by Vicki Delany
“Here they come,” Dave said.
Angus cursed himself. He’d almost missed them. Sterling and Miss Jennings were once again on the move. The boys melted into the crowd.
Their quarry went into a much less prominent establishment this time. “You wait here,” Angus told Dave. “I’m going to have a look.” Heart pounding, he walked down the boardwalk, keeping to the inside. He glanced through the window as he passed. The room was small and dark and appeared to be nothing more than a bar. There weren’t many customers. Miss Jennings was speaking to the man behind the counter, while Sterling stood at her elbow. The corporal glanced around. Angus dropped to his haunches. He duck-walked the rest of the way past the building.
“Are you hurt, Angus?” a man asked. “Do you need me to fetch your ma?” Angus had no idea who this was, but he looked pleased at the idea of running to fetch Fiona.
“No. Just playing a game. Me and my friend over there. A game.” He waved to Dave.
“There you are,” Dave said, shouting so loudly heads turned. “Isn’t this a fun game we are having?”
The man walked off, shaking his head.
“Keep your voice down,” Angus hissed. He grabbed Dave’s sleeve and they darted into a space between the buildings protected by a narrow overhang. “We can see from here and stay out of the rain.”
“There he is again,” Dave said, peering around the corner.
“Who?”
“That man over there. He’s been everywhere we have. At first I figured it was a coincidence. He was checking out the Horseshoe and the Monte Carlo. But he doesn’t go inside.”
The crowd was thinning. Everyone inside having a last drink or heading home. A man stood on the other side of the street, smoking and watching the entrance to the bar. He wore drab clothes with his tie tucked between the buttons of his shirt. His hat was pulled low over his face. His hands were flat and broad.
“Do you know him?” Dave asked.
“No.”
The man tossed the end of his cigar into the mud and stepped back, into the dark entranceway of a store advertising fine candies. Angus had been in the store, pockets jingling with his wages from Mr. Mann, his hopes high. He’d left disappointed: they didn’t have any sweets, just the usual canned fruit.
Sterling and Miss Jennings strolled past the alley. Angus muttered under his breath. He hadn’t seen them come out of the bar. If they’d gone in the other direction, he would have lost them.
Dave took a step forward, as if to follow. Angus placed his arm across his friend’s chest, held his finger to his lips, and pressed them both against the side of the building. In a moment the man, the one who’d been watching, passed.
Angus counted off a few seconds and then, pulling Dave behind him, fell into step.
He could see Sterling up ahead, hat bobbing above the press of men all around him. The much shorter Miss Jennings had disappeared. The unknown man kept his distance but matched their pace.
Saloon doors flew open and all of a sudden they were surrounded by laughing, shoving, drunken men. Midnight.
Angus lost sight of Sterling. The unknown man used his elbows to push his way through the crowd. “Hey, watch where you’re going,” someone said. He stepped back and collided with Angus. Angus staggered off the boardwalk and felt his boot sink into the mud of the road. Dave grabbed his sleeve or he would have fallen.
“Sorry about that, young fellow.”
Angus said something about being okay. He’d lost sight of his quarry — old as well as new.
“What do we do now?” Dave asked.
“I hope I know. Come on.” Angus broke into a run. It wasn’t easy going, with the press of men heading in all directions. Everything was closing, no place for Sterling and Miss Jennings to go except home. It was light out, so they might go for a walk, but the rain was falling harder now.
He rounded the corner into York Street. The throng thinned a fraction and up ahead the unknown man was calmly strolling along.
When they came in sight of Miss Jennings’ studio, Angus once more retreated to the shadows, pulling Dave behind him.
Sterling and Miss Jennings stopped at her door. The man walked past, not glancing to the side. Miss Jennings stood very close to Constable Sterling, looking up at him. She said a few words and he smiled. During the evening much of her hair had escaped the confines of its pins and soft yellow strands fell across her face. She lifted her hand and tucked a piece behind her ear. She pulled her key out of the depths of her bag and unlocked the door. Miss Jennings hesitated for a moment before kissing Sterling lightly on the cheek. Then she ran inside, shutting the door behind her. Leaving the Mountie standing on the stoop.
