The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany
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for robe and slippers and ran into the kitchen, not at all concerned that my unbound hair tumbled to the small of my back and my brilliant red dressing gown might not suit the Mann sense of propriety at the breakfast table.
They sat at the scrubbed kitchen table. The kettle hissed on the stove, but otherwise there was no sign of breakfast preparations.
Mrs. Mann handed me a scrap of paper. The handwriting I knew as well as my own:
I have gone to the Creeks with Constable Sterling on a NWMP investigation. We will be back in a few days. I want to be a Mountie, not a shopkeeper. Sorry, Mr. Mann. Don’t worry, Mother. Your friend and loving son, Angus MacGillivray.
I crumpled the paper in my hand and without a word returned to my room. In a blind fury, I washed my face and hands in the cold water in the bowl on the table. I put on drawers, petticoats and stockings and laced up my corset. I pulled a plain day dress over my head, not bothering to check for dust and stains. I stuffed my hair into pins without so much as a glance in the mirror and put on a hat I rarely wore because it was too large, with an ostentatious blue feather hanging off to one side and something resembling a pear plopped into the centre of the whole mess.
The Manns tried not to stare as I walked back into the kitchen, my head held high, the blue feather bobbing. She was slicing bread for toast and had set a pot of oatmeal on the stove. He held spoon in hand, waiting for his breakfast.
“I will sort this matter out, Mr. Mann,” I said, expressing a good deal more confidence than I felt. Holding my head high, I sailed through the door. Unfortunately, the blue feather caught on a splinter in the doorframe, and I had to spend a precious moment of righteous indignation freeing it.
Wasn’t this the God-forsaken patch of earth! In London a lady would never find herself restrained by the woodwork.
I set off across town, heading for Fort Herchmer. The ground fairly shook under the force of my footsteps. A few passing shopkeepers and dance hall customers of my acquaintance opened their mouths as if to extend me a good morning. They took one look at my face and spun on their heels.
But gradually my steps began to falter. By the time I reached Fort Herchmer, I had slowed to an indecisive crawl. My original intention had been to march directly to the commander’s office and demand that a force be sent out to retrieve my son. And throw Constable Sterling in the brig, if that was what they called it here. Put him on bread and water and hard labour for a decade or two.
But a sliver of common sense forced itself through my motherly indignation. It was highly unlikely any of this was Richard Sterling’s fault. No doubt Angus was, at this very moment, creeping along in the wake of the Mountie, hiding behind trees and boulders. Once they were too far from town to turn back easily, Angus would leap out and exclaim, “Imagine finding you here! May I join you?”
The object of my rage shifted. What was that boy thinking? He’d be the one on bread and water. For the rest of his natural life.
They couldn’t be far ahead of me. Angus had sat, pretending to be asleep, at the kitchen table not much over an hour ago. Now that I’d decided I would not send the full force of the law in pursuit of the constable, I considered going after them myself. I looked down at my boots. I was wearing the ones that I’d decided to throw out because they pinched. My chances of catching up with the longlegged Richard Sterling and the energetic twelve-year-old Angus were precisely nil.
“Mrs. MacGillivray, are you in need of assistance?” A handsome young constable stood in front of me. He didn’t look old enough to shave.
“I…I’ve just remembered that I have forgotten something. Something important. I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Constable.”
“Can I escort you back to your lodgings, Mrs. MacGillivray?” His innocent brown eyes overflowed with concern. I looked at the fort. In the centre of the large square, the Union Jack fluttered proudly in the stiff breeze.
Groups of men passed us, coming and going. Every one of them looked at me.
“Mrs. MacGillivray?” the boy said. “Can I fetch someone to assist you?”
Sergeant Lancaster was crossing the parade ground. He hadn’t seen me.
I ducked behind a patch of thin, ill-nourished shrub.
“Thank you, Constable. If it’s not out of your way, you may walk me home.” I peeked out from the shrubbery. Lancaster had taken a right turn and was walking away from me. I straightened up and slipped my arm through the young man’s. He blushed to the very roots of his hair.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Reginald McAllen, Mrs. MacGillivray, ma’am.”
“Do you know my son Angus, Constable McAllen?”
“Yes, ma’am. He hangs around the fort sometimes, usually tagging after Constable Sterling. If I may be so bold as to say so, Mrs. MacGillivray, that’s a mighty fine hat you’re wearing. Don’t see hats of that quality in Dawson much.”
I tossed him my warmest smile and opened my mouth to invite him to drop into the Savoy and enjoy a drink on the house.
“My ma used to have a hat like that. Goat ate the feather. She wasn’t half mad.”
I withdrew the unspoken invitation. “Well, here we are. This is my residence. Thank you, Constable McAllen.” I freed my hand from his arm.
He touched his hat. Two of his fellow Mounties strolled by. They stared at McAllen, and one of them pursed his lips in a silent whistle of astonishment.
I started up the path. “Constable McAllen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re a credit to your mother. You may tell her I said so.” This time even the edges of his ears turned pink. I couldn’t begin to imagine him confronting any member of the criminal classes.
Mrs. Mann stood at the sink, washing up the dishes. Mr. Mann had left for work, for which I was most grateful. No doubt he would blame me for everything, and I wasn’t in the mood to find myself under the force of his wrath.
I hung my hat on the hook by the door and sank into a chair.
Mrs. Mann wiped her hands on her apron. “Gone?”
“Gone. When I get my hands around his scrawny neck…” She poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of me.
“This policeman? He’s a good man?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Then Angus will be back in a day or so, and very pleased with his adventures and very proud of himself. And very surprised that he has caused you pain. And then very sorry.”
I looked at her. “How can you be so sure?”
“I have a brother. We were five good girls and one wild boy in my family. He drove my mother to dis… dis… worrying, that boy did.”
I filled in the word she was searching for, “To distraction,” and sipped my coffee.
“Distraction. Ready for breakfast?”
“Might as well. I’ll never get back to sleep. Is Mr. Mann terribly angry at Angus?”
She busied herself with the bag of oatmeal, a pail of water and a pot.
“Yes,” she said. “But he was boy also. He’ll forgive.”
Of course Angus would be forgiven. A tongue lashing, followed by a hearty pat on the back, and the incident would never be mentioned again. But if he were a girl, things would be different. As a child, I’d received some education beside the Earl’s daughter. Euila’s governess drove it into our heads every single day that one tiny slip, one scarcely considered indiscretion, was enough to ruin a lady’s reputation for life. And then we would die—poor, abandoned, lonely, dependent on the charity of distant relations. Unmarriageable. When she said so, she always