MEG REACHED THE CITY OF VANCOUVER in September of 1896.
Now I have seen them all, she wrote to Alice and Jacques. All the big cities united by the railroad across our country. I trust you will receive the picture cards I sent from each city. I could not write a proper letter while on the train. Smooth and fast as it is compared to any horse and buggy, the train cars do jerk and sway. Besides, I didn’t want to miss a moment of the landscape rushing by!
My strongest feeling after seeing our country from coast to coast is one of gratitude, to men like our own father and all the Fathers of Confederation who believed in the concept and fought so hard to make it all one nation. But then I think of the people it was taken from and what can we do for them? It is a question that gnaws at me, like remembering what happened to the wolves in the woods at our farm. Not that I think native people are animals! But we are all interconnected. Dependent on one another. The water, the land, the animals, the people. Oh dear. Too complicated for a letter. And way off topic!
You’ll be glad to know, Jacques and Alice, that I found a way of protecting myself as a woman travelling alone. It occurred to me in Montreal while I was staying in the hotel where Randolph and I had dined when he visited me while I was at college. The maitre d’hotel was particularly kind and protective towards me when he learned that Randolph died. That made me think of purchasing a mourning arm band to see what difference it made. It works!
With the mourning band on my coat sleeve, suddenly gentlemen treat me with a grave respect, rather than, shall we say, curiosity, as to whether I’m a lady with a destination or a courtesan on the run. Women look at me with a concerned sympathy, rather than the suspicion and outright contempt that I was sometimes receiving. It became very handy when I stopped over in a city and took a cab to look at the sights. Cab drivers were very kind indeed. In hotels and on the train, it was assumed that I did not want to be pestered. If a gentleman got too solicitous or invited me to dine with him when I did not wish his company, I would assume a demeanour of deep grieving. They would tip their hat and pass on their way. On the other hand, if I liked the looks of someone and wanted to converse, I could assume a more friendly expression. I could withdraw into grieving at any point I wished. And yes, I’ll admit to you, I altered the recentness of my husband’s demise according to my needs.
I had wonderful conversations with some very nice and interesting people.
As for the landscape … marvellous! You already know about the trip from Halifax to Montreal: the solid grey stone farmhouses and inns that dot the route along the St. Lawrence River. Ottawa is also beautifully situated with the parliament buildings overlooking the river and forested hills to the north. But it’s still rather new and small, with grand brick houses only in the centre. The route to Toronto passes through cleared farmland with log houses like our own on Wolf Woods Farm and then it goes along the shore of Lake Ontario. It and the other Great Lakes on the route away from Toronto are like small calm seas. Much building and modernity in Toronto. More electric street cars and lights and wide flat streets than we have in Halifax. But of course it’s not half so charming and historic. The bigger houses throughout Ontario are generally red brick, with yellow brick highlighting their contours and some fancy woodcarving, like lace hanging, along the front porches.
Guess who drove the train from Toronto to Winnipeg? Yes! Our very own brother Stew. He had it all planned as a surprise after I telegraphed to him my arrival date in Toronto. He’s duly proud of having become an engineer. I stopped over in Winnipeg so we could visit with George and family on their enormous farm. He wouldn’t say so, but I think it has been hard for them, having no sons to help out. But our nieces are married now and two of the husbands have nearby farms and share in planting and harvesting.
Winnipeg is the place for bicycles, Jacques. The widest, flattest main streets in the country! And it is booming with new businesses. The Gateway to the West, they call it. They’re building grand clapboard houses, not colourfully painted as ours in Halifax, but they are grand.
Regina is not half so big and bustling but it has its own character as a prairie town with those tall distinctive grain elevators you can see for miles. I noticed very modern threshing machines, such as Dave would love to have on the farm. But the fields of grain are so endlessly large, it would take weeks and weeks to harvest without the new machines. I tried to imagine the prairies with herds of buffalo still roaming across. And got sad, of course!
You must, you and the children, see the rolling ranch land around Calgary and then the absolutely awesome and majestic Rocky Mountains! Seeing mountains from a distance is truly wonderful. But to ride on a train climbing up into, around and over them is a thrill that takes you into the terrifying. The tracks run on some very narrow ledges so high up the edges of those dark rock mountains, I could not look out the window. I was rigid with fear. Then the train tracks became so steep, the poor engine could barely pull us. We were going so slowly that passengers who wished to, were invited to get out and walk along the mountain side. Not the cliff side! It was the men who chose to do so. Plus me. Then a couple of other lady travellers. I actually felt much better, safer, relying on my own two feet for that steepest part. Then we got aboard again and began the descent into the remarkably flat area around Vancouver on the Pacific Ocean.