Sterling turned and headed up the street.
The door of the house in which Angus had taken shelter opened suddenly. A man filled the doorway, dressed in his underclothes, dirty shirt, once-white long johns.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed. “Get off with you or I’ll call the Mounties.”
Angus and Dave ran. Fortunately Corporal Sterling did not look back.
17
Monday morning, I was pleased to see the first of the photographs of the dancers appearing around town. I had instructed Murray to collect the copies from Miss Jennings and place them in prominent places. The most prominent being the front window of the Savoy. When I left, heading for the bank, a group of men were standing in front of it, studying the picture.
“Hey.” One of them hailed me as I passed.
“I beg your pardon?” He was much taller than I, at well over six feet, but I managed to look down my nose at him.
“You work here?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. May I be of assistance?”
He took off his cap and scratched his head. I tried to ignore the insects scurrying for cover. “That lady in that there picture, she dances here?”
“Every night of the week, save Sunday. The show begins at eight o’clock.” Our advertisement was working already!
“I might come and see it then,” he said. “Right pretty lady.”
“That is Lady Irénée, the most popular dancer in the Yukon. The seats fill up quickly, so do come in good time.”
“What’s the name of the older one then?”
“The older one?” I peered at the photograph. The man was missing the first joint of his index finger. He used the stub to tap at the image of Irene, dead centre.
“Yeah, this one. She looks like she has a few miles on her. Might do for my pa there.” He indicated the oldest of the men, who stood grinning at me through a wad of chewing tobacco.
Good heavens, he’d been attracted, not by Irene, but by Colleen, standing to the right of centre. Colleen, merely a chorus dancer and percentage girl.
I walked off without answering the man’s question. Colleen hadn’t shown much in the way of talent, but that was no reason to not have a stage career in Dawson. Few of the performers in any of the dance halls did. I might move Colleen forward for a couple of the dances, perhaps ask her if she could sing. See how the men reacted. If they liked her, maybe she could have a solo.
I completed my banking and, rather than going home for my morning nap, headed up the hill. I needed a new gown. I knew where the best-quality fabric in town was to be found.
I also knew that, for me, the price would be astronomical.
Being Monday morning, I figured Irene was likely to be awake. The girls danced every night until six a.m. so naturally they slept during the day. Sunday the Savoy was closed, as was everything else, so they often slept right around the clock. She might, of course, not be in. Monday was the best day for dancers and performers, and me, to do household tasks, shopping and the like. It was unfortunate we did not have the use of a telephone in Dawson. It would make life most convenient, I thought as I trudged through the streets on what might be a useless trip, if one could telephone in advance to ascertain if one would be received. If Irene was not in her lodgings, I would have wasted my ti
me.
Not entirely wasted though, it was a pleasant day. The sun was large and hot, the sky a soft blue with fluffy clouds in the distance. The colours gave me an idea for my new gown.
Irene had lodgings on Fifth Avenue. Only one room in a women’s boarding house, but the house was nicer than most. The rent was high, and thus the rooms were occupied by headliners at the other dancehalls and one or two of the town’s more successful independent businesswomen. I lifted my skirts to step around a pile of recently deposited, judging by the smell, dog dirt, and knocked on the front door. It opened almost immediately. I stated my business to the landlady and entered.
I had been to Irene’s room before and did not need to be shown it. I knocked loudly.
“Who’s there?”
“It is I. Mrs. MacGillivray.”
Irene peeked out. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes heavy with sleep. She wore a loose white nightdress, all crisp cotton and excessive amounts of lace and ribbons. “What do you want?” she said, displaying a shocking lack of courtesy.
I dearly hoped I would not find my business partner luxuriating in her bed.
“I’d like to purchase some fabric. I’ve a mind to have a new dress made. The yellow satin would be nice.” I smiled at her. I was here to beg a favour, after all.
