Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  She had inspected his office with the suspended spiral stairway that didn't reach the third floor; his stable with its dovecote for squabs; his modern, walnut-enclosed zinc bathtub; his French camel-hair wallpaper, gold-plated doorknobs, and porcelain fireplace tiles; his gas lights for which he had his own carbide gas factory—even the elaborate six-seat privy with walnut seats for family, pine for servants. They ended up here in the basement inspecting the cast-iron furnace, which she was sure would be a very nice thing in the winter, but in the meantime Kristin was tired of exclaiming politely over the general's establishment. And Jack was glowering.

  "General William A. Hamill.” The general shook hands with Jack. “You'll be interested in this furnace, young man.” And he began all over again his description of the furnace. “It sends heat to the hall, parlor, and dining room,” he told Jack. Much to Kristin's irritation, Jack was interested, and the two men stood discussing central heating while Mrs. Hamill beamed maternally. “Maybe you'd like to see the privy house,” said the general. “It's an innovation much admired. Separate sections and entrances for family and servants. A very superior privy if I do say so myself."

  "It sounds so,” Jack agreed. “Unfortunately, my wife and I have a train to catch."

  "Ah, well then, you won't want to miss it,” said the general and led the way up the basement stairs.

  "I don't have a train to catch,” hissed Kristin.

  "If you don't catch it,” said Jack, “your baggage will go to Denver without you."

  "Of all the nerve! I didn't give you permission—"

  "I guess this means you won't have time to share a meal with us,” said Mrs. Hamill.

  "I'm afraid not, ma'am. We have business in Denver."

  "Would you be the mining syndicate Cameron, newly arrived in the territory from Chicago?” asked the general.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, there are fortunes to be made in mining. No one's a better example of that than I."

  Jack nodded politely, thinking that if the general didn't get out of the silver market, he might lose that fortune, or at least a good part of it.

  At the mention of fortunes and the realization that she was going back to Breckenridge, Kristin was reminded of her secondary business and said to Mrs. Hamill, “I have a sausage factory in Breckenridge. Would you care to place an order for Traube's Colorado Sausage?"

  "Why, I don't know, dear. We do like sausage."

  "Then let me fry some up for you,” Kristin offered. “I've been doing sausage tastings all over Denver and several here in Georgetown."

  "We don't have time,” said Jack.

  "Well, Jack,” said Kristin, “I don't try to interfere with your business activities. “I don't think you should—"

  "I don't approve of women in business or missing trains,” the general broke in. “To whom did you sell your sausage? Dupuy?"

  "I'm afraid he doesn't like food of German origin. We got along famously—"

  Jack glowered at her.

  "—but he said only French sausage is edible."

  "In that case, we'll take some,” said the general. “Mrs. Hamill, tell the young lady how much you'll need."

  Mrs. Hamill put in an order while Jack waited impatiently, never letting go of Kristin's arm. She feared he'd leave a bruise, as hard as he was holding her. As if he thought she was stupid enough to believe that he couldn't catch up with her in a foot race, she who had been such an athletic disaster at St. Scholastica.

  "Why the hell did you leave?” demanded Jack once they reached the street and headed for the depot.

  "You left.” Kristin's mind was whirling. What should she say? She wasn't going to mention the sin of having enjoyed the night's activities in Denver.

  "I left a note. You didn't."

  "I didn't want you to find me,” said Kristin.

  "Why? And don't tell me any silly stories about your shock at wedding-night doings. You had every bit as good a time as I did."

  Kristin turned pink. “I did not."

  "You did too."

  "It's sinful."

  "What do you mean? We're married."

  "Well, obviously you don't know anything about sin."

  "I imagine I know a good deal more than you do."

  "Not about married sin."

  "There's no such thing,” said Jack.

  "I can't believe you said that."

  "Name me one. Aside from the fact that you've been shirking your wifely duty—that's a sin."

  "Under the circumstances, it isn't at all."

  "What circumstances? In what way do you think we've sinned?"

  Two ladies passing them on the street stared, open-mouthed, from beneath their parasols.

