and letting the sun do the work of drying it, reading Wuthering Heights.
It was late afternoon before my hair had dried enough to gather up at the back of my head, and I was restless from spending the morning in bed and the afternoon on my hair and book. Angus was off with his friends, so I put on my best day ensemble, a dark blue skirt and a blouse that had once been pristine white, with the intention of taking a stroll into town.
Mrs. Mann was in the kitchen, her hands floury with the mixings of scones for supper.
I stuck my head in the kitchen to tell her I’d be out for a while.
The early evening was warm and sunny. The endless sound of wood being sawn and shop clerks shouting the value of their irreplaceable wares had fallen silent, and everyone I passed was relaxed and smiling. If one came to Dawson, say on the back of a giant bird, stayed for a Sunday afternoon, and then returned on any Friday night, they would find it impossible to believe they were in the same place, occupied by the same people.
I walked out of town, heading east, away from the Yukon River towards the hills, greeting acquaintances on the way. I passed beyond the wooden storefronts and semipermanent buildings and came to where a handful of white canvas tents, interspersed with wooden shacks, clung precariously to the foot of the mountain.
A cheap, cracked mixing bowl, overflowing with tall blue larkspur and tiny yellow buttercups plucked from the hillside, sat outside one of the hastily-erected homes.
Sam and Margaret Collins sat by the open doorway, finishing their dinner by the light of the evening sun, tin plates balanced on their laps. He leapt to his feet as he saw me approach.
“Please, Sam, finish your dinner. I’m out for a stroll and found myself walking this way. Hasn’t it been a lovely day? Makes the long winter seem almost worthwhile, doesn’t it?” I slapped a mosquito that was hovering above my hand, looking for a safe place to land.
What could he do but offer me his chair? And what could I do but accept? Proper manners do have a way of allowing one to manipulate others. I dread to imagine what civilization would be without them.
Margaret put her unfinished supper on the ground. Their meal looked most unappetizing—a bit of fatty beef, a few leaves of boiled cabbage, some wrinkled potatoes. The ubiquitous beans.
“Can I offer you some tea, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Margaret said.
“That would be lovely. But only once you’ve finished your meal.”
“I have.” Her words were friendly, as one would expect when a working-class woman found herself confronted by the unexpected, and most unwelcome, intrusion of her husband’s employer. But her eyes were as hard as stone and her face not a whit friendlier.
She stood up and snatched her husband’s unfinished plate out of his hands. He opened his mouth to protest, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“Didn’t you tell me you’re planning to join Robbie for a smoke and a walk after supper? It’s time you were on your way. Robbie doesn’t like to be left waiting.”
Sam looked at his wife. He looked at me. He looked at his unfinished meal clenched in Margaret’s hand.
And I knew I was right, which in most circumstances is a sensation I adore. But on this lovely northern evening, the knowledge didn’t make me happy in the least.
“Mrs. MacGillivray and I rarely get much of a chance to have a nice visit,” Margaret said. “You run along now, Sam.”
Her husband shook off his confusion. “Well, I’d say that if Robbie were finished his dinner, he’d be along soon enough to collect me. But I guess you’re right, Margaret, as always. He don’t much like to be left waiting. Will you excuse me, Mrs. MacGillivray?”
“Of course, Sam. Enjoy your walk.”
We watched him lumber off down the muddy path. A toddler, dressed in a clean white nightgown, momentarily escaped her mother’s attention and rushed directly into a puddle, where she splashed about with delight, until the shrieking mother descended upon her. Not many people were about on such a pleasant summer’s evening. This was a hard-working town; tomorrow was Monday and family people, people with jobs, retired early.
“Do you really want tea?” Margaret said, still balancing two half-finished plates.
“Tea lubricates every social occasion, as I’m sure you know.”
“I do. You remind me of my father.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t take that as a compliment. I hated my father. He was always so sure of himself. Completely convinced that he was right and everyone else was wrong. Whether it was better to prune the roses in the morning or in the evening, whether slavery was the natural order of things or an affront to God, whether his only daughter should marry this man or that one.”
“I don’t care one whit about your father, Margaret. When I first arrived here, I wasn’t at all sure of myself. I had considerable doubts. But no longer. So perhaps your father took his clues from the people around him, and from that he made up his mind. Did your mother cringe when he suggested cutting roses if it were evening?”
“I have no intention of discussing my parents with you. State your business and then be on your way.” Margaret stood in the doorway of her home, glaring down at me. Apparently I was not to be served tea.
I got to my feet. “Jack Ireland told me he’d been a newspaper correspondent during your American Civil War.”
Long ago, I’d been to the British Museum, escorted by Lord Alveron, because the exhibit of Egyptian artefacts was considered to be exceptionally fashionable. There I’d seen the most amazing carving of a long-dead queen. She transfixed me, that queen, with her steady gaze, the haughty lift to her chin, her imperial presence so strong it crossed barriers of time and space. So entranced was I that my escort had had to grip my arm with more strength than was seemly to drag me away before his grandmother-in-law, unexpectedly visiting from the country, entered the hall. I had always hoped to return, to see her again. The carving, not the grandmother-in-law. But circumstances forced me into leaving London before I had the opportunity.
Margaret’s face reminded me of that stone queen.
“I enjoyed our chat in the Savoy the other morning. The story of your brave Confederate husband captured by the Union solders because he chose to remain behind with a wounded comrade was most entertaining.”
“It wasn’t a story.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t. But Sam told my son another story. That you left the Eastern States before the war and travelled throughout the west in order to avoid having to take sides.”
“You’re an unusual woman, Mrs. MacGillivray, if everything you ever say is the God-promised truth.”
“I’ll admit I’ve been known to stretch the facts on occasion. But I’m wondering who stretched the truth here, Margaret. You or Sam? I suspect it was Sam, not wanting anyone to know he’d served in the war, although most men, in my experience, love to talk about their time in the army. So dreadfully tedious. But you had told Helen what really happened, and when Helen pressed you to tell me, you could hardly spin a different story in her presence, now could you? Not, I’m sure, that it even occurred to you that I’d hear both versions of your life story.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray, if you have a point to make, please make it, and leave. You are no longer welcome in my home.”
“What did Jack Ireland have on Sam?”
Then she sighed. “Is any of this your business?”
“Unfortunately, yes. My best dancer was arrested for the murder.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“Please, don’t allow yourself to get too alarmed. She was released. Some silly British legal point about no proof. I would like nothing more than to ignore this whole