Irene had been close friends with a dressmaker of rough manners but unparalleled skill. My delight on finding her, the dressmaker, had been beyond bounds. Unfortunately, she met an untimely demise before completing my order. Irene had the presence of mind to rush to the shop and grab the most valuable of the fabrics. She kept them in a trunk in her room and charged exorbitant rates.
“The yellow’s still left. Come on in.”
I stepped forward and the door shut behind me. To my considerable surprise Miss Eleanor Jennings was seated at the small round table in the centre of the room, a cup of coffee at her elbow. She, at least, was dressed. She wore her habitual plum and green costume, and her feet were bare. Her shoes were on the floor, her stockings tossed across the — unmade — bed, and her bonnet onto a shelf.
“Good afternoon, Eleanor,” I said.
“Fiona. This is an unexpected pleasure.” Her tone implied that it was no pleasure at all.
“The yellow.” I turned to Irene. “And the navy blue velvet, if you have some. Maggie told me I should always wear strong colours.”
Irene stared into my face. A long moment passed. “Sure,” she said at last. “Let’s have a look.” She threw open the lid of the trunk and knelt in front of it. Eleanor Jennings rose to get a better look.
The trunk was about half empty. Irene had taken only the best — the silks, satins, and velvets — leaving poor-quality cotton, felt, and homespun behind in the dead woman’s shop. She pulled out the bolt of satin. It was a brilliant yellow. A highly unfashionable colour, but I knew it would look spectacular against my black hair and dark complexion. I would set a fashion of my own. “Do you want the whole bolt?” Irene asked.
I nodded. She shoved it into my arms. “And the blue velvet?”
“All of it.”
The bolt of navy blue joined its fellow.
“And three yards of white lace if you still have some.”
“There’s a bit left. Pass me those scissors, will you, El?”
Eleanor Jennings leaned behind her, found the seamstress’s scissors on the shelf, and passed them over. Irene measured using her arms and sliced through the fabric. She piled the white lace, as heart-breakingly delicate as a pattern of fresh frost on a windowpane, on top of the others. I could barely see her over the top.
I should have brought Angus to carry it all home.
Irene named an outrageous sum. I swallowed. I came here knowing I’d have to pay. If I wanted to haggle, Irene would tell me she’d find other customers. She could have disposed of all the fabric by now if she wanted. She kept the best of it, waiting for me to come begging.
“Let me hold that for you,” Eleanor Jennings said sweetly, “so you can get out the money.” She relieved me of my burden.
I dug into my reticule. “This is all I have on me. I’ll pay you the remainder this evening when you come to work.”
Irene grinned as she accepted the payment. “I guess you’re good for it.”
Eleanor gave me back the cloth. I hoisted it in my arms as if I were a laundry maid carrying sheets to the linen cupboard and said my goodbyes.
So, Irene had taken up with Eleanor Jennings. It was none of my business (funny how I kept thinking that lately) but poor Ray if he ever found out. Poor me, if everyone else found out.
Irene was a Sapphist. A lover of women. Only I knew that she had been the lady friend of the late, much lamented, seamstress, Maggie. Irene’s entire value, to herself as a dance hall performer, not to mention to me as my best girl, rested on her sexual allure. If the men found out she showed signs of such a shocking degree of mental aberration, Irene would be ruined. When I lived in the slums of Seven Dials, I’d known women who sought love with other women. It never seemed as if they were mentally ill to me, although the doctors considered them to be so. After all, I’d seen some of the men those same women had to pretend to love.
Pretend to love.
Not only Sapphists had to pretend to love the men they married, whether for family expectations or to provide themselves with financial security. But why, if Eleanor Jennings was attracted to Irene Davidson, was she apparently interested in Richard Sterling? Plenty of richer men in town.
Was it possible she was attracted to Richard as well as to Irene? Did that happen?
