Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "I was the one who made him sick?” Ingrid looked stricken.

  "No, Ingrid, your perfume."

  "But I love my perfume."

  "Well, of course, it's up to you,” said Kristin. “I suppose you could wash it off when he's coming to call. Do you know when to expect him?"

  "Wednesdays. Piano lesson days."

  "But maybe it's like alcohol—"

  "I haven't been drinkin' it."

  "I meant that maybe you just have to stop using it entirely so you won't be tempted. And of course, the house smells of it. It's like cigars. The odor—"

  Before Kristin could say another word, Ingrid left the room, shouting to Winifred that she wanted a hot bath and all her clothes put out in the back yard to air.

  Kristin smiled. She knew that she'd been manipulating Ingrid, but her partner's perfume gave her a headache. She hoped never to smell it again. “Winifred, throw open all the windows too,” she called.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jack sat in his office on Main Street, thinking that if he were smart he'd move his headquarters to Denver, where the money was. However, he liked Breckenridge. He liked sitting around with the Warm Stove Mine group in the back of George Watson's store listening to tall tales about gold mines and hunting adventures. He liked drinking with Robert Foote at the Denver Hotel and hunting with Connor and Sean. He considered Connor the best friend he'd ever made and the most likeable. He didn't even mind when the locals laughed at the English knickers he'd worn on his first hunting trip and the formal riding clothes for his first exploration of the area on horseback. That was just the way it was with men—good humored, rough joshing. This was a man's world

  All it needed to make it complete was a pretty woman, and he had one, but he felt shortchanged there. It wasn't as if he'd debauched her in her father's library, no matter what she had thought. And she must know she'd been a virgin on their first night at the Windsor—what an experience that had been!—but she still held him at arm's length.

  And why had she run away after they consummated the marriage? He'd waited longer than most men. And he'd given her pleasure. Was it some ploy to be sure she kept his attention? Well, she had it. He wanted to tumble her right back into bed, but she was locking her door at night, threatening to run again. He even suspected that she moved something in front of the door before she slept. He'd heard the scraping. A little thing like Kristin shouldn't be moving furniture around.

  So how was he going to win her over? And why in the world did Fast Jack Cameron, as they used to call him in Chicago, find himself in such a position? Was it some sort of divine retribution for his success among the ladies back home? Drawing on his extensive experience with women, Jack came up with an idea. Social life! That's what women liked. Since social life here in Breckenridge hadn't been too exciting, he would treat her to a sparkling round of activities the like of which this town had never seen. Balls, performances, elaborate dinner parties. He locked his door and walked to the telegraph office to send a wire to Genevieve in Chicago asking for a French cook—Kristin had liked Louis Dupuy's cooking—and two housemaids experienced in serving fancy dinners and rich guests.

  That's another thing he liked about Breckenridge—his house. Well, Kristin's house. It was going to be a real showplace when he got through with it. He'd already ordered a cast-iron furnace like the one General Hamill had in Georgetown. Couldn't have Kristin freezing this winter. She probably had no idea how bad the weather was going to be. Maybe in future years they'd winter in Denver and summer in Breckenridge.

  In the meantime, he'd have to order Kristin a fur coat and some lively guests from Chicago—and do that before it got too cold. People who'd enjoy the scenery, keep his wife entertained, and invest in his mining syndicates. He'd send the telegrams off at the same time he was wiring Genevieve and a Chicago furrier. So what else? Furnace, fur coat, guests. And a lady's maid! One who was an accomplished seamstress and hairstylist. A maid who could sew the latest fashions. Women loved clothes and fancy hairdos.

  Lord, but she'd looked beautiful in that lavender gown. He hoped she'd started on the self-portrait. Jack sent sixteen telegrams to Chicago and, whistling cheerfully, set off for Barney Ford's Saddle Rock Cafe to meet his friends for lunch. He'd have gone home to Kristin if he didn't have to share her with all those giggling sausage makers. And pigs. There was one damn pig that kept wandering through the house and snuggling up to his wife. Kristin had made friends with the creature and named it Gwenivere; she chatted with it while she was painting. At least the pig hadn't made any messes in the house. It had better not, since he'd ordered Brussels carpets. Maybe he should build a dormitory for the sausage girls, so he and Kristin could put their guests in the house.

