Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "Painting her!” Mr. Macleod exclaimed.

  "Her portrait."

  Both parents looked astounded.

  "I'm an artist."

  "How nice,” murmured Mrs. Macleod. “Well, you'd best get into your working clothes and make a start on the house. I'm afraid things are a mess. First, you need to bake some bread. Molly will be as good as gold watching you. Then you can get on with the cleaning."

  "I don't know how to bake bread,” said Kristin.

  "You don't?” Kat Macleod frowned. “You do know how to clean houses, don't you?"

  "Well, I was learning as fast as I could when I left your mother's. Would you prefer your daughter's portrait in oils or pastels? I did a lovely pastel of—well, I guess little Bridget would be your sister. Mrs. Maeve Macleod was delighted with it."

  "Was she?” The enthusiasm on Kat Macleod's face was leaching away, and Kristin felt a twinge of anxiety. She hoped they wouldn't fire her before she'd even got started.

  "Do you know any stories?” asked Molly.

  "Yes, I do,” said Kristin. “If you'll show me where I am to sleep, I'll start telling you one right away."

  "Oh, goody,” cried the child and transferred her hand from her mother's to Kristin's.

  "Connor, why is that man standing out in the yard with two overloaded burros?” asked Kat Macleod. “I think it's shocking the way animals are treated by the mining population, and I should certainly launch a crusade to do something about it if I weren't so busy with Sunday closing and women's suffrage, not to mention my business affairs. At least you could reprimand your employees for—"

  "He's no employee of mine,” said Connor Macleod, “and while we're on the subject of your crusades, you are not to recruit this young woman. She's here to do the housework."

  "Oh, you needn't worry, Mr. Macleod,” said Kristin. “My particular area of social concern is the rescue of women in railroad stations, and I do not think your station large enough to provide much opportunity for that."

  "Now, don't fret, Connor.” Kat Macleod went on tiptoe and kissed her husband so heartily that Kristin was embarrassed and experienced little shocks of memory and excitement. Mr. Cameron had kissed her that way.

  "Actually, that's my baggage on the burros,” Kristin explained when the Macleods finally let go of one another.

  "Your baggage!” cried Kat. “I've never had a maid who came with more than two valises. How many are there?"

  "Fourteen,” admitted Kristin.

  "Good lord,” said Connor, “what will we do with them?"

  "Heaven knows,” muttered Kat, “but I really must be on my way. Stow what she doesn't need in one of—"

  "I need it all,” said Kristin.

  "Well, if you can get it into your room, that's your business.” Mrs. Macleod bustled down toward the street, one valise in her hand.

  She certainly travels light, thought Kristin, for a woman who is evidently going to another town. Mr. Macleod was eyeing the mountain accumulating on his porch as Henry unloaded the burros.

  "I wonder if you could pay him and take it out of my wages,” said Kristin. “I have literally no money left."

  "In that case,” said Connor Macleod, “you might consider selling some of the things in your fourteen pieces of luggage."

  Kristin looked shocked. “I couldn't do that."

  "Then good luck getting them into your room."

  "You expect me to haul all this stuff in?” asked Henry. “If your wife's gonna start one a them campaigns a hers agin my animals, Connor, I'm gonna—"

  "She's not, and I'm not going to play porter to my own maid,” said Connor Macleod. “I've business of my own. Talk to Augustina.” He pointed to the left side of the house. “Augustina!” he shouted. Then he turned back and instructed Kristin to wash and iron all his shirts by nightfall because he'd been wearing the same shirt for three days. Kristin didn't get a chance to tell Mr. Macleod that she had yet to master the art of ironing, even though Mrs. Maeve Macleod had stood at her shoulder for several hours giving ill-natured directions and making Kristin very nervous.

  A tall, red-headed woman appeared in the doorway on the left. “Wasn't that Connor? Where is he?"

  "He has business elsewhere,” said Kristin and introduced herself.

  Augustina was staring at her in astonishment. “Good heavens,” she said. “You look—” She paused, her expression puzzled. “—familiar."

  "Do I? Maybe you know someone with blond hair. I don't know why, but people seem to take blond hair amiss. Mrs. Macleod in Denver certainly did. I need to know where my room is so that this man can put my luggage there."

