Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  She had dreamed that her family might relent and bring her home. Instead, she found herself on the streets in the Slaughterhouse District looking for work, any kind of work. She had dreamed that Mr. Cameron would arrive on Genevieve's doorstep, begging Kristin's pardon for his shocking conduct in the library, heartsick at the disaster he had brought into her life, declaring that he had always secretly loved her and wanted nothing more than to marry her and make an honest woman of her. No Mr. Cameron had appeared!

  Instead, Genevieve, wondering why the Traubes did not come to retrieve their daughter, had wormed the story out of Kristin and then declared that, had the evil seducer planted his seed in Kristin's womb and got her with child, he would have to marry her whether he wanted to or not. Many a terrified night Kristin had spent puzzling over seeds. How were they planted? Would the seed have jumped from Mr. Cameron's mouth to hers while he was kissing her?

  Horrified that she might be with child, Kristin had imagined her own death in childbirth, her funeral, the pitifully emaciated body in its coffin with the dead infant alongside, all the Traubes weeping around the grave, blaming themselves and Mr. Cameron for her untimely death. “Even though she lost her virtue, we should have stood by her,” they'd say. Mr. Cameron a distant, tragic figure in the graveyard, heartsick at the betrayal that had brought about her untimely death, would vow never to marry but to remain faithful forever to her memory.

  Instead of dying a tragic death, Kristin secured a job as a waitress in a working man's cafe, washing dishes and carrying heavy plates of greasy sausage and odoriferous cabbage. The wages were pitiful, and her only tip was a penny given by a sewing machine salesman whose patent leather hair was so interesting that she made a sketch of him. That one penny, however, spawned fantasies in which she was the toast of glamorous Chicago restaurants in which she did witty cartoons of the patrons, received huge commissions, and invested her money, becoming rich, independent, and famous—astonishing Mr. Cameron, who was said to be such an investment genius. She'd say to him some day, “Although you were a cad, sir, I forgive you."

  What actually happened was that the proprietor, while she was wiping off dirty tables, said, “Give us a kiss, sweetheart.” Kristin, terrified of further dishonor, had flung the dirty cloth in his face and fled his establishment with the owner in noisy pursuit, crying, “Stop, thief. Bring that apron back.” The next day Genevieve had to go to the cafe to return the apron and collect Kristin's winter coat and day's pay.

  As a last resort, with no job, no prospects, and the money her father had given her dribbling away in fees to get her badly packed clothes pressed and cab fares to take her on fruitless job searches, Kristin had begged Genevieve to send her to Colorado as she did other Chicago girls in need of jobs and husbands. Kristin was then dreaming of painting majestic Colorado landscapes, maybe even saleable if bizarre elk, becoming the talented Miss Traube, a second Bierstadt. Instead, after a disastrous train ride from Chicago to Colorado, she became the maid of a woman who resented the fact that Kristin couldn't iron or bake, who inexplicably demanded to know if Kristin had a sister named Ingrid, and who, for no known reason, hated blond hair and became upset when Kristin went off to make contact with Chicago artists residing in Denver.

  None of them, thought Kristin, could make a living as an artist either, but she had managed to leave a portrait of Aunt Frieda for showing in a new gallery owned by Mrs. Helen Henderson Shane, painter of a famous picture of the Royal Gorge. Emma Richardson Cherry, an important landscapist who had studied in Chicago, New York, and Paris, accepted a Chicago scene bustling with street urchins, pushcart pedlars, and poor, shabby tenement dwellers. Mrs. Cherry promised to enter it in the next Denver art contest. Surrounded by her fourteen pieces of luggage, Kristin had painted the cityscape in Maeve Macleod's shabby guestroom and delivered it wet.

