suppose neardrowning has a negative effect on one’s appetite. Angus spent the meal watching Mary, while trying not to appear to be doing so, and looking quite pleased with himself. I suspected there was a good deal more to the day’s events than her slipping daintily into the river and my son offering her a gallant hand up, but I said no more about it.

I would get the full story soon enough.

“That was a wonderful supper, Mrs. Mann,” I said at last. I rarely lie, but sometimes it is indeed the lesser of two evils. “Come with me, Mary. I have to be getting back to work, but first I’ll find a dress you can borrow.”

Head still down, after a mumbled thanks to Mrs. Mann, Mary followed me into my bedroom. Angus and I rent three small rooms in the Mann’s home. My bedroom faces the street with a tiny sitting room between me and the kitchen. Angus is across the hall. I’ve lived in back alleys of Silver Dials and in the townhouses of Belgravia, so I can say in all honesty that I’m not terribly particular. Mrs. Mann keeps a spotlessly clean house and, having no children of her own, has become very fond of Angus. Mr. Mann tries hard not to approve of me, but during a recent crisis he came perilously close to showing some degree of emotion over my fate. His wife’s English is much, much better than his, which has somewhat shifted the centre of power in their home. Much to his dismay, I am sure.

I rustled through my closet looking for a plain housedress. I manage not to own many garments fitting that description. “There, this should do.” I produced a cotton print day dress and a plain shift. “As it is probably about six inches too long, you can use this belt to hold the whole thing up and in. Don’t be shy. Try these on. You can’t go home in my dressing gown.”

Mary tossed me a look, but I made no move to turn away. She snatched the clothes out of my hands and half turned her back. She tried to wriggle out of the dressing gown while at the same time pulling the shift over her head. She couldn’t keep herself wholly hidden, and I wasn’t terribly surprised to see a row of fresh red welts criss-crossing the knobbly spine at her lower back and the tops of her thin buttocks.

I looked out the window into the scrap of back garden where Mrs. Mann hangs the laundry she takes in. Working men’s shirts and trousers flapped in the breeze beside a cheap red dress, torn petticoats, and a set of bloomers, all of which had seen better days.

“You don’t have to stay with him,” I said to the window. “In Canada you have some rights, particularly if you aren’t married. The law can help you.”

“What do you know, rich white lady?”

Mary looked like a child playing dress-up in my cheapest dress, far too big for her, the belt holding the excess fabric.

“I’m not rich. I’ve had a man’s hand raised to me. I vowed it would never happen again, and it hasn’t. I can guess why my son came across you in the river, and I will help you, if only because of him.”

“Your son.” She gave the belt a strong tug. “A good boy.”

“You can have our help, if you want it. Or you can leave now and return tomorrow to collect your clothes. I doubt they will fit me.”

She fingered the edges of the belt. “Rich white lady, there is no help you and your nice son can give me. I thank you for your kindness, but I don’t want you to have trouble on my account. My troubles are not for you.”

“I have some influence in this town.” I turned my back and made an effort to straighten the contents of my closet in order to give Mary a bit of privacy. She seemed like a proud woman; it wouldn’t be easy for her to accept my charity. Though why it would be harder than crawling back to an abusive man, I didn’t understand. I’ve taken charity when I had to—and been darn happy to have it. “I can make your man sorry for what he’s done.”

She threw back her head and laughed a cold, bitter laugh. “I belong to no man, rich white lady. Mrs. LeBlanc, she is not afraid of you, I am sure.”

I sucked in my breath and turned to face her. “Joey LeBlanc. You…work for her?”

Her head dropped as her shame won out over her pride. “I’ll return your dress tomorrow, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

“Bugger the dress.” I sat on my bed and patted the counterpane beside me. The window had been left open to let in a bit of air, and, as usual, a thin sheen of sawdust covered everything. The cursed sawmills in this town never stopped working. “Sit,” I commanded.

Mary sat, back stiff and head bent. “You work for Mrs. LeBlanc, do you? If my son hauled you out of the river, I suspect you’re not happy in your employment. Is that correct?”