  "Sh-sh,” said Kristin.

  "Don't put me off, Kristin, unless you'd like to discuss our sins in front of a train full of people."

  Kristin swallowed. That was a daunting thought. “Well, in the first place, you weren't thinking about procreation. That's absolutely the only reason anyone does the—the act."

  Jack roared with laughter. "The act?"

  "I beg your pardon?” said a gentleman in a frock coat.

  "Much you know why people perform the act,” Jack added, ignoring the indignant passerby. “Actually, at this point I suppose you do know."

  "I do not. I know that procreation is the only—"

  "And you don't know what I was thinking. If you weren't thinking about procreation, then shame on you.” Kristin turned a brighter pink. “Anything else?"

  "We weren't wearing clothing."

  "Clothing? It's somewhat awkward to perform the act, as your call it, with all your—"

  "Night clothing!"

  "Ah, night clothing. Well, I'll try to remember night clothing next time we're in the bedroom together."

  "There won't be a next time,” said Kristin angrily. “I'll not risk my immortal soul because you don't know anything about marriage proprieties. If you ever, ever approach me again in that way, I shall run away and never be found."

  Jack looked at her in astonishment. “I found you this time. I found you the first time."

  "Next time will be different,” said Kristin.

  "The hell it will."

  "And you shouldn't swear."

  "I'll swear if I damn-well please,” he muttered. But she'd given him cause for thought. Good lord, what if she ran away and he couldn't find her? And Pinkerton's couldn't find her? What if she came to grief? And all over some silly ideas she had about marriage.

  They barely made it aboard the afternoon excursion train to Denver, which was full of people looking pale or green or both after their experience on the Georgetown Loop. Jack wished he'd got to see it. Especially with Kristin. Since she'd hung onto his hand on the Gold Pan Trestle, she might have thrown herself into his arms on the Georgetown Loop. Well, he'd just have to find some other way to get his wife to throw herself into his arms. And in the meantime, he wouldn't be able to let her out of his sight until they got back to Breckenridge.

  He glanced down to find her sketching scenery, even ugly mine buildings. “Why are you doing those?” he asked.

  "Because of the Single Jack commission."

  "Why, that means you were planning to come home."

  "No, it doesn't."

  "You were just leading me a merry chase. I'd never have taken you for the flirtatious, teasing type, Kristin."

  "I'm not!"

  "And you really don't have to go to that sort of trouble to get my attention."

  "I wasn't!"

  "I assure you, sweetheart, I'm as interested as a husband can be."

  "You're horrible,” said Kristin, pouting and flipping a page of her sketchbook. She did an unflattering caricature of Jack and then, forgetting herself, concentrated on his upper arm, the muscles of which she remembered flexing as he lay on top of her at the Windsor Hotel.

  "That's a very interesting sketch,” said Jack.

  Kristin flushed and closed the book. How could she have
been so careless? If he ever looked through it, he'd see bits and pieces of himself everywhere, all unclothed. At least there was no complete nude. But then, she hadn't seen all of him. At the thought, she had to squelch a wave of curiosity.

  In Denver, Jack had time for one meeting and refused Kristin's suggestion that she go shopping while he conducted business. “I'm not letting you out of my sight."

  "As long as you leave me alone, I won't run away,” she promised.

  "I don't believe you,” he retorted and dragged her along to the meeting. The mining investors were surprised to have Jack Cameron's pretty wife sitting in on the negotiations. Kristin was appalled at the amounts of money being discussed. If he had that much, she reasoned, he could have afforded to pay her more than a hundred dollars for his portrait, even if he didn't like it.

  She grinned at the thought of the picture, which was a more accurate description of Jack the Snake than any of the sketches she'd done the last two days. And she wasn't going to do any more of those. Even if he was the only naked male she'd ever seen any part of.

