Kristin plumped her pillows with a vigorous hand. She had been thoroughly bamboozled and now found herself married to a cad who expected to share her bed. Even Papa hadn't shared Mama's bed; Mama had her own room. Well, Mr. Cameron would have to stay in his own room. She didn't owe him any favors. Even if he hadn't taken her virginity—whatever that entailed—she had suffered almost as many consequences, and he probably would have dishonored her if her father hadn't returned when he did.
Kristin cheered herself up by picturing dapper Jack Cameron surrounded by pigs and sausage makers. That ought to drive him away. Soon. Before he realized that she still went weak in the knees every time she saw him. Before he realized how pathetic she was—still infatuated after all the awful things that had happened, while he felt nothing but duty toward her. Even if he didn't buy furniture for the house and pay Mr. Arbol-Smith or even contribute to her support, she had to get rid of him before she made a fool of herself.
For all her proud intentions, Kristin dropped into sleep and dreamed about a real marriage to Jack. The dreams were vague since she didn't know what went on in real marriages, but they were exciting. She woke up twice in the night, feeling strange sensations in unusual parts of her body.
Book III
The Disappearing Wife
Chapter Eleven
Kristin awoke because someone was pounding on her door. She stumbled out of bed and opened to Ingrid, asking, “What's wrong? Are you sick?"
"Of course not,” said Ingrid. “I told you I was through with drinkin'. There's six girls at the front door, sayin’ they've come to live here."
"Genevieve was more prompt than I expected.” Kristin pushed a tumble of flaxen hair out of her eyes and tied the sash of her dressing gown.
"An’ they say there's a herd of pigs down at the railroad station."
"The ladies’ stop,” wondered Kristin, “or the one in West Breckenridge?"
"I didn't think to ask,” said Ingrid. “Don't reckon they'd put pigs off at the ladies’ stop."
It was happening too fast. Married one day, a full-fledged entrepreneur the next. “First, we'll get Jack up. He can take care of the pigs.” That ought to unnerve him.
Ingrid leaned against the door frame and stared down at Kristin. “You're not gonna keep him long,” she warned, “not with me throwin’ up on his waistcoat an’ you sleepin’ in a separate room an’ handin’ a bunch of pigs over to him."
"That's the idea,” said Kristin. She marched down the hall and pounded on Jack's door, which opened immediately.
"Ah, my bride!” he said.
Because he was shiftless, Kristin grabbed the door and slammed it in his face.
"That's a fine body for a gentleman,” said Ingrid. “Are you sure he's a banker?"
"Ingrid!” cried Kristin, scandalized. “Have you no modesty?"
Ingrid shrugged. “If you decide you don't want him, I'll take him. It's been years since I had a man."
Kristin's mouth dropped open as she watched her charge saunter down the hall with a sultry sway to her hips that Kristin had never noticed before. She knocked again at Jack's door and called out, “Don't open it. You have to get dressed and go after the pigs."
"What pigs?” Jack called back.
"At the railroad station. Kat had them sent."
"I might have known,” said Jack, reopening the door. Now he was wearing an unbuttoned shirt. “Oh, for heaven sake,” he said, catching sight of her expression. “Get used to me. I'm not that bad-looking. In fact, I heard your alcoholic friend pay me a compliment."
"Never mind what she said,” retorted Kristin. “She has a drinking problem."
"She doesn't sound drunk this morning."
"Well, I'm sure alcohol befuddles one whether or not one's been drinking it just lately."
"You aren't befuddled,” said Jack. “In fact, you're more forthcoming than you were before you took to drink."
"Oh!” Kristin gasped. “I ought to—"
"What? Kiss me?"
"Kick you,” said Kristin. “Now, will you please put on more clothes and get my pigs?"
"And what am I supposed to do with them? I don't know anything about pigs. You're the daughter of sausage makers. You ought to—"
"I don't know anything about live ones,” said Kristin, “so you must find somebody to bring them up here and do something sensible with them. We can't have them running all over the neighborhood."
"No,” Jack agreed dryly. “The neighbors might complain. You don't by any chance know of any Breckenridge pig herders, do you?"