  No, he didn't have to move from Breckenridge just yet. Good thing too. He couldn't even consider it until he was sure his wife would agree to come with him. As it stood, she'd probably throw a party to celebrate his departure and stay here with her sausage business and her studio. He'd have to fix up that studio—chairs, maybe a fainting couch. She needed some good furniture if she was to get any portrait commissions. He'd have to invite Chicagoans interested in art as well as investments.

  Investments reminded him that he'd had a busy morning. As soon word got around that he was back in town, people began to drop in and he to collect partners in the new Cripple Creek venture. Even Ingrid had put money into Cripple Creek. Good lord, she was a sultry woman, and voluptuous! He wondered how Sean Fitzpatrick felt about having divorced his first wife to marry Augustina. Not that Augustina wasn't handsome, but she didn't radiate Ingrid's brand of come-hither sex appeal. Of course, Jack supposed he favored Ingrid because she looked a bit like Kristin.

  He entered the Saddle Rock and the first person he saw was Sean, looking glum. Well, what man wouldn't look glum if he had two wives in the same town, and he'd probably rather be bedding the first than the second? “You look like a man who'd be cheered at the prospect of making a lot of money, Sean,” said Jack.

  "So would I,” said Barney Ford, and the three men, soon joined by Connor, sat down to discuss Cripple Creek and Cal Bannister's estimate of how much gold might be taken out of the unlikely-looking, bucolic, cattle-ranching valley.

  Kat Macleod stopped by the Single Jack Cafe as Kristin finished her preparation of the wall for the mural, so the two women walked up the hill together. “Would you like to stop by for a cup of coffee?” Kat offered.

  "I think I'd better get home and check on Ingrid."

  "How's she doing?"

  "She's not drinking,” said Kristin.

  "I'm very grateful to you for that,” said Kat. “I feel so responsible for what happened to her."

  "I think it was just one of those terrible misunderstandings."

  "I suppose, but I never could figure out why she was always sleeping in the day and disappearing at night."

  "She was sad, Kat, and frightened, and in awe of you."

  "Of me? Why in the world—"

  "Sean trusted you, not her. She felt deserted and useless, and of course, with her background—you do know her background?"

  "I didn't then."

  "Well, you can understand why she would feel uneasy around a respectable woman. She told me she was so sad that most mornings she couldn't get out of bed."

  "I've never heard of such a thing,” said the optimistic, energetic Kat. “If I'd known, I could have dragged her out and set her to doing something interesting. Speaking of which, how did you do selling sausage?"

  "Oh, very well,” said Kristin. “Even Lieukof's in Denver is going to buy our sausage, and that's a very prestigious meat firm."

  "Good for you. I knew you'd make a success of the business."

  "And several restaurants. I sold sausage to such places as Tortoni's and Charpiot's.” At Charpiot's, Kristin had insisted on talking to the head waiter about sausage. She even visited the kitchen to talk to the chef. “A number of grocers and butchers put in orders. Not the Hotel de Paris in Geo
rgetown, however. Mr. Dupuy—"

  "Yes, Kristin, I must talk to you about that. Why did you run away from Jack? He told Connor that you didn't even leave him a note. The man was beside himself with worry and hired detectives to track you down."

  "He did?"

  "Yes, he did. So why did you run away?"

  "Because he's an evil, sinful man,” said Kristin.

  "Well, I know you resent him because of what happened in Chicago, but you're never going to make a success of your marriage or anything else by running away."

  "A woman could lose her place in heaven associating with a man like Jack Cameron,” said Kristin sternly.

  Kat mouth dropped open. “Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked hesitantly.

  "It's too shocking and humiliating to discuss."

  "I'm so sorry, Kristin.” Kat looked gratifyingly horrified. “Now I feel responsible for two failed marriages."

  "Don't,” said Kristin. “I'm hoping, if I stay away from him, he'll leave and go back to Chicago."

