Chapter Fourteen

Saturday was a glorious day. The sun shone warm in a clear blue sky, but a pleasant breeze kept it from getting overly hot. I was at Martha’s hotel before noon, supposedly to help her prepare for her grand event. Never in my life had I assisted a woman to dress. Fortunately, my role was strictly a formality, for Helen had created a beautiful, yet entirely practical, wedding gown. It was in two pieces, and each piece could later be altered slightly and matched with a skirt or blouse of colour to create two new outfits. The expensive lace was attached with large, well-spaced stitches so it could be removed. Used for a christening gown, perhaps, Martha said as her cheeks flamed.

She was no beauty, Martha. Tall and sturdy with a large bosom trapped beneath a rigid corset, she had a nose like a bird’s beak and small dark eyes. Her cheeks were too round, her chin too small, and her complexion too ruddy to be fashionable. An Englishwoman of a respectable but impoverished family, she’d travelled to the Klondike in the guise of a writer, hoping to pen a book to provide her with much-needed income. At the advanced age of thirty-three years, she (and her family) had given up hope she would ever marry, and it had become necessary for her to make her own way in the world. Instead, she had found Reginald O’Brien.

Which was just as well. I had seen samples of her writing and thought it unimaginative rubbish. Martha managed to make the Klondike sound as rigidly boring as afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace.

We were not friends. As I’ve said, I have no women friends. Angus was much closer to Martha than I. He’d been her assistant when she’d been dashing about town making notes of everything she saw and generally getting in everyone’s way. Angus could hardly be a bridesmaid, and Martha had no one else to ask.

She chattered and fussed and twitched constantly as she dressed. Her hat was a small neat affair, and the train came only as far as her shoulders. I had lent her a pair of gold earrings, which toned down the over-red face fractionally.

She looked, I was surprised to see, absolutely lovely.

Angus was waiting for us in the hotel lobby. He jumped to his feet as Martha and I descended the stairs. His jaw dropped open, and his eyes bulged. “Miss Witherspoon,” he cried. “You look ... very nice.”

Martha smiled. “Thank you, my dear boy.”

Angus looked nice also in a clean jacket and new white shirt, highly starched. His face was scrubbed, his blond hair was combed, and he’d slicked the unruly cowlick down with a touch of oil. I myself do not care for oil in a man’s hair and told him to go easy on it.

A small crowd had gathered outside the Richmond Hotel, hoping to get a glimpse of the bride. They broke into applause when we exited. Someone, probably Angus, had swept the boardwalk.

The carriage Mouse O’Brien had hired to take Martha, Angus, and me to the church was waiting when we exited the hotel. “Carriage” being a bit of an exaggeration: it was a wooden cart pulled by an aging horse. But the horse had more meat on its bones than many around town, and it had been brushed to a shine, with white ribbons braided through its mane. The cart had only one proper seat, where the driver and a single passenger could sit. Angus assisted Martha to climb up while I held her skirts and tried to keep the white cloth away from the none-too-clean undercarriage. In the open back there were two bales of hay, covered by blankets. Once Martha was seated, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes alight and face burning with embarrassed pleasure, I eyed my own chair with some degree of trepidation.

“Mother,” Angus said, extending his arm. I don’t know what we would have done if it had been raining. I lifted the skirts of my green satin gown to shocking heights, clutched the bunch of cloth in my right hand, gripped Angus’s arm with my left, wished I had a third to hold onto my hat, and hoisted myself up. For a moment, I balanced precariously on the lip of wood running along the outside of the cart, but my son pushed against my bottom (I hope it was my son) and shoved me over the edge and into the back of the cart like a sack of feed.

I attempted to retain some shreds of dignity and settled into my make-shift chair, adjusting the long strand of fake pearls around my neck — equally fake pearls were in my ears. Angus leapt up beside me, and the driver yelled to his animal to proceed. The crowd cheered. I began to lift my hand to wave, but Angus grabbed it and shook his head, reminding me I was not the centre of attention on this day.

Helen met us as we alighted from the cart outside St. Paul’s Church, ready to adjust Martha’s garments should such be required. Helen had earlier festooned the ground with petals of blue larkspur, yellow buttercups, and purple fireweed.

Reginald O’Brien’s nickname was intended to be satirical. He resembled an ox more than a mouse. He neared seven feet tall, and his shoulders and thighs were massive. But he was soft-spoken and unfailingly polite. He dressed well and was fastidious about his grooming. Today, he’d outdone himself. He looked resplendent in his black trousers and grey frock-coat, red waist-coat with heavy gold chain, crisp white shirt, and black tie secured with a gold stickpin. His boots were polished to a high shine, and not a speck of dust marred the grey hat with a band which matched his waistcoat.

