It was not long before Mr. Roy called us downstairs. Louis was standing in the doorway next to a tall, dark-haired woman.
“Florence Wilson, can it really be you?” I said.
“Charlotte and Sarah!”
Sarah and I flung our arms around our old friend, laughing with delight. Neither of us expected to see her so soon.
“She came in on the coach, and when she asked after you, I thought I’d bring her right over,” Louis explained.
“How lovely! But tell us how and why you’ve come to the goldfields,” I demanded. “Have you married a prospector?”
She chuckled. “No, I’ve done something even more outlandish than that. Shortly after you left, I received a small inheritance from my great-uncle back in England. When I heard the Theatre Royal was for sale, I came north. It was my love of the stage that made me leave England, and so to be sure I land some good roles, I want to buy a theatre. I have an appointment with the owner today.”
“Marvelous,” Sarah breathed, and wrapped an arm around her friend. “If only the Burks could see you now.”
We chatted for a few more minutes, and then Florence told us she needed to be off. Louis offered to show her the way, but before he left, he handed Sarah the promised ribbon and she blushed her thanks. As we shut the door behind them, Sarah and I both murmured our hopes that Florence was here to stay.
Our wish came true. The next day, Florence was back waving her keys. “I bought it!” she said.
We congratulated her on her good fortune and begged for a tour. We were curious to see it for the first time, and she was only too happy to oblige. Mr. Roy offered to watch Jacob, and so we grabbed our hats, then, linking arms, set out for the theatre. Striding along in the company of my two dear friends, I was reminded that the greatest pleasure in life was to be with those you care for.
The Theatre Royal was a formidable two-storey structure housing a fire hall beneath it, and as we approached, we could see a bright-red fire wagon poking out of the building’s lower level. The volunteer firefighters, a group of six or seven burly young men, were cleaning and polishing the leather horse bridles and reins, but doffed their hats and smiled at us as we passed by.
“Fire is a constant threat for most theatres,” Florence said, pointing up at the fire bell that hung from the rafters, “what with the lighting, paint, props, and all. After the last theatre burnt down, the previous owners saw fit to rebuild over the fire hall.”
Over dinner not that long ago, Mr. Roy had told Sarah and me how dangerous fire was for a hardscrabble town like Barkerville, where the buildings touch each other and everything was made of wood. He explained that he had put a ladder on the side of the restaurant that led from the second storey to the ground for our safety. Now, I looked at the wagon with its water barrels and buckets. It didn’t seem like it would be much use in the face of an out-of-control fire.
“Come on,” Florence said. “Let me show you the stage.”
We followed Florence into the theatre and up a long staircase to the main stage, then entered the stuffy, dark, wood foyer. Frenzied sounds of an upright piano filled the dimmed room.
“What’s that?” Sarah asked.
“I’m afraid it’s the Hurdy-Gurdy girls rehearsing.”
We moved through the double doors into the theatre, where lanterns in wire cages rimmed the stage, illuminating four young women in wide-skirted, bell-shaped dresses with tightly cinched waists. Male dancers stood in a group behind the women, and a piano was on the floor below the stage.
Florence wrinkled her nose. “This is called the bell ringer dance.”
The men stepped forward and held the young women by the waist as they jumped and swung their legs sideways to the right, then jumped and swung to the left like the swinging pendulum on a grandfather clock. They swung higher and higher with each swing until they finally had enough momentum to twirl around 360 degrees. Sarah and I gasped as the ample folds of their billowing skirts fell away, revealing the girls’ crinoline undergarments, white satin garters, and black stockings. I could imagine the catcalls and lewd comments that dance would elicit from a crowd of rowdy miners.
Florence turned back to us. “Needless to say, I plan to phase out the Hurdy-Gurdy girls and bring in more refined offerings. I already have my first production selected—The Irish Lass. You’ll both have to come and see it debut in a few weeks.”
“We certainly will,” I promised.
“Good.” She smiled. “Well, now that I’ve shown you my new venture, will you show me around the rest of Barkerville?”
Linking arms again, we made our way along the boardwalk, stopping every so often to peer into a shop window or to purchase some little knickknack. First stop was Martha’s Sweet Shoppe, where we treated ourselves to several confections, including soft toffees, caramels, and nougat. Martha, we explained to Florence, was really a fiftyish former miner from Cornwall who had learned candy-making at his mother’s knee. He had told us he was too old for mining and found the confectionary much more fun.
Outside Blanc Photo Studio, Florence suggested we stop and have our picture taken to celebrate our first day in Barkerville together. After checking our purses to make certain we had the requisite funds, we went in, trying to contain our excitement.
Monsieur Blanc welcomed us in an enthusiastic flurry. “Wait till you see the very latest glass-plate technique, ladies,” he said. “You don’t have to sit perfectly still holding a rather grim expression. The picture’s taken quite literally in a flash. You can even
