Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "Oh yeah.” The fellow looked at him belligerently. “You want to fight about it?"

  "Well, we could if you insist."

  "But if you do,” said Kristin to the new arrival, “you'll never be allowed in again."

  The miner looked crestfallen. Jack gave him a friendly slap on the back. “If you really want to fight, we can go outside where we won't offend Mrs. Cameron."

  "You can not!” cried Kristin. “What are you thinking of? Your face could be ruined."

  Jack leaned over and kissed her. “It's nice to know you care, sweetheart."

  "Hey,” said the miner, “we ain't allowed to kiss none of the girls."

  "Well, that's understandable. You're not married to any of them. I am. Now about the mud on your boots."

  "I don't like no one complaining about my—"

  "It's hardly a complaint, my friend,” said Jack. “More like a word of advice between men. Since you're obviously contemplating marriage, you should know that women become very upset when mud is tracked on their carpets or floors. You'll have no end of trouble with your new wife if you don't clean your boots off before you enter the house."

  "Nobody complains up to the mine dormitory."

  "They're all men. A different matter entirely."

  "Suppose you're right,” said the miner. “Thanks for the tip.” He stamped back to the front porch to kick the drying mud off his boots.

  Kristin looked on in astonishment. “How did you do that? Nobody's paid the slightest attention to me about mud. We have to clean the carpets after every salon."

  "All in knowing how to be one of the boys,” said Jack.

  "That reminds me. You're not supposed to be kissing me. Certainly not in public."

  "Of course,” said Jack agreeably. “Shall we retire upstairs?” He was running his thumb up and down her arm and causing tingles which she knew were preliminary to a much warmer reaction. Consequently, she backed away as fast as she could, then whirled and hastened to the piano.

  "Ingrid, do you think we might have ‘Old Kentucky Home'? That's one of my favorites.” She didn't want to hurt Ingrid's feelings, but on the other hand, she didn't want people saying that the Sunday courting salons were a hive of improper conduct.

  Ingrid obligingly broke into “Old Kentucky Home,” and the courting couples again began to sing. Under cover of the music, Kristin beckoned Jack's head down, for he had followed her to the piano. She whispered into his ear, “What's a bawdy house?"

  Jack grinned. “Do you know what a parlor house is or a sporting club?"

  "Well, sort of,” said Kristin, looking alarmed.

  "Maybe you ought to make out a list of acceptable songs. Down at the Denver Hotel, they're already talking about the wild doings here."

  "They are? I'll never find these girls good husbands if we become the target of unpleasant gossip."

  "I wouldn't worry. There are men out here who'd marry just about anyone. You might even be able to find a suitor for Abigail Mertz, although if she can cook French, he'll have to pay a high price to buy her away from me."

  "You're saying my drawing room reminds people of a bawdy house?” Kristin still worried about her reputation. “Even after you replaced Ingrid's furniture?"

  "Now that,” said Jack, “was reminiscent of a bawdy house."

  She glared at him, remembering her suspicions about what he might have been doing on his trip to Denver.

  When Kristin and Ingrid were ushering out the last of the Sunday suitors, they found two young women on the front porch, one of them weeping.

  "Oh, stop it, Yvette,” said the taller one, who had kinky, mud-brown hair and rosy cheeks.

  "I ‘ave been accosted by outlaws on ze streets of zese deesgusting town, and you tell me to stop ze weeping?” The weeper had a dark, delicate face with large brown eyes and shining dark hair pulled into a neat, but somewhat severe chignon at the base of her neck. She was primly dressed in dark clothes of a good cut, while the other young woman wore a light summer dress smudged with train soot.

  Kristin could not imagine what they were doing on her porch. It was too late for the train from Denver. The men were streaming by, eyeing the two young women with interest.

  "Zees must be another tavern,” said the dark girl. “We ‘ave once again found ze wrong place, and after being forced to walk up a mountain."

  "Excuse me, ma'am,” said the frizzle-haired girl, “but would this be the Cameron house?"

  "Yes,” said Kristin. She wasn't expecting new workers.

  "Oh, thank God. We've been wandering all afternoon trying to find this place. Are you Mrs. Cameron?"

  "I am,” said Kristin.

  "Well, I'm Maude Bottle, your new parlor maid, ma'am, and this is Yvette Molineaux, your new lady's maid."

  Kristin looked astounded. This had to be Jack's doing. Was he interested in these young women for himself? Looking to them for what she refused to give him? “Are you of good character?” she asked sharply.

  Before Maude Bottle could reply, Yvette wiped her eyes with a linen handkerchief and said, “Madame, ‘ow could you ask such a theeng when I ‘ave come all ze way to zees place of wild Indians and drunken bandits to offer ze finest fashionable care for your person and wardrobe?"

  "There's nothing wrong with my person and wardrobe,” muttered Kristin, but Jack had come up behind her and laid a large, warm hand on her shoulder, confusing her thought processes. She wished he wouldn't keep touching her in public when she couldn't protest.

  "Well, at last. You're the new lady's maid?"

