The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson

by Laine Ferndale

  “Stop that negative talk,” she said, mustering up a confidence she didn’t feel. “No one’s hanging anyone; no one’s hustling anyone out on the next boat. This isn’t the Wild West.”

  “Surprised they aren’t preparing the tar and feathers, the way they’re carrying on,” Doc snorted. “This is the most fun they’ve had all year.”

  Owen had promised to join them at the meeting, saying that he didn’t want to look partial to her. As silly as it was, she wished he were beside her right now. She couldn’t handle all these dour faces and their grim predictions. At least Owen would have been able to coax a smile out of her.

  Soon, however, it was time to go. Ilsa and the girls had put on their church clothes and taken pains to give each other the most conservative hairstyles they knew. A few wore thin gold chains with crosses or heirloom brooches several decades old. It was strange to see her girls dressed as spinster schoolmarms, and Jo was touched by the gesture.

  In the promenade by the wharf, the townspeople had constructed a raised platform decorated with bunting. A table flanked by four chairs—one for her, one for Doc Stryker, and two, she guessed, for the Society Ladies—stood on the platform along with a podium. The townspeople were well dressed and already flushed with anticipation, creating an almost festive atmosphere. Many of the women wore sashes decorated with needlepoint designating them as members of the Moral Purity Brigade, The Society for the Advancement of Moral Temperance, or the Ladies’ Charitable Club. Jo half expected a brass band to begin playing and someone to hand her a glass of lemonade.

  And in the middle of it all was Mrs. McSheen. She was flanked by her sash-wearing army of Society Ladies and positively glowed, despite the clouds and the mosquitos. Jo didn’t think she had ever seen Mrs. McSheen smile, but today, the queen of the scowlers looked as if she’d won a beauty pageant. Moral crusading must be good for her skin.

  She scanned the scene for Owen and found him leaning against the side of a building just outside of the crowd’s perimeter. When he saw her, he gave her a reassuring nod, then pulled the brim of his hat down to obscure his expression. Still, she felt him looking at her as she made her way through the crowd, Doc Stryker by her side.

  Right before they reached the platform, Doc grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

  “You need to sacrifice me to save yourself, you just go ahead and do it,” he whispered fiercely to her. “You just tell them that Old Doc Stryker put the idea of hiring women attendants in your head, brainwashed you. But now you see I’m a polluting influence and you’re ready to become a proper Society Lady.”

  She squeezed his hand in return. “You know I wouldn’t last a day as a Society Lady.”

  Doc chortled, despite the circumstances. He reached over and tucked behind her ear a rogue curl that had once again come loose from Jo’s bun. “Maybe so, my dear. You’ve never even managed to put your hair up so it stays. Don’t know how you’d ever make yourself one of those fancy sashes.”

  Mrs. McSheen made her way over with her entourage. The smile had been replaced with a world-class smirk. “Are you ready to begin?”

  Jo flashed what she hoped was a dazzling smile. “Absolutely.” She climbed the makeshift steps of the platform and took her place at the table. Nearly the entire town had turned out for the meeting: many people she recognized, and a few she didn’t. The last time she’d seen the town gathered in these numbers was for Albert’s funeral. That day had been humid too. The church had smelled of chrysanthemums and wet wool. As she’d stood up to address the crowd, her tears had blurred their faces into a smear of black and cream.

  She took a breath. No tears today, only steely resolve. Like Owen, the loggers and miners hung at the perimeter of the gathering, unsure whether they counted as proper townspeople but wanting to support Jo. She tried hard to avoid staring at Owen, but she couldn’t help it. Well, what did they say about being nervous when speaking in public? Imagine the crowd in their undergarments. So, fine, she was focusing on the one person she didn’t have to try too hard to imagine undressed.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the general store clerk who had taken the podium. “I’d like to call the first official meeting of Fraser Springs to order. As the temporarily designated mayor of Fraser Springs ...” A murmur shot through the crowd. There had been no mayoral elections. The clerk raised his voice and pressed on with his speech. “As mayor, I would like to welcome you to this gathering and remind you of our purpose.” He was a little man, but he seemed to have grown half a foot with the prestige of his new position. His moustache gleamed with self-importance. “We are here, ladies and gentlemen, because our town is at a crossroads. We started as a rough-hewn mining town bestowed with the gift of the healing springs. Over the years, however, our town has grown. We have nurtured nature’s bounty into a thriving tourist destination that now boasts one of the finest hotels west of the Rockies, and we’re all immensely proud of the good work this community has accomplished.”