Aren’t I lucky to have experienced all that? Alice, I know I am.
Much love to you both. And the most affectionate hugs and kisses to my dear little George, Victoria and Herbie.
She’ll hate that letter, thought Meg. But so be it. If I didn’t write she’d be mad at that, would call me selfish. If I wrote about my loneliness, my longing to share every adventure and sight with … Meg sighed and smiled wryly at herself … with one who is dead and another who lives in Boston and I may never see again! There was no letter awaiting from Mick when she arrived at the Hotel Vancouver.
Oh, the disappointment of that! And all along the journey, what an ache in the heart it was to get into a hotel bed or climb into the train berth, alone, hearing the sounds of couples laughing, whispering, embracing in their own happiness.
Get going, Meg, she told herself. Get over the disappointment of there being no letter from Mick. He’s a sincere man. Not one who trifles. Surely. Have faith. And press on. Up to the Yukon you go. You’re a lone wolf in need of a new territory. But she lingered several days. Perhaps a letter would come by the next train, or the next.
There was talk of the Yukon in the hotel lounge. Meg approached the concierge, asking how to get to the Yukon.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, “but I’ve heard it’s rough and tough going up there. No place for a lady.”
“But how do they do it, the gentlemen?”
“It’s not gentlemen who go there. It’s prospectors. A hardy bunch of roughnecks. They never stay long in this hotel. Come here for drinks and a good meal, mostly.”
“But I want to know, how do they get there, to the Yukon?”
“They take a boat. There’s a steamer goes up the coast, all the way to some port in Alaska. The furthest is St. Michaels in Alaska. Then they take a riverboat up the Yukon River to the interior. That’s the long and expensive way. Operates only in summer. Prospectors take the cheap and rough route. They get dumped into a bay at a place called Moore’s Landing then take one of two routes over the mountains into the Yukon. One route, a couple of days longer, is over the White Pass from Moore’s Landing. The other is steeper but quicker, the Chilkoot Trail going up from a place called Dyea, not far from Moore’s Landing.”
Meg put on her black arm band and sat in the lounge ordering tea in the afternoon. Other ladies were sitting at tables by the window. She sat close to the bar where she might listen in on the conversation of men at the bar. She heard mention of the Yukon as a dead end and the coldest place on earth. She heard mention of it as the last frontier for gold, a sportsman’s paradise where the natives were friendly and their daughters free for the asking.
“Gentlemen,” Meg got up her courage to approach the men. “Please excuse me for interrupting …”
They looked at her, her armband, the ring she now wore on her right hand.
“Ma’am.” They tipped their hats to her.
She nodded. “I am a veterinarian. I wanted to ask about the dogs in the Yukon. Are any of you gentleman prospectors?”
“Cursed that I am.”
“Me too.”
“Used to be. Given it up. For sure this time.”
“I am, when I can afford to be. Ain’t right now.”
“Ma’am,” said the youngest looking one, perhaps twenty, big-bodied, blue eyes, bushy, dirty-blond hair. “My name is Finn. Mind my askin’ … what’s a vetarian?”
All the men looked interested in the answer to this.
“A veterinarian” Meg laughed. “A doctor of animals. I’m most interested in dogs, sled dogs. Do you know anything about them?”
“Holy Liftin!” said Finn, banging his fist on the bar. “I can’t believe this! We was wonderin’ what you’re all about, hangin’ around the bar but not lookin’ like a …” He cleared his throat. “This calls for another round of drinks, eh men? And one for this good lookin’ dog lady. Go ahead, men. Tell her. Do I know about sled dogs! Ma’am …” Finn performed a deep bow to her. “I’m a musher.”
“A musher!” Meg exclaimed.
“He drives the dogs.”
“Does the mail run.”
“Messenger boy is our Finn.” They gave him a friendly punch in the arm. “’Cause he can’t find no gold. He’s a failed prospector like the rest of us. Just a bit younger, that’s all, eh, Finn?”
Finn was staying in a tent down by the docks. Couldn’t afford a hotel room. Spent what he could on drinks. He was on a bender in Vancouver. A couple of weeks of big city life before he went back up to his dogs, left behind with friends in a camp on the Yukon River.
