Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "Look,” said Jack. “You're all under a great misapprehension about what happened between Kristin and me."

  "We are men and women of the world, Mr. Cameron,” said Maeve. “Be here at nine. I don't want to hear that you've left town again."

  Jack decided that someone should warn Kristin of what the Macleods were planning. The girl deserved the opportunity to prepare a dignified refusal. He was glad that he wouldn't be the one refusing to cooperate with two such single-minded women. How had they managed to marry men as pleasant as Connor and James Macleod? Jack had met James, quite by accident, in a saloon in Denver and found him a very jolly fellow.

  "Tomorrow at nine then, Mrs. Macleod,” he said, rising to leave. Jack walked up the hill from French Street to the decaying mansion, surprised that the artist in Kristin had not moved her to have the place painted. And sausage making? Surely the daughter of Heinrich Traube did not want to follow him into sausages. And what about the neighbors? Connor had told him that when Fleming built the mansion, others, thinking Nickel Hill would become the showplace of Breckenridge, had built up here as well, only to see the house they had followed fall into ruin. How would they take to having pigs and sausage making in their midst? Not well, he thought.

  He knocked loudly at the door and got no answer. Surely, Kristin was not asleep so early. Jack circled the mansion looking for a light. Ah, there—Kristin was working in her studio. He tapped on the window, causing her to jump and drop her paint brush. Looking alarmed, she came over and peered out at him.

  "It is not time for your sitting,” she called.

  "I have news that you will want to hear,” he shouted back.

  Kristin glared at him. “Well, come in the back way."

  She's becoming as bad-tempered as Kat Macleod, Jack decided as he tramped around the house to a door that led into the kitchen. And she had once been such a sweet, well-mannered girl. Still, the transformation was partly his fault. No doubt hard times affected one's disposition and manners, as well as one's financial status.

  She had not come to admit him, so he let himself in, thinking that two women alone in such a large house should be more careful about locking doors, even if no one else in town did. He quickly located the studio where Kristin was working on his portrait, then stared at the work with dismay. She had never let him see it before. “Good lord,” he exclaimed, “do I look that decadent?"

  "Are you saying you do not find it a good likeness?” There was a little smile lighting her eyes and tilting her lips, one of the few he had seen there since the night they had laughed together in her father's library.

  "I suppose it's a good enough likeness,” he mumbled, and it was, except for something there that he did not see in himself. She was painting what she thought to be his flawed character. That's why she had insisted on the fancy clothes, the cane and the homberg, which covered up one of his best features, his hair. She thought him a bounder, had said so, and was now painting him thus. Jack shifted uncomfortably. He hoped that he didn't really look so shallow and self-centered. Did others see him that way? Perhaps he should shave off his mustache.

  "Well, what news is this you've brought?"

  "The Macleods will be coming here tomorrow between nine and ten to insist that we marry."

  Startled, Kristin put down her brush and turned to him, searching his face for a clue to his feelings. She was hurt to find that he looked amused. “What woman would marry a person of no morals or decency?” she snapped.

  Although her response was exactly what he expected, Jack felt aggrieved at her tone and retorted, “I simply wanted to warn you so that you'll be prepared and can answer accordingly.” He then noticed what she seemed to have forgotten. She was wearing a demure nightdress, all tucks and embroidery, under a loose silk robe. She looked unbelievably fetching. “I see I caught you in your preparations for bed."

  Kristin blushed. “Well, no one asked you to come here at this time of night and peer in my window. I ought to send for the sheriff."

  "It seems to me,” said Jack, “that you have threatened to do that before. Are you going to dispatch your drunken housemaid to fetch him?"

  "She is not drunken—or my housemaid!” said Kristin indignantly, reminding him that he had just spoken rudely to a lady, a very pretty one. Her pale blond hair was hanging in a long braid with curls escaping around her face and wisps curling from the braid itself. Her face was flushed with anger, and her demure nightdress seemed astoundingly alluring, since he assumed that there was nothing but Kristin underneath.

  "Just go,” she said with great dignity.

