gave him a smile and took my new hat home.
Chapter Fourteen
Saturday was a glorious day. The sun shone warm in a clear blue sky, but a pleasant breeze kept it from getting overly hot. I was at Martha’s hotel before noon, supposedly to help her prepare for her grand event. Never in my life had I assisted a woman to dress. Fortunately, my role was strictly a formality, for Helen had created a beautiful, yet entirely practical, wedding gown. It was in two pieces, and each piece could later be altered slightly and matched with a skirt or blouse of colour to create two new outfits. The expensive lace was attached with large, well-spaced stitches so it could be removed. Used for a christening gown, perhaps, Martha said as her cheeks flamed.
She was no beauty, Martha. Tall and sturdy with a large bosom trapped beneath a rigid corset, she had a nose like a bird’s beak and small dark eyes. Her cheeks were too round, her chin too small, and her complexion too ruddy to be fashionable. An Englishwoman of a respectable but impoverished family, she’d travelled to the Klondike in the guise of a writer, hoping to pen a book to provide her with much-needed income. At the advanced age of thirty-three years, she (and her family) had given up hope she would ever marry, and it had become necessary for her to make her own way in the world. Instead, she had found Reginald O’Brien.
Which was just as well. I had seen samples of her writing and thought it unimaginative rubbish. Martha managed to make the Klondike sound as rigidly boring as afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace.
We were not friends. As I’ve said, I have no women friends. Angus was much closer to Martha than I. He’d been her assistant when she’d been dashing about town making notes of everything she saw and generally getting in everyone’s way. Angus could hardly be a bridesmaid, and Martha had no one else to ask.
She chattered and fussed and twitched constantly as she dressed. Her hat was a small neat affair, and the train came only as far as her shoulders. I had lent her a pair of gold earrings, which toned down the over-red face fractionally.
She looked, I was surprised to see, absolutely lovely.
Angus was waiting for us in the hotel lobby. He jumped to his feet as Martha and I descended the stairs. His jaw dropped open, and his eyes bulged. “Miss Witherspoon,” he cried. “You look ... very nice.”
Martha smiled. “Thank you, my dear boy.”
Angus looked nice also in a clean jacket and new white shirt, highly starched. His face was scrubbed, his blond hair was combed, and he’d slicked the unruly cowlick down with a touch of oil. I myself do not care for oil in a man’s hair and told him to go easy on it.
A small crowd had gathered outside the Richmond Hotel, hoping to get a glimpse of the bride. They broke into applause when we exited. Someone, probably Angus, had swept the boardwalk.
The carriage Mouse O’Brien had hired to take Martha, Angus, and me to the church was waiting when we exited the hotel. “Carriage” being a bit of an exaggeration: it was a wooden cart pulled by an aging horse. But the horse had more meat on its bones than many around town, and it had been brushed to a shine, with white ribbons braided through its mane. The cart had only one proper seat, where the driver and a single passenger could sit. Angus assisted Martha to climb up while I held her skirts and tried to keep the white cloth away from the none-too-clean undercarriage. In the open back there were two bales of hay, covered by blankets. Once Martha was seated, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes alight and face burning with embarrassed pleasure, I eyed my own chair with some degree of trepidation.
“Mother,” Angus said, extending his arm. I don’t know what we would have done if it had been raining. I lifted the skirts of my green satin gown to shocking heights, clutched the bunch of cloth in my right hand, gripped Angus’s arm with my left, wished I had a
Chapter Fourteen
Saturday was a glorious day. The sun shone warm in a clear blue sky, but a pleasant breeze kept it from getting overly hot. I was at Martha’s hotel before noon, supposedly to help her prepare for her grand event. Never in my life had I assisted a woman to dress. Fortunately, my role was strictly a formality, for Helen had created a beautiful, yet entirely practical, wedding gown. It was in two pieces, and each piece could later be altered slightly and matched with a skirt or blouse of colour to create two new outfits. The expensive lace was attached with large, well-spaced stitches so it could be removed. Used for a christening gown, perhaps, Martha said as her cheeks flamed.
She was no beauty, Martha. Tall and sturdy with a large bosom trapped beneath a rigid corset, she had a nose like a bird’s beak and small dark eyes. Her cheeks were too round, her chin too small, and her complexion too ruddy to be fashionable. An Englishwoman of a respectable but impoverished family, she’d travelled to the Klondike in the guise of a writer, hoping to pen a book to provide her with much-needed income. At the advanced age of thirty-three years, she (and her family) had given up hope she would ever marry, and it had become necessary for her to make her own way in the world. Instead, she had found Reginald O’Brien.
Which was just as well. I had seen samples of her writing and thought it unimaginative rubbish. Martha managed to make the Klondike sound as rigidly boring as afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace.
We were not friends. As I’ve said, I have no women friends. Angus was much closer to Martha than I. He’d been her assistant when she’d been dashing about town making notes of everything she saw and generally getting in everyone’s way. Angus could hardly be a bridesmaid, and Martha had no one else to ask.
She chattered and fussed and twitched constantly as she dressed. Her hat was a small neat affair, and the train came only as far as her shoulders. I had lent her a pair of gold earrings, which toned down the over-red face fractionally.
She looked, I was surprised to see, absolutely lovely.
Angus was waiting for us in the hotel lobby. He jumped to his feet as Martha and I descended the stairs. His jaw dropped open, and his eyes bulged. “Miss Witherspoon,” he cried. “You look ... very nice.”
Martha smiled. “Thank you, my dear boy.”
Angus looked nice also in a clean jacket and new white shirt, highly starched. His face was scrubbed, his blond hair was combed, and he’d slicked the unruly cowlick down with a touch of oil. I myself do not care for oil in a man’s hair and told him to go easy on it.
A small crowd had gathered outside the Richmond Hotel, hoping to get a glimpse of the bride. They broke into applause when we exited. Someone, probably Angus, had swept the boardwalk.
The carriage Mouse O’Brien had hired to take Martha, Angus, and me to the church was waiting when we exited the hotel. “Carriage” being a bit of an exaggeration: it was a wooden cart pulled by an aging horse. But the horse had more meat on its bones than many around town, and it had been brushed to a shine, with white ribbons braided through its mane. The cart had only one proper seat, where the driver and a single passenger could sit. Angus assisted Martha to climb up while I held her skirts and tried to keep the white cloth away from the none-too-clean undercarriage. In the open back there were two bales of hay, covered by blankets. Once Martha was seated, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes alight and face burning with embarrassed pleasure, I eyed my own chair with some degree of trepidation.
“Mother,” Angus said, extending his arm. I don’t know what we would have done if it had been raining. I lifted the skirts of my green satin gown to shocking heights, clutched the bunch of cloth in my right hand, gripped Angus’s arm with my left, wished I had a
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