“Summer’s hard on the dogs,” said Finn over dinner that evening, which Meg insisted on treating him to. “Mine are big malamutes. They can pull heavy loads a long way in winter. Summer they sleep a lot. Ned, he’s the swimmer. First one into the lake on a warm day. Maybe because he’s got the thickest fur. Though it was Yukon Jane who taught them all as pups. She’s the teacher and leader. Always has been. She’s a throwback. More wolf-like than any of them. Too narrow in the chest and long in the legs to be sold for as much as Ned would get. Not that I’m about to sell them, mind you. They’re my bread and butter, as they say down here. Though you don’t find no butter in a miner’s cabin. I sure appreciate this fine dinner, ma’am.”
“Meg, please.” She smiled with huge satisfaction, felt she had found a gold mine of information in the city of Vancouver. “Tell me,” she said, “how might a woman get over the mountains and along the Yukon, with her baggage? I have vet supplies and brooms.”
“Brooms!” Finn laughed. “Unless you can fly them, witch-like, you’ll have to hire a bunch of Chilkoot packers. Haul all your stuff for you. But it don’t come cheap. They charge by the pound. A man like myself carries everything he needs on his back. A woman has to have strong legs and money for packers. Either that or a husband like Clarence Berry. He hauled his wife over the pass in ’94 on a sleigh. Wait for winter and I could get my dogs to pull you over the White Pass and downriver on the ice. But with brooms and all, you’re going to need packers. Packers and a river guide. I could do that. I could get you through the rapids.”
“Rapids!”
“Yes, ma’am, there’s a couple of stretches of rapids. Miles Canyon and Five Fingers. You’ll want an expert like me or the Indians to get you through those. I’m for hire.” Finn grinned.
Meg gave him a warm handshake and said good night, then went to send a telegram to Jean Atkins asking her to forward money from Clean Sweepers. She lay awake in her hotel room, devising lists in her mind. I won’t just outfit myself, she decided. I’ll take things to sell, to keep me going while I build a business. It’ll be the same old struggle to get started I had in Halifax. People not wanting to or unable to pay for my services. I’ll take other things that they need and don’t question having to pay for.
Candles, toothbrushes, bolts of cloth, matches. Why not a book or two? Shampoo, soaps. Things I would want if stuck in the wilderness in winter. Must be easy to pack.
Jean telegraphed back.
CONFERRED WITH JACQUES STOP YOU SHOULD RECEIVE FUNDS IN FORTNIGHT STOP MISS YOU STOP BE SAFE
JEAN
How safe would it be, Meg asked herself, to hike over mountains and paddle downriver with Finn and an Indian or two? It was not the treachery of the mountains and river rapids that bothered her so much as travelling alone with men, strangers, at that. Can I do this, she thought? Should I?
“Do you know of any other women who might want to go to the Yukon with me?” she said to Finn.
“None of your sort.” He grinned
“Anyone,” said Meg.
“You can trust me,” said Finn. “I’ll make sure you’re safe. It’s the timing I worry about. Last boat up the coast is early October. Can’t miss that. You don’t want to do the Chilkoot just as winter sets in. And then the Yukon starts freezing up …”
Meg was sitting at the writing desk in the grand entrance of the hotel when a swashbuckling woman came in the front door. Swashbuckling is how Mad Mitzi Bonaparte struck Meg from start to finish. She was dressed in swishing dark red taffeta, with a velvet cloak and a hat animated with swaying plumes and birds that looked as though they might sing. She swirled a parasol like a sword and plunged it into the floor demanding attention. She was imperious with the valet and loudly flirtatious with the well-dressed gentleman who paused to tip his hat to her.
“You must come to my dance hall, monsieur,” she said so that others could hear. “You’ll find Mad Mitzi more than entertaining. You will fall madly in love. Au revoir, mon cher.” She spoke in an accent meant to be French, laughed gaily, and blew a kiss to someone across the room. She approached the front desk and declared, “I am looking for the notorious widow Oliphant.”
“Mrs. Oliphant is occupied, Miss Bonaparte,” said the desk clerk very formally, then turned back to his work.
“Occupied with what?” she demanded, raising her chin and looking around her, away from the clerk as though he were unworthy of her attention. “She will want to see moi, Ma’mselle Madeleine Mitzi Bonaparte.”
“Mrs. Oliphant is at the writing desk.”
“Ah!”
Meg stood up as Mitzi swept across the room to her.
“Mrs. Oliphant!” Mitzi smiled hugely, held out both hands, took Meg’s. “Charmante! Charmante! Come, let us have a drink, get acquainted, immediatement. I have heard about you.”
They sat in the lounge. Mitzi ordered champagne.
