Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get much peace and quiet while waiting for my soup. I had scarcely seated myself and opened the accounts book—the rows of numbers swam behind my tired eyes—when a soft knock sounded on the door. Irene’s voice said, “Mrs. MacGillivray? Mr. Walker said we could come up.”
“Come in,” I called. Whatever Irene wanted with me in the middle of the afternoon, it couldn’t be good.
Irene’s clothes were generally on the cheap side— cheap in appearance and cheap in cost—but lately she’d been dressing a good deal better. The dress she wore today was a striking midnight blue, with a row of appliquéd lace flowers at the level of her knees and again at the top of the bodice. The bodice itself was fashionably pouched, and the waistband thin and pointed at the front, which showed off her lush hourglass figure to perfection. The dress was perhaps too fancy for afternoon wear, but I doubted that Irene cared about the intricacies of the appropriate use of women’s fashion. I wondered if she’d be willing to surrender the name of her new dressmaker. She was flushed a deep red, and her chest moved rapidly. She twisted her hands together and glanced over her shoulder as she stepped into the room.
A woman stood behind her. This was no dance hall girl. She wore a plain homespun dress in shades of mud brown and a perfectly hideous yellow, the whole effect looking like Front Street after a heavy rain and the passage of a pack of undisciplined dogs. Her hair was pulled tightly into a knot behind her head, and an ugly straw hat with a flat top and a wide brim was perched on top of it all.
It was the woman I’d seen the other day, about to be kissed by Irene.
She settled, without being asked, into the visitor’s chair. Irene shut the door with her foot and remained standing. My office is completely utilitarian—it is where I conduct business (and count all my lovely money) and nothing else. There were no pictures on the wall, just a single small mirror behind the door so that I could check my hair before going downstairs; the cheap wall boards were unpainted, and the rug served only to keep splinters out of my stockings if I happened to discard my shoes at the end of a long day. It does have one rather rickety couch, the springs of which are always threatening to make good their escape, for those occasions when I need a quick nap and don’t want to take the time to go home. The same couch on which Graham Donohue has, so far unsuccessfully, attempted to help me “relax”.
“I have business to discuss with you, Mrs. MacGillivray,” the woman said, not bothering with introductions.
“You have me at a disadvantage, madam,” I said. “Huh?” “I don’t know your name.” “I’m Maggie Brandon.” Maggie was about forty, with the rough, wind-blown complexion and scarred hands that spoke of a youth spent scratching a living out of rock and dirt. Her accent was American, mid-west probably, and quite rough, indicating an informal education, at best. She was barely five feet tall and very slight, but her thinness had a good deal more to do with being wiry than undernourished. Her unblinking pale blue eyes glittered with intelligence and determination. The bags under those eyes weren’t much smaller than ones I have used to carry belongings.
She reached out to shake my hand, and I accepted. The tips of the thumb and the first two fingers on her right hand were so heavily calloused, they felt like old leather.
“If you’re looking for employment, Maggie, I have all the percentage girls I need right now, but I can take your name.”
“I’m here to represent Irene,” she said. She looked over her shoulder at the woman leaning against the wall. Maggie’s eyes were so full of affection, I almost turned away in embarrassment.
I swallowed. “Have you asked this woman to speak for you?” Irene nodded.
Maggie pulled a piece of paper out of her skirt pocket. “Irene is making a hundred fifty dollars a week here. The Boston Brahman is making two hundred over at the Horseshoe. So we figured Irene should get two hundred and twenty. At least.”
“Two hundred and twenty dollars a week,” I spluttered. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” I knew full well how much the Boston Brahman, the stage name of the headliner at the Horseshoe, was pulling in—two hundred and fifty dollars.
“I’m guessing it’s time you heard about it.”
“Irene is also making a sizeable twenty-five per cent on drinks,” I reminded them. “She does very well.” I smiled at Irene. “That must bring in a nice sum.”
“Two hundred and twenty, or Irene leaves,” Maggie said.
I’d never had to negotiate with my employees before. Rates were standard in Dawson, and no one had yet worked anywhere long enough to ask for more. In the past I’d negotiated with men—lots of them—for favours, jewellery, status, even my freedom, but I’d never done business with a woman. I looked at Maggie’s steady eyes and decided that my old tricks wouldn’t be worth much.
“Irene,” I said, “who is this person?”
Irene traced a gap in the planks of the wooden floor with her toe.
“Irene’s engaged me to act for her.” Maggie said. “Ain’t that right, Irene?”
The dancer nodded, still studying the flooring.
I did quick calculations in my head. Irene brought in more, by an order of magnitude, in a night than they were asking for in a week. But I didn’t want to create a precedent here. Suppose all the girls starting asking for more money?
And then the bartenders and croupiers. Even the Sunday watchman and Helen Saunderson.
“Do you trust Miss Brandon to speak for you, Irene?” I said, although I knew the answer well enough. Judging by the fond looks Irene gave her, she would trust Maggie with a great deal.
Poor Ray. Poor me, if word got out. “One hundred and seventy-five,” I said, tucking my big ledger back into the desk drawer. “And that’s only because I’m most dreadfully tired and don’t want to argue.”
Irene moved away from the wall with a slight smile turned up at the edges of her mouth. Maggie had her back to Irene, but she seemed to know what was happening behind her; her arm gave a short chop, and Irene fell back.
