Is it the same for me? As a woman, men naturally assumed I would have no head for the business of investing.
By midnight, Sawbones Jones called for their third round of whiskies, urging the others to join him, and Mr. Roy suggested we take a break so that I could have some refreshment. While I sipped my tea, the men relit their cigars and pipes.
“What’s the news at the assay office, Dick?” Sawbones asked.
“Man came in the other day from the Horsefly Creek claim,” he replied, releasing a puff of smoke. “He dropped a big bag of nuggets the size of peas on the scales and wanted cash for them right away—had no grub, needed money so’s he could eat. We didn’t have enough cash on hand to buy the whole bag, so I gave him what money I had and sent for more on the next stage. He just grabbed what I gave him and ran off to the saloon.”
“Horsefly Creek?” Mr. Poole, the dentist, echoed. “I haven’t heard of any big strikes up on the river since ’59. Didn’t know anyone was digging there.”
“Group of Welshmen have moved on up there, couldn’t make a go of it here,” Mr. Canning said. “Poor bugger looked half-starved, like he barely made it through the winter. Don’t know if the sack of gold was a whole winter’s work or just what they got since the snow’s come off. Be interesting to know, though.”
Mr. Hurley, the miner, took a long pull of his cigar. “Sure would.”
When our break was over, I dealt out a new round. Now quite comfortable in my role, I tried to parse what the men were saying, but they seemed to be talking cryptically—bids and offers, last trades, escrow shares.
By one o’clock, Mr. Roy closed down the tables, and the men bid their goodbyes. The mood was jovial, as it seemed there were no big losers. Some were not ready to call it a night and talked of heading over to the Billy Barker for a nightcap. Jack Harris lingered and was the last to leave. Perhaps he wanted a last word with me, but I ignored him.
Once everyone was gone, I dumped the contents of my purse on the table and counted my tips. Ten American dollars! The men had been generous. I hoped the trend would continue. It was a good start, but I needed much more. I resolved to find out all I could about the market in gold-mining shares. If Henry Roy could buy a restaurant, then maybe I could buy ranchland.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Two weeks later, when Sarah and I had settled in more, I worked up the nerve to tell Mr. Roy about the conversations I had overheard while dealing cards and asked him how the whole investment game worked. It was Sunday, the restaurant was closed, and we were having a quiet cup of tea together by the warm, crackling fire after church. Sarah bathed little Jacob in a tin bucket next to us. The child splashed and giggled as she blew soap bubbles at him.
“They’re talking about what goes on at the share exchange in the back of the colonial assay office,” Mr. Roy explained to me. “In a nutshell, the exchange was set up to let men buy and sell share ownership in the different mining claims. Once the miners stake a claim, the only way they can finance big operations is by selling shares to investors. Josh Hurley is a perfect example. He sold interests in his China Bar claim and that’s how I came to buy the ten shares that I sent to Sarah. Some of the richest men in Barkerville have never panned a single nugget of gold. They speculate on mining shares—and around here rumours run fast and furious.”
Mr. Roy had carved a toy boat out of a piece of wood and tossed it into the tub for Jacob, who squealed with delight. He tried clumsily to pick the toy out of the water with his plump little hand.
“Are you thinking of investing, Charlotte?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, I am. I’m just not quite sure where to begin with it all.”
“Let me take you to the share exchange next week when it opens for the season,” Mr. Roy said. “You’ll get a better idea how it all works when you see it in action.”
A knock at the door interrupted our conversation, and he left to answer it. He returned a few moments later and told me there was a gentleman wishing to speak with me in the parlor.
“Me?”
He nodded. What gentleman would be paying me a visit? I wondered for a moment if it was Mr. Harris but was too embarrassed to ask, so I smoothed my skirts and stepped into the front hall, where I was met by a young man dressed in a brown tweed three-piece suit and a matching brown derby hat. Judging by his clean, polished shoes, he was new to Barkerville.
“Miss Harding?” he asked.
I bobbed an uncertain curtsey.
“Cecil Swinton, of Swinton, Smithers, and Carlyle,” he said, removing his hat. “We are a law firm in Victoria. My client has asked me to find you, and fortunately you’ve not been hard to locate.”
“Your client?” My heart gave a dip. Was this about George?
“I’ve been retained by Mr. Charles Baldwin, Lord Ainsley,” he said with emphasis. I guessed that not many lawyers in Victoria could claim an English lord as a client.
I relaxed a little. Of course, this was about the money. I didn’t ask him to be seated, nor did I offer refreshment. He didn’t seem to take offense.
“I understand he was your brother-in-law before the divorce.” Mr. Swinton’s mouth twitched. Was that a sneer?
“That’s correct,” I said, straightening. “And why are you here?”
“Under the divorce agreement with your late sister, my client is entitled to the return of all