  "Oui. Ze new French lady's maid."

  "You'll be sorry for that, Miz Cameron,” said Abigail Mertz. “I warned you about French folk."

  "Who eez theez unfashionable woman?” demanded Yvette.

  "She's the French cook,” said Jack.

  "Zat eez, believe me, no countrywoman of mine."

  "And a good thing too,” said Abigail, glaring at Yvette and then stomping back to her kitchen.

  Yvette was studying Kristin closely. “Well, madame, I zeenk I can do somezing for you. You have ze exceptional figure and very good hair, if decently styled of course. Once I ‘ave taken over your wardrobe, both as seamstress and dresser, you weel become très chic. Ze only pity is zat zere weel be no one een theez very unchic town who weel appreciate what miracles I ‘ave performed."

  "Including me,” muttered Kristin under her breath.

  "Now, sweetheart,” said Jack. “You're going to love having Yvette. Everyone knows how much women like fashionable clothes and hairdos."

  Kristin glared at him.

  "Now, madame, eef you weel show me where my room eez and zen your wardrobe, we can begin at once. I ‘ave already wasted hours trying to find you."

  "I don't see how anyone could get lost in Breckenridge. Winifred, you've got a new parlor maid,” she called to her housekeeper. “This is Maude, and this woman is my lady's maid.” She shot Jack a dark look. “Obviously you're not satisfied with my appearance."

  "My dear, your appearance is the delight of the whole population, and when Yvette gets through with you—"

  "—you might even look beautiful,” finished Yvette.

  Kristin gritted her teeth. “Find them rooms, please, Winifred."

  That night at dinner, they ate a dish called cassoulet, which Abigail said was the best she could do with what she found in the kitchen, and which everyone else, including Kristin, thought was marvelously delicious—a concoction of beans, onion, sausage and other tasty ingredients; it was the only time Kristin could remember having liked sausage.

  Jack said, “Superb, my dear, Abigail,” earning a superior nod from the new Amazonian cook.

  "Peasant food,” muttered Yvette.

  To which Abigail said, “Well, being a peasant, you ought to know.” Maude served the whole meal so that Winifred, for once, got to eat warm food and stay seated. Everyone congratulated Jack on having hired Abigail. The other girls took to Maude, but Yvette won no friends because s
he was prone to making fashion pronouncements and disparaging remarks on the clothing of her fellow employees.

  "What eez zat zing you are wearing?” she asked Fanny, a look of exaggerated horror on her small, dark face.

  "It's a wash dress,” said Fanny. “You bein’ a lady's maid, you'll probably come to appreciate ‘em."

  "I could never appreciate such a garment,” retorted Yvette and helped herself to more cassoulet, although she had sneered at it.

  "Quiet,” said Ingrid after Yvette's fourth unkind remark, that one about the bold color of Ingrid's gown. “I'm one of the bosses here, so watch your tongue, or I'll tear a few handfuls out of that head of hair you've got all slicked down.” Yvette looked alarmed, opened her mouth to retort, then closed it, thinking better of getting into a squabble with a woman as tall and aggressive as Ingrid.

  Kristin muttered to Jack after dinner, “Look what you've done. Everyone got along perfectly until that Frenchwoman showed up."

  "You'll come to appreciate the services she can offer,” said Jack cheerfully.

  "I didn't need any services."

  "Right. And you don't need jewelry. You don't need new clothes. But I've never heard you say you don't need money, which reminds me, how's that self-portrait coming?"

  "It's a good thing I haven't started,” said Kristin. “No doubt Yvette would disapprove of the gown."

  "If she says anything against that dress, which I happen to think makes you look like a princess, send her to me. I'll put her in her place."

  As Kristin drifted back to her studio, the word princess reverberated in her mind. She had wanted so much to be a princess when she was a little girl, but Jack was the only one who had ever thought of her that way. Of course, why should she believe a word that came out of his mouth? It was probably just the snake offering her the apple in the Garden of Eden, the apple being another night of ecstasy. Well, she wasn't falling into sin again, not with a man who knew nothing about the proprieties of passion. He'd probably want to do the act on a feast day, or right after mass, or some equally shocking time.

  By the light of the long summer evening still coming in her windows, she looked at the lavender dress, which she had hung in the studio. He was right. It was a pretty gown. She closed the door and put it on, then took various poses in front of the mirror. She had taken down her hair and was holding it up in back with one slender hand, her head cocked to the side in a lazy, assessing position when Yvette entered the studio without knocking.

  "Madame, what time will you wish me to prepare you for bed?” Kristin whirled in surprise. “Oh madame, zat shade of lavender eez not chic zis year. You should not—"

  "My husband is very fond of it,” said Kristin. “He wants a self-portrait of me in this dress."

  Yvette squinted from picture to picture where they leaned against the studio walls. “A strangely fuzzy style of painting,” she said.

  "Do you think so? I find it strange that a French woman should say that since it is all the rage in Paris."

  Yvette flushed. “'Ow would you know zat, madame? Surely I ‘ave been in Paris more recently zan you."

