Instead she tried to tell the men in the basement and the back yard to go away. They simply shook their heads and replied, “Mr. Cameron warned us you might say that and we was to pay no attention."
"Pay no attention?” she echoed, outraged. “This is my house. I hold the deed in my own name."
"Yes ma'am. He said, you being the world's sweetest wife, you never wanted him to spend his money on you, but we was to go right ahead.” And they went back to their banging, clanging, and hammering.
As Kristin stalked into kitchen, Winifred said, “Ain't it exciting, ma'am? We're to have our own house."
"Oh yes, very exciting,” muttered Kristin and returned to the studio. She'd never manage a nap in the midst of this chaos. She looked at herself in the ornate, full-length mirror and imagined her portrait painted looking as she did. Wouldn't that be fine hanging over the fireplace in the drawing room? Jack's portrait looking like a scoundrel and hers looking like a haggard old crone.
Kristin dropped down on the fainting couch to rest for a moment before she went to work. At least she wouldn't have to wrestle with that chest of drawers for a few days. She took her sketch pad from a pretty table beside the couch and absently sketched her husband's powerful back as she remembered it from the Denver Hotel, both the way it had felt under her fingers when he made love to her and the way it had looked while he was shaving.
Before she could recall that she had promised herself not to do any more unclothed drawings of Jack, the pad slipped from her fingers and she fell asleep. When she awoke, the workmen had gone and Winifred was saying, “I got supper on the table, ma'am, and there's a letter for you."
"A letter?” Kristin dragged herself off the couch and drifted to the dining room, still sleepy. She was greeted by all the sausage girls, atwitter over the new furnace and their new accommodations.
"A room for each of us,” said Fanny. “I've never had a room to myself. And new furniture. Mr. Cameron said some lady named Augustina, who knows all about such things, was to pick it out."
Good lord, thought Kristin, no matter what he says, we'll be bankrupt before he finishes this project.
"And central heating. Mr. Cameron's putting central heating in the basement. Ain't that fine?"
"I do hear it's right cold here in the winter,” said Bea, “but I expect to be married by then."
"It will be cold wherever you're living,” said Kristin.
"Yes ma'am, but I'll have a warm man to cuddle up to."
All the girls giggled at that shocking remark while Kristin stared at the envelope Winifred had given her along with crusty bread and a bowl of rich bean-and-sausage soup. Winifred wasn't a fancy cook, but she fed the household heartily. Still, Kristin didn't think the dinner party Jack envisioned would turn out to be quite what he expected.
She inspected the envelope and went still. In a beautiful, flowing hand the letter was addressed to Mrs. Kristin Traube Cameron, Breckenridge, The Frontier, Colorado. And the return address. She couldn't believe her eyes. The letter was from Mrs. Bertha Honore Palmer. Fingers trembling, Kristin used her butter knife to slit the envelope. Then she took out the letter and began to read:
My dear Kristin:
I am so sorry to hear of your late troubles and that I was not in Chicago to be of assistance to you in your time of need. Your Aunt Frieda has informed me of your whereabouts and the fine marriage you have made, on which I congratulate you.
Some fine marriage, thought Kristin bitterly. If Mrs. Palmer only knew. But with any luck, she never would. Aunt Frieda wouldn't have told her about why they'd had to get married, or actually why they hadn't had to get married. Kristin skimmed over all the polite good wishes and got to the heart of the letter.
Sarah Hallowell has told me of your plan to do a nightscape of Chicago in what sounds to me like the Impressionist mode. This concept interests me greatly. If you have finished the picture and would care to send it, I should be glad to have it framed and enter it in the next exhibition of note here in Chicago.
Kristin dropped the letter, hands clasped over her thumping heart. Then she hurriedly fished the pages out of the bean soup and wiped them off with her napkin, terrified that she might have destroyed the end of Mrs. Potter Palmer's communication.
"What is it, ma'am?” cried Winifred, who had taken her seat beside Kristin. “Bad news?"
"No, but I fear that I may have ruined my letter."
"Here, give it to me.” Winifred took it and patted it carefully, front and back. “Looks to me like it's all right, ma'am. The second page wasn't touched at all."