"Ask Mr. Chris Kaiser. He sells pork."
"Don't I get breakfast?"
"Who did you think was going to make it for you?” asked Kristin. “I'm known as a worse cook than Kat Macleod, and Ingrid's not much better."
Jack sighed. “Is every husband treated so badly the morning after his wedding night?” he asked rhetorically and closed the door again.
Kristin whirled and skimmed down the wide, curved stairway to confront her new employees. “I'm Kristin Traube—ah, Traube-Cameron,” she said, trying to hide how flustered she was as a result of the conversation with her husband. “Please, introduce yourselves.” The girls were clustered in the hall looking overwhelmed by their magnificent if tattered surroundings.
"Is this a sporting house?” asked one named Bea, pointing toward the drawing room with its red velvet furniture and Ingrid in a bold blue gown.
"No, this is a sausage factory,” said Kristin. “I presume all of you know how to make sausages."
"We certainly do,” said Fanny, “but I never seen a sausage factory like this one. I worked at Traube's—you related to old Heinie? Oh lord, we're in for it,” she said to her companions when Kristin nodded.
"Not at all,” said Kristin. “I can't stand him either. The pigs arrived this morning, I believe."
"We know that,” said a third girl, whose name Kristin couldn't remember. “Makin’ a terrible fuss, they were."
"Probably never been on a train before,” said Pen Moriarty, giggling.
"I'm the maid,” said Winifred, a tiny girl with plain brown hair.
"What is your experience?” asked Kristin.
"Don't you remember me?” asked Winifred. “I did your ironing at Genevieve's."
"Oh, goodness yes,” said Kristin. “Well, at least we know you have one talent. As you see, the house is not in the best condition, so you can start right now by doing maid things. In fact, why don't all of you help her."
"Where are we supposed to put our valises?"
"Just go upstairs and find a room. I have to buy beds for you. Is there any message from Genevieve?"
"She wishes you luck and says she's sorry about telling Mrs. Maeve Macleod the story, whatever that means, and if you're successful in finding husbands for us, Chicago is full of girls who'd love to come out here."
"Good,” said Kristin. “In that case, I'd better run an ad in the newspaper. Now, Winifred, if you'll direct these young women in housecleaning. There are supplies in the kitchen.” Kristin waved her hand toward the back.
Ingrid had been sitting in a red velvet chair, watching all this and trying not to laugh. Jack came down the stairs and stopped abruptly on the landing to stare at the six girls clustered around Kristin. “Who are they?” he asked.
"They'll clean house until we've had the pigs slaughtered. Please, ask Mr. Kaiser if he would do it for us. Then you can drop one or more of the pigs at his butcher shop if he agrees."
Jack scowled at her.
"Who's he?” asked Winifred.
"A man to beware if you value your virtue."
"What a charming wife you are,” said Jack.
"Is he the one what dishonored you?” asked a girl named Frankie, who had explained during the introduction process that she was named for St. Francis.
"Well, as it turned out—"
"I most certainly did not,” said Jack. “It was a misunderstanding."
"Didn't know there could be mi
sunderstandings about things like that."
"It depends on how drunk the young lady is,” said Jack, sending Kristin a retaliative grin.
The young women gasped.
"Well, you needn't worry,” said Kristin. “I only took to drink once, and that was at Mr. Cameron's insistence. I certainly never intend to do it again. Now, let me introduce you to Ingrid Fitzpatrick. Ingrid, won't you come out here and meet our employees? Ingrid will be the sausage superintendent. She doesn't drink anymore either."
"I wouldn't count on that,” muttered Jack.
"Just you be sure you treat Miss Kristin right,” said Ingrid. “I know how to take care of gentlemen who don't treat women right."
"I'll just bet you do,” said Jack. “Well, good day, ladies.” He donned his hat and started for the front door.
"Where's your mustache?” Kristin called after him.
"Ah, you finally noticed. Is its removal going to give you difficulty with the portrait?"
"Not at all,” said Kristin. “I remember how silly it looked."