  A cheer went up from the townspeople. Everyone looked at the St. Alice, whose facade glimmered dully in the overcast light.

  “But today, we have a decision to make. Do we want our town to retain the vestiges of its sinful past, or do we want to steer it towards a purer future?”

  “Excuse me,” Jo said. “But my understanding is that this is a town meeting, not a courtroom.”

  Another murmur from the crowd. The clerk frowned behind his perfect moustache.

  “Ma’am, you’ll have your chance to speak. But, yes, the decisions of this tribunal will not be binding, though it is worth noting that out here, the will of the people is all we have. We can’t always do everything the way it’s done in Vancouver or Victoria. We’ve got to stick together.”

  At this, there was a confident cheer. “Amen,” someone exclaimed. As if on cue, the SS Minto glided into view, its paddle wheel churning. Maybe Nils was right. The paddle wheeler was not due back in dock until Tuesday. They were looking to run them out of town.

  “Now, with that, we’d like to give Mrs. Josephine Wilson and Mr. Stryker ...”

  “Doctor Stryker!” someone shouted, followed by a low ripple of laughter.

  “Excuse me, Doctor Stryker, a chance to speak in their own defense. Doctor Stryker, would you like to go first?”

  Doc stood and made his way to the podium. He looked almost frail, but determination radiated from him: an old, rangy dog with some fight still left. “I’m not one for speeches,” he said finally. His voice revealed his false modesty. It was strong and clear, projecting over the crowd with the confidence of an experienced actor. “I prefer to save my pontificating and sermonizing for behind the counter of my establishment, if you know what I mean.” Several townsmen chuckled despite themselves. “But I will say this. I’ve been in this town a long time. I’ve known some of you since you were small. I have had the privilege of hearing your troubles, counseling you on your problems, toasting your successes, and offering you comradery when I knew you were in a bad way.

  “Not every problem, ladies and gentlemen, is fit for a pastor. Sometimes you need a stiff drink and the fellowship of your peers. You take away the one saloon in this town, and you’ll take away a bit of the heart of this community. You all know that my establishment is in keeping with the spirit of the law, and if you’re honest, you’ll admit that it’s within moral bounds as well. That’s why there’s a saloon like mine in every community from here up to the Arctic Circle and right down to Cape Horn. Probably it’s the same clear around the world.

  “Now, I’m an old man, and I’m an easy target to run out of here, but even the animals in the African savannah know the importance of a watering hole as a gathering place. You run me out, and you’ll find two more saloons in my place. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d just like to say thank you to the community for over thirty years of business. Nearly every last one of you gentlemen has been in my saloon, and I’ve never judged any of you. Now, I’d kindly ask that you repay the favour.”

  Most o
f the men clapped, and the miners and loggers hooted and hollered. Doc Stryker gave them a thin smile as he made his way back to his seat. Mrs. McSheen’s scowl had returned in full force.

  It was Jo’s turn. As she rose from her seat, her stomach clenched and she could hardly hear anything except the pounding of her heart. Placing her hands on either side of the podium, she took a deep breath and forced herself to look out over the crowd. “Always look like you know exactly what you’re doing,” Albert used to tell her. “If you act in charge, most people are happy to let you run things.” She saw Ilsa and her girls, holding each other’s hands in a chain of white-knuckled support. She saw Nils and her regulars, ready to shout down the first person who offered her the slightest disrespect. She saw Owen, the man who thought she was beautiful and brilliant and desirable. And she saw Mrs. McSheen, smirking again as if she’d already won. Jo squared her shoulders. If Mrs. McSheen wanted a fight, she would get it.