The last piece of her pride crumbled. She lifted her hands to cover her face, her thin shoulders shook, and dry sobs racked her flat chest as she began to talk. “Mrs. LeBlanc owns me. There are some men who like Indian women, she says. So they have to pay well. But not many such men, so she says I am not making them happy.”

I stroked her luxurious black hair—unbound, it fell almost to her waist—and peeked at the watch hanging on a gold chain from my belt. It was well after seven—long past time I should be back at the Savoy. And I hadn’t yet dressed for the evening. The stage show began at eight, and, as supervision of the dancers was my responsibility, I needed to be there to make sure they all showed up—on time and reasonably sober.

Once she started to talk, Mary was like the spring breakup of the Yukon River. Nothing could stop her. The gist of it was that she was from Alaska and believed herself to have been sold to one Mr. Smith, a man heading for the Yukon, in payment for some nebulous debt owed by the uncle of her widowed late mother. Mr. Smith had tired of her, and on arriving in the Yukon, he’d passed her on to the infamous madam, Joey LeBlanc. She was honour-bound, Mary told me, to stay with Joey in order to see the original debt paid in full. But the shame was so great that it had eventually taken her to the banks of the Yukon River and the timely intervention of my son. Even now she wanted only to return to the solace of the river, even though the fathers had taught her at school that to take one’s own life was the darkest of sins. Through her tears she asked that neither Angus nor I interfere with her again.

I took a deep breath and lifted her chin with two fingers. “You don’t have to go back to Mrs. LeBlanc if you don’t want to, Mary.”

Her dark eyes searched my face. “But my uncle’s debt? There is no one else to repay it. I belong to Mrs. LeBlanc. If I don’t complete my time, she will tell Mr. Smith, who will return to extract payment from my uncle.”

“Your uncle can pay his own debt. Or not. As he wishes. If they told you you’re bound to Mrs. LeBlanc, they lied. I know this. I have friends in the Mounties. You know the Redcoats?”

“Don’t condescend to me, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

I stood up and began unbuttoning the bodice of my day dress. “I mean no insult, Mary. Your English is perfect, your manners beyond reproach. But if people have told you wrong for their own selfish gain, I am not condescending to you if I attempt to set you straight.” I opened my wardrobe and peered in. The wooden cabinet, missing one set of hinges, which housed my entire ensemble, was substantially smaller than what in times past would have stored my shoes or undergarments. I didn’t often miss what I’d left behind, but sometimes… I ran my fingers through my gowns, hoping something forgotten yet perfectly lovely would be waiting to be found.

“What do you think I should wear tonight? The green satin is the nicest, but I’ve worn that rather a lot lately.” My best dress, a genuine Worth, presented to me in London at the original Savoy Hotel, guarded across seas and continents, carried over the Chilkoot Pass, had recently died an ignominious death. Mrs. Mann was still attempting to salvage something of the crimson silk, the ostrich feathers, and the Belgian lace. Nothing, I feared, would ever replace that gown.

“Everything you have is lovely, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she said in her soft voice. I knew she was talking about more than my clothes.

I looked at the garments in question and pulled out the green satin. “What I’m attempting to say, Mary, is that if you think you belong to Mrs. LeBlanc because of someone else’s arrangements, then you’ve been deceived. For heaven’s sake, it’s 1898, and this is Canada. I’ll contact my friend in the Mounties, and he will ensure you don’t have to return to the likes of Mrs. LeBlanc.”

“Even an Indian woman has to eat,” Mary said, picking at loose threads in the counterpane.

I dressed quickly, draped a length of fake pearls around my neck, arranged my hair, settled a hat onto my head, thrust several hatpins through it, and regarded myself in the cracked mirror on the wall. I do not succumb to false modesty: if I wasn’t the most spectacular woman in Dawson tonight, I would…what would I do? I would eat the hat on my head.