  "Certainly,” Jack responded, bowed sardonically, and headed for the door, where he was confronted by Ingrid, an amazing replica of Kristin, at least in coloring, although much larger and very drunk. Now that Jack thought of it, Kristin had behaved herself with commendable aplomb while under the influence of alcohol—a few giggles, the telling of family stories that were perhaps not discreet, but still she had been charmingly tipsy, whereas this woman—good lord!

  Jack tried to back away, but Ingrid reached out for his arm. “Hallelujah!” she cried. “A handsome visitor!” Giving him a provocative smile, she lurched in his direction, stumbled, and threw up on his waistcoat.

  Horrified, Jack tried to free himself from his attacker, who was clutching him for balance. “Ingrid, how could you?” cried Kristin. “You know you're not supposed to drink."

  "Nothin’ else to do,” said Ingrid morosely, a hand at her forehead, an eye on Jack's ruined waistcoat. “No husband, no children. Only got my pretty furniture an’ my piano—"

  "And the sausage business,” Kristin reminded her.

  "No pigs yet,” Ingrid replied. She released Jack and stumbled backwards.

  "Yes, but you were supposed to help with the recipes, and you didn't. Now you've taken to drink again, when you promised me just this afternoon—"

  "Well, I forgot,” said Ingrid. “An’ I don't feel too good."

  "Don't you dare throw up again,” said Kristin. “You must go to bed immediately."

  "Can't get upstairs,” said Ingrid. “Could sleep on my velvet settee, but I—"

  "I'll help you take her upstairs,” said Jack, who had been wiping off his soiled waistcoat with an initialed linen handkerchief.

  The two of them assisted a tottering Ingrid up the curved staircase. Kristin put her quickly to bed, giving the same admonitions that Lottie had given to Kristin in her time of alcoholic distress. She was disconcerted when she came down to find Jack still there.

  "I stayed in case you needed additional assistance,” said Jack stiffly.

  "You're the one who needs assistance,” replied Kristin, tempted to giggle. He looked as if he couldn't believe what had happened. “Come into the kitchen, and I'll try to clean up your waistcoat."

  He followed her and let her scrub industriously at the garment. It was pleasant to stand so close, thought Jack, distracted from his embarrassing condition. To inhale the fragrance of her hair, feel the brush of the silky wrapper against his hand...

  "Maybe you should take it off,” said Kristin. “It smells, and I don't seem to have done much good.” She helped him to remove his coat and then the offensive waistcoat.

  Jack so savored the touch of her hands that he thought better of exposing himself to temptation any longer. He bade her a hasty good night and retrieved his clothing before she could do any more damage.

  As he walked down the hill toward the Denver Hotel and a drink before bedtime, he thought it wouldn't have been so bad to marry Kristin, although he knew that tomorrow she would refuse the Macleods’ plans. Had he told her of all the gossip that maid had spread? Perhaps he should have. What if, when he had established himself here, the family insisted that he marry Minna? What if the Traubes sent her out here? Good lord, life with Minna, which he had once viewed with complacency because of her dowry, now seemed impossible, whereas life with Kristin, if he could keep her from turning into a shrew like the two Macleod women, would
be very pleasant. She had been a biddable girl when he first met her, and she was pretty—beautiful, in fact—and would make him a lovely hostess and give him handsome children.

  But none of that was going to happen. Kristin would make an embarrassing scene tomorrow morning when he and the Macleods arrived at her doorstep, and that would be the end of it.

  If he ‘d asked me, if he ‘d given me the least hint that he really wanted to marry me, she thought despondently, I'd have said yes. Instead he'd treated it lightly. A joke. Just because Kristin Traube's reputation was in ruins, the foolish Macleods thought he should marry her. What nonsense! That was Jack Cameron's attitude. He wasn't even honest enough to refuse on his own behalf. He was leaving that to her, endangering her one hope of supporting herself. Kat might very well pull out of the sausage venture if Kristin refused.

  And the hope of becoming an artist? What had that come to? One commission. From Jack Cameron. A sop to make up for the grave injuries he'd done her, the complete dislocation of her life. He wouldn't even acknowledge that she couldn't go home, that her parents, if forced to take her back, would make her life miserable. How could he be so indifferent to her plight? So amused. So heartless. She was glad that Ingrid had thrown up on him.