  “Five years ago, my father and I sold the last of our possessions and arrived in Fraser Springs. We had been told there was medicine in the waters that might cure my father of his cough. But though my father could not be saved ...” She faltered, then recovered herself. “Though my father could not be saved, the care and compassion provided by the bathhouse attendants and by the people of Fraser Springs won my loyalty. It wasn’t long before I married Albert Wilson.”

  “You seduced him!” someone cried out.

  There was a brief, shocked silence. It was one thing to gossip but quite another to accuse a woman to her face, publicly, of being unchaste. Muttering—both approving and appalled—started up as Doc surged from his chair. Jo gave a small shake of her head, and he grudgingly returned to his seat. She’d expected this.

  “I would ask you not to dishonour my late husband’s memory,” she said calmly. The crowd quieted more quickly than she’d expected. “You know that he was a savvy businessman and had a keen mind right up until the end. Our marriage was a comfort and a blessing to us both. Albert knew the value of that.

  “When my father was sick, I saw what care the bathhouse attendants provided. Maybe that’s why I decided to keep Wilson’s Bathhouse going. I’m proud of the fact that my bathhouse is able to alleviate pain and suffering, and I’m proud that the women who work at my establishment are among the best trained and most virtuous in the country. That’s the truth.”

  Her employees cheered, but she quieted them with a glance. “What’s also the truth is that you know that these charges are unfounded. Many of you have been to my bathhouse or sat at my table. You know my staff. You know what goes on at Wilson’s Bathhouse, and you know that none of it is obscene. It saddens me that you have felt it easier to go along with an exciting story than to admit the simple fact that my bathhouse is a part of this community, no matter whether the attendants are men, women, or trained chimpanzees.”

  The crowd was so still they seemed like a painted tableau. “I am not going anywhere, because I have done nothing wrong. I have tried my best to honour my husband’s memory and carry on his life’s work. If you have any proof of my wrongdoing, I hope you will present it so that I can refute it as the nonsense it is. If there is to be a vote, may you all vote according to your conscience.”

  Jo returned to her place at the table along with Doc, who shot her an approving glance. The miners and loggers, not to mention her girls, were cheering. The townspeople looked nervously at each other.

  The clerk returned to the podium. “Mrs. McSheen, I believe you have a witness you would like to call.”

  Mrs. McSheen made her way to the podium. Her glow of self-satisfaction had returned. With her bustled skirt and frothy lace collar, she looked like an opera diva about to bring down the house with an aria.

  “I’d like to thank you all for coming out,” she said with her most gracious hostess voice. The townspeople clapped politely. “It means so very much to me, as it does for all the members of the Society for the Advancement of Moral Temperance.” More clapping.

  “Proverbs 28:13 says, ‘He who conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will find compassion.’ That is our mission today: compassion. Compassion for those who have sinned. But in order for God’s purity and love to find its way to the hearts of Doctor Stryker and Mrs. Wilson, there needs to be confession. Make no mistake about it, ladies and gentlemen. The transgressions within their walls are all too real. Ephesians 5:11 cautions us, ‘Do not participate in the unfruitful deeds of darkness, but instead expose them.’

  “In that spirit, I would like to call Mr. Rusty Barlow up to the platform to share his testimony. Rusty ventured into Wilson’s Bathhouse, and the story he has to tell is truly shocking. I will tell you in advance that this tale may not be suitable for children or women with more delicate sensibilities.”

  A hunched, rail-thin miner made his way up to the stage. Rusty had indeed been a customer. One of her least favourite, in fact. He was a brittle, malingering man who had once asked her to turn down the heat of the hot springs. As he climbed up onto the stage, he never looked up from his boots. He had shaved his beard and slicked back his hair, and someone had given him a clean suit to wear so that he looked almost respectable. He grasped the edges of the podium and blinked mole-like at his audience.

  “Aww, I don’t like being made a spectacle, but Mrs. McSheen asked me to share what I’d seen in Wilson’s House of Sin.” The other miners and loggers began to boo him.

  “Shut up, Rusty, you ain’t seen nothing!” one called.

  “You old liar!” called another.

  “If the gentlemen in the back cannot control their outbursts, they will be asked to leave,” the “mayor” shouted. “Continue, Mr. Barlow.”

