The Brideship Wife

by Leslie Howard

  “Florence Wilson, can it really be you?” I said.

  “Charlotte and Sarah!”

  Sarah and I flung our arms around our old friend, laughing with delight. Neither of us expected to see her so soon.

  “She came in on the coach, and when she asked after you, I thought I’d bring her right over,” Louis explained.

  “How lovely! But tell us how and why you’ve come to the goldfields,” I demanded. “Have you married a prospector?”

  She chuckled. “No, I’ve done something even more outlandish than that. Shortly after you left, I received a small inheritance from my great-uncle back in England. When I heard the Theatre Royal was for sale, I came north. It was my love of the stage that made me leave England, and so to be sure I land some good roles, I want to buy a theatre. I have an appointment with the owner today.”

  “Marvelous,” Sarah breathed, and wrapped an arm around her friend. “If only the Burks could see you now.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes, and then Florence told us she needed to be off. Louis offered to show her the way, but before he left, he handed Sarah the promised ribbon and she blushed her thanks. As we shut the door behind them, Sarah and I both murmured our hopes that Florence was here to stay.

  Our wish came true. The next day, Florence was back waving her keys. “I bought it!” she said.

  We congratulated her on her good fortune and begged for a tour. We were curious to see it for the first time, and she was only too happy to oblige. Mr. Roy offered to watch Jacob, and so we grabbed our hats, then, linking arms, set out for the theatre. Striding along in the company of my two dear friends, I was reminded that the greatest pleasure in life was to be with those you care for.

  The Theatre Royal was a formidable two-storey structure housing a fire hall beneath it, and as we approached, we could see a bright-red fire wagon poking out of the building’s lower level. The volunteer firefighters, a group of six or seven burly young men, were cleaning and polishing the leather horse bridles and reins, but doffed their hats and smiled at us as we passed by.

  “Fire is a constant threat for most theatres,” Florence said, pointing up at the fire bell that hung from the rafters, “what with the lighting, paint, props, and all. After the last theatre burnt down, the previous owners saw fit to rebuild over the fire hall.”

  Over dinner not that long ago, Mr. Roy had told Sarah and me how dangerous fire was for a hardscrabble town like Barkerville, where the buildings touch each other and everything was made of wood. He explained that he had put a ladder on the side of the restaurant that led from the second storey to the ground for our safety. Now, I looked at the wagon with its water barrels and buckets. It didn’t seem like it would be much use in the face of an out-of-control fire.

  “Come on,” Florence said. “Let me show you the stage.”

  We followed Florence into the theatre and up a long staircase to the main stage, then entered the stuffy, dark, wood foyer. Frenzied sounds of an upright piano filled the dimmed room.

  “What’s that?” Sarah asked.

  “I’m afraid it’s the Hurdy-Gurdy girls rehearsing.”

  We moved through the double doors into the theatre, where lanterns in wire cages rimmed the stage, illuminating four young women in wide-skirted, bell-shaped dresses with tightly cinched waists. Male dancers stood in a group behind the women, and a piano was on the floor below the stage.

  Florence wrinkled her nose. “This is called the bell ringer dance.”

  The men stepped forward and held the young women by the waist as they jumped and swung their legs sideways to the right, then jumped and swung to the left like the swinging pendulum on a grandfather clock. They swung higher and higher with each swing until they finally had enough momentum to twirl around 360 degrees. Sarah and I gasped as the ample folds of their billowing skirts fell away, revealing the girls’ crinoline undergarments, white satin garters, and black stockings. I could imagine the catcalls and lewd comments that dance would elicit from a crowd of rowdy miners.

  Florence turned back to us. “Needless to say, I plan to phase out the Hurdy-Gurdy girls and bring in more refined offerings. I already have my first production selected—The Irish Lass. You’ll both have to come and see it debut in a few weeks.”

  “We certainly will,” I promised.

  “Good.” She smiled. “Well, now that I’ve shown you my new venture, will you show me around the rest of Barkerville?”