“Oh no,” said Meg, “That’s much too expensive …” Mitzi flung her hand in the air as though flinging away petty concerns. “I am a danceure,” she said. “My grandmotheure danced for Napolean Bonaparte. My motheure was his love child. And of course, I am hers.” She laughed. “Mad Mitzi, love child of Napoleon. What a life!” She laughed heartily and finished her glass of champagne, then signalled the waiter to attend to them with more champagne, raising her glass like a snap of the fingers.
Meg was embarrassed at Mitzi’s treatment of the staff, tried to compensate by smiling at them apologetically, but she was intrigued with this woman who apparently ran a dance hall, was warm and generous to her, and could afford champagne before dinner.
“I have heard you are a doctor,” said Mitzi, “and you own factories on the other side of this colony that calls itself a nation.”
Meg laughed. “I’m an animal doctor and I own a little broom factory. Who told you about me?”
Mitzi narrowed her eyes, considering Meg’s information. “I hear everything, chérie.” Mitzi swept her hand in the air. “Men flock to my dance hall. They all wish to be intimate with me. I don’t have time for everyone. I pick and choose. I do not listen to everyone. Not everyone can have my … attention.” She leaned close to Meg. “You may tell me, chérie … what do you know about this rumour of gold in the Klondike? That is why you are going there, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to the Yukon.” Meg smiled. “To tend to the dogs.”
“That’s what Finn said.” Mitzi laughed. “He is … naïve. You know what I mean? Young and naïve. He has no money. Do you know that?” Mitzi leaned in as though she were revealing something very essential.
“I don’t know him well at all.”
“Do you know about the Klondike?”
“It’s the other big river, flows into the Yukon. That’s all I know.” Mitzi leaned closer. They were each on their third glass of champagne. The bottle was turned upside down in the silver bucket. “I heard that some struck it rich on the Klondike. Very rich. Very recently.” Mitzi touched her blonde upswept hair, looked around the lounge, then back at Meg. “Is that not why you are going there, chérie, by the fast route?”
“No.” Meg smiled. “But if what you’ve heard is true, then you should come with me. You for the gold. Me for the dogs.”
They both laughed and laughed again.
“I will think about it,” said Mitzi, her French accent fallen by the wayside. “Rumours are a dime a dozen.” She looked around the room. “Now, who is going to take us to dinner and pay for this champagne?”
“What!’ said Meg.
“I have to dance tonight, chérie.” Mitzi stood up. “Must have a petite meal now, d’accord?” She turned and went to the bar where she began to talk to an expensively dressed man.
Meg told the waiter she would pay for the champagne and would he please tell Miss Bonaparte that she was going out for the evening. She waved and mouthed “au revoir” to Mitzi, who was accepting a drink from the gentleman at the bar. Meg went up to her room and decided to make good on her word. I had better find a good, cheap place for a meal, she calculated, to try to make up for the cost of that champagne. She put on her arm band and went to a place the concierge had recommended as inexpensive but not well-suited to a lady of her standing.
“But is it safe?” was all that concerned Meg.
“Oh yes. That it is.”
It was a small inn run by Herr and Frau Bauer. The evening meal was served at 6 p.m. and 6 p.m. only. It was a set meal of meat, potatoes, another vegetable, fresh bread roll and butter. Pie for dessert. Guests sat on benches along two large tables.
Dinner back on the farm, thought Meg as she sat at a table, completely outnumbered by men. There were only two other women. Frau Bauer had seated Meg between them, a seamstress and a “typist,” a woman who wrote on cultural topics for the newspaper. She was short, fashionably dressed, unintimidated, quick to interrogate, and quick to turn away from a conversation that bored her. She took a sharp interest in Meg and Meg in her. But Meg kept locking glances with a man seated at the other table who also wore a black arm band. He was exceptionally handsome, like the hero in a Marie Corelli novel. Black hair ruffling into curls, neatly trimmed moustache, dark eyebrows, and intensely blue eyes. Tall and slim with strong cheek bones.
“Anton Stander,” he introduced himself to Meg when the meal was over. “I see we have something in common.” He indicated his arm band. “My condolences.”
“And to you,” said Meg.
“Perhaps I’ll see you here again?”
“Yes. It’s very good food.”
He bowed and backed away. As she stepped onto the boardwalk leading back to her hotel, she looked up at the inn and saw him watching from the window. Soon she heard someone running up behind her. She stopped and faced him.
“You didn’t tell me your name.,” said Anton.