"Oh, thank you, Winifred.” When she had caught her breath, she pushed the soup away and held the letter out in front of her, poring over the rest of it. How wonderful! It was just what she hoped for. She had finished “Nightscape,” but had hesitated to send it to Denver, fearing that Denverites, so far from Paris and other centers of artistic innovation, might not appreciate its revolutionary style and content. “The Blessed Mother has not forsaken me, after all,” Kristin murmured.
"Why would she forsake you, ma'am?” asked Winifred. “You're the kindest mistress a girl could have."
"Thank you, Winifred.” Of course, Winifred didn't know about Kristin's terrible sins committed at the Windsor Hotel in Denver and still unconfessed.
"Is it good news then?"
"Yes, indeed. Mrs. Potter Palmer, of whom you've probably heard, has asked me to send a painting for exhibit in Chicago.” Then she had another thought. Her parents might see the picture. And if they didn't, Aunt Frieda would tell them about it because Kristin would write Aunt Frieda immediately. She began to giggle at the thought of how distressed her parents would be. Her father didn't want her to enter exhibitions, but now he'd have nothing to say about it.
If she won a prize or even stirred interest and controversy, he'd be sorry that he'd been so mean to her. Heinrich II would worry about the family reputation with the scandal of her departure brought back to the attention of Chicago society. If they didn't know about it, her picture would bring it to the fore. And Minna, who had pinched Kristin so many times over the years, would be embarrassed because everyone would gossip about her talented sister, who had married her fiance. Kristin knew it was a sin to feel so spiteful toward Minna, but Minna deserved it.
"Ma'am, don't you think you should eat your soup before it gets cold?"
"I'm too excited to eat,” said Kristin. Then she had a sudden, most astonishing desire to tell Jack about the letter, but he wasn't here. He'd gone off to Denver. Probably to associate with loose women on Market Street. She'd heard that was where gentlemen went to take their pleasure. Kristin scowled at her soup. It was shameful that men were unfaithful to their wives. Of course, she didn't care, since she didn't want him visiting her bedroom, but still she didn't like the idea of Jack on Market Street enjoying himself with some beautiful, sinful woman wearing a low-cut gown, maybe even showing her ankles.
Chapter Sixteen
Conviviality reigned at the Denver Hotel bar. Among the drinkers were Robert Foote, the owner. Jack, who was escaping the Sunday courting salon in his drawing room, and a gloomy Sean Fitzpatrick, who complained that his wife gave him nothing but accusing looks these days, which really lowered a man's natural high spirits. The gentlemen lifted their glasses to success at Cripple Creek, as all of them were investors in the claims Jack and Cal Bannister were pursuing, and to a successful 1891 deer-hunting season.
"I wanna get me a fat buck, a sixteen-pointer,” said Robert, “and hang the head right over my bar.” He pointed to the selected spot, then turned to Jack. “Think your lady would make me up some venison sausage?"
"Why not?” said Jack. “She might like to put in a new line, Traube's Colorado Venison Sausage. Not that she has much to do with the business. Ingrid's really running it. She even made one of the out-of-town selling trips to all the places Kristin didn't consider scenic enough."
"Ingrid's out of town?” asked Sean.
"No.” Jack pou
red whiskey into his glass. “She's in my parlor playing the piano, flirting, and knocking all the suitors dead. I've seen boys of twenty turn pale and stagger at the sight of Ingrid in a low-cut gown."
"Why's she wearing a low-cut gown on Sunday?” Sean demanded. “I thought she was supposed to be promoting marriage for the sausage makers."
Jack laughed. “You probably know Ingrid better than any man, Sean, so you know it's hard for any male from fifteen to sixty-five to pay much attention to some Chicago sausage maker when Ingrid's in the room."
Sean scowled.
"You did divorce her and remarry,” Jack pointed out. “She's got a right to remarry too."
Sean looked even unhappier and filled a whole tumbler with whiskey, half of which he drank down at one draught. He was in the act of swallowing when the door to the bar burst open and his sister entered with Reverend Passmore.
"Sinners!” shouted the preacher.