"Many thanks, dear wife,” said Jack. “You can consider my having shaved it a sign of my new status as a husband.” He marched out the door and down the steps. “What are you going to give up for me?” he called over his shoulder.
"My reputation's already gone. What more does he want?” Kristin muttered. And surely, he didn't still mean to stay? She had thought the pigs would change his mind. Then she decided that Jack was just pretending that he intended to stay in order to upset her. But that wouldn't last long, not when he had to live in a sausage factory and take responsibility for incoming herds of pigs. “Well, girls, to work."
The young women took off their bonnets and headed toward the kitchen. At three in the afternoon, a herd of squealing, oinking, grunting pigs and two pig carcasses were brought up Lincoln Avenue onto Nickel Hill by a fellow who looked as if he'd been living with them for years.
"Who are you?” asked Kristin as they milled around in her front yard.
"Oakum,” said the fellow. “Your husband done hired me to look after the pigs. Where you want ‘em?"
"In the back yard, I guess. Will they stay in one place?"
"Not likely,” said Oakum. “You got any outbuildings?"
"A few. They're not in very good condition."
"Well, I guess I could drive ‘em into one for the night. Your husband hired a carpenter to build a pen."
Kristin glanced nervously from one side of the house to the other. She could see women and children on neighboring front porches, staring in horror at Oakum and the pigs.
"Where you want me to put these carcasses?” They were piled in a wheelbarrow.
"Frankie,” she called desperately. “What do we do with these dead pigs?"
Frankie came running out of the dining room, where she had been scrubbing. “We can't rightly start sausage-making this late in the day, ma'am. Just hang ‘em from a tree in back, fella. They'll keep overnight, cold as it gets here in the mountains. What's your name?"
"I'm Oakum."
"Oakum what?"
"Just Oakum."
"All right. On the back porch. We'll start sausage-making tomorrow morning. You got good equipment,” she told Kristin.
"Goodness knows how Kat Macleod found out what one would need. Ingrid!” Ingrid appeared, still sober. “Could you choose an outbuilding in which to put these pigs? This is Oakum. Oakum, this is Mrs. Ingrid Fitzpatrick, who is the sausage superintendent."
"Ma'am,” said Oakum. “You sure are a looker.” His eyes were fixed on Ingrid's bosom.
"Shut your mouth before I knock you on your fanny,” said Ingrid. Oakum backed up and fell off the front porch into the midst of the pigs. One little pig squealed and dashed up the steps to huddle behind Kristin.
"My goodness,” said Kristin. “What a sweet piglet. She's cleaner than the others, and I think she likes me."
"Ah, there's no place like home,” said Jack. He had just ridden up on a bay gelding. “I see the pigs have arrived. Furniture should follow shortly."
"Thank goodness,” said Kristin.
"Five beds for your young women."
"There are six,” Kristin protested.
"One of them can have my bed, and I'll share yours."
"You did that on purpose,” said Kristin. Jack smirked. “Two of the girls will have to share,” said Kristin. “You're staying in your own room until you leave Breckenridge."
"Don't count on it,” said Jack. “Ah, here we are. Five beds and a dining room set. I can tell you, it's not easy to round up furniture in a town this small. Most of this stuff is secondhand."
"Secondhand!"
"You go out and see if you can do any better,” said Jack. “I've more important business than rounding up furniture and pigs. Do you plan to keep them in the front yard?” he asked Oakum.
"Nope. Just waitin’ to be told where to take ‘em. That yard next door looks good,” he announced in a loud voice.
The lady who had been on her front porch staring at them ran into her house and slammed the door.
"Well, that made a fine impression,” said Kristin. “Take them around back. Ingrid will show you where."
"Only if you promise she ain't gonna do me no harm,” said Oakum.
"You should be safe if you mind your manners,” Kristin replied.
"Miss Kristin, I was tryin’ to clean up the wallpaper in the parlor and it started to fall off,” said Fanny.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather sell this place?” Jack asked.
"It's my house. I'm not selling it."