“Meg … Oliphant. Mrs. … formerly …” Meg stopped, flustered.
“Mrs. Formerly.” He smiled and removed his hat. “May I walk you home?”
Meg laughed. “My name is actually Margaret, Meg, Oliphant. I am a widow.”
“I have made you laugh. Is it all right to make you laugh?”
“Oh yes.” Meg was annoyed with herself for blushing. “My husband died some time ago. May I ask about you?”
“If you let me walk you home.” He smiled.
“I don’t live here. I’m staying at Hotel Vancouver.”
“Another coincidence. I don’t live here either. May I?” He motioned to walk along side her.
She smiled and nodded. They proceeded together.
“I’m here only a few days,” said Anton. “Heading up to the Klondike on Friday.”
Meg stopped in her tracks. No. Not another coincidence, she thought. It’s too much. He’ll think I’m lying. She laughed. Or following him there!
“What is so funny?” said Anton. “Going to the Klondike may be foolish. May be another dead end. But why does it strike you as worthy of laughter?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was thinking of something else. I’m not laughing at you. I’m sorry. May I ask? Who have you lost? Who are you mourning?”
“My mother.” Anton heaved a sigh. “In Austria. I haven’t seen her since I left. Nine years ago. I didn’t get the news … until long after … I always thought … I planned … to see her again.”
Meg took his hand in both of hers. “I’m so sorry.”
He put his other arm around her, hugging her, then took her arm. Meg didn’t care that people stared at them, embracing in a public place.
“I must have a drink,” said Anton. “Will you join me in a drink at this hotel of yours?”
Why not, thought Meg. It’s a safe place.
Anton downed several whiskys while she had coffee and a brandy and extracted his life story from him. Raised in a mountain village in Austria, landed in New York at age twenty with only a few words of English and precisely one dollar and seventy-five cents in his pocket.
“Worked my way across the continent,” he said. “Been everything from coal miner to sheep herder to cowboy. Cowboy suited me best because I worked on a ranch close to the mountains. Guess mountains are in my blood. Like my mother. Rest her soul.” He looked into his glass then across at Meg. “What’s in the blood stays there. But life moves on. I’ve got a good paycheque in my pocket and I hear there’s good prospects up in the Klondike. Let’s drink to that.”
They clinked glasses, hearing music starting up in the ballroom. Meg felt exhilaration and a lightness of being that she hadn’t felt in months.
“Would you like to dance?” said Anton. “I’m aching to waltz with a lady, like you.”
Meg thought of Mick. Would he mind? Would he approve? Would she disapprove if he danced with someone? No, of course not! It would be good for him. This would be good for her. He had not sent her a word in three months. She was free to dance.
Meg considered her outfit. High neck blouse, navy blue wool skirt and jacket. Anton was in a three-piece tweed suit with white shirt and tie, a man who liked to dress well in the city. “I’m not suitably attired,” she said. “But I do have a dress in my room.”
“I’ll wait for you,” said Anton.
Meg reappeared in her turquoise silk gown, her hair done up with combs and a blue velvet ribbon. No black arm band.
“Ah!” Anton kissed her hand. “My lady, Margaret.” He put his arm band in his pocket.
He waltzed like an Austrian, having heard the music from birth, trained as a child. He swirled her around the ballroom. He did the polka with vigour.
“You’re not too tired?” said Anton, with his arm around her waist, another waltz about to begin.
“Oh, no. Not at all!” She tried to catch her breath, knew she was smiling from ear to ear. “I haven’t danced in years. I love it!”
“Bravo!” He swept her up in the waltz. “I like to put the orchestra to bed.”
They danced the last waltz, then Anton in silence walked her to the door of her room.
“Thank you,” said Meg. “I had such a wonderful time …” He put his finger tip on her lips. “No need to say. You know what I’m thinking.”
“No,” she said with a slow movement of her head, “I don’t.”
“It is you I would like to put to bed.” He kissed her, lingered in embrace, then stood back abruptly and bowed. “Good night, my lady.”
“Good night, sir.” Meg smiled.
In her room she laughed and waltzed, humming the music, wondering could I become “the merry widow”?
Next day was Thursday. She hoped to encounter Anton in the hotel, on the street. But he was not to be seen. She arranged for a bath in her room before going to dinner at the Bauer Inn. The portable tin tub was placed in the centre of the room. The Chinese maid, who was too shy or discreet to speak or look at Meg, brought buckets of hot water. Meg got into the tub. The maid was to return with a final warm-up bucket.
