It was a Saturday night and I came in to work early. The poker den was already thriving, and I was surprised to see Sarah with Jacob in her arms. She never brought him into the cardroom, as it was usually so smoky, but she was there, holding him with one hand as she carried him on her hip. He appeared mesmerized by the green Tiffany lamps. She rushed over to me and held out her left hand, fingers spread wide. Before I even saw it, I knew. There was a ring on the third finger.
“Oh, Sarah, this is so very exciting.” I examined the slim gold band, an interesting creation with three small gold nuggets mounted in the middle. “I’m so happy for you,” I said, embracing her.
“I couldn’t wait to tell you. The wedding’s going to be September twenty-fifth, just a month away. We’ll have it at the church. Louis already has permission. And you, Charlotte, you must be my maid of honour.”
“I will be honoured.” Blinking away the tears that had come to my eyes, I focused on Jacob. “And maybe you can be the ring bearer?” I said to him. “You’re still a little unsteady on your legs, but I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“Of course,” she said, laughing. “Won’t you look handsome, Jacob?” She twirled him around, and I smiled, her excitement infectious.
Later that night, after an exhausting shift, I readied myself for bed, thinking of the momentous day, and felt an odd sense of sorrow. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the source of my melancholy until it struck me. Sarah’s wedding date was September 25, a month away, so this must be August… I looked at my desk calendar and double-checked the date. Today was the anniversary of Hari’s death.
I went over to my trunk and opened the lid, pushing my hand deep, through the stack-folded winter clothes. At the very bottom, my fingers hit something hard, and I reached for Hari’s black jewellery box that I hadn’t seen since that awful day on the Tynemouth, when Sarah helped me sort through Hari’s things. I let my fingers slide across the smooth surface of inlaid mother-of-pearl. My only memento of Hari. I flipped it over, my fingers hunting for the hidden recessed catch that I knew was there. As children, we had thrilled at the small compartment that the depressed latch revealed and had left secret messages to each other inside, away from the intruding eyes of our mother. I smiled at the memory. I found the latch and pushed it.
Three slender gold wafers escaped from the compartment and slid onto my lap. I caught my breath, unable to believe the sight before me. They were pure gold, just as I had seen months before when the rich dandies poured a bag of nuggets on a table in the gambling den. These wafers had to have been purchased from the funds that Hari stole from Charles. Not stole, I corrected myself, recovered. They represented the dowry that Papa had set aside for me before he died, the legacy that Charles tried to keep for himself.
Slowly, I picked up the wafers, letting them slip and slide between my fingers, watching the light play off them. This gold would allow me to have my dream—ranchland and a fine home. Ironically, my dowry would ensure my ability to live the rest of my life independently. I need never marry. Then I remembered who I owed my deepest thanks to. Harriet. How I wished she were here to share this moment with me. With a heavy heart, I put the slim bars back where I had found them and pushed the latch to reset it.
A cascade of thoughts filled my head. Sarah would take her life in a new direction just as I would mine. Our friendship would change, but it could never die. I began to dream of what my new ranch and house would be like and decided I would call it Harriet House, in honour of my sister and the life she never had.
Chapter Forty-three
The next day, I told Mr. Roy of my plans, and he insisted he would help me. I readily agreed. I knew that I would have far greater success negotiating a land purchase and engaging a builder if I had a man with me.
It would take months for a new house to be built, but first I needed to buy the land. Mr. Roy left his business in Sarah’s hands, and we took the coach south. I hoped to buy a spread on the beautiful ranchland I had heard about near a town called Lillooet.
The town reminded me of Yale, where we had caught our stage on our way north to Barkerville. Men loitered everywhere, looking lost as they tried to secure modes of transport to take them to the goldfields. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the gold-laden bag on my lap. After checking into the hotel, I made it my first order of business to purchase a small revolver at the gun and rifle shop, where the owner gave me a brief lesson on its use.
“This one’s got a hair trigger, so don’t point it at anyone you’re not intending to shoot,” he said.
I felt much easier with the little derringer tucked in my bag as Mr. Roy and I rode off to view some parcels of land that were for sale outside of town. The rolling grasslands were dotted with groves of trembling aspen and poplar trees, their leaves already starting to change from green to a canary yellow in contrast to their white-barked trunks. Mr. Roy was as taken with the landscape as