  If one had to live with a drunkard, her drunkard had certainly committed that terrible faux pas in the most appropriate place. Right on his fine brocade waistcoat. Who did he think he was? Some traveling gambler? Well, maybe he did. He was gaining a reputation for creative investment in Breckenridge and he had had it in Chicago, although there his father had restrained Jack's penchant for risk. No doubt, he would be in terrible trouble with Pitman Cameron when he got home. She nodded with gloomy satisfaction and stored her cleaned brushes in a jar.

  And she was glad that he hated his portrait. It had accomplished exactly what she planned. He had looked into his own black soul, aghast at what he saw. Maybe he would reform, she thought, although she doubted it. She placed her palette neatly on the table where she kept her supplies, climbed the broad staircase, and looked in on Ingrid, who was sleeping heavily. Tomorrow Kristin would pay closer attention to her, so that she could not get away from the house and obtain alcohol. Ingrid seemed to have found Mr. Cameron attractive. Perhaps she would be embarrassed to remember what she had done and change her ways.

  These thoughts carried Kristin into bed, where she closed her eyes, eaten up with worry as she thought of the argument she faced the next morning with the Macleods. Pride told her to refuse their intervention, even if her refusal meant that they washed their hands of her. She couldn't agree to a marriage that Jack considered a joke.

  Or could she? Why not? she asked herself bitterly. Let him say no and incur their wrath. They couldn't blame her if he did the refusing. Wouldn't he be surprised if she agreed! The arrogant bounder! Oh, why couldn't he have liked her? Why couldn't he have been a good person instead of a charming one?

  From the corner of her eye, Kristin could see the wedding guests walking up the hill. She wanted to run; instead she ignored them just as she did Ingrid, who was sitting on the front steps of the Fleming mansion, neatly dressed, haggard, and verbosely apologetic. Kristin was trying to discuss colors with the house painter, but Ingrid kept interrupting to say how sorry she was that she had thrown up on the waistcoat of Kristin's guest, that had she not been drunk, she would never have dreamed of doing such a thing to the gentleman caller of her only friend in the world.

  To each apology Kristin nodded and found a new way to say that Ingrid must give up alcohol. The side conversations seemed to upset the painter almost as much as Kristin's insistence that not only would she choose her own paint; she would mix it so as to get exactly the right colors.

  Mr. Arbol-Smith, who had the widest selection of paint in town and not too many customers, what with the falling price of silver, said, “If I'd a known what you wanted all this here paint for, I wouldn't a brought it. I never heard of mixing paint. It'll git us a streaky house."

  "Now that would be interesting,” said Kristin. “However, I think I would like two solid colors of my own choosing."

  "Two!” exclaimed Mr. Arbol-Smith. “Well, I guess if we run outa one—"

  "No, not if we run out of one,” said Kristin, and she poured half of one can and half of another into her own bucket, much to Mr. Arbol-Smith's dismay. “One color will be used for the trim, the doors, and the shutters. The other—"

  "Don't know why you'd want to paint this old wreck anyway,” said Mr. Arbol-Smith, considerably upset by Kristin's revolutionary ideas on house painting.

  "What are you doing, Kristin?” demanded Kat, who had arrived at the steps ahead of the others. “I didn't authorize any house painting. Good morning, Mr. Arbol-Smith."

  "Our agreement mentioned reasonable repairs,” said Kristin. “I'd certainly consider this the first of them.” She was vigorously stirring the two paints together. “Just as I thought. Clotted cream.” She had mixed yellow and white to get a bold cream color.

  "I ain't doin’ no paintin’ less I git paid,” said Mr. Arbol-Smith. “Didn't you say Miz Macleod here was payin'?"

  "The question is, do we want this for the house or the trim?” Kristin mused, pointedly ignoring Jack's approach.

  "You go paintin’ trim, it gits sloppy,” said Mr. Arbol-Smith.

  "Not if you want to be paid, it doesn't,” said Kristin and began to rummage among the other paint cans, looking for colors that would provide her with a nice slate blue.

  "Well, Miz Macleod ain't said yit that she's payin'."

  "I suppose I must,” said Kat.

  "I don't see what paint has to do with sausage making,” grumbled Connor, arriving with the rest.