I turned to face Mary. “I have decided. Mrs. Mann has only recently begun this foolish enterprise of running a laundry. She complains non-stop about the amount of work, combined with keeping Mr. Mann looked after and caring for this boarding house, although Angus and I are the only residents. She’s been trying to find an assistant, but willing women are scarce on the ground. You will take employment beginning tomorrow as helper to Mrs. Mann in the laundry. Now I must be off.” I slipped pearl earrings through my ears and patted a touch of rouge on my cheeks.

Mary stared at me. “Mrs. LeBlanc…” she said.

“If Mrs. LeBlanc has a concern about these arrangements, then she may speak to me. Do you think these earrings match? Perhaps the gold ones would be best?”

“The pearls,” Mary said.

“I agree. Let’s tell Mrs. Mann of our arrangement.”

Mary cracked a small smile. It went a long way towards putting some life into her pinched face. “I’d like that,” she said.

I’d had a few encounters with Joey LeBlanc, and none of them had been pleasant. Prostitution was technically illegal in the Yukon. Then again, so was gambling, yet the Savoy operated an extremely lucrative casino. But Dawson was a town full of prospectors from every corner of the world, so the police, wisely in my opinion, decided to let vice have its way as long as they could control real crime. Joey ran a stable of prostitutes, mostly operating out of the cribs of Paradise Alley, along with a handful that were a touch more respectable. The Mounties turned a blind eye: after all, women were as eager to enjoy the residue of a prospector’s dreams as was anyone else. But slavery, indentured servitude, whatever it was called these days, Her Majesty’s North-West Mounted Police would not approve of that one little bit.

I don’t know why I liked Mary so much almost immediately upon meeting her. I’d hired Indian packers to take us over the Chilkoot. They had been, by and large, efficient and taciturn. They kept a respectful distance from me, although on the trail and around the campfire Angus had hounded them for stories from their tribal history and information about their customs. Our packers were Tagish, he’d told me. I had no idea if Mary was of that tribe or another. Other than working as packers and the occasional guide, the Indians kept pretty much to themselves in the Yukon. They weren’t allowed in the bars and dance halls, and there were so many white (and some black) men looking for work in Dawson there was no need to hire Indians. Mary was the first Native I’d seen in town.

How lonely she must be. And caught in the talons of Joey LeBlanc to boot.

Everyone looked up as I came back into the kitchen. Mary followed, dragging the overlarge dress behind her like a bridal train.

“Angus,” I said, “I have to be at the Savoy. Go with Mary and find Constable Sterling. Ask him to accompany you to get Mary’s belongings from her place of…residence.”

“We don’t need…” Angus began. “Yes, you do. Don’t go there without a Mountie. There might be some opposition to her leaving, and I want this entirely above board. Then take her to one of the empty rooms at the Savoy. I don’t think we have anyone in residence today. Use the back stairs.”

Occasionally some of the bartenders or croupiers who are temporarily short of accommodation are permitted to sleep in the upstairs rooms beside the offices. Good customers, who collapse over the bar or fall asleep over their cards, we put up in a cot in the big room at the end of the hall. Poor customers, and certainly those who are winning, we toss out into the mud of Front Street.

“I have no money,” Mary said. I waved a hand. “You can pay your rent out of your wages.

Mrs. Mann, I have found you a helper for the laundry. I’m sure you can come to an agreement when she arrives for work first thing tomorrow morning.”

“My friend owns a laundry,” Mary said to no one in particular. “On Fifteenth Street. She works hard, but she makes good money.”

What Mrs. Mann thought of this arrangement, it was impossible to tell. I was thrusting a complete unknown— not to mention an Indian—at her. But she simply said, “Be here at seven.”

Mr. Mann stood up. He cleared his throat. I half expected him to throw Mary out on her ear, and me after her for suggesting that such a woman come and work for his wife. For him it would be enough that she was an Indian— without even knowing her (former) occupation. “I go with Angus,” he said. “Help carry.”

I smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Mann.”

He almost blushed and turned away.

My suggestion that Mary take employment in Mrs. Mann’s laundry and residence in the Savoy wasn’t entirely altruistic. I was rather delighted at the idea of having a confrontation with Joey LeBlanc, while knowing that the law was, for once, on my side.

I can be such an idiot sometimes.