  Linking arms again, we made our way along the boardwalk, stopping every so often to peer into a shop window or to purchase some little knickknack. First stop was Martha’s Sweet Shoppe, where we treated ourselves to several confections, including soft toffees, caramels, and nougat. Martha, we explained to Florence, was really a fiftyish former miner from Cornwall who had learned candy-making at his mother’s knee. He had told us he was too old for mining and found the confectionary much more fun.

  Outside Blanc Photo Studio, Florence suggested we stop and have our picture taken to celebrate our first day in Barkerville together. After checking our purses to make certain we had the requisite funds, we went in, trying to contain our excitement.

  Monsieur Blanc welcomed us in an enthusiastic flurry. “Wait till you see the very latest glass-plate technique, ladies,” he said. “You don’t have to sit perfectly still holding a rather grim expression. The picture’s taken quite literally in a flash. You can even smile if you want.”

  He studied us each in turn, then centred Sarah on a red-velvet-covered stool and gestured for Florence and me to stand behind. We each placed one hand on Sarah’s shoulder and grinned broadly. When all was ready, Monsieur Blanc took a lit candle and touched it to a tray of loose powder. There was a sharp hissing sound, and then a brilliant flash of white light that left me seeing spots as I stumbled about the studio. In the end, I was thrilled with our picture, or photograph, as Monsieur Blanc called it. I bought an extra copy to send to Wiggles, a testament to my new independent life in the colonies.

  Sarah and I bid Florence farewell, then made our way home to get ready for our shifts, stopping by the mail office. We almost collided with Mr. Harris on his way out as he’d been focused on the letters in his hand. He seemed discomfited to see us and stammered out an apology.

  “Lucky you, look at all those letters,” I said. My spirits were high from a day spent with friends, and I thought I’d try to put him at ease. “From your family, Mr. Harris?”

  He flushed. “Just business, I’m afraid, Miss Harding. Nothing that would interest you. Ladies,” he said, touching his hat and turning to go.

  There were a few letters for Mr. Roy, which Sarah collected along with a copy of the Colonist, and there was one small envelope for me. I felt a small thrill when I saw it was postmarked Yorkshire.

  When we got home, I hurried to my room to change for my shift, and then sat down to read John’s letter.

  April 7, 1863

  Dear Charlotte,

  I trust that by now you and Sarah have made it safely to Barkerville. The gold rush town is somewhat familiar to me as I stopped there for a few days on my last trip. I remember fondly the sweet shop, Martha’s, I think it’s called.

  I’m writing with some exciting news of my own. The Royal Geographical Society has asked me to present a series of lectures on my work in the colonies. News of the continuing smallpox epidemic in the New World appears regularly in the papers here and many are asking questions about what Britain is doing to help. I plan to talk about the plight of the Native peoples in the colony of British Columbia and their ill treatment at the hands of the colonial government, settlers, and many of the lawless gold seekers. Some well-known abolitionists are joining forces with me. It’s a highly controversial and emotionally charged subject, but it is one I cannot, and will not, in good conscience, shy away from. As you can see, even in Yorkshire, my thoughts continually return to British Columbia.

  My father passed away two days after I got home. He never let on in his letters, but his healt
h had been poor before his stroke, and my brother, Andrew, had been doing the real work of managing the estate and doing a splendid job, really. His wife, Roberta, and their two daughters are quite the mistresses of the house. They happily fulfill the social obligations of our family and see to our traditional charitable endeavours. There’s no real need for me to be here. I am the fifth wheel in the family and an unhappy one at that.

  For the past six years, I have roamed far and wide as a clergyman, bringing medical knowledge and care to people in the farthest corners of British Columbia. That’s the life for me, not the life of a country lord. I’m in the process of gathering fresh medical supplies and plan to set sail for Victoria once my lectures are over in three weeks’ time.

  It’s not just my mind that draws me back to British Columbia, but my heart as well. I confess my feelings for you have not abated since I have been home, and know that I have made it clear to Agnes (and her father) that we are not engaged. Agnes seemed more relieved than anything. She gave me her blessing and confessed that, while she had been prepared to do her duty to her father and marry me, she was not comfortable with the controversy that swirled about me and my work. She preferred a quiet life.

