Gold Mountain. Vicki Delany
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ignited sparks off his fair hair.
I smiled and went about my business.
One hour later, I was no longer smiling. Not only had the brief flash of sun disappeared and the rain begun again, but the man who claimed he could tell jokes that would have miners rolling in the aisles had abruptly departed for Dyea. The three men I’d hired as musicians told me there had been a misunderstanding, and they hadn’t really accepted my offer. The woman who claimed to have acted on Broadway — the real Broadway in New York City — had decided she’d rather not return to the theatre. The two women travelling together, their trunk full of dance costumes and accessories, avoided looking into my face as they told me they’d accepted another position.
I would have slammed the door of their accommodation on my way out had it not been a tent with flap open to let in a breeze.
A man leaned up against a tree. He was excessively tall and very thin and had a cigar clenched between the few teeth still occupying his mouth. I had noticed him earlier, several times in fact, as my would-be employees denied they had any intention of working for me.
“Problems, Miss?” he asked me.
“Yes. As I am sure you know. Take me to see Mr. Smith.”
“Smith?”
“Jefferson Smith. Your employer. I wish to speak with him.”
“Soapy don’t see no one unless he wants to.”
“If Soapy is Mr. Smith, he will want to speak with me. What’s your name?”
“Sheridan. Paul Sheridan.”
“Mr. Sheridan. Lead the way.”
He looked as if he might refuse. Then he looked again, and I saw him take in my hat, my dress, the earrings in my ears and the necklace around my throat. He looked into my eyes and studied my face and then he smiled. “You know my name,” he said in a much softer voice than he’d used previously. “What’s yours?”
“I am Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Is Mr. MacGillivray travelling with you, Ma’am?”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “Mr. MacGillivray is no longer with us.”
He took off his hat, but didn’t drop the smile. He held out his arm. I accepted it, and he escorted me through the mud-clogged streets, along the rows of tents, around tree stumps and over logs, past the rotting corpse of a horse, to the building housing “Jeff’s Place.” It was a saloon in a tumble-down building, wherein was the office of Mr. Jefferson Randolph Smith, also known as Soapy.
Soapy didn’t look too pleased to see me, and I suspected a stern talking-to lay in Mr. Paul Sheridan’s future.
I got straight to the point.
“I believe there is an opportunity in this town for a theatre. I don’t see anyone else offering such entertainment, so I fail to understand why you’re blocking my efforts.”
“Now, why would I do that, Ma’am?” His office was a backroom behind a bar, not much larger than the square footage of my travelling trunk.
“Perhaps you can tell me, Mr. Smith.”
“Call me Soapy, Fiona.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Fiona.” He swung his legs off the table. “I think your little theatre might be a great idea. Men like to be entertained. Winter’s coming and they tell me it’s a tough one around these parts. But you’re not thinking big enough, and there I can help you.”
“I’m not looking for help.”
“Nevertheless, I am offering it.” His voice was light and friendly, charming. But his eyes were very dark and his jaw was set. “Now, I envision a theatre out front, pretty ladies such as yourself to draw the customers in. Gambling rooms, a bar. Upstairs rooms for when the men seek private entertainment.”
I laughed. “If you want to operate a whorehouse, Mr. Smith, feel free. I will not be competing with you. Good day.” I turned to leave.
“Hold on. I didn’t ask you here, you came on your own. So you can be polite enough to hear me out.”
I settled my face into a listening pose.
“I like you, Fiona. You’ve got a head on your shoulders and you can make men do what you want. You’ve practically got Paul there drooling on the floor. It doesn’t hurt none that you’re about the most beautiful woman I’ve seen since getting on the boat.”
“Enough of the flattery, Mr. Smith. Get on with it.”
“This is the way we’re going to do it. We’ll open a theatre as you said. I can get us a good sized building. You can manage the entertainment, hire them and fire them as you see fit. I think you’ll find those folks you called on this morning will be more agreeable when you return in Paul’s company. You’ll also manage the whores. They usually respond better to a woman, I’ve found.” He ran his eyes down my body as if he were examining a side of beef in the butcher’s window. “Some big money fellows are going to be coming this way soon. Not many will get to the Klondike before the White Pass closes, so they’ll overwinter here. Then in the spring, all those folks who struck it rich will be heading back out. Men with plenty of money,” he looked into my eyes, “will want to get their money’s worth. I figure you’re it.”
“Good day, Mr. Smith.” I headed for the door, heart pounding.
“Don’t be so quick to turn me down,” he called after me. His voice was light, mocking. “I’m not asking you to whore, just to be friendly. You work for me and you can run your theatre as you like. I’ll pay a good wage, part of the profits perhaps. This is an expensive town. Not easy to find employment, a woman on her own. With a boy to care for.”
I turned to face him. I wrung my hands together and attempted to look hesitant. “I’d like to get the advice of my father. Do you know of any way in which I can send a message to England?”
“Why sure. The telegraph office is next door. Operator’s on his meal break right now, but Paul here can help you. Cost is five dollars, even to England. For a bit more, Paul’ll stay and wait for your father to reply.”
“I’ll think it over,” I said.
Paul Sheridan followed me back out to the street. “Mrs. MacGillivray, wait,” he called.
I stopped, but didn’t turn. Sheridan walked around me. “Soapy controls this town,” he said. “No one’ll do business with you if he tells them not to.”
“Surely the police will have something to say about that.”
Sheridan laughed. “This isn’t England, Mrs. MacGillivray. Or even the Yukon. There’s one marshall here, and he does what Soapy says.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Soapy wasn’t really asking you to take up whoring,” he said.
“I am sure that will come.”
“I can see a fine lady such as yourself wouldn’t want to be a whoremistress neither.”
“No.”
“You need a man to take care of you, Mrs. MacGillivray.” The words tumbled out of his mouth. “Fiona. You and that fine looking lad of yours. Marry me and Soapy’ll leave you alone. He respects marriage, Soapy does. And ... And ... I think you’re the finest woman I ever have seen. Why ...”
“Good heavens,” I said.
“Does that mean yes?” His eyes sparkled with joy.
I walked away. Leaving Paul Sheridan standing in the mud of the street, rainwater falling on his battered hat.
Chapter Ten
For the rest of the day, everywhere in Skagway