“Ah the luxury of a fresh bath,” said Meg to herself, remembering sharing them with Alice, once a week, when they were growing up, and then when they were too big to share the tub, fighting over who got the water first.
There was a knock on the door and a key inserted.
“Wu Ling?” said Meg. “Come in.”
Anton opened the door, carrying a bucket of water. He put his finger to his lips and advanced with the pail. “I encountered your maid. I bribed her. Please don’t raise the alarm. I couldn’t help myself. I’ll do you no harm. I had come just to see you and walk you to the Inn. But what man could resist … Will you allow me to pour the water?”
Meg thought better of standing up naked in front of him. She held her knees up to her chest. “Anton, I … don’t do this!”
He poured the water in. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Let me be your servant. Let me bathe you …”
What woman could resist, Meg thought afterwards. The way he lapped the water over her, touching … She had stood up dripping wet, intending to call a halt. But she let him, let him proceed in silence. The towel on the bed. Laying her on it. His undressing. That’s when she should have gotten up. But she said instead. “I could get …”
“I’ll see that you don’t,” he said, reassuringly.
And she let him continue. He withdrew at the crucial moment. She put her arms around him, in gratitude and pleasure. It felt good to embrace a handsome, healthy man. But it was not with the love and shared understanding and mutual instinct she had felt with Mick. She was perturbed. Anton is expert, she thought. And I enjoyed that. But what kind of woman am I? What am I becoming? On the other hand … what am I discovering? That the world has many men I could enjoy? Maybe so. But I want just one, one who wants to marry and have children and do some good in the world, together.
“I’m hungry,” Anton had said, kissing her cheek, then getting up to wash himself and quickly dress. “We can’t be late for Frau Bauer or she won’t feed us.”
Meg tried not to look guilty as she left the hotel with Anton. She worried that she did not feel very guilty.
Anton spoke in German to Frau Bauer with the result that they were allowed to sit beside each other at the table. They waltzed again at the hotel until the orchestra quit. Anton came into her room and put her to bed, getting in with her.
“I would like to postpone my trip,” said Anton. “But it is urgent to get going as soon as possible. I don’t have money to spare or time to waste. This rumour of gold on the Klondike is gathering momentum. The first to find are the first to claim. There may not be much or there may be a lot. You understand, Margaret, why I can’t linger?”
“There’s something I haven’t told you Anton.” He sat up. “Tell me,” he said, rather harshly.
“I am going to the Yukon, leaving in about a week’s time.”
“Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I’ve said very little about myself and you haven’t asked. And you might have thought I was following you.”
“It’s a very bad idea, Margaret. You are not the type. I know mountains and mining camps. I know their dangers. You could be killed in an avalanche, mauled by grizzly bears, starve or freeze to death, be ravaged by men. And never even see a bathtub!” He got out from the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought you were wintering in Vancouver. As you should! I could send for you, if I strike it rich. You must not follow me now.”
Meg sat up with the cover over her. “I’m not following you!”
“I can’t take you with me. It’s impossible. Far too dangerous. You must stay here!”
“I will do what I want. And I will not be shouted at!” He put on his clothes and stood with his hand on the doorknob. “I apologize. I have a very bad temper. I will go now. And trust that you will not follow me.”
What arrogance! thought Meg. What conceit! He thinks he knows me and he never even asked what I am besides a widow who took the train across the country. She sank down under the sheets. He’s not seriously interested in me. Only himself and his prospects. But he made love with such interest. And to dance with him is to forget oneself, to be caught up in a cosmos of music and rhythm and oblivious romance. Still, I’m not one to simply dance through life. And “handsome is as handsome does.” Someone who shouts at me, orders me to stay where I am, turns his back, stomps off … Forget him!
But next morning she couldn’t resist going to the docks to see his departure. She kept back out of sight while she saw him go up the gangplank, carrying a big pack on his back, with a pickaxe sticking out of it. He wore breeches and sturdy boots, a winter jacket, and his black brimmed hat. As the boat left shore, he joined the passengers at the stern, leaning over the railing. Meg raised her arm and waved at him, smiling.
He saw her, stood up straight and waved with a pleased expression on his face. He blew her a kiss, then pointed his finger in a manner that said, “Stay there!”
It was late in the afternoon when a telegram was brought to her room.
NO TIME FOR LETTER STOP SEND NEXT ADDRESS
STOP YOU’LL BE AMAZED MY LOVE
MICK O’MARA
Meg read and re-read it, held it in her hands like gold. Tucked it into her camisole, close as she could get to her heart.