  "Actually, Mr. Cameron should pay for the painting,” said Kat.

  "That would depend upon the outcome of your mission, Mrs. Macleod,” said Jack.

  "I want something that will look good with snow,” said Kristin hurriedly, “but not clash with the greenery of the mountain side. A color to match an oncoming storm."

  Everyone in the group turned and stared except Jack. He looked as if he might laugh, which infuriated her.

  "Here. Let's try these.” She slopped two more shades together and began to stir.

  "Enough of this foolishness,” said Maeve. “We are here on important moral business."

  "Mrs. Macleod,” said Kristin, still ignoring Jack's presence, “I think that you have said everything to me on the subject of morals that can be said. Now, just a touch of that black, Mr. Arbol-Smith."

  "Black? You're gonna put black in there?"

  "For lack of gray,” said Kristin, “Black and a bit of white."

  "Mr. Cameron has agreed that the two of you should be married,” said Maeve, “lest scandal ruin your lives."

  The hypocrite! thought Kristin. “I find it hard to believe that Mr. Cameron worries about scandal.” Kristin poured a bit of black into her mixture and whirled it around until the streaks disappeared. “Now white,” she said to Mr. Arbol-Smith.

  "Well, we will not discuss fault here, since there is fault on both sides,” said Maeve.

  "I deny that,” protested Kristin. “A convent-bred, eighteen-year-old girl has no idea what effect brandy will have on her when she has never drunk it before. Therefore, I am not to blame. Mr. Cameron is."

  Absolutely fascinated with the conversation, the painter passed her the white paint, muttering, “I won't never be able to duplicate these here strange colors."

  "Of course not,” said Kristin, “but I have a true eye and shall mix subsequent lots myself. So Mr. Cameron has agreed to marry me?” She eyed Jack balefully. “Very well, we must do it.” Let him explain his refusal!

  Jack looked surprised, but not as surprised as Kristin had anticipated.

  "Good. Father Boniface Wirtner is expecting us at the church,” said Maeve.

  Ingrid rose and glared at Jack. “You dishonored my friend?” she asked. “I'm glad I threw up on you.” Then she turned to Kristin. “I'll
be your witness,” she offered, “to be sure that it's done right. We'll have to ask the priest about divorce."

  "We weren't married by a priest, Ingrid,” said Sean.

  "Yes, but you didn't warn me we should be,” Ingrid retorted, rubbing her forehead, which undoubtedly ached.

  Kristin was cleaning paint from her hands as if she expected Jack to go through with the wedding. “I believe you have enough to get started with, Mr. Arbol-Smith,” she murmured. “I shall need a hat for the ceremony.” She marched up the steps to the Fleming mansion, Ingrid standing guard at the door as if the Fitzpatrick-Macleod crowd might storm the house and do her friend some injury. Kristin returned wearing a wide-brimmed leghorn hat decorated with pink roses and green ribbons. “I'm ready,” she said and looked at Jack challengingly. She had not changed her dress.

  He smiled at her and offered his arm. Disconcerted, Kristin took Ingrid's instead. Did he really mean to go through with it? If so, he'd hate her for the rest of their lives. He'd insist that they go back to Chicago, where she'd be treated with disdain by her husband, her family, and everyone in society. But what if she refused to leave Breckenridge? Could a wife refuse? Of course, she could! What was he going to do about it? Drag her home? That would be humiliating for him, surely. He'd have to leave her here, perhaps conceal the marriage. Maybe he'd help support her to keep her quiet. What a fine revenge! Minna with no rich husband! Mr. Cameron without the fine dowry, and with no wife to look after him! She felt like crying. It took Maeve's sharp tones to stiffen her backbone.

  "She's not coming to the ceremony,” said Maeve, pointing at Ingrid.

  "Of course she is,” said Kristin. “You and Kat placed her in my care, and I try to keep her always under my eye."

  Ingrid said, “I've learned my lesson about drinking."

  Kat nodded with satisfaction as if to say there was nothing she would like to see better than a reformed Ingrid. Then the whole party started down the hill toward St. Mary's, leaving Mr. Arbol-Smith behind them, a dripping paintbrush laden with winter-storm blue in his hand. “Who's gonna pay me?” he yelled.