  Augustina stared at the pile. “There may not be room for you and all those things in that bedroom,” said Augustina. “In fact, you'll never be able to make your way to the bed."

  "But I hardly know of anything I can dispense with.” Kristin bit her lip.

  "It's not,” said Augustina, “as if you're going to be needing a huge wardrobe. Just a few wash dresses and one Sunday outfit for when your suitors come to call."

  "I don't plan to have any suitors,” said Kristin, “and I guess I'd better tell you right off, I don't know how to make bread, and I'm a terrible ironer. Do you live here?"

  "I'm Augustina Fitzpatrick, the wife of Mrs. Macleod's brother Sean, and we live on the left side of the house, although my husband actually owns the right side, except for the tower room, which his sister had built when she thought he was going to die and wouldn't be back from Denver."

  Kristin tried to digest this information while Mrs. Augustina Fitzpatrick began to look put out. “You say you can't bake? Where did Maeve find you?"

  "Well, Genevieve found me. Maybe you don't know Genevieve, but—"

  "Of course, I do. She sent me out here, but everyone she sends has practical skills."

  Kristin felt terrible to hear that she was the least acceptable of Genevieve's protegées.

  "You'll have to learn baking this afternoon,” said Augustina Fitzpatrick and led Kristin and the burro man across the house to Kristin's very small room.

  "Your room's next to mine,” said Molly, “and now I'll have my story."

  "Mrs. Fitzpatrick is going to teach me to bake,” said Kristin, “so I'm afraid—"

  "You promised,” wailed the little girl.

  "Then I guess I'll have to tell the story as I'm learning,” she said and began to take her parcels and bags from the burro man. They did indeed fill up every inch of space, mounting up around the bed, the chiffonier, and the one chair. Kristin sighed, thinking of her chamber at home with the blue brocade drapes. Even the guest room at Genevieve's had been better than this, although her room at Mrs. Maeve Macleod's had been small and pedestrian.

  And where will I put my easel? Kristin wondered. She also noted that the light was bad. She'd have to paint in the back yard or on the front porch. Would they give her time during the daylight hours to do so? Already she'd been asked to bake bread and to wash and iron shirts, although the afternoon was half gone.

  "Story, story,” wheedled Molly, clambering over the trunk that held Kristin's ball gown.

  "Once upon a time,” began Kristin sadly, “there was a little princess who thought that she'd grow up and marry a handsome prince and live happily ever after.” Oh dear, she thought, this was an unfortunate beginning—too like her own story. One didn't say, “Then the princess drank too much brandy in her father's library, and the handsome prince was really a scoundrel in disguise.” She'd have to improvise rather wildly as she went along.

  "The bread,” Augustina reminded her.

  "She was an elk princess,” said Kristin, remembering Mrs. Drusilla Weems's elk picture. Kristin lifted Molly over the luggage, then climbed over herself. “And the prince had huge horns that weighed his poor head down so the princess could hardly see his handsome elk face."

  "Whee-e-e!” cried Molly.

  "Elk princess?” muttered Augustina.

  Chapter Four

  Jack
Cameron didn't know what else he could do. After the Traube dinner party, from which Kristin was missing, he'd bullied Minna into admitting that Mr. Traube had told his younger daughter she had to leave. Not that Papa really meant it, Minna hastened to add. He had been prepared to relent in the morning, only stupid Kristin had run away that night. Jack had been furious, appalled. He told Minna that, as nothing of importance had happened in the library, they were impugning his honor and that if they didn't retrieve Kristin and treat her decently, the engagement was off. Much good it had done. They claimed they couldn't find her.

  He couldn't find her himself. Assuming that she had gone to the house of her fellow reformer, he had canvassed every parish priest in Chicago looking for the address of Genevieve Boyer, berating himself for having touched the girl, for having found her so attractive, for having all those blasted erotic dreams about her ever since. A gentleman sought his sexual pleasures among women most likely to see sex for what it was, an enjoyable and profitable diversion. He kept his procreative efforts for the marriage bed, and he eschewed everything in between except polite flirtation. Jack had forgotten the code and was paying for it.