The patrons turned and raised their glasses to the Methodist minister. “Here's to you, brother,” said one and belched. Then he took a long drink.
"You're all breaking the law,” said Kat.
"Now, Miz Macleod, I don't know why it is you're always wantin’ to spoil a fella's fun,” said the owner of a tonsorial parlor on Main Street. “Like the Lord said, Sunday's a day of rest, and we're all restin’ here in the Denver bar from our week's labors."
Kat Macleod, evidently used to all sorts of comments in her campaign for Sunday closing, surveyed the room with a sharp eye as she retorted, “Shame on you, Mr. Hepburn. I ought to organize a boycott against your barber shop."
"Most of you temperance folk are female and don't shave,” he pointed out. Everyone was laughing uproariously.
At that moment her eye lit on her brother. “Sean Fitzpatrick!” she cried. “What are you doing here?"
Grinning, cheering up from his gloomy contemplation of Ingrid's flirtations, Sean rose and kissed his sister on the cheek. “Can I order you a lemonade, honey?"
She picked up his glass and sniffed. “That's not what you're drinking, Sean. And to do it on the Lord's day!"
"You're starting to sound like a Methodist, Kat."
"Afternoon, Mrs. Macleod,” said Jack, tipping his hat politely. He was now wearing a Stetson, having forgone his more chic Eastern headgear.
"Mr. Cameron, I'm not surprised to see you here."
Reverend Passmore swept the glasses off a table into the laps of various drinkers and climbed up to begin his oration. “God has his angry eye upon every one of you sinners,” said the preacher.
"Then maybe you wouldn't mind askin’ ‘im, since he's payin’ attention, to turn that eye on the feller who tried to jump my claim Wednesday last,” called a prospector sitting with his friends at a large table in the corner.
"God will jump your claim himself, brother. He will spirit away the gold and silver from the lodes of sinners."
"Them's fightin’ words,” shouted another miner, jumping up. “An’ ah'm a man who likes to fight.” He danced around Passmore's improvised pulpit with his fists clenched. “Put ‘em up, Reverend. Ah hear you're quite a fighter your own self. Ah'd sure like to take a poke at you."
Reverend Passmore jumped off the table and knocked the miner flat with a powerful roundhouse blow.
"Reverend Passmore!” cried Kat, “God's work is not done by violence."
"Well, if you'll excuse my contradicting you, Mrs. Macleod, you should read your Bible,” said Jack. “It's got more violence in it than you can shake a parasol at."
Kat scowled. “Shouldn't you be at home overseeing that chaotic scene in your drawing room?"
"Anyone else want to take up fisticuffs against God's servant?” bellowed Reverend Passmore. Since the downed miner appeared to have lost a reasonably shapely nose in the encounter, there were no more offers.
"What are you talking about?” asked Jack.
"Give up your sinful drinking,” shouted the minister.
"I went to your house to see if anyone wanted to join the temperance crusade and found Ingrid playing and singing rowdy songs in your drawing room."
"By God, that brings back memories,” said Sean. “I'd like to hear Ingrid sing a rowdy song again."
His sister glared at him while Jack chuckled.
"Stop your desecration of the Lord's day.” The Methodist pastor got louder with each admonition.
"And miners with muddy boots are trampling on your carpets,” added Kat.
Jack stopped smiling.
"Not to mention the fact that some burly woman has frightened your wife half to death by arriving on the doorstep claiming to be her French cook."
Jack's face relaxed into a pleased smile. “Well, that's good news."
"Not if you're expecting her to be French."
"I'd appreciate it, ma'am,” said Robert Foote, “if you'd take your campaign elsewhere. Connor's my friend, but—"
"You don't notice him in here drinking on Sunday. If fact, he rarely indulges."
"Hell awaits each person whose lips touch demon rum,” declared the preacher.
"Not too much rum goin’ down around here,” declared the barber. “More like whiskey or beer."
"I don't appreciate your trying to scare off my customers,” said Robert Foote to Kat.
"What song was Ingrid singing?” asked Sean.
"If you'll excuse me,” said Jack, “I think I'll go home and see what's happening there.” He rose.