  "That's a good idea,” said Kat. “Maybe he'll sell us back the Chicago Girl. I could use some good news."

  "Why, what's wrong?” asked Kristin. By this time, they had reached the corner of Washington and French, where Kat would turn off.

  "The Sunday closing campaign is going badly. All the saloons are still open on Sunday regardless of the law. Reverend Passmore and I are going to have to do something, and that's going to make everybody angry, besides which I'm getting nowhere at all with women's suffrage."

  "What you need is my Aunt Frieda,” said Kristin, giggling.

  "There's nothing funny about women's suffrage, Kristin."

  "I was thinking of how angry she used to make my father by advocating it."

  "Oh, well, that's good. And then I think Augustina blames me for the fact that Ingrid's still in town. She suspects that Sean is seeing Ingrid."

  "He did bring the children to visit, but that's different, don't you think? I mean Ingrid does have a right to see her children."

  "But it's not helping Sean's marriage, and the worst news of all is that Mother and James are going to stay in Breckenridge and—"

  "That is bad news,” murmured Kristin.

  Kat frowned. “Well, I am sorry about the way Mother treated you. I myself would be delighted to have her here if it weren't that she's going to open a saloon."

  Kristin couldn't help herself. She fell into uncontrollable laughter.

  "It may seem funny to you,” said Kat indignantly, “but it's hardly going to help my credibility with the local temperance group. By the way, did you manage to see the W.C.T.U. people in Denver as I asked you?"

  "No, I'm sorry. I had to run away before I got a chance."

  "Damn that Jack Cameron!"

  Kristin found that she resented Kat's dislike of Jack, although that made no sense when Kristin herself was so upset with him and had to shove a heavy dresser in front of her door every night to be sure that he didn't try to visit her. “I'd better get home,” said Kristin.

  "Me too. I'm hoping there's still time to talk my mother into something other than a saloon. Why can't she open a boarding house? Goodness, she sold the saloon in Chicago so she could do that."

  "What saloon in Chicago?"

  "My father was a saloon keeper,” said Kat, “and my first husband too, so it's small wonder that I dislike drinking.” Kat went off looking unhappy, and Kristin continued up the hill. A saloon? Wouldn't her mother and father be upset to hear that St. Scholastica had had saloon keepers’ daughters as well as rich sausage makers’ daughters. Giggling, Kristin decided she'd write the news to Aunt Frieda, who would undoubtedly pass it on.

  Kristin had had a very satisfying letter from her aunt describing the Traube reaction, especially Minna's, to Kristin's marriage. The letter also contained lots of advice on keeping a husband in line. Aunt Frieda hadn't mentioned pushing a dresser in front of the bedroom door, but it seemed to be working.

  Two days later, Kristin trudged up Nickel Hill toward her house. Mural painting was proving to be much more strenuous than she had anticipated. Her back hurt, her arms and shoulders ached, and she was tired. Even the bountiful meal that Hortense provided hadn't given Kristin that extra edge of energy to get her through the afternoon. Instead she gave up at two o'clock and started home, planning a nice long nap. She wasn't even sure she had the energy to shove the bureau in front of the door, although perhaps that wasn't necessary. Sister Mary Joseph had been quite clear that “the act” could only be performed at night. Kristin hoped Jack knew that.

  He was trying to be nice to her. She'd get home exhausted from painting miners and mines onto the wall at the Single Jack Cafe only to find that Jack insisted on spiriting her to a Chautauqua lecture, or a ball—Breckenridge was always having balls—or a dinner party at someone's house. When she said she was tired, he said he'd order her a nice warm bath and even pick out a gown so that she wouldn't be bothered with making choices. Then he'd produce some piece of jewelry to go with the gown. Curse him! He had excellent taste and knew just what looked best on her. And he always insisted on pointing out to the people they met how beautiful she looked, putting his arm around her shoulders while the townsfolk gave them simpleton smiles and made silly remarks about newlyweds. This whole aspect of his behavior was downright alarming. She knew it to be generated by lust and a guilty conscience, but he could always send shivers up her spine with a touch or a compliment.

