Gold Digger. Vicki Delany
mess, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Thank you for pointing that out, Chloe. I hadn’t noticed.”
She flushed. She was a cheap piece of flotsam, Chloe, washed up on the shores of the Klondike like so much garbage. I didn’t like her one bit, and she certainly didn’t like me. So scrawny that she resembled one of the wretched nags pulling overloaded wagons down Front Street, with protruding front teeth and a complexion the colour of snow after a pack of dogs had passed over it, she didn’t even make me much money. At the end of the night, you could be sure Chloe would have collected the fewest discs of all the girls. But for some reason unknown to me, the most-popular dance-hall girl in Dawson, my own Irene, the Lady Irenee, was fond of her. So Chloe stayed on because Irene liked having her around.
“We heard all about the fire.” Irene’s voice was low and husky. “Was it real bad?” She clutched one fist to her heart. Irene, now, was pretty. In London and Toronto, they would have called her fat, but in the Klondike, where even the dance hall girls had clawed their way over the Chilkoot Pass, Irene was lushly perfect. Her cheeks were deeply scratched with the memory of ice-cold winds, but her chubby frame reminded men of well-fed wives and mothers and hearty farmhouse suppers by a blazing fire. She was well into her thirties but possessed so much flirtatious, wild energy that all the men in Dawson loved her. I’d snapped her up the moment she’d arrived in town which turned out to be the best business move I’d made since arriving in Dawson and purchasing the shack that became the Savoy.
The miners loved her. Almost as much as they loved me. But they couldn’t dance with me.
“It was bad,” I said in answer to the girls’ questions about the fire. “Fortunately, they put it out before it could spread any further.”
“Folks are saying Sam saved her.” Cheerful, simpleminded Ruby whispered from her usual place behind Irene. Ruby was as shy as a convent schoolgirl during the day, but when she put a foot on the stage, she turned as bold and teasing as the east-end whores I’d known in my early days in London. But for Ruby, teasing was as far as it went. Otherwise she’d be on the street with her posterior in the mud as quickly as I’d found myself this afternoon. Any girl earning outside income, wouldn’t be allowed back. Not that I cared one whit what they did in their own time, but my business had a reputation to maintain.
“And so Sam did. It was most exciting.” I was still in awe of what had happened this afternoon and how Sam had acted while the rest of us stood and stared like befuddled fools. I’ve heard it said that still waters run deep. Made me wonder what sort of man Sam had been in his younger days. “Hadn’t you ladies best be getting ready?”
They moved off in a bustle of giggles and cheap fabric and heavy scent. Only Irene remained behind.
“Is Sam gonna be all right?” she asked, her eyes wide with worry. The eyes were Irene’s best feature. When she fastened them on her dance partner, the poor chap thought he was the only man in the world.
“He’s gone home with Margaret. She’ll look after him.”
Irene smiled. “I like Sam.”
“So do I. We’ve got a full house tonight. News of the fire seems to have brought every layabout and nancy boy in town to the Savoy.”
The girls had come in as my son was leaving. They’d tossed their curls, fluttered their painted eyelashes, swished their skirts, and good-naturedly called out his name.
Angus’s ears had burned red.
I’d decided that I didn’t have time to go home and change, so once Angus had finished talking to Ireland, I’d sent him to ask Mrs. Mann for the remnants of an old white petticoat that I could rip up to hold my wrist tight.
He stared at me, shocked, but not at the thought of sorting through my undergarments. We’d spent weeks on the Chilkoot trail together: at his young age, Angus knew more about women than his schoolmates back in Toronto would in their lifetimes. “Mother, you can’t continue to wear that dress. It’s filthy.”
“Dear heart,” I said with a smile, “it will help to remind everyone of the near-tragic events that transpired today. Sam’s not here to fuel their admiration. I’ll have to do.”
His face twisted up like a prune. I hugged him once again. “Now give me a smile and do as you’re told.” I held my son at arm’s length. The twisted prune of his mouth slackened ever so slightly. “And I’m hungry, so please ask Mrs. Mann to wrap up my food or make a sandwich out of it or something, will you?”
A small crowd gathered around Irene and me. The men’s tongues were almost lolling to one side, as if they were lead dogs heading out into the winter wilderness on a NWMP patrol.
“I couldn’t help overhearing your kind words, my dear lady.” Jack Ireland bowed in front of Irene, so deeply he might have been at court. “We can all only hope that the Hero of Dawson finds the comfort he so deserves this night.”
“And you, sir, are?” Irene asked. “Permit me to introduce myself. Jack Ireland. San Francisco Standard. At your service.”
“A newspaperman.” Irene raised her expressive eyebrows. I dipped my head towards the back, telling Irene to cut it short. She ignored me and fluttered her lashes at her prey. “Are you newly arrived in Dawson, Mr. Ireland?”
“I am, dear lady. Fortunately, I was here in time to capture in picture and word the exceptional heroics of your friend, Mr. Collins.”
“In picture?” Now she didn’t have to force her eyes to open wide: they managed that feat all by themselves.
“I’ve been fortunate enough to obtain the services of a photographer.”
“A photographer.” Her bosom heaved, and the froth of many-times-repaired lace at the neck of her blue gown quivered.
“I’m anxious to obtain some background information about Dawson and its people.” Ireland took Irene’s arm. “Perhaps you can help with my research.”
Ray pushed the onlookers aside. “Can I walk ye to the dressing room, Irene?” he asked.
She looked at Jack Ireland. Well dressed, well-spoken, sophisticated. A newspaperman. She looked at Ray Walker. A Dawson barman. Scraggy, skinny, with an accent so sharp she sometimes couldn’t understand a word he said.
“Thanks, Mr. Walker. But Mr. Ireland here’s offered. Haven’t you, Mr. Ireland?”
“It would be my pleasure.” The American tossed my partner a look of such superiority that I wanted to slap him. Ray’s face closed as tightly as the shutters on the windows of Mr. Eaton’s Toronto store on a Sunday afternoon.
Ray and I watched Ireland guide Irene through the crowd. She clung to his arm as if she couldn’t possibly navigate the route without his help.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said to Ray. “She’ll empty his pockets, and then he’ll be gone.”
My partner glared at me. “For God’s sake, Fiona, change that dress. Ye look like me uncle Cameron after a night sleeping the drink off in the gutter ’cause he’s afraid to face me granny.”
He went back to the bar, elbowing a drunk aside who dared to step into his path. Someone shouted in the gambling hall, whether because he was winning or losing, impossible to say. It was almost eight o’clock, time for the dance hall to open. My wrist hurt, and I stamped my foot in frustration. Where was my son with my supper and my ripped up petticoat?
As if mentally summoned, Angus arrived, clutching a bundle to his chest. Close on his heels came Constable Richard Sterling.
Angus handed me the package, and I accepted it with one hand. It was still warm.
“Good evening, Constable,” I said. “Mrs. MacGillivray.” He’d changed into a fresh uniform, shiny buttons done up to the neck, a clean hat straight on his head, every wild curl forced into submission. “If your arm’s bothering you, perhaps you should see the