LeBlanc.”
“Angus,” Dave called. “The squaw can look after herself. All that talk about supper’s makin’ me hungry. You comin’?”
Angus ignored his friends. “Mrs. LeBlanc? You mean Joey LeBlanc? Nothing my ma’d like more than to set Joey LeBlanc straight.” He held out his hand. “I’m Angus MacGillivray.”
She didn’t accept his hand. “White people call me Mary.”
Chapter Two
Mary didn’t speak a word over dinner; she stared into her plate and moved the food around. Mr. Mann huffed a bit and maintained his scowl, but he never had much to say to me at the best of times, so I ignored him. Mrs. Mann, on the other hand, seemed to love having a distressed guest and encouraged Mary to eat up. She declined politely. She looked seriously underfed to me, but I suppose neardrowning has a negative effect on one’s appetite. Angus spent the meal watching Mary, while trying not to appear to be doing so, and looking quite pleased with himself. I suspected there was a good deal more to the day’s events than her slipping daintily into the river and my son offering her a gallant hand up, but I said no more about it.
I would get the full story soon enough.
“That was a wonderful supper, Mrs. Mann,” I said at last. I rarely lie, but sometimes it is indeed the lesser of two evils. “Come with me, Mary. I have to be getting back to work, but first I’ll find a dress you can borrow.”
Head still down, after a mumbled thanks to Mrs. Mann, Mary followed me into my bedroom. Angus and I rent three small rooms in the Mann’s home. My bedroom faces the street with a tiny sitting room between me and the kitchen. Angus is across the hall. I’ve lived in back alleys of Silver Dials and in the townhouses of Belgravia, so I can say in all honesty that I’m not terribly particular. Mrs. Mann keeps a spotlessly clean house and, having no children of her own, has become very fond of Angus. Mr. Mann tries hard not to approve of me, but during a recent crisis he came perilously close to showing some degree of emotion over my fate. His wife’s English is much, much better than his, which has somewhat shifted the centre of power in their home. Much to his dismay, I am sure.
I rustled through my closet looking for a plain housedress. I manage not to own many garments fitting that description. “There, this should do.” I produced a cotton print day dress and a plain shift. “As it is probably about six inches too long, you can use this belt to hold the whole thing up and in. Don’t be shy. Try these on. You can’t go home in my dressing gown.”
Mary tossed me a look, but I made no move to turn away. She snatched the clothes out of my hands and half turned her back. She tried to wriggle out of the dressing gown while at the same time pulling the shift over her head. She couldn’t keep herself wholly hidden, and I wasn’t terribly surprised to see a row of fresh red welts criss-crossing the knobbly spine at her lower back and the tops of her thin buttocks.
I looked out the window into the scrap of back garden where Mrs. Mann hangs the laundry she takes in. Working men’s shirts and trousers flapped in the breeze beside a cheap red dress, torn petticoats, and a set of bloomers, all of which had seen better days.
“You don’t have to stay with him,” I said to the window. “In Canada you have some rights, particularly if you aren’t married. The law can help you.”
“What do you know, rich white lady?”
Mary looked like a child playing dress-up in my cheapest dress, far too big for her, the belt holding the excess fabric.
“I’m not rich. I’ve had a man’s hand raised to me. I vowed it would never happen again, and it hasn’t. I can guess why my son came across you in the river, and I will help you, if only because of him.”
“Your son.” She gave the belt a strong tug. “A good boy.”
“You can have our help, if you want it. Or you can leave now and return tomorrow to collect your clothes. I doubt they will fit me.”
She fingered the edges of the belt. “Rich white lady, there is no help you and your nice son can give me. I thank you for your kindness, but I don’t want you to have trouble on my account. My troubles are not for you.”
“I have some influence in this town.” I turned my back and made an effort to straighten the contents of my closet in order to give Mary a bit of privacy. She seemed like a proud woman; it wouldn’t be easy for her to accept my charity. Though why it would be harder than crawling back to an abusive man, I didn’t understand. I’ve taken charity when I had to—and been darn happy to have it. “I can make your man sorry for what he’s done.”
She threw back her head and laughed a cold, bitter laugh. “I belong to no man, rich white lady. Mrs. LeBlanc, she is not afraid of you, I am sure.”
I sucked in my breath and turned to face her. “Joey LeBlanc. You…work for her?”
Her head dropped as her shame won out over her pride. “I’ll return your dress tomorrow, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Bugger the dress.” I sat on my bed and patted the counterpane beside me. The window had been left open to let in a bit of air, and, as usual, a thin sheen of sawdust covered everything. The cursed sawmills in this town never stopped working. “Sit,” I commanded.
Mary sat, back stiff and head bent. “You work for Mrs. LeBlanc, do you? If my son hauled you out of the river, I suspect you’re not happy in your employment. Is that correct?”
The last piece of her pride crumbled. She lifted her hands to cover her face, her thin shoulders shook, and dry sobs racked her flat chest as she began to talk. “Mrs. LeBlanc owns me. There are some men who like Indian women, she says. So they have to pay well. But not many such men, so she says I am not making them happy.”
I stroked her luxurious black hair—unbound, it fell almost to her waist—and peeked at the watch hanging on a gold chain from my belt. It was well after seven—long past time I should be back at the Savoy. And I hadn’t yet dressed for the evening. The stage show began at eight, and, as supervision of the dancers was my responsibility, I needed to be there to make sure they all showed up—on time and reasonably sober.
Once she started to talk, Mary was like the spring breakup of the Yukon River. Nothing could stop her. The gist of it was that she was from Alaska and believed herself to have been sold to one Mr. Smith, a man heading for the Yukon, in payment for some nebulous debt owed by the uncle of her widowed late mother. Mr. Smith had tired of her, and on arriving in the Yukon, he’d passed her on to the infamous madam, Joey LeBlanc. She was honour-bound, Mary told me, to stay with Joey in order to see the original debt paid in full. But the shame was so great that it had eventually taken her to the banks of the Yukon River and the timely intervention of my son. Even now she wanted only to return to the solace of the river, even though the fathers had taught her at school that to take one’s own life was the darkest of sins. Through her tears she asked that neither Angus nor I interfere with her again.
I took a deep breath and lifted her chin with two fingers. “You don’t have to go back to Mrs. LeBlanc if you don’t want to, Mary.”
Her dark eyes searched my face. “But my uncle’s debt? There is no one else to repay it. I belong to Mrs. LeBlanc. If I don’t complete my time, she will tell Mr. Smith, who will return to extract payment from my uncle.”
“Your uncle can pay his own debt. Or not. As he wishes. If they told you you’re bound to Mrs. LeBlanc, they lied. I know this. I have friends in the Mounties. You know the Redcoats?”
“Don’t condescend to me, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
I stood up and began unbuttoning the bodice of my day dress. “I mean no insult, Mary. Your English is perfect, your manners beyond reproach. But if people have told you wrong for their own selfish gain, I am not condescending to you if I attempt to set you straight.” I opened my wardrobe and peered in. The wooden cabinet, missing one set of hinges, which housed my entire ensemble, was substantially smaller than what in times past would have