  He refused to leave the room as she dressed for dinner, although he did agree to keep his back turned. As she laced up her corset and slipped into her lavender tulle gown with its triple row of caught-up ruffles at the bottom and pink silk flowers at the waist and shoulders, she had to resist the impulse to peek at Jack. Instead, she concentrated on her gown. Although the neckline draped low, it had looked very demure six months ago when her summer wardrobe was being planned. Now it showed a surprising amount of cleavage, and Kristin had to wonder if her sinful night with Jack had increased the size of her bosom. A woman in Chicago society, who was rumored to be fast, had cleavage like Kristin's.

  Then she wondered if Jack was as tempted to peek at her as she was to peek at him. He stood across the room donning evening clothes. When she finished dressing, she sat primly on the edge of the fainting couch with her head turned away.

  "You're going to get a crick in your neck,” he remarked, “and all for nothing. I'm decent."

  Kristin relaxed, only to discover that by decent he meant he had his trousers on and was shaving in front of one of the hotel's vaunted diamond-dust mirrors. She couldn't take her eyes away. She hadn't seen his back before, and it was very interesting. The muscles curved in to his spine and formed fascinating swells on his shoulders and arms. How had he developed them? she wondered. He looked slender in his clothes, but much more substantial without them. As he turned with his razor in hand, lather covering half his lower face, she quickly dropped her eyes.

  "Well, don't you look beautiful,” he remarked. “Lavender's your color. Look up, will you?"

  "You don't have your shirt on."

  "That's all right. I'm not shy."

  Indignantly she did look up, but before she could reprimand him, he said, “Just what I thought. The dress gives your eyes a lavender hue. You ought to do a self-portrait in that gown."

  "How much would you pay me for it?” she demanded cheekily, much relieved that he had noticed her eyes, not her telltale bosom.

  "Two hundred dollars. It's bound to be better than the one you did of me.” Then, laughing, he turned back to the mirror and his razor.

  "I hope you slit your throat,” she muttered.

  "What was that?"

  But not before she got the two hundred dollars for the self-portrait. She'd never done a self-portrait. The family would have accused her of vanity. And she wouldn't have considered it except for the two hundred dollars, although Jack had given her a lot more than that to go shopping. Still, it was having earned money that counted, that made one feel special, talented, competent—

  "Ready?"

  He had his shirt and tie on and was shrugging into his coat. Kristin wished that she had taken another peek at his bare back while she had the chance, since she planned to insist that he get himself another room for the night. He looked disturbingly handsome in his evening clothes. She must remember not to stare.

  They met Cal Bannister for dinner at Charpiot's, where the conversation turned to the Cripple Creek venture.

  "Is it some sort of health resort?” Kristin asked when she heard the name of the area in which Mr. Bannister thought millions in gold were to be found. “If that's the case, I don't think you should dig gold mines there. The dust can't be good for people who are ill. Ingrid told me that Sean almost died of mine dust."

  "Sean almost died of Ingrid's perfume,” said Jack.

  When she thought about it, Kristin realized that she herself sometimes felt she'd die of Ingrid's perfume. If it was true that Sean had become ill that way, what better reason to give Ingrid for throwing away that dreadful scent? Kristin had a moment of conscience over encouraging Ingrid to hope that she might get Sean back, but concern for her own nose overcame Kristin's qualms.

  Mr. Bannister flirted outrageously with her from the first course to the last, and Kristin flirted right back as soon as she saw that it irritated Jack. When they returned to the hotel, she announced that she wasn't sleeping in the same room with him, much less the same bed. Jack replied that she could sit up all night if she wanted, but he wasn't getting out of the room because he wasn't announcing to the hotel management that his wife refused to sleep with him. As a result, Kristin spent the night on the fainting couch, Jack in the bed. Then she slept most of the way to Breckenridge, having found a fainting couch a poor substitute for a real bed.

  "You're ruining my career as an artist,” she muttered as they got off the train at the ladies’ stop. “I didn't make one sketch on the way home."

  "True,” Jack agreed, “and you didn't get any new clothes either, both of which are your own fault."

  "What's this I hear about your allowing suitors to call on the girls in the middle of the week?” demanded Kristin.

