She carried a large straw bag, and from its depths she whipped out a small notebook and the stub of a pencil. Angus took a step back. An outside reporter had caused his mother a good deal of trouble recently, and Angus knew things about his mother’s friend, the American newspaperman Mr. Donohue, that he could never tell her. He was not in the frame of mind to be friendly to newsmen—or women for that matter.
“I am Miss Witherspoon, and this is my companion, Miss Forester. Your name is?”
“Angus, you left before Mrs. Mann finished the baking.” Angus’s mother bustled into the shop, looking like a pearl lost in a barnyard. She wore a light green day dress with a touch of lace the colour of sea froth circling the hem. Her straw hat was trimmed with matching ribbons, and sapphire teardrop earrings peeked out from beneath the brim.
She nodded to the two women. “Good morning. Don’t let me interrupt your business, Angus. I’ll put your treat here behind the counter, shall I? Mr. Mann, I’ve brought biscuits for you as well.”
Mr. Mann grunted and tried not to look pleased.
“Are these real gold pans?” While the older woman had been introducing herself, her companion had been poking about the goods with an air of mild disinterest. She spoke for the first time as she pulled the top pan off the pile and turned it over. It was brand-new, never used, as shiny as the day it was made. It had been purchased by some low-level bank clerk, diary farmer, or unemployed labourer who hadn’t the slightest idea what real gold prospecting involved. And once he arrived in Dawson, discovered he had no desire to find out.
“Indeed they are,” Angus said, trying to look like a man of business and wishing his mother would leave. Constable Sterling’s mother didn’t follow him on his rounds.
“Did you bring these things all this way?” the lady asked. “It must have been quite a feat.”
“Gee, Ma, uh, Mother, Miss Forester sounds exactly like you,” Angus said. “The same accent, I mean. Maybe you’re from the same town back in Scotland. Where did you grow up, Miss Forester? My mother is from Skye. That’s an island.”
Miss Forester looked up from the gold pans. Fiona was staring at her quite strangely. Miss Witherspoon glanced from one woman to the other.
“Forester?” Fiona said. “Euila?”
“That is my name. Do I know you, madam?”
“I think you might. I’m Mrs…Miss…Mac…I’m Fiona.”
“Fiona.” Miss Forester exhaled the word in a long sigh. “Fiona. Good heavens…” She crumbled to the street in a dainty, although scrawny, heap.
Chapter Five
I might have joined her in the dust of Bowery Street myself had I not been concerned for the condition of dress and hat. Euila Forester. I wouldn’t have recognized her at all, had not Angus pointed out the similarity of our accents then called her by her surname. Euila Forester. Of all people. Here in Dawson, Yukon Territory, Canada.
Men ran from all over. So many eager hands reached out to help Euila to her feet, she was in danger of being trampled. Angus crouched beside her, unsure of what to do. Mr. Mann kept a wary eye on his property, and Euila’s companion, a formidable lady of more advanced years, stood out of the way and scribbled in her notebook.
“Give her some air. Stand back, you fools!” Graham Donohue pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “Angus, unbutton the lady’s collar,” he ordered.
Angus gasped. “I couldn’t!” I looked around the crowd, hoping to find a female amongst the onlookers. None but Miss Witherspoon, still writing furiously. “For goodness sake, I’ll do it.” I knelt beside Euila, cursing the dust as it settled into my skirts. At least it hadn’t rained in a few days, nor had a horse recently left evidence of its passing.
Euila’s dress was done up to her chin by a formidable row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. My fingers fumbled, and after seemingly endless effort, I managed to release one. Throwing propriety to the winds, I grabbed either side of the fabric and pulled. Mother-of-pearl flew in all directions. Euila moaned, and her eyes flickered.
“She’s coming around,” a man shouted. “Fiona saved her.”
“Fiona?” Euila whispered.
Someone placed a cup of water in my hand, and I lifted Euila’s head to help her take a cautious sip. She sat up, grabbed my hand and drained the cup.
She seemed to be in no danger of collapsing again, so I got to my feet. “Graham, Angus, help her up,” I ordered. The front of my dress was an absolute mess—streaked with dust and spotted with mud and I-hated-to-think-what from knee to hem. I made a few feeble swipes, hoping to wipe it all off, to no effect.
While I examined my garment, Angus and Graham each grabbed Euila by one arm. As she began to stagger upright, two other men got behind her and pushed, and the four of them managed to get the poor thing to her feet with about as much dignity as if they were unloading a reluctant cow from the belly of a steamship.
“Three cheers for Fee!” someone shouted. I smiled at no one in particular and waved my right hand as the crowd took up the cry. I hadn’t done anything, but I never miss the opportunity to be the centre of attention.
“What should we do with her, Ma?” Angus asked.
“Don’t call me that,” I said, automatically. “You know I hate it.” One of the too-eager helpers had a firm hold on Euila’s bottom. I whacked his arm, and he sheepishly released his grip. “I don’t know,” I said. “Take her to lie down, I guess.”
“Where are you staying, miss?” Graham asked. Euila blinked at him. I will admit that she looked even worse than I. The back of her dress was filthy; the neckline was torn almost to the top of the breastbone; one of the unfortunate birds on her hat (what could she possibly have been thinking when she purchased that hat!) tilted precariously, and a good deal of her hair had escaped its pins. Her hands and face were covered in dust.
“Miss?” Graham repeated. “Can we take you to your hotel?”
Miss Witherspoon dropped her pencil and notebook into her cavernous bag. “We have reserved rooms at the Richmond,” she announced. “Take her there.”
“Are you well enough to walk, miss?” Graham asked.
Euila blinked again. “I think so.” She gave Graham a rather sickly smile. He tucked her arm under one of his. Angus did the same on the other side.
“Angus,” I said. “Get back to work.”
“Zee boy help,” Mr. Mann said.
“No.”
“But, Ma… Mother…”
“No buts. Back to work. You.” I pointed to one of the helpers, the one who hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunity to grab a handful of Euila’s scrawny bottom. “Assist Mr. Donohue.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Fiona, ma’am.” He leapt forward to do his duty. And the little procession, led by Miss Witherspoon with her head held high, made their way through the parting crowd into town.
“Mother, I don’t see…”
“I must go home and change, Angus,” I said. “Enjoy your biscuits.”
I almost broke into an undignified run as I took the long way around, down the street towards the water instead of following Euila, Miss Witherspoon and Graham towards Front Street. My mind was in such a tempest of emotion that for once I didn’t know what to do. All I could think of was that I had to prevent Angus from having any more contact with Euila Forester. I had succeeded in that for the time being. What I would do next, I had absolutely no idea.
* * *
Angus seethed for the rest of the morning. His mother had embarrassed him in front of