Free Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery by Vicki Delany

day.”
    I slipped my arm through his. “I’m sorry I’m late. Off we go now. Goodbye, Mr. Sheridan.”
    Richard gave the man a long look. I tugged at his arm, and he allowed me to lead him away.
    “That man bothering you, Fiona?” he asked. “I had a word with him on Saturday. He says he’s not here to work for Soapy and I can’t run him out of town unless he does something.”
    “He simply doesn’t know the meaning of the word no . It’s becoming quite tedious. He has some wonderful plan to make a fortune, which he’s sure I’ll be interested in. I do believe he thinks I’m teasing when I insist I don’t want to hear it.”
    “Let us know if he does anything more than insisting.”
    “He’s harmless.” We reached the corner and I snuck a peek behind me. Sheridan was still standing on the sidewalk, like a rock rising out of the sea, while the crowd ebbed and flowed all around him. He waved at me, and I almost jerked Richard off his feet as I changed direction and charged down Queen Street.
    Once we were out of Sheridan’s line of sight, I did not, however, release Richard’s arm. It was a very warm day and the blue sky held no threat of rain. Hopefully, things could dry out a bit before the clouds next opened up.
    We arrived in front of my lodgings in due course. Angus and I had taken rooms at Mr. and Mrs. Mann’s boarding house. It was a rough wooden building, thrown up almost overnight — as most of the houses in town were. Every scrap of furniture was mismatched at best and broken at worst; the floor creaked and wind blew through cracks in the walls and sought out gaps around doors and windows. The garden was a patch of weeds and dirt, overseen by the neighbours’ privy. Steam and heat bellowed from the shed in the back, where Mrs. Mann operated a laundry.
    I felt more at home here than I had in my townhouse in Belgravia, where all the furniture was fashionable and expensive and the garden in riotous bloom, with a butler to open the front door and a maid to lay out my gowns and arrange my hair.
    Wasn’t I becoming a sentimental old fool?
    “Do you have time to come in for tea?” I asked Richard. Mrs. Mann was in the laundry shed and Mr. Mann would be at the store with Angus. It was hardly proper for me to entertain a gentleman without other company present, but propriety was never something I cared much about, no matter in what circumstances I was living. “Mrs. Mann always keeps the kettle hot and ready.”
    “Another time, perhaps,” he said with a smile. “I have a meeting with the inspector later and have to get my reports finished.”
    We bid each other a good day and I went inside.
    I removed my jewellery, struggled with the row of tiny buttons on my dress, discarded my petticoat, over-corset, corset, stockings and undergarments, pulled on my night-gown, and crawled into my narrow bed with the lumpy mattress and broken springs for my midday nap.
    * * *
    I was to have the role of matron-of-honour at the marriage of Martha Witherspoon and Reginald O’Brien. Another first for me: I’ve never been in a wedding party. Mainly, I suspect, because I’ve never had female friends, not since I was a child.
    The best dressmaker in the Yukon had gone out of business abruptly. Irene Davidson, who’d been friends with the woman, had swooped in and scooped up the best bolts of cloth before anyone else could get their hands on them. Where the rest had gone, I did not know. I kicked myself at being too slow off the mark: by the time I got to the abandoned shop, all that remained were some lengths of black homespun and a cotton in a colour that would make a horse look anaemic.
    It was, therefore, to Irene that Martha and I had to go.
    Where we would beg for material to make a wedding dress.
    Irene and I did not like each other much. Which was of absolutely no consequence, as long as she was the most popular dancer in town and I was the boss. We performed our duties and kept a formal distance. She knew