  Ingrid shrugged. “A couple of handsome ones showed up, so I let them in. I even played the piano and sang a few songs."

  Kristin felt a stab of anxiety. What kind of songs had Ingrid sung? “I heard there was dancing."

  "Everyone had a fine time. Even Winifred perked up."

  "And that you charged them for the dances. This is not a dance hall, Ingrid."

  "Well, you charge them for refreshments."

  "I don't want you to do that anymore, Ingrid. Jack and I had hardly got off the train before three different ladies approached us with the story."

  "Old biddies,” muttered Ingrid, but she looked crushed. “I just can't seem to do anything right."

  "Now, I didn't mean that, Ingrid. I think you're doing a wonderful job with the sausage factory, and I've got orders from Denver and Georgetown."

  Ingrid grinned. “I heard you ran away from him. What happened? You finally let him in your bed?"

  Kristin felt her cheeks going pink.

  "Good for you. But why in the world did you run away? Even if you didn't like it the first time—"

  Kristin turned redder.

  "—you'll change your mind. I don't think I liked it my first time. Been so long I can hardly remember."

  A dew of perspiration broke out on Kristin's forehead. Even Ingrid hadn't liked it her first time, whereas Kristin had, which must make her some kind of unnatural—oh dear! She remembered Sister Mary Joseph warning against unnatural acts. Had she and Jack done anything unnatural? Probably. How was she to know?

  "Well, you're a fool to run away from such a fine-looking gentleman. If he were mine, I wouldn't run away."

  Kristin glanced anxiously at her partner, but Ingrid didn't really look as if she wanted Jack. It just seemed to be the sort of remark she made. Poor Ingrid. She was so socially unacceptable, and she'd never learn how to act in respectable company if she never had any. Kristin made up her mind then and there that she'd have to teach Ingrid to be a lady and include her in social functions.

  "I've some news of my own.” Ingrid's face, which was so often sad, lit with a hopeful radiance, her eyes sparkling, her full mouth turning up. “Sean came to visit me. He brought the childr
en."

  "Oh, I'm so glad, Ingrid,” said Kristin. “I know how you long to see them, and they are darling children."

  "They were disappointed you weren't here. Phoebe wanted to hear more about the elk prince an’ princess."

  "I haven't thought up any more to that tale."

  "You mean you make those stories up?"

  "As I go along."

  "I wish I could do that. I don't even read well enough to read to them. They brought along a book an’ read to me. Pretty good story too,” said Ingrid, “but the best of it was Sean stayed the whole time. An’ we talked an'—oh, Kristin, I think he still loves me."

  "Ingrid, you know he's married."

  "He's married to me."

  "He's legally married to Augustina, and they have a child."

  "I have two,” protested Ingrid. “It was so lovely talkin’ to him. I wanted to throw my arms around him an’ kiss him to death. Course, I couldn't do that in the parlor, could I? Not with the children there."

  "And not on Wednesday,” added Kristin.

  "Wednesday? What's Wednesday got to do with it? Anyway, if I kissed Sean, Kat would hear about it an'—"

  "Ingrid, Kat's not your enemy. She just never understood how sad and frightened you were at that time."

  Ingrid sighed. “I'm still frightened. Sean was coughin'. That's what started it all, you know. He was coughin’ more, an’ he sent for his sister because he didn't trust me to handle money. But I'm better about money now, don't you think?"

  "I don't know how you were before,” said Kristin.

  "If I had it, I spent it. What else is there to do with it? That's how I felt. Now I'm investin’ with Jack."

  "Well, I hope it turns out well,” said Kristin dubiously. “He has a reputation as a high-risk investor."

  "That's how you make money out here. All the rich men gambled on the mines."

  "You said Sean was coughing?"

  "Yes, an’ I'm so afraid he's gettin’ sick again, though he promised me he wasn't goin’ down in the mines."

  "It's your perfume,” said Kristin.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "That's what they discovered after you'd left, Ingrid. When Sean came back from the sanatorium, he was fine until he started to take the things out of your closet. Then he started coughing and sneezing all over again."