  Now everything was at sixes and sevens, the Traubes running all over town trying to find their daughter and their curmudgeonly Aunt Frieda treating Jack like the villain in a melodrama, insisting that he should be horsewhipped for besmirching the reputation of her innocent niece. Frieda believed that women should have control of their own property and the right to vote. She'd even told Heinrich Traube that he was a bully and a tyrant, and that men of his sort should be gelded before they could beget children. That had been amusing, Jack recalled with a chuckle, but on the whole the situation was no laughing matter, especially since Heinrich Traube had demanded an audience with Pitman Cameron and Jack now had to tell his father the whole unfortunate story. God knows how his father would take it.

  And the confession would take place before Jack could get Kristin back into the bosom of her family. He finally had a lead. At the corner of Forty-Fifth and Lowe in Canaryville, a poor section of Chicago, Jack, trying not to breathe the fetid stockyard air too deeply, had questioned Father Maurice Dorney of St. Gabriel's. The priest said, yes, of course, he knew Genevieve Boyer, a bit of a saint, that woman. He gave Jack the address. If only Jack could have followed up and retrieved Kristin before he had to tell his father what had happened.

  But his father surprised him. Traube arrived and, instead of complaining about Jack's treatment of Kristin, the sausage maker insisted that Jack meet his obligations to Minna by escorting her to a cotillion.

  "Well, sir,” said Pitman Cameron, “it appears to me that, since you have not brought your younger daughter home, you intend her absence as a rebuke to my son. He feels that his honor is at stake here, and so do I."

  Mr. Traube looked astounded. Obviously he had not believed that Jack would tell his father the story.

  "'Twas your son who was caught kissing my daughter,” stammered Traube. “No one has said why he'd do such a thing. What was I to think?"

  "I kissed her on the cheek,” said Jack, stretching the truth a bit. He had kissed Kristin on the cheek, and that cheek had been as soft as down, although not as soft as her lips. He had a sudden sharp memory of how her mouth had tasted beneath his, so sweet, so tempting that he felt himself stir with excitement and had to tamp down those emotions lest he embarrass himself. “I hardly think a kiss on the cheek of one's future sister-in-law constitutes just cause for throwing the poor girl out on the street. Yet if you know where she is, why isn't she home?” demanded Jack.

  "True,” agreed Mr. Cameron, “which leads us to believe that we are being manipulated in this matter. If you think to renege on the dowry agreement—"

  "I've said nothing about the dowry,” blustered Traube.

  "Then if this is not a financial ploy, you must have had some previous quarrel with your younger daughter and are seeking to blame your actions on my son. An innocent kiss—"

  "There was much more to it than that,” said Mr. Traube.

  "Are you saying that Jack debauched your daughter?"

  Mr. Traube turned the color of wet putty.

  "If so, sir,” said Pitman Cameron, “I must ask myself why you are not demanding that Jack make an honest woman of her, rather than asking that he take the elder girl to a cotillion. It seems to me that you are not only defaming my son and my family but that your values are strangely awry. If I thought someone had dishonored my daughter—"

  "I didn't say he had,” muttered Heinrich.

  "Then why have you not brought your daughter back into the bosom of her family? Why did you send her away?"

  "She ran away,” Mr. Traube muttered. “And perhaps I did act hastily with her, but—"

  "I wouldn't have taken you for a hasty man where money is involved, Mr. Traube, not to mention reputations. Surely you are aware that we would not think of allying ourselves to a family touched by scandal. You must tell me honestly, sir, what scandal is attached to your younger daughter."

  "None,” sputtered Heinrich. “We were angry when she ran away and shocked to think she might be trying to spite her sister by pursuing your son."

  "Well, that's hardly Jack's fault, is it? I shall have to think on this, sir, but in the meantime I do not see that it would be at all proper for my son to escort Miss Minna Traube to the cotillion. We must consider the engagement in abeyance until you show your good faith by bringing your younger daughter back into your home.” Mr. Cameron stood up, signifying that the interview was at an end.

  Once Mr. Traube had left the office, Pitman Cameron turned to Jack. “I think that until this contretemps has been resolved, it would be better if you were out of town."

