“No, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Then why are you still here?” She flushed and glanced at Ray, who immediately turned to Sam and told him what to do to close up. As if Sam had started on the job this morning.
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
“Good night, Ray. Try to get some sleep,” I said, with more than a touch of malice. Nothing worse for business than relationships between the staff—and triangles were the worst of all. “You’re looking quite worn out, Betsy. I’d be happy to walk you back to your lodgings.”
She stopped rubbing at a spot on the table. “Eh?”
“I said that I’ll walk you back to your lodgings. We wouldn’t want anyone to get the idea that an employee of the Savoy was anything less than a respectable lady, now would we?”
“No, Mrs. MacGillivray.” She got to her feet as if her boots were dragging her to the bottom of the ocean. I turned my best full-wattage smile on Ray, the very one that had once had the Prince of Wales’ knickers in a knot. A great deal smarter than the Prince, Ray snarled in return. Betsy and I walked through the dark streets. Night had finally fallen on Dawson, although it would not remain for long. High above, the stars were dim, as the sun had not completely gone away. It had simply dipped its face behind the southern mountains. Although the day had been warm, the night air was sharply cool, reminding us of just how far north we were.
The streets were crowded, and almost every man we passed nodded or touched his hat. I acknowledged every one of them. Sometimes on the streets of Dawson I felt like a toy Angus had had as a small child—a cheap thing that he was inordinately fond of with a head at the end of a tightly-wound spring, constantly bobbing up and down.
“Do you like working at the Savoy, Betsy?”
“Why, yes, Mrs. MacGillivray. I do. I like it very much.”
“Do you like Mr. Walker, Betsy?”
“Yes, Mr. MacGillivray, he’s a fine man. Fair like. To all us girls.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Here we are, Mrs. MacGillivray. This here’s my lodgings. Thank you for walking me home.” We’d arrived at a tiny wooden house, painted white. With a cheerful red door and matching shutters, it was a good bit nicer than many.
“My pleasure,” I said. Betsy started up the walk.
“Just one thing.” She turned around. Her pale, podgy face reflected weak moonlight. “I alone hire and fire the women at the Savoy. If you want to be good friends with Mr. Walker, then you may find alternate employment.”
She blinked. “Mrs. MacGillivray, I don’t know what…”
“Mr. Walker would never dream of interfering with how I run the dance hall. Do you understand me, Betsy?” She swallowed. “Yes, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I turned and walked away, feeling Betsy’s eyes boring into my back. Doubtless she was wishing they were daggers. Stupid cow. Everyone in town knew Ray was besotted with Irene. They could sort that out themselves—and might even be on the way to doing so—as much as I might disapprove. But if Betsy were allowed to continue thinking she had a future with Ray, there would be nothing but trouble. For all of us.
She’ll thank me one day, I chuckled to myself, as I exchanged greetings with the Indian Fighter. No she won’t, she’ll hate me for the rest of her days. I nodded to Mouse O’Brien, stuffing his night’s winnings into his pocket. I really didn’t care what Betsy thought of me, now or in the future; I only wanted peace in my establishment. Irene was my best dancer. If Betsy caused trouble with Irene over Ray, she’d be on the street in a flash.
“Evening, Mrs. MacGillivray.” A man stepped out of the shadows. In London or Toronto, I would have been on my guard, but Dawson was so law-abiding that I habitually wandered through the night streets with my mind halfoccupied.
But not totally.
I stepped backwards, clenched my fists, raised them slightly, and settled into a modified fighting stance—legs apart, knees bent, balancing on the balls of my feet.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I don’t wish to startle you.” He moved into the outline of yellow light spilling from the lamp in the window of a cigar store. Some of these stores were in the business of selling cigars—but for most of them it was a front for an independent prostitute.
I relaxed only slightly and dropped my arms to my sides. I would never trust a man who waits in the shadows. “Sergeant Lancaster. What can I do for you?” He moved closer, and the full strength of the lamplight illuminated his open, friendly features. I wiped my palms on my green satin skirt.
“I noticed you pass by, Mrs. MacGillivray.” He stumbled over the words. “Accompanying that… lady…to her rooms. But there appears to be no one to see you safely home. That don’t seem proper. I’d be proud to offer myself as your escort.”
It’s never a bad move to play friendly with the local constabulary. I smiled, pulling demure from the depths of my repertoire. “That is most courteous of you, Sergeant. Of course you may see me home.” I linked my arm though his. His hefty frame shivered under my touch.
We walked through the streets of Dawson in silence. On Front Street, most of the saloons and dance halls were still open, and light and laughter spilled through the doors. On the hillsides looking over the town and across the river, the occasional lamp illuminated a rough canvas tent. Beyond there was nothing but the dark, impenetrable wilderness, waiting patiently for the day when we would all of us pack up our liquor and mining implements and tents and shops and just leave.
We arrived at Mrs. Mann’s boarding house, and I said my thank-yous and attempted to pull my arm from Sergeant Lancaster’s unyielding grip. I tugged harder. And harder. I am familiar with the softer parts of the male anatomy—beginning with the instep—but before I was forced to resort to violence, he realized that his grip on my arm was most unseemly, and he released me with a murmured apology and a shuffle of big-booted feet.
“This seems like a respectable home.”
“Did you think I would live someplace that wasn’t?” I said, too tired to want to continue playing. “Good night, Sergeant.”
“One moment, please, Mrs. MacGillivray.” He grabbed my arm. He was very big, but mostly soft and flabby— muscle gone to fat. I stared at his hand, and he withdrew it immediately. He blushed, took a deep breath and forced himself to continue. I tried not to sigh too loudly. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Mrs. MacGillivray. But not here, on the street. That don’t seem proper. May I come in for a moment?”
“Most certainly not! Whatever are you thinking, Sergeant.” I love using propriety on the rare occasion that it suits me to do so. “I’d have to wake up my landlady to serve as a chaperone, and the dear woman deserves her rest.” Embarrassed apologies tripped over Lancaster’s tongue. Sweat dripped off his bald head, and he wiped it away with a shaking hand.
“Good night, Sergeant.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray,” he shouted so loudly that I was sure the wolves on the mountainsides could hear. “I can’t bear to see a lady as fine and as lovely as yourself cast adrift, alone in this harsh, godless world. And your son, such a fine young man, he’s in desperate need of the firm guidance of a father’s strict hand.”
“What?” And then he dropped to his knees and proposed to make an honest woman of me.
I opened the front door and crept into the house, kicking my shoes off as I walked down the hall to the back. Tomorrow I’d go in search of new ones: bugger the cost. I’d also wait until tomorrow to worry about Sergeant Lancaster’s unwelcome proposal.
Angus