A large wagon pulled up, and two men began to lift off furniture. “Just put the beds upstairs in whatever rooms aren't occupied,” Kristin told them.
"Wonderful. We're going to sleep amongst the maids,” said Jack.
"Why should that bother you? You've married one."
"If I got to sleep with her, maybe it wouldn't."
The two men who were carrying a bed past them turned around and stared. Then a bellow of rage and a great ruckus issued from the back yard.
"I think the pigs have met Mr. Arbol-Smith,” said Jack. “Shall we investigate the damage?"
"I hope that paint hasn't been spilled,” said Kristin. “I spent a half hour mixing a new batch right after lunch.” She thought she was doing very well hiding her feelings for Jack. Being in the midst of hectic activity left one no time for the warmer emotions.
Six eligible females, ages 17 to 22, available for courtship on Sundays. No scoundrels, unemployed, or those without honorable intentions need apply. Contact Mrs. Kristin Traube-Cameron at the Fleming Mansion on Nickel Hill. A two-dollar fee will be charged to successful suitors and fifty cents for Sunday courtship attendance to cover the expenses of entertaining potential bridegrooms.
—Summit County Journal
"Miss Kristin, there's a pig in the house,” cried Winifred.
"We are a sausage-making establishment,” said Kristin calmly. She was in her studio, putting a few last malicious touches on her portrait of Jack. Although he had shaved off his mustache, she left it in the picture.
"It's a live pig, Miss Kristin. Walked in as bold as brass while I was sweeping the veranda. Didn't even use the back door.” As if to confirm the maid's words, a small pig skirted around the girl and made for Kristin.
"It's just Gwenivere,” said Kristin. “She's a sweet thing and very clean. You notice that she hasn't been wallowing with the rest of the pigs."
"Miss Kristin, you're not making a pet of that pig?"
"Of course not,” said Kristin.
"Because when they slaughter her—"
"She's much too young to be slaughtered,” Kristin pointed out, scratching Gwenivere gently about the ears and making the pig wiggle with delight and appear to be wagging her curly tail.
"I swan,” said Winifred. “I never heard of a pet pig, especially one with such a fancy name."
"She's the queen of pigs,” said Kristin, “so I named her after Queen G
wenivere in the Arthurian tales of Lord Tennyson."
"Never heard of ‘em,” said Winifred and bustled off to scrub down another room.
"Gwenivere,” said Kristin. “I'm afraid you're not appreciated. Perhaps you'd better go to the back yard.” Gwenivere was trotting around the studio, sniffing at turpentine and paint. “I shan't be doing your portrait if that's what you're hinting at, but I do wish I had a new commission. If you had enough money, I might be convinced to do one. Since Miss Weems has sold her elk picture, maybe I could sell a pig painting. I could pose you out on the mountainside. “Pig in the Wilderness.” Doesn't sound like it would appeal to wealthy collectors, does it?” Kristin wondered whether Gwenivere Pig was an art enthusiast or just looking for something to eat. “You'd better watch your figure, Gwenivere,” admonished Kristin. “If you eat too much, you'll end up sausage.” Gwenivere trotted over and rubbed against Kristin's ankles.
"What's that pig doin’ in the house?” asked Ingrid.
"She's come to call,” said Kristin. “It's not as if anyone else calls on me."
"That's because I live here. No one wants to call on an ex-lady of the night an’ divorced woman. I think they ought to at least let me see my children. In fact, if we ever make any money with these sausages, I think I'll hire myself a lawyer."
"That wasn't at all what Kat had in mind when she asked me to take you in,” said Kristin. Ingrid's beautiful face registered her conflict of loyalties, and Kristin said hurriedly, “But you must do what you think best. Your children are so sweet. I used to tell them elk stories.” She thought of painting portraits and telling stories in Kat's house. “Ingrid,” she asked impulsively, “would you let me paint your portrait?"
"Why bother?” said Ingrid. “Just look in the mirror, an’ there I am. I still think we're sisters."
"Oh, I doubt it,” said Kristin. “I don't think my family would have kept me for a minute if they didn't think I was a Traube, more's the pity."
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