  However, before Kristin could benefit from any of these new contacts, Mrs. Macleod decided to ship Kristin off to her daughter Kathleen Macleod on the frontier. In parting, Kristin gave Mrs. Macleod a pastel of her younger daughter, horrid little Bridget, and Mrs. Macleod gave Kristin a basket lunch and a book of saints’ lives to see her through the trip to the wild frontier. So much for dreams, thought Kristin sadly. The handsome prince had asked her to call him Jack and ruined her life. The famous Bohemian spinster artist was going to become a housemaid, probably in a log cabin, cooking at an open hearth, dusting firearms, tending children with runny noses while mountain blizzards whistled between the logs.

  If she hadn't been dishonored, she might have married. A number of men, most of them virtual strangers, had proposed to her, but of course she could not accept. She couldn't even talk to them. Genevieve's last admonition as the train was pulling out of the great railroad station in Chicago had been, “Don't talk to strange men."

  "May I take this seat, miss?"

  Kristin looked up to see a strange man. Trembling, she lifted her mantle from the aisle seat, wondering if he was a vile seducer or some other evil type. Sister Mary Joseph had indicated that the varieties of evil particular to the male gender were legion. As the train began its descending spiral, the drummer introduced himself to a determinedly silent Kristin and spent the rest of the trip extolling the merits of Dr. Witt's Little Early Risers, a miracle-working patent medicine of which he was the sole Western Slope purveyor. At Argentine, halfway down the mountain, Kristin was shrinking back in her seat, hideously embarrassed to hear mention of diarrhea and constipation.

  "And biliousness,” said the salesman enthusiastically, shouting above the shriek of the brakes that kept them from hurtling off the hairpin curves and running away on the steep grades. “It's a fine specific for biliousness. Perhaps you'd like to buy some."

  Kristin bent over her sketch book to hide her blush.

  "Female problems,” he cried. “My lady customers tell me it's a marvel for female problems."

  At the Washington Spur, a crowd of men wearing shapeless canvas pants, flannel shirts with their long underwear showing at the neck, gaudy suspenders, and hobnailed boots clumped aboard and divested themselves of heavy jackets. Because there were not seats enough for them, they crowded the aisles, laughing and talking.

  "Those are miners,” said the salesman, “going into Breckenridge for a Sunday drunk."

  She made hasty line drawings of their faces, remembering with a shiver that spirituous drink had got her into her present situation.

  "Do you have a place to stay in Breckenridge?” asked the salesman.

  Kristin refused to answer, fearing that he meant to offer her one.

  "I hope it's with a big family and you'll tell them about Dr. Witt's Little Early Risers. Families are my best customers. The more members, especially children, the wider the variety of ailments for my Early Risers to cure."

  Kristin had no idea how many were in the family to which she was going and whether there would be children—children she would perhaps be expected to tend. Bridget, badly spoiled by her father, had been a real trial to Kristin.

  "This is the Gold Pan Trestle,” said the salesman.

  Kristin glanced up from a sketch of a bearded miner with a droopy nose that hung off his face like a sack of Red Devil Chewing Tobacco. The train was pulling onto a fragile wooden structure that bridged two sides of a canyon.

  "We're crossing Illinois Gulch,” said the salesman.

  Cold sweat broke out on the palms of her hands, and she could hardly hold her pencil as she anticipated immediate death when the trestle buckled and plunged into the gulch. In fact, gulch seemed much too modest a word for the abyss they were crossing. How ironic if she should meet her end at a place named for her own home state, where she had once felt so secure. Swallowing hard, hands trembling, she started a wobbly sketch of the trestle.

  "Here now,” said the salesman. “Nothing to be afraid of,” and he put his arm around her shoulders.

  "Unhand me, sir!” she cried, remembering Jack Cameron's arm as he urged another snifter of brandy on her. “Look
what you've done to my drawing.” She pointed to the place where her pencil line had skidded off the page, forgetting in her dismay that she wasn't supposed to talk to strange men.

  The salesman drew back, flushing, and heads turned all down the car. Kristin glared at the gawking passengers. She didn't care what they thought; no man was having his way with her, even if she wasn't sure what “having his way” entailed. She turned the wiggly skid line into a flight of birds. Nasty man! Genevieve was right. One should never talk to strangers. Sister Mary Joseph was right. Men were evil creatures.

