Gypsy - Lesley Pearse [196]
‘Yes, fancy him ending up owning the Monte! Shall we go?’
‘If you want to. Maybe it would be good for you to play here one last time.’
Beth turned to the bellboy. ‘Tell him we’ll be delighted to come.’
It was nine o’clock before they got to the Monte Carlo. A pianist was playing but they could barely hear him for the noise in the crowded saloon. As Beth and Jack walked in, people turned their heads to look at them and a kind of buzz went around the room.
‘That’s her,’ Beth heard one man say. ‘She’s even prettier than they said.’
Percy Turnball must have noticed the stir because he came pushing his way through the crowd to meet them.
‘Welcome to you both,’ he said, his big florid face breaking into a wide smile. ‘There was a good deal of jubilation when you were seen coming into town earlier today. You’re one of the legends of Dawson, Miss Bolton, even the cheechakos have heard of you and were disappointed they couldn’t get to hear you play. As for you, Jack, I’ve heard tales that you were attacked by a bear, struck it rich and married our Gypsy Queen in secret. Are any of them true?’
Jack laughed. ‘Just tall tales. If I marry the Gypsy Queen it won’t be in secret.’
Turnball slapped him on the back. ‘Good for you. I always did think you two were good together. Let’s have some champagne to celebrate you being back here.’
∗
Turnball led them to a table he had reserved and the bartender brought over champagne in a silver bucket. It was far better quality than the stuff Fallon used to give Beth, and the glasses were real crystal.
Dozens of people she’d never seen before came up to the table to say how thrilled they were to meet her. It was a good feeling, and with Jack holding her hand under the table, the anxiety she’d felt earlier in the day disappeared.
There were many familiar faces in the crowd, all qualifying for the title of Sourdough now they’d spent a winter here. Some had been fresh-faced boys back in Skagway, innocents who had left their small towns in search of a dream. Now they were rugged men who could turn their hand to anything. As they were still here, that meant they’d found some sort of niche, even if they hadn’t struck gold.
Here and there were the dance-hall and saloon girls with their gaudy dresses and elaborate hair styles. They might look plump, pretty and welcoming, but most were calculating, tough and mercenary. Yet they had injected Dawson with glamour and no doubt given comfort to many a miner, even if he was down on his luck.
Other faces, equally familiar to Beth, were of those who had set up businesses here. Some she’d met on the trail, some came by other routes, but they were entrepreneurs all. A lot of them had lost everything in fires, for even before the big one in April there had been many others. Defeat was not in their nature; as one venture crashed, they began another. Doggedly determined, with steel in their spines, they would probably survive anything life threw at them.
Yet the majority of the customers were strangers to Beth. Among them were the latest cheechakos, gaunt-looking men in shabby mackinaws and high trail boots, yet most of the strangers were sleek, well dressed and prosperous looking.
‘They are just tourists,’ Turnball said disparagingly when he caught her curious stare. ‘No trails and hardships for them; they’ve come with their leather trunks, even their maids in some cases, just to say they’ve seen Dawson City. None of us knew last year that newspapers all over the world were following everything that went on here. Some of these newcomers know more about us than we do ourselves! Of course, there’s still plenty coming here thinking they’ll find gold, but more just want to see what it is all about.’
At ten Turnball got up on the small stage and banged on a cymbal to get everyone’s attention.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said when the place was hushed. ‘All of you here will have heard some of the legends of the Klondike. Even if you came here the easy way by boat, you know about those courageous