  I don’t expect you to feel the same about me after all that has transpired between us, but I hope you will allow me to call on you when I return to Barkerville soon.

  Love,

  John

  I set the letter on my bed and looked out at the maple tree outside my window. Its new tender green leaves were just beginning to reach their maturity. They would sustain this tree for the summer to come, allowing it to strengthen and deepen the roots needed to withstand the storms of winter. Perhaps that’s what loving relationships do for people. Would I deny myself the chance to mature and grow if I didn’t explore this relationship with John? My heart was pulling me towards him, I realized, and unlike before, I felt compelled to follow.

  I found a piece of paper and scribbled a brief calculation. John’s letter took about two months to get to me on one of the clipper ships, or perhaps it took the new faster route through Panama by train. Depending on the ship and the route, I could expect John to arrive in Barkerville as early as midsummer. Of course, there were so many variables and he could be much later. I told myself not to get excited, but my heart wouldn’t listen.

  Just then, Sarah came into my room, holding out the Colonist. “I thought you’d want to see this,” she said, her face worried.

  I scanned the headlines. There was one small story about the continuing smallpox outbreak, and another about civil unrest in London. She pointed to the latter. I quickly read the short article. Fights had broken out between opposing factions regarding colonial rule and the treatment of the Native peoples in the colonies. A series of recent lectures by Reverend John Crossman to the Royal Geographical Society had ignited the violence.

  “Don’t worry,” I said to Sarah. “I’ve just received his letter, and he’s already left for here.”

  She hugged me. “I’m so glad he’s away from that.”

  She wanted to linger and talk, but Jacob started to wail just then and she flew off to see what was the matter. I picked up the paper and scanned the rest of the headlines—I froze. “No, this can’t be.”

  There in the blurred print was a piece of dreadful news: “Victoria’s Elite Turn Out to Greet Top Parliamentarian, George Chalmers.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  I began to regularly search the Colonist for any news of George and his comings and goings, and any mention of him in the society pages, but there was none. I worried that Lady Persephone had told him what I had said at the teahouse in Victoria. How could I have been so rash? You’ve got some of our father’s recklessness in you, Hari told me more than once.

  My spirits flagged, and I found it difficult to focus on my card dealing. Worry rooted itself deeply in my brain. I tried to reason it away. Surely George would not want to air ugly accusations about himself in public or press his point through some sort of legal action against me. I was in Barkerville, after all, and no longer a threat to him. But the words I spoke to Lady Persephone kept coming back to me. Finally, I confided in Sarah.

  “I had hoped you had escaped him for good,” she said. “No wonder you’ve been in a depressed mood lately. I think I know a way to help lift you up. Florence’s play is starting Sunday night. Louis has asked me, but I’ll suggest he take us both.”

  “I couldn’t intrude. I know how much you enjoy your time with him. You’re not losing interest in him, are you?”

  She couldn’t contain her smile. “Oh, no, not at all, quite the other way. He’s kind and caring, and little Jacob loves him. I didn’t expect this, as you know, but…” She blushed.

  “Then go with him,” I insisted, wanting her to have her happiness.

  “I will, but I’m telling him that you’re coming too. He can escort us both.”

  The day of Florence’s debut, Sarah fussed over her clothes and her toilette. After I donned my green paduasoy gown and managed to pin my hair, I helped Sarah pin red ribbons into her bouffant hair. Her flawless skin was perfectly accentuated by the red cotton gown she wore. She had crocheted white lace around the neckline and made pretty little cuffs at her wrists. She was a vision of loveliness, and I heard Louis’s breath catch when she greeted him that evening.

  Quite a crowd had gathered out front of the cheerfully repainted Theatre Royal. There were scores of prospectors, looking the better for having bathed, but also some couples lingering outside, enjoying the late sunlight of one of the first really warm summer evenings. We fluttered our elegant feather-and-ivory fans and went to read the elaborate scroll on the billboard.