  Rusty avoided the crowd’s gaze and continued staring at the ground. “Yes. Thank you. I can hardly tell my tale without shocking good Christian folk, but it needs to be said. I did venture to that there den of sin, and it’s a hunnerd times worse than you can even imagine. The women of Wilson’s offered themselves to me, and when I told them no, that I was a good Christian, they became enraged and insulted my manhood. When I called them vile creatures and prayed to God for strength, they hissed like snakes and began speakin’ in tongues and running their claws over my skin, trying to tear at my flesh.” He raised his gaze to the crowd. “It was then I knew the devil danced at Wilson’s Bathhouse and them strumpets were his handmaidens. I ran out of there, and when I looked back, I saw them entangled in one another like a nest of vipers, men and women all engaged in the filthiest, carnal display.”

  Far from fainting, the good people of Fraser Springs hung on every word. Sensing his audience was captivated, Rusty lowered his voice again. “When I left, I made the sign of the cross, and I heard the devil laughing and his hooves clacking all around me as he danced. I had myself baptized that very day, and now I love the Lord.” He looked at Mrs. McSheen. “And that’s my story.”

  A din erupted as Rusty ceded the podium to the exceptionally smug “mayor.”

  “He’s making it up!” Jo cried, but her voice was lost in the crowd.

  The mayor called for silence, unsuccessfully. The only thing that quieted the crowd was a figure bounding up the steps of the stage two at a time: Owen Sterling. Jo cringed. He could only make this worse.

  “I’d like to speak,” Owen said as he climbed the platform. He did not look at her.

  “My name is Ross Wister, and I’m a journalist.” The crowd murmured. “I’m an outsider sent to Fraser Springs to find out the truth of what’s going on at Wilson’s Bathhouse, so the way I see it, my testimony should be welcome here.”

  The clerk nodded.

  “Thank you,” Owen said. “Ladies and gentlemen, a few weeks ago, I received a tip that young women were being held against their will at Wilson’s and forced into a life of sin. I said to myself. ‘Here’s a story that the reading public needs to hear about. We need to do something to save these girls!’ So I traveled up here, and do you know what I
found?” He paused for dramatic effect. “A whole pack of nothing. I found hard-working young women using the healing waters of the hot springs to soothe the aches and pains of the community.”

  He gave a wry smile, acknowledging the scattered applause. “No one’s more disappointed than I am, folks. My big story was nothing but rumours. Can’t say it was the worst assignment I’ve ever had, since I enjoyed a good night’s sleep in the St. Alice and some excellent treatments at Wilson’s, but I can assure you—”

  “What else did you enjoy at Wilson’s?” came a cry.

  “He’s in with that woman! I saw ’em walking alone last night!” came another.

  “Tainted!” Mrs. McSheen cried. “He’s in her clutches!”

  “I did not fall into anyone’s clutches,” Owen said. Remarkably, he did not even so much as blush. “And I don’t care what you busybodies think you saw. You all seem to keep such good tabs on the people of this town, I’m interested in how none of you overheard great masses of men and women entangled in sin as the devil tap danced. How did all you hundreds of people living not a few feet away from one another miss that, when I can’t so much as speak to Mrs. Wilson without a dozen people whispering about it? I bet you know exactly what your neighbour had for breakfast, what kind of laundry soap she uses. There are no secrets in towns like these.”

  Owen leaned forward at the podium, completely comfortable in his role as a speaker. “What a town like this does have, however, is rumour. Rumour breeds quicker than these mosquitos. It’s more contagious than a plague and can lead to as much destruction.”

  He smiled grimly at Mrs. McSheen. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am a stranger who has spent less than a week in your town, but it is clear that you are good, moral people trying to do the right thing. It seems, however, that you have let rumour and gossip get the best of you, and it’s causing your minds to invent feverish plots. You’ve got this paddle wheeler ready to run two good people out of town based upon on the ramblings of an old, demented miner! No, I believe that you are all better than that. Drop this witch hunt and return these businesspeople to their place in your community. I am calling on you to do the right thing.”