“Don’t worry,” I said to Sarah. “I’ve just received his letter, and he’s already left for here.”
She hugged me. “I’m so glad he’s away from that.”
She wanted to linger and talk, but Jacob started to wail just then and she flew off to see what was the matter. I picked up the paper and scanned the rest of the headlines—I froze. “No, this can’t be.”
There in the blurred print was a piece of dreadful news: “Victoria’s Elite Turn Out to Greet Top Parliamentarian, George Chalmers.”
Chapter Forty-one
I began to regularly search the Colonist for any news of George and his comings and goings, and any mention of him in the society pages, but there was none. I worried that Lady Persephone had told him what I had said at the teahouse in Victoria. How could I have been so rash? You’ve got some of our father’s recklessness in you, Hari told me more than once.
My spirits flagged, and I found it difficult to focus on my card dealing. Worry rooted itself deeply in my brain. I tried to reason it away. Surely George would not want to air ugly accusations about himself in public or press his point through some sort of legal action against me. I was in Barkerville, after all, and no longer a threat to him. But the words I spoke to Lady Persephone kept coming back to me. Finally, I confided in Sarah.
“I had hoped you had escaped him for good,” she said. “No wonder you’ve been in a depressed mood lately. I think I know a way to help lift you up. Florence’s play is starting Sunday night. Louis has asked me, but I’ll suggest he take us both.”
“I couldn’t intrude. I know how much you enjoy your time with him. You’re not losing interest in him, are you?”
She couldn’t contain her smile. “Oh, no, not at all, quite the other way. He’s kind and caring, and little Jacob loves him. I didn’t expect this, as you know, but…” She blushed.
“Then go with him,” I insisted, wanting her to have her happiness.
“I will, but I’m telling him that you’re coming too. He can escort us both.”
The day of Florence’s debut, Sarah fussed over her clothes and her toilette. After I donned my green paduasoy gown and managed to pin my hair, I helped Sarah pin red ribbons into her bouffant hair. Her flawless skin was perfectly accentuated by the red cotton gown she wore. She had crocheted white lace around the neckline and made pretty little cuffs at her wrists. She was a vision of loveliness, and I heard Louis’s breath catch when she greeted him that evening.
Quite a crowd had gathered out front of the cheerfully repainted Theatre Royal. There were scores of prospectors, looking the better for having bathed, but also some couples lingering outside, enjoying the late sunlight of one of the first really warm summer evenings. We fluttered our elegant feather-and-ivory fans and went to read the elaborate scroll on the billboard.
Florence Wilson, of the Cariboo Amateur Association, will grace our stage this evening with performances that are second to none in the colony. Witness her angelic voice bring tears to the eyes of the most hardened of old miners when she sings: “When Love Gets You Fast in Her Clutches,” “Emblems of Mem’ry Are These Tears,” “My Poor Dog Tray,” and the rousing “Hail Columbia.”
“I’m so proud of our Florence,” Sarah said, squeezing my arm.
“I can’t agree more. She’s achieved so much in such a short time.” I took it as a sign that there was hope for the rest of us.
As I was speaking, Jack Harris appeared at my side. I could smell a mixture of talc and cigar and could feel his breath on the back of my neck. “I’ll bet you’re looking forward to Miss Wilson’s debut, but I’ll miss the Hurdy-Gurdy girls, myself.”
“I’m sure your disappointment will be short-lived once Miss Wilson takes the stage,” I replied. I caught sight of Louis waving at us to follow him. “Do enjoy the show, Mr. Harris.”
Sarah and I followed Louis inside the theatre and took our seats at stage left. When the ushers closed the theatre doors, the room went dark for a minute until they lit the half-moon lanterns that edged the stage. The space took on a cozy, festive feel. Smells of the theatre drifted past me—oily greasepaint and the sharp tang of rosin and chalk—and music floated out of the blackened stage wings as a small string orchestra and upright piano struck up a rousing tune.
When Florence stepped out on the stage, the crowd jumped to its feet and roared its approval. She was dressed as a poor Irish country girl in a becoming bonnet, but her stage makeup made her appear larger than life with heavily rouged apple cheeks and red rosebud lips. Once the audience had taken their seats, she began to sing in a lilting soprano, and I soon settled back and relaxed, transported to another place, another time, lost in my imagination. The play was the story of a young woman who had fallen in love with the son of a rich landowner, but her father forbade their love, and the young man was forced to marry another. The first act ended with the young, heartbroken lass considering immigrating to British Columbia. I smiled at Sarah in the dusky glow of the theatre—it was easy to see Florence’s influence in the playwriting.
This sort of play was all the rage, I knew, and while I loved seeing Florence in her element, I found the story itself a touch melodramatic. I suspected it was, in some ways, a catharsis for the lonely men who had left their loved ones far behind and daily risked their lives in the all-consuming quest for gold.
As the curtain came down for