He stood by the front door of the church beside Reverend Bowen and Richard Sterling, handsome in dress uniform, who would serve as the groomsman. Mouse’s face lit up when he caught his first glimpse of his bride bouncing along in the horse cart. He settled his face into solemn lines before stepping forward and helping her out of the cart. Angus leapt down and assisted me.

The wedding party shifted and we arranged ourselves. Helen slipped into the church to take her seat.

Mouse and Richard entered first, followed by me, and then Angus and Martha. Angus was acting the role of Martha’s father, somewhat unusual considering that he was twelve years old, but Martha had been insistent.

St. Paul’s Church was full. Martha knew no one in town except for Angus and me, but Mouse knew everyone, and the forthcoming nuptials had been the talk of the Savoy all week. We’d closed for the afternoon in order that the staff could attend the ceremony. Sergeant Lancaster, my erstwhile suitor, was present, hair thick with oil, seated in a group of Mounties including Inspector McKnight. Graham Donohue had had a haircut, and Mr. and Mrs. Mann were dressed in their Sunday best. Ray Walker sat next to Irene Davidson, her arm tucked into his, at the end of a row of dance hall girls looking as bright and colourful as hollyhocks in an English garden. Barney and many of his bar-mates were in attendance. Some of them had even gone to the trouble of washing their face and hands. Jake, the head coupler at the Savoy, was at the back, with the bartenders Murray and Not-Murray. Belinda Mulrooney was in attendance, dressed as always in a prim starched navy blouse and dark skirt, her hair in a severe bun atop her square face. Belinda’s Fairview Hotel would be opening in a couple of weeks, and it was going to be the biggest and most luxurious in town. Big Alex McDonald, whom they called the King of the Klondike, was seated in the row behind Belinda, tugging at his tight shirt collar. They were business rivals, never friends, and the rivalry could get extreme at times.

To be honest, I’d worried about Martha. She was making a big step, committing herself, body and soul, to a man she scarcely knew, in a place far from home and family. But as I looked around the crowded church, I realized that this was now Martha’s home, and we, a rough-and-tumble collection of miscreants and adventurers, were her family.

I took my place at one side of the altar and peeked at Mouse standing stiffly opposite. His chest bulged with pride, his face glowed with happiness. And I knew that Reginald O’Brien truly loved the annoying Englishwoman.

* * *

Mouse had rented the top floor of the dance hall for his wedding party. He wasn’t rich, but he’d done better than most on the Creeks and, quite by accident, had found a small productive claim. He gambled, but never played more than he could afford to lose. He liked the dance hall girls, but didn’t try to get them drunk or ask them to meet him after hours. He was fond of champagne, but only bought one bottle at a time and shared it freely with his dance partner and people in adjoining boxes or tables. He was a giant of a man, and today he resembled a mischievous schoolboy at his birthday tea.

After the bridal party had been settled in the upper level, Mouse stood up, leaned over the balcony, and announced that for the next five minutes all drinks were on him.

As could have been expected, the rush for the bar was instantaneous. Word spread up and down the street, and the saloon got so crowed, Ray had to order his men to guard the front door lest folk be trampled to death.

Ray and I stayed for a glass of champagne, Mumm Extra Dry, quite delicious, and a toast to the happy couple. We slipped away as Helen and Not-Murray were clambering up the stairs, bearing platters of sandwiches and sliced meat. Mouse had spared no expense: a boiled egg was served to each of his guests, and a bowl of almonds sat on every table.

It had been a lovely wedding, but for Ray and me, it was now just another Saturday night in Dawson, and we had a business to run.

When Angus came down to tell me Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien were leaving, Ray and I met them at the door to say goodbye and extend our best wishes. Mouse would be heading back to the Creeks on Monday. He’d rented a small house on Seventh Avenue, where Martha would live. Even though her writing skills were non-existent, I’d suggested she continue collecting stories, as any news (no matter how poorly written) from the Klondike was eagerly devoured in the Outside, but she had recoiled as if I’d struck her and said that, naturally, once a married woman, she would never offer her husband such an insult as to do a job of work. She did not consider that her proposed collection of tips for women coming to the Yukon was a job, merely a service to help others.

Unlikely Martha would again come into the Savoy. It was not a suitable place for a married woman. Chances were, even though she was now clinging to me and whispering in my ear that we would always be friends, I’d not see her again, other than around town or in the shops. I considered making a ribald joke about the joys of the wedding night, but that would spook the poor thing too much. Now that the formalities of the wedding were over and she and her husband were heading off to their home and bed, she looked nothing but terrified.

I wondered if, in the absence of her mother, I should explain something of what was to be expected. But I held my tongue. She’d find out soon enough. As I had.

I felt sorry for Martha suddenly. As I struggled to get out from her embrace, I whispered, “Relax and have fun.”

She pulled back, eyes as round and white as a horse smelling fire. Without another word, she dashed for the street, leaving a startled husband to follow.

Ray lifted one eyebrow and looked at me. I chuckled, told Angus it was time he was heading home, and went back inside.