As I sat on a velvet chair in the corner waiting for Mr. Roy to direct me to a table, two new gamblers walked in as if they owned the place. They preened like a pair of peacocks, dressed in the most outlandish garb. Small, wiry men, they both sported large handlebar moustaches and wide muttonchop sideburns. Their tight-fitting suits were made of the most bizarre fabrics I had ever seen. I tried not to stare.
One man’s suit was made of a yellow-and-blue wool plaid, accented with a robin’s-egg-blue waistcoat and a white shirt with collar points so high that I marvelled at his ability to turn his head from side to side. His trouser legs flared and were hemmed inches above the ankles, in part, I guessed, to display a fine pair of high-heeled kid-leather shoes. Remembering the muddy streets, I couldn’t imagine more impractical footwear for these parts. Not to be outdone, the other man was dressed in a white raw silk suit, and he had accented his outfit with a white cowboy hat, a string necktie, and a pair of hand-tooled, black leather boots. I scanned the room, realizing that no one else seemed surprised by their appearance.
They ambled over to the dealer next to me, and I tried to listen to their conversation but couldn’t make head or tail of it.
“I don’t know if you heard tell of us,” the first man said. “But we’re the fellas who took out a hundred pounds of gold in just eight hours. We’ve been piling the agonies down in the mines till we’re all caved in. Took a trip down to New Westminster to spend a little of our blunt and now we want a good betting game.”
He opened a cloth bag and poured a handful of shimmering, mesmerizing gold nuggets on the table. Never had I seen such beauty that represented such wealth, and I gaped in wonder. The dealer didn’t react, and I could only surmise that this was not an uncommon sight. I thought about the prospectors I met on the ship who all dreamt of gold. If they found it, did that dream become surreal? Did it cause them to lose all sense and squander their riches? It seemed these men couldn’t spend their newfound wealth fast enough.
Mr. Roy waved me towards a table and pulled out a chair for me. “Gentlemen, let me introduce our newest addition, Miss Harding.”
There was a great flurry of scraping chairs, as the five men leapt to their feet and doffed their hats. One man was slower than the others.
“I believe I’ve already had the pleasure of your acquaintance,” he said. Standing in front of me was Jack Harris.
“Mr. Harris,” I said quickly, sitting down. “You didn’t mention that you liked a betting game.” I placed my purse on the table, removed my gloves, and tried to hide my trembling hands as the men took their seats.
“Let’s just say I’m a man who enjoys risk-taking.” He was dressed in formal clothes, all black, and they set off his looks very well.
Mr. Roy beamed. “For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of Miss Harding’s company, she is a recent arrival from England along with my daughter, Sarah, who will be serving drinks any moment now.”
He introduced each man in turn, starting on my right. Albert Poole, a dentist, was a small man who looked up at me from under a bowed head with squinty-eyed distrust. Next to him was Josh Hurley, a successful gold miner who was flushing deeply, clearly having trouble recovering from the shock of having a young woman act as dealer.
As Mr. Roy was speaking, Sarah arrived with a crystal tray of golden Scotch whiskies, and I took the opportunity to try and settle my shaky hands by shuffling and reshuffling the deck. The motions came easily to me, and some of my nerves dissipated.
Once Sarah retreated, Mr. Roy continued the introductions. Dr. Nickolas Jones—“Call him Sawbones Jones,” Mr. Roy said—seemed more interested in the whiskies than anything. His pale, thin hand curled tightly around his shot glass as he bobbed his head in my general direction. And then there was Mr. Harris. Throughout the introductions, his eyes rarely left my face and the slightest of smiles played on his thin lips.
The last player at the table was Dick Canning from the colonial assay office. He was a tall man with a high forehead and a pale, bony face, and he stared at the cards as I shuffled them, clearly anxious to get the game underway. I knew it as a sign of a recent big loser expecting to make back his losses. With quick, staccato motions, I began to deal. The men’s attention moved from me to the game at hand, which soon took on a life of its own.
The feverish light of redemption shone in Mr. Canning’s eyes when he won the first two hands, one with no less than three kings. He did not begrudge my tips and made a show of the generous sum he tucked into my purse. With the next hand, he upped the ante dramatically, and I suspected he was bluffing, hoping to convince the others to fold. Mr. Harris called his bluff, and Mr. Canning was forced to display his meagre pair of twos for all to see.
Mr. Harris’s tight smile widened, and he couldn’t suppress a small laugh as he spread his winning cards on the table. Instead of tucking his tip into my open purse as I expected, he reached across the table and folded some notes into my hand, closing his hand over mine as he did so. I felt an urge to pull my hand away. Was he merely being friendly, or was he interested in something more? If it was flirtation, I wished he’d stop.
As the evening wore on, I felt more at ease. Mr. Roy moved silently from table to table, and his