“Two hundred,” Maggie said. “We could get more at the Monte Carlo, but Irene likes it here, although I don’t know why.”
“We? I don’t believe I am offering you anything, Miss Brandon.”
Maggie relaxed, not rising to the bait. “Two hundred.”
“One hundred and eighty-five,” I locked my desk drawer
and dropped the key into my reticule. “That is my final
offer. Good day, ladies.” I got to my feet.
Maggie didn’t move. “One hundred eight-five,” she
said.
I relaxed. Which was probably a mistake.
“Plus thirty per cent on drinks.”
“Thirty per cent?” I shuddered. “Most certainly not. Oh,
all right. Two hundred dollars a week. But twenty-five per
cent on drinks.”
Maggie rose to her not-very-considerable height. She
held out her hand.
It was like holding the claw of a baby bird. I could have
crushed Maggie’s hand in mine with no effort at all.
Instead I shook it carefully.
Irene clapped her hands. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Mac Gillivray,” she said.
“Sit down.” I unlocked my desk drawer once again. I pulled out a bottle of excellent whisky and three glasses. “And tell me what else is going on here.”
Maggie Brandon accepted her drink with no hesitation, but she didn’t relax one iota and watched me warily.
I wondered what line of work she was in and what had brought her to the North. She clearly knew her way around a business deal. Irene stepped forward and accepted her drink. “See, Maggie,” she said, “I told you Mrs. MacGillivray would be reasonable.” She beamed at us both.
Maggie took an indelicately large mouthful. “Good stuff, this,” she said. She finished the drink. I poured more. “Don’t know what you mean about their being anythin’ else, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Don’t you?” I said, enjoying the taste of my own drink. It was real Scottish stuff, made in the Highlands, just like me.
“No,” Maggie said. “So I guess we’ll be off.” She threw back her second glass and got to her feet.
“Your personal relationship with Irene. It could be that Irene isn’t worth twenty dollars a week, never mind two hundred."
“Mrs. MacGillivray! What are you saying? I’ve always been…”
“Shut up, Irene,” Maggie ordered, her voice perfectly calm. She held out her glass, and I refilled it. Irene’s mouth snapped closed. “If’n you have somethin’ to say, say it, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Maggie said. “Otherwise thank you for the refreshment. Good stuff this.”
“You and Irene have been seen, in public, in a position that if she were with a gentleman, I would consider to be compromising.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed before she looked at the cuff of her sleeve and adjusted it slightly. “And?”
“And coincidentally, I have lately been wondering what secret lover Irene has that would have made her willing to go to jail over that business earlier this summer rather than reveal his name. Heavens, this is Dawson, everyone is fooling around with everyone else, and no one much cares. Unless the secret lover is someone like the priest. Or a woman.”
Irene’s hands flew to her bosom. The whisky glass trembled but remained upright. “Mrs. MacGillivray, we’ll be discreet, I promise. But if you insist, if necessary, I won’t see Maggie for a while.”
At that, Maggie’s face paled and her cool façade momentarily slipped. “Don’t talk nonsense, Irene. She’s fishing.”
“Your romantic interests are no concern of mine. However, I suggest you be a bit more discreet from now on. You might not understand, Irene, but Maggie does, I’m sure. What do you think your worth would be in this town if everyone knew that you are...unnatural, shall we say?”
“Shouldn’t matter.” Irene started to cry. Maggie stood up and put an arm around the dancer’s
shoulder. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped at a tear trickling down Irene’s cheek.
“I have no interest in revealing your secret to anyone.” I put the whisky bottle back in the drawer and locked it. “I’m advising you both to take care, that’s all. Now I have to be going home.”
Maggie looked at me. Her eyes were clear, and her chin held high. “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. MacGillivray. And I thank you for it.”
“Don’t thank me for anything,” I walked them to the door. “If Irene’s worth to me drops to less than two hundred dollars a week, she’ll be looking for alternate employment.”
Irene allowed Maggie to precede her into the hallway, then she hung back for a moment. “It isn’t that easy to find someone who loves you, you know. I mean truly loves you, for yourself, not expecting anything but love back,” she whispered. “Haven’t you ever loved, Mrs. MacGillivray?”
“Irene,” Maggie said, “let’s go.” Irene scurried away in a rustle of midnight blue silk and a flurry of ribbon.
I’d forgotten to ask for the name of her seamstress. As to her question: Yes, I’d loved. And sworn I’d never do so again.
I shut the office door and dropped into my chair. So that was Lady Irenee’s lover: a common-or-garden midwest farm girl. Wouldn’t that set the egos of the men of Dawson on edge? I debated telling Ray he was fishing in the wrong pond—like trying to catch tuna in a freshwater lake. I discarded the idea soon enough. I wasn’t Ray’s mother, and even when I’d thought Irene liked men, Ray didn’t seem to be high on her list of potential partners.
The dynamics of Irene and Maggie’s relationship seemed no different than those I’d observed between men and women. Irene was quick enough to be willing to discuss temporarily giving up her relationship with Maggie Brandon if I insisted, although I doubted that Maggie would have gone along with that. When Irene talked to me about love, she noticeably considered herself to be more on the receiving end than the giving.
What do I know about love? Or care, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my profits at the end of the day?