  "Breckenridge! Breckenridge!” called the conductor not long afterward. Kristin, ignoring the offered help of the Dr. Witt's Little Early Riser salesman, climbed down on the platform, glad to escape that car full of terrifying men.

  The station master came hurrying toward her, saying, “Get back on the train, miss. Ladies don't step down here."

  "Isn't this Breckenridge?” asked Kristin.

  "Yep, but you're supposed to get off at the edge of town."

  "Why?"

  "Because—because this ain't a fit section of town for a lady. Now hurry, miss."

  Bewildered, Kristin looked from the scowling station manager to the porter who had just dumped the last of her belongings on the platform to the conductor who was calling, “All aboard.” Miners streamed by on either side.

  "Well, hell,” muttered the station manager.

  Kristin began to cry. “I can't reboard when all my luggage is here on the platform."

  "That's fourteen, miss,” said the porter, “just like in Como. Ain't you never heard of tippin'?” Grumbling, he climbed back aboard and the train left.

  "I'm sorry to have flouted your rules,” stammered Kristin, “but how was I to know?” She hoped this wasn't an omen, that she hadn't already made herself an outcast in her new home. “I'll need a hack to carry me and my luggage to French Street,” she said.

  "Breckenridge don't have hacks."

  "Then what am I to do?"

  "Burro maybe,” he responded grudgingly. “Probably take two of ‘em. If you'd got off where you was supposed to, I wouldn't be havin’ this problem."

  "There are hacks at the edge of town?"

  "Nope. But I wouldn't be there neither.” He turned and left her alone on the platform in front of the little depot. Kristin wondered what was wrong with this section of town and how she would get to French Street when she had no knowledge of the town and no conveyance, not to mention no money and no sense of direction.

  "Can I offer myself as your rescuer?” asked the Early Riser salesman.

  Kristin stumbled over her art supply case in an attempt to back away from him.

  "Here now, just because she got off at the wrong stop, don't mean you can treat her like a west side female,” barked the station master, who had returned with a dreadful-looking man whom Kristin could smell at twenty yards.

  As she wondered what a west side female was, the station master said, “Henry, here, has two burros—old, retired from haulin’ ore sacks near Montezuma, but likely they can get your cases up the hill."

  Kristin tried to smile at Henry while holding her breath to block out his odor. Henry said nothing, simply hauled off her cases, trunks, valises, and parcels to load on two scruffy, ancient, unwashed, bug-ridden beasts of burden. They looked remarkably like their master and were so small that she expected them to sink under the weight.

  Kristin, Henry, and his overloaded burros plodded across the bridge behind the throng of men from the Washington Mine and continued to Main Street. Its many business establishments looked reassuringly substantial until she noticed that most of the second and third stories were just elaborately constructed facades with windows, gables, and fancy eaves, but not a thing behind them except air. She shook her head in amazement. Was this the frontier? An elaborate false front with no substance?

  The miners had stopped in front of the Miner's Home Saloon and were roaring with anger and frustration. Kristin's eyes opened wide, since it appeared that they intended to riot.

  "Here, miss,” said a portly gentleman with a curly gray beard, “let me escort you to the other side of the street."

  She glanced with dismay at the muddy expanse she had to traverse if she were to accept his arm, and she did want to because the milling crowd in front of the saloon was becoming noisier, their language shocking. Weren't there any paved streets in Colorado? Denver called itself the Queen City, yet she hadn't seen one paved street during her stay there, and this town was even muddier.

  "Hurry, miss. They're in no mood for gentlemanly behavior.” The man clamped a firm hand on her elbow and urged her into the mud. Holding her skirts up to the very tops of her boots, Kristin waved Henry on, then glanced worriedly at her boots as she slogged across. “What is wrong with them?” she asked the gentleman, looking back every few minutes to see that her belongings were not falling off the burros into the mud.

  "Colorado legislature passed a Sunday closing law, and the saloon keepers decided to honor it this one Sunday in hopes of getting folks mad enough to force a repeal."