  Florence Wilson, of the Cariboo Amateur Association, will grace our stage this evening with performances that are second to none in the colony. Witness her angelic voice bring tears to the eyes of the most hardened of old miners when she sings: “When Love Gets You Fast in Her Clutches,” “Emblems of Mem’ry Are These Tears,” “My Poor Dog Tray,” and the rousing “Hail Columbia.”

  “I’m so proud of our Florence,” Sarah said, squeezing my arm.

  “I can’t agree more. She’s achieved so much in such a short time.” I took it as a sign that there was hope for the rest of us.

  As I was speaking, Jack Harris appeared at my side. I could smell a mixture of talc and cigar and could feel his breath on the back of my neck. “I’ll bet you’re looking forward to Miss Wilson’s debut, but I’ll miss the Hurdy-Gurdy girls, myself.”

  “I’m sure your disappointment will be short-lived once Miss Wilson takes the stage,” I replied. I caught sight of Louis waving at us to follow him. “Do enjoy the show, Mr. Harris.”

  Sarah and I followed Louis inside the theatre and took our seats at stage left. When the ushers closed the theatre doors, the room went dark for a minute until they lit the half-moon lanterns that edged the stage. The space took on a cozy, festive feel. Smells of the theatre drifted past me—oily greasepaint and the sharp tang of rosin and chalk—and music floated out of the blackened stage wings as a small string orchestra and upright piano struck up a rousing tune.

  When Florence stepped out on the stage, the crowd jumped to its feet and roared its approval. She was dressed as a poor Irish country girl in a becoming bonnet, but her stage makeup made her appear larger than life with heavily rouged apple cheeks and red rosebud lips. Once the audience had taken their seats, she began to sing in a lilting soprano, and I soon settled back and relaxed, transported to another place, another time, lost in my imagination. The play was the story of a young woman who had fallen in love with the son of a rich landowner, but her father forbade their love, and the young man was forced to marry another. The first act ended with the young, heartbroken lass considering immigrating to British Columbia. I smiled at Sarah in the dusky glow of the theatre—it was easy to see Florence’s influence in the playwriting.

  This sort of play was all the rage, I knew, and while I loved seeing Florence in her
element, I found the story itself a touch melodramatic. I suspected it was, in some ways, a catharsis for the lonely men who had left their loved ones far behind and daily risked their lives in the all-consuming quest for gold.

  As the curtain came down for intermission, the ushers opened the doors to a back room and invited us to stretch our legs and take some refreshment. Sarah went to answer a call of nature while Louis searched for drinks for all three of us.

  Loitering about, I soon realized the only person I recognized was Jack Harris, who spied me across the room and made his way unerringly towards me with two glasses of lemonade in his hand. I could see no escape. He came up and, taking my hand, placed a glass in it.

  “It has a little something extra.”

  I looked around desperately for any sign of Louis or Sarah, then sniffed at the offering and wrinkled my nose at the pungent, tropical smell of rum. I could think of nothing to say, so I forced myself to take a polite sip as he watched.

  He leaned in very close. “I unsettle you, don’t I? You’ve got nothing to fear from me—or is it something else?”

  I sputtered and choked on my drink, and he laughed loudly.

  “I’m only teasing. You’re such an easy mark, Miss Harding,” he said, taking a step away. “How are you enjoying the show?”

  I relaxed, seeing nothing malicious in his eyes. “Florence is wonderful. I honestly can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a performance quite so much.”

  “Really? You should get out more.”

  “You don’t agree?” I raised my chin, feeling a tad offended on Florence’s behalf. “Perhaps the more base fare of the dancing Hurdy-Gurdy girls is more to your liking, but I can assure you, I, for one, am charmed by Florence and am incredibly impressed by her talent.”

  “Oh, don’t get on your high horse. I’m just suggesting that you’re a bit naive.”

  I set my drink down with a thump on a nearby table. “I consider myself to be a woman of the world. You know that I have travelled here all the way from England by my own wits. Not many other unmarried women can boast that.”