  And then yesterday he had offered to buy a place to house the sausage girls and the factory. “We're going to need those rooms upstairs so that we can entertain."

  Kristin didn't want to entertain. “Entertain who?"

  "Our guests."

  As far as she could see, they didn't need to move the girls out in order to entertain the folk from Breckenridge who had invited them to card parties, dances, and dinners. “I want those girls in the house where I can keep my eye on them,” she'd replied. “It's my duty to the young women who come out here to see that they have a proper home environment. And I promised Kat I'd look after Ingrid."

  "We could keep Ingrid in the house,” said Jack, “and get another place for—"

  "No,” said Kristin.

  "Then I'll have to think of something else."

  What? she wondered. And why did he want to get the sausage girls out of the house? So he'd have her to himself? So he could do whatever he wanted? Push her protective chest of drawers aside. Invade her bedroom. These thoughts were interrupted by a great clamor coming from her house. In a surge of energized alarm, she raced up the steps and threw the door open. Pounding, clanging, hammering, men's voices. What was happening?

  "We've started,” said Jack, coming out of her studio, trailed by two men, who left the house.

  "Started what?"

  "The furnace. It's going to be even better than General Hamill's."

  "But I didn't—"

  "You'll love it this winter when the snow is piled six feet deep all around us."

  "Six feet!"

  "Breckenridge is much worse than Chicago for snow, so we'll need a furnace, unless you'd like to move to Denver."

  "I would not."

  "I didn't think so. There'll be warm air shot right into the drawing room, the dining room, your studio—I think that's particularly important. You'd find it hard to paint with your fingers freezing or wearing heavy gloves."

  Kristin felt quite bewildered, and it took her a minute to shake off Jack's arm, which he had placed companionably about her shoulders as he offered to take her downstairs to view the beginning installation of the furnace.

  "I didn't know we had a cellar."

  "It's small, but we're making it bigger. I've hired an explosives expert from one of the mines."

  Kristin backed away in alarm. “Won't that undermine the house? It might fall down around our ears."

  "Nonsense. He's the best man on the Western Slope. Connor says he can blow a mole off a man's nose without—"

&nbs
p; "But Jack, even if the house survives, the girls and—and the pigs will certainly be alarmed."

  "We'll just send them away during the blasting."

  Was he trying to destroy her house and drive away her employees because she had refused to let him into her bedroom? “What's that?” There were sounds coming from the backyard too.

  "They're starting to build the girls’ dormitory."

  "Dormitory?"

  "Since you didn't want to move the factory and the girls, I decided to build a dormitory for them in the back yard where they'll be right under your motherly eye."

  "Jack Cameron, you're manipulating me. I never agreed to—"

  "I'm paying for it, dear heart. Now come back to your studio. I have a surprise for you.” He took her hand, which she was not subsequently able to jerk loose, and led her to her studio where, miraculously, furniture had appeared—a beautiful blue-green fainting couch with matching chairs, fine draperies at the windows, and a great scroll-framed, full-length mirror.

  Kristin stood in the door, gaping with amazement. “I don't need all this."

  "You can't paint portraits with the subjects sitting on the floor or standing around in a bare room."

  "I don't have any portrait commissions."

  "You have a commission from me to do a self-portrait. That's what the mirror is for."

  Kristin shook her head. The man spent money as if he had found gold under his office on Main Street. “Are we going to become bankrupts?” she asked. Maybe that was his game. He planned to spend every penny he had and then go off and leave her to fend for herself, responsible for all the improvements he was making to her property.

  "Absolutely not, my dear. We're going to be as rich as Carnegie.” Jack bent down and gave her a warm, light kiss.

  Before she could protest, he said, “And now I'm off to Denver. Be a good girl while I'm gone.” And he left the room. Left her in a house full of clankings, hammerings, and shouting male voices. A house that might explode, then collapse. As she watched her husband's beautifully tailored morning coat disappearing down the hall and out the front door, the memory of that back, naked at the Windsor Hotel, flashed in her mind, and her fingers itched for a pencil.