  Jack started to protest but was overridden. Pitman Cameron said, “I've been thinking about that gold mine in Colorado, which has shown little profit for our money. Someone should go out there and investigate."

  Jack's heart leapt. He would have loved to go to Colorado, but if he left before Kristin was found and reunited with her family, he'd be shirking his duty as a gentleman. He'd got her into this fix; he had to get her out.

  "You'll leave tomorrow,” said Pitman Cameron.

  "But—"

  "This is not something that I intend to discuss, Jack. We have the Cameron reputation to protect—not to mention the money. Why I ever let you talk me into a gold mine..."

  Jack Cameron was thinking of his trip to Colorado as the hack took him to Mrs. Boyer's house in the Stockyard District. He'd had good advice on that gold mine and was determined to turn it into a moneymaker. Then he felt a stab of regret. Once he rescued Kristin, he wouldn't see her again for weeks, maybe months. By the time he returned from Colorado, she might be married. He found that he didn't like the idea at all, nor that by the time he got back, he'd be expected to marry Minna.

  If he had to marry, why not Kristin? Maybe he should suggest that, since the Traubes were trying to make out that he'd dishonored her. Of course, they probably hoped to make a fine marriage for Kristin without providing a dowry as big as Minna's. Pitman Cameron would never agree to any diminution of the dowry. He'd say, “It's the money that counts. Pretty faces don't last.” Jack's own mother hadn't been a beauty; she had been rich and well connected.

  With the ways of the world firmly in mind, he alighted from the hack and mounted the steps to knock on Genevieve Boyer's door, hoping this last stop would be the one that discovered Kristin and freed him of his moral obligation. It had to. Tomorrow he left for Colorado.

  "Mrs. Genevieve Boyer?” he asked when a dark-haired, graying woman opened the door.

  "That's right."

  "I'm Jack Cameron."

  To his astonishment, she tried to slam the door in his face. “If you'll just give me a minute, ma'am,” he cried, stepping forward quickly.

  "I ought to give you a horsewhipping."

  Jack blinked. Surely Kristin had told her that there had been nothing but a kiss between them. Well, actually he had
touched the girl's breast, but Kristin probably didn't remember that, not after all the brandy. What was wrong with these people? Making such a fuss over a kiss. “I wonder if I might speak to Kristin?” he asked. Genevieve didn't budge. “Then maybe you'd give me a minute of your time.” Nothing from her but a scowl. “Truly, Mrs. Boyer, I mean no harm to you or Kristin. In fact, I hope to reunite Kristin with her family,"

  "Her father won't have her back."

  "Ah, but he will. I've refused to marry Minna unless he does.” Happily, he thought, the wedding was a year away, and he'd be in Colorado for as long as he could manage. Minna wouldn't like having a fiance who wasn't available to escort her around town. Maybe she'd jilt him.

  "I knew I shouldn't have let her go off so fast,” muttered Genevieve and relented, waving him into the parlor.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean she's gone."

  "Gone where?” He hoped it wasn't too far. Today was his last chance to—

  "Gone to Colorado, where they take in Chicago girls and find them husbands. She couldn't get work here, so I gave in and sent her."

  Jack felt dazed. Was this good news? Or bad? “Where in Colorado?"

  "Denver first, then the frontier I should imagine. Colorado is a wild place, but full of men who want wives."

  Jack wondered if Breckenridge, his destination, was a wild place. And how big was the frontier? He might not have the time or know-how to find Kristin.

  "Your gentleman's games have turned her life completely out of its path. She may even be married by now."

  Appalled, Jack tried to imagine fragile Kristin married to some hulking miner or tobacco-chewing cowboy. He'd never get her off his conscience if he didn't save her from that fate. “Do you know where exactly she might be going?"

  "Why do you ask?” Genevieve looked suspicious again.

  "Because it's my duty as a gentleman to find her."

  "I sent her to Mrs. Maeve Macleod in Denver,” Genevieve answered reluctantly.

  "And after that?"

  "It's up to Mrs. Macleod."

  Jack frowned. No matter what the priest had said, this woman was acting too cagey about Kristin's whereabouts to be an honest protector of young girls. Father Dorney had said nothing about Colorado. “If I find that she's not with this Mrs. Macleod or that she's come to harm—"