  "But surely, if it's just one day a week—” Kristin protested.

  "'Tis their only day to drink, young lady. They work the other six. Poor fellows have come all the way from their mines to enjoy themselves, and now they find there's nothing to do but stand around on the street with their hands in their pockets."

  The miners didn't look to Kristin as if they planned to stand about with their hands in their pockets. They looked as if they might tear open the doors to the saloon and help themselves to the spirituous liquors. “I'm trying to find the house of the Macleod family,” she stammered, anxious to be away from the center of town. She drew out Maeve's instructions and stared at them helplessly.

  "Would that be Connor Macleod?” asked the man.

  "Oh, yes,” she said. “Do you know them?"

  "Everyone in Breckenridge knows everyone else."

  Kristin wasn't sure she liked the sound of that, not with her dubious reasons for being here.

  "Walk up Lincoln and turn left at French,” he ordered. “Look for the house with the five-sided tower. Now, there's a story. Mrs. Macleod's carpenter didn't know what octagonal meant, so he built her tower room with five sides instead of eight. Then he kidnapped her."

  Kristin's eyes grew wide.

  "Oh well, you needn't worry. He's in prison, and even if he weren't, he was taken with that curly black hair of hers. She had maids as blond as you, and he never gave them a second glance."

  "Oh.” Why was it that nobody out here liked blondes? She thanked the man for his help and turned toward Lincoln, again calling to the silent Henry, who had halted with his burros ten feet away from her.

  Trudging wearily up the incline, she came upon the house at last, having turned the corner at French Street. “Oh, thank goodness!” she exclaimed. It was not a log cabin. The place even had charm of a bizarre sort, and her artist's eye was immediately engaged. The house had been painted a deep blue-green and rambled about, disparate sections tied together by a long front porch, a turret thrusting up on one side with a balcony around it, and gingerbread everywhere. Smiling with delight and relief, she mounted the steps and knocked on the door. She had never seen any edifice so quaint.

  A stocky, handsome man with ginger-colored hair answered, and she exclaimed, “Your house is a whimsical work of art, sir."

  He looked surprised to hear it. “You aren't by any chance the new Chicago girl, are you?” he asked.

  Kristin nodded, happy to know that she was expected. Maybe life wouldn't be quite as grim as she had thought. After all, she had traveled through beautiful mountain ranges. All around her would be vistas which she could paint. Although no one in this frontier outpost would buy her paintings, she could send them by train to Denver, even to Chicago or Paris! Miss Kristin Traube, the female Bierstadt, they would say.

  "Kat!” shouted the man, breaking in on Kristin's newest fantasy.

  A beautif
ul woman with black hair and large green eyes appeared, a miniature version of herself in pinafore and white stockings clinging to her hand. The woman and her child were obviously dressed for calling. “Are you the new maid?” she demanded eagerly.

  "Yes, I am,” said Kristin. “I was just telling this gentleman what a delight your house is."

  The woman's face lit with a radiant smile. “How nice to find someone who agrees with me. I designed it myself—more or less. At least, I had it put together. It was originally two houses, one a log cabin."

  Kristin shivered. A log cabin after all?

  "Don't you love the scrollwork? And the stained glass?"

  "Oh yes,” Kristin agreed. “The scrollwork shows a wonderful sense of humor. So antic."

  "Humor?"

  "And the stained glass is ever so much prettier than my father's. You wouldn't think stained glass could be gloomy and depressing, would you? But my father managed to find some, while yours—well, it makes the spirit sing.” She couldn't see evidence of a log cabin.

  "I've always felt that way about it myself. I'm Kat Macleod,” said the lady, “and this is my husband, Connor."

  "And I'm Kristin Traube."

  "You've arrived not a moment too soon. I'm on my way to Robinson on business—Fitzgerald Sweet Cream Butter and Eggs. Molly, this is Kristin. She'll look after you."

  "What a pretty child,” said Kristin, her short, difficult acquaintance with Bridget coming to mind. “I'll look forward to painting her."