I knew normal women did not have sexual desires. I had myself been abnormal in that department. I received enormous pleasure from sexual relations with Angus’s father, a man I had deeply loved. His betrayal had made me fear he’d considered my craving for intimacy and the joy found therein to be shameful. Sometimes, when I’ve been close to Richard, I’ve felt those strange, wonderful stirrings I’d thought long dead.
If Richard was attracted to Eleanor, and if he believed her feelings were returned, was it my duty as his friend to inform him of her aberration?
So bothered was I by these thoughts, I was scarcely paying attention as I made my way west on Fifth Street heading home. I couldn’t see where I was placing my feet with the bolts of cloth I carried. I could only hope I wouldn’t encounter the product of another passing dog. Or worse — its remains.
Most days I could scarcely set foot onto the street without a gaggle of men clamouring to be of assistance. Today, when I could have used assistance, not a soul of my acquaintance was to be seen. I’d been so embarrassed, first at having to go to Irene for what I needed, and then at finding her in dishabille in the company of Eleanor Jennings, that I’d forgotten to so much as demand Irene wrap the cloth in paper and string. This was not a street in which it was wise not to be able to see where one placed one’s foot. The boardwalks were tilting in all directions, cracked and pitted with holes. The duckboards, placed across the street to provide passage over the mud, fared no better. Puddles were full of water so thick and opaque one couldn’t estimate if one was likely to dampen the bottom of one’s shoe or plunge to perdition. Or trod on a dead beast. I reached the corner of King Street, only two blocks from home. I felt with the toe of my boot for the edge of the boardwalk. As I was a few blocks uphill from the river, the street wasn’t too dreadfully muddy, and by stretching my neck and peering around my burden I estimated I could safely cross without encountering rotting livestock or dangerous depressions.
I stepped into the road.
A woman screamed and a man yelled. I heard hoof beats, coming fast in my direction. To my left, I saw a man leap to the safety of the boardwalk. He struck the wood with his toe and went down, arms and legs flailing, hat rolling. A woman held her hands to her face, wide eyed with horror. Instead of also jumping out of the way, I stupidly thought that I mustn’t drop the precious fabric into the mud. The hoofbeats got closer. I stood in the road, frozen into indecision, unabl
e to see where I should go.
Something struck me, hard, on my left side, and I fell into the roadway. Fabric scattered. I looked up, directly into the underbelly of an underfed and out-of-control horse.
18
Angus kept his hands firmly behind his back as he studied the jars and equipment spread out on the tables in Miss Jennings’ studio. It was an impressive array of stuff. The lady herself had finished developing plates moments before Angus’s arrival, and an air of bitter chemicals floated around her like a strange perfume. She wore a long white apron over her dress and her thick braid was scraped back into a coil. She usually wore gloves and now that she wasn’t, Angus could see that her fingers were stained black and covered with small marks, old burns probably. She held up her left hand. “Photography chemicals are harsh. Took me a few wrong moves to learn that. Silver nitrate turns the flesh black.”
He blushed to have been caught staring.
“How did you learn, ma’am? Is there a school of photography in Chicago?”
“My father taught himself and then he taught me. I grew up around exploding plates, flashes of light, black boxes. He was a lawyer; photography was his passion. My parents had five children, of whom I am the youngest, and the only one, to his great disappointment, who showed any interest in his hobby. Father would rush home from the office, kiss Mother on the cheek, and head downstairs to his darkroom. I followed on my wobbly little legs and watched.” She smiled to herself. “Eventually he ceased even kissing Mother when he came in the door, such was his haste to get to his one true love. His camera room. I guess that’s why I am the youngest child.” She gasped. “Oh, Angus, pardon me. Such an indelicacy.”
He tried not to blush. “I understand,” he said, as heat tore across his face.
“I’ve had a productive morning,” she said, untying her apron. “Two clients for sittings: a wealthy businessman wanting a photograph to send to his mother, and one of the ladies from the Savoy. The young one who looks so good in the photograph I took of the group. Her father was so pleased with it, he wanted a personal photograph of the both of them.”