"Think I'll go with you,” said Sean.
"You will not,” said Jack and Kat simultaneously.
Sulking, Sean settled back into his chair and poured another half tumbler of whiskey.
Kat shook her head. “You're following in our father's footsteps, Sean."
"Well, if you mean that I'm on my second wife, and the second's a lot harder-headed than the first, you're right."
"Don't you say a word against my mother or Augustina,” snapped Kat, and that was the last Jack heard of the argument as he headed for the door with Reverend Passmore calling after him, “Look at that man. Even a papist is willing to heed the word of God and observe the Sabbath."
Jack tipped his Stetson to the minister and set off for Nickel Hill, wondering if there really had been girls on the hill in the old days who sold their favors for a nickel. He doubted they'd have been very appealing, not at that price.
"I don't know what you're talking about,” said Kristin.
The woman was as tall as Ingrid and twice as heavy. “My name is Abigail Mertz, and I'm your French chef."
Ingrid was singing a song called “When the Girls Kick Up Their Heels on Saturday Night at Flossie's” with all the suitors and sausage makers joining merrily in the choruses.
"Is this a bawdy house?” asked Abigail Mertz. “I'm not cooking fine cuisine in a bawdy house."
"What's a bawdy house?” asked Kristin.
The giant woman looked at her suspiciously. “If you don't know, I don't suppose it is. How many guests do you figure on for an average dinner party?"
"None,” said Kristin. “Maybe you've come to the wrong door. I'm not planning any dinner parties."
"You are Mrs. Cameron, aren't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"Well, I've been hired by your husband to do your dinner parties and the rest of the cooking for your household. I hear it's a big one, which I consider a challenge.” Abigail Mertz squared her shoulders to face the challenge, and muscles rippled under her dress.
At that moment Jack bounded up the steps and said, “Where's the new cook?"
"Right here.” Abigail turned, arms akimbo, a belligerent look on her face. “Are you someone else who's gonna tell me I'm not wanted for this job after I've come God knows how many thousand miles to the wild frontier?"
"Actually, ma'am, things are pretty settled here in Breckenridge. You don't look or sound French to me."
"I just cook French,” said Abigail. “You wouldn't want a real French person. High-strung, high-falutin', trouble-makin’ fol
k—that's what the French are."
"They are not,” said Kristin indignantly. “Genevieve Boyer is French."
"But she's not a French chef. A down-to-earth French person is practical and thrifty. What you're gettin’ is a down-to-earth person with a French chef's talents. Now, where's the kitchen?"
"Right down that hall, ma'am,” said Jack, and he beamed at his wife. “Now we can plan our first dinner party."
"Maybe you'd better try some of her cooking before you make any big plans,” muttered Kristin.
"Are you going to fire me?” asked Winifred. She had detached herself from the circle of singers and come over to listen with curiosity to what Abigail Mertz had to say.
"Of course we wouldn't fire you, Winifred."
"Well, that's just fine then, ma'am. Now I'll have time to do the housekeeping right. You won't believe the way things are gonna sparkle around here."
Kristin couldn't think of an argument to make against the presence of Abigail Mertz, not when Winifred was happy to have her. Kristin considered Winifred the center of domestic stability around which life in the house turned. When the plaster fell off the ceilings for no known reason, Winifred could always find someone to make repairs. When the necessary house began to give off offensive odors in warm weather, Winifred knew to throw in lime. When inexplicable and stubborn stains appeared on the washable clothing, Winifred knew how to get rid of them.
"My dear wife,” said Jack, interrupting Kristin's thoughts. “The song Ingrid is singing is hardly proper for the ears of young, unmarried women."
Kristin glanced at him in alarm. She hadn't been paying any attention to the lyrics, being more interested to see that everyone was having a good time and the suitors weren't filching tea and cookies without paying. Actually, not many of them drank the tea. Maybe she should try to find some other non-alcoholic beverage that would please them and add to the profits.
"Excuse me, sir,” said Jack to a muscular man who had just entered the house. “You're tracking mud on the carpet, which is a genuine Brussels."
Elusive Lovers Page 22