Gold Fever. Vicki Delany

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      “She’s an Indian, you idiot. You can’t invite a squaw into a white woman’s house.”

      “Indian?” Angus asked, feeling like a fool. When they’d come over the Chilkoot Pass last year, his mother had hired Indian packers to carry their goods. He’d seen a few women working as packers, but only from a distance. They’d all been heavy-set, muscular, bundled up in clothes suitable for the high mountain passes. This woman was tiny, frail almost, but the dark complexion, black hair, and flat cheekbones should have told him. Would it have made a difference if he’d known it was an Indian woman throwing herself into the cold Yukon?

      He turned to face her. She had begun to slowly pick her way back towards town, dragging sodden skirts behind her, shivering with cold in her light blouse.

      “Wait,” he shouted, running after her and catching her by the arm. “You can still come with me, at least long enough to get dry and warmed up. Our landlady always has lots for dinner, to make our lunches the next day, so she’ll have enough to set an extra place.”

      She turned and smiled up at him. She had a nice smile, he thought, kind. And sad. Her face was wet, river water mingling with her tears. “You’re a nice boy.” She touched his cheek with one small brown hand. “You go home to your nice mother. She doesn’t need any trouble.”

      “It’s no trouble.”

      “If you take me in, you’ll get a great deal of trouble from Mrs. LeBlanc.”

      “Angus,” Dave called. “The squaw can look after herself. All that talk about supper’s makin’ me hungry. You comin’?”

      Angus ignored his friends. “Mrs. LeBlanc? You mean Joey LeBlanc? Nothing my ma’d like more than to set Joey LeBlanc straight.” He held out his hand. “I’m Angus MacGillivray.”

      She didn’t accept his hand. “White people call me Mary.”

      Chapter Two

      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 СКАЧАТЬ