third to hold onto my hat, and hoisted myself up. For a moment, I balanced precariously on the lip of wood running along the outside of the cart, but my son pushed against my bottom (I hope it was my son) and shoved me over the edge and into the back of the cart like a sack of feed.
I attempted to retain some shreds of dignity and settled into my make-shift chair, adjusting the long strand of fake pearls around my neck — equally fake pearls were in my ears. Angus leapt up beside me, and the driver yelled to his animal to proceed. The crowd cheered. I began to lift my hand to wave, but Angus grabbed it and shook his head, reminding me I was not the centre of attention on this day.
Helen met us as we alighted from the cart outside St. Paul’s Church, ready to adjust Martha’s garments should such be required. Helen had earlier festooned the ground with petals of blue larkspur, yellow buttercups, and purple fireweed.
Reginald O’Brien’s nickname was intended to be satirical. He resembled an ox more than a mouse. He neared seven feet tall, and his shoulders and thighs were massive. But he was soft-spoken and unfailingly polite. He dressed well and was fastidious about his grooming. Today, he’d outdone himself. He looked resplendent in his black trousers and grey frock-coat, red waist-coat with heavy gold chain, crisp white shirt, and black tie secured with a gold stickpin. His boots were polished to a high shine, and not a speck of dust marred the grey hat with a band which matched his waistcoat.
He stood by the front door of the church beside Reverend Bowen and Richard Sterling, handsome in dress uniform, who would serve as the groomsman. Mouse’s face lit up when he caught his first glimpse of his bride bouncing along in the horse cart. He settled his face into solemn lines before stepping forward and helping her out of the cart. Angus leapt down and assisted me.
The wedding party shifted and we arranged ourselves. Helen slipped into the church to take her seat.
Mouse and Richard entered first, followed by me, and then Angus and Martha. Angus was acting the role of Martha’s father, somewhat unusual considering that he was twelve years old, but Martha had been insistent.
St. Paul’s Church was full. Martha knew no one in town except for Angus and me, but Mouse knew everyone, and the forthcoming nuptials had been the talk of the Savoy all week. We’d closed for the afternoon in order that the staff could attend the ceremony. Sergeant Lancaster, my erstwhile suitor, was present, hair thick with oil, seated in a group of Mounties including Inspector McKnight. Graham Donohue had had a haircut, and Mr. and Mrs. Mann were dressed in their Sunday best. Ray Walker sat next to Irene Davidson, her arm tucked into his, at the end of a row of dance hall girls looking as bright and colourful as hollyhocks in an English garden. Barney and many of his bar-mates were in attendance. Some of them had even gone to the trouble of washing their face and hands. Jake, the head coupler at the Savoy, was at the back, with the bartenders Murray and Not-Murray. Belinda Mulrooney was in attendance, dressed as always in a prim starched navy blouse and dark skirt, her hair in a severe bun atop her square face. Belinda’s Fairview Hotel would be opening in a couple of weeks, and it was going to be the biggest and most luxurious in town. Big Alex McDonald, whom they called the King of the Klondike, was seated in the row behind Belinda, tugging at his tight shirt collar. They were business rivals, never friends, and the rivalry could get extreme at times.
To be honest, I’d worried about Martha. She was making a big step, committing herself, body and soul, to a man she scarcely knew, in a place far from home and family. But as I looked around the crowded church, I realized that this was now Martha’s home, and we, a rough-and-tumble collection of miscreants and adventurers, were her family.
I took my place at one side of the altar and
I attempted to retain some shreds of dignity and settled into my make-shift chair, adjusting the long strand of fake pearls around my neck — equally fake pearls were in my ears. Angus leapt up beside me, and the driver yelled to his animal to proceed. The crowd cheered. I began to lift my hand to wave, but Angus grabbed it and shook his head, reminding me I was not the centre of attention on this day.
Helen met us as we alighted from the cart outside St. Paul’s Church, ready to adjust Martha’s garments should such be required. Helen had earlier festooned the ground with petals of blue larkspur, yellow buttercups, and purple fireweed.
Reginald O’Brien’s nickname was intended to be satirical. He resembled an ox more than a mouse. He neared seven feet tall, and his shoulders and thighs were massive. But he was soft-spoken and unfailingly polite. He dressed well and was fastidious about his grooming. Today, he’d outdone himself. He looked resplendent in his black trousers and grey frock-coat, red waist-coat with heavy gold chain, crisp white shirt, and black tie secured with a gold stickpin. His boots were polished to a high shine, and not a speck of dust marred the grey hat with a band which matched his waistcoat.
He stood by the front door of the church beside Reverend Bowen and Richard Sterling, handsome in dress uniform, who would serve as the groomsman. Mouse’s face lit up when he caught his first glimpse of his bride bouncing along in the horse cart. He settled his face into solemn lines before stepping forward and helping her out of the cart. Angus leapt down and assisted me.
The wedding party shifted and we arranged ourselves. Helen slipped into the church to take her seat.
Mouse and Richard entered first, followed by me, and then Angus and Martha. Angus was acting the role of Martha’s father, somewhat unusual considering that he was twelve years old, but Martha had been insistent.
St. Paul’s Church was full. Martha knew no one in town except for Angus and me, but Mouse knew everyone, and the forthcoming nuptials had been the talk of the Savoy all week. We’d closed for the afternoon in order that the staff could attend the ceremony. Sergeant Lancaster, my erstwhile suitor, was present, hair thick with oil, seated in a group of Mounties including Inspector McKnight. Graham Donohue had had a haircut, and Mr. and Mrs. Mann were dressed in their Sunday best. Ray Walker sat next to Irene Davidson, her arm tucked into his, at the end of a row of dance hall girls looking as bright and colourful as hollyhocks in an English garden. Barney and many of his bar-mates were in attendance. Some of them had even gone to the trouble of washing their face and hands. Jake, the head coupler at the Savoy, was at the back, with the bartenders Murray and Not-Murray. Belinda Mulrooney was in attendance, dressed as always in a prim starched navy blouse and dark skirt, her hair in a severe bun atop her square face. Belinda’s Fairview Hotel would be opening in a couple of weeks, and it was going to be the biggest and most luxurious in town. Big Alex McDonald, whom they called the King of the Klondike, was seated in the row behind Belinda, tugging at his tight shirt collar. They were business rivals, never friends, and the rivalry could get extreme at times.
To be honest, I’d worried about Martha. She was making a big step, committing herself, body and soul, to a man she scarcely knew, in a place far from home and family. But as I looked around the crowded church, I realized that this was now Martha’s home, and we, a rough-and-tumble collection of miscreants and adventurers, were her family.
I took my place at one side of the altar and
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