  "I have never been there,” said Kristin, “but I am quite familiar with what is happening in Paris art circles, which obviously you are not. You need not attend me any more this evening, Yvette. I intend to stay up painting, and you, having had a long trip, should retire early.” She stared challengingly at the Frenchwoman, who curtsied and left the room, nose in the air.

  Kristin giggled. Perhaps she could get the best of Yvette, after all. Even as she was talking, she had decided that she would do no standard self-portrait. Instead she would paint her own reflection in the mirror with herself standing in front of it and slightly to the side—both back and front of Kristin, her lavender gown, her hair loose and held up with one hand. It would be a challenging experiment, but if it worked, Jack wouldn't be able to say that he hadn't got his two hundred dollars worth.

  She tied her hair back with a ribbon, put a prepared canvas on her easel in front of the mirror, and began to block out the picture, working steadily, her full lower lip caught between her teeth. From time to time, she posed to remind herself of the composition she wanted. From time to time, she loosened her hair and held it back. So engaged was she with her idea and its execution that she did not hear her husband when he opened the door quietly and stepped softly across the room to see what she was doing. He watched, smiling, as she posed again with her hand holding the long strands of flaxen hair away from her neck.

  Jack saw immediately what she had in mind, and his face settled into lines of satisfaction. Whether or not Kristin knew it, she was displaying herself for him in a very seductive way. It would be the portrait of a woman who now saw herself as a sexual being. As such, it was extremely revealing. Jack backed quietly away and left without Kristin ever sensing his presence. He hoped she finished it quickly, for he longed to see it and how she saw herself now that she was no longer an innocent girl. He was winning the game—slowly, but winning. And she didn't even know it.

  "Your breakfast, madame,” called Yvette. No one answered. She turned the knob and pushed, her tray carefully balanced on one hand. Nothing happened. Yvette lowered the tray to the left of the door, turned the knob with both hands, and pushed. The door did not budge. Holding the knob open with one hand, she threw the full weight of her body against the door, which gave an inch with a scraping sound, but still she could not get in.

  "'elp, ‘elp!” she cried. “Somezing ‘as ‘appened to madame. Perhaps some villain has barred her door. ‘elp!” Yvette had a very piercing voice, and although everyone in the house was downstairs except Jack and Kristin, young women began to gather at the foot of the stairs.

  "What's the matter? If Miss Kristin wants to sleep, why don't you leave her alone?” shouted Fanny.

  Winifred came bustling in from the drawing room with Maude; they had been polishing furniture. “Miss Kristin was up late painting,” called Winifred. “Let the poor woman sleep. She was so tired, she forgot to turn her lamps off."

  "Mon Dieu!" cried Yvette. “Zere eez a large object blocking her door. Someone must ‘ave dragged her upstairs from ze studio, and zat eez why ze lamps were left on.” She pushed again.

  The girls in the hall whispered among themselves. Abigail stormed in from the kitchen and mounted the stairs, demanding to know why the mistress's breakfast sat on the floor getting cold. Jack, who had been in his room shaving, came out wearing a blanket bathrobe with satin lapels, barefoot, wiping lather from his left cheek.

  "What's the fuss?” he demanded.

  "Monsieur, you must try to open ze connecting door between your room and madame's. I cannot enter madame's room. I theenk somezing terrible must ‘ave ‘appened, some abductor. I hear zat zees territory ‘as many such persons."

  Jack's mouth twitched with humor. “My poor wife!” he exclaimed. “We must force the door."

  "What's going on?” called Kristin from inside the room. All the noise had awakened her.

  "Madame must be ‘eld at gunpoint by some bandit, who eez forcing her to zound her usual irritated morning zelf, monsieur,” said Yvette.

  "No doubt,” said Jack dryly. “Perhaps I'd best get my rifle.” He went back into his room.

  The braver sausage-makers had now ascended the stairs and were standing in the hall, wringing their hands.

  "Don't worry, Kristin,” called Jack, coming back with his rifle. “We're rescuing you."

  "What?” Inside the room Kristin had climbed out of bed, confused by all the commotion and worried that someone would discover that she kept a barrier between herself and her husband at night. She couldn't decide what to do.

  Jack backed up almost to the stairs, ran forward and hurled his shoulder against the door, managing to force it open a foot, through which he squeezed, rifle first.

  "What in the world is going on?” demanded Kristin, backing up hastily. She was wearing a thin white linen nightdress, ruffled at the throat and wrist
, with blue ribbon and embroidery trim at the yoke. “Why do you have that gun?"

  Yvette slipped in beside him as he said, “Yvette thought someone was holding you captive in here since she couldn't get in with your breakfast tray."

  "Yvette, you're an idiot!"

  "Well, madame, I was seemply trying to deliver your petit déjeuner."

  "Well, in the future don't deliver it ‘till I ask for it,” muttered Kristin.

  Four sausage makers squeezed in beside Yvette and eyed the chiffonier which had been blocking the door. They began to giggle. Jack grinned at his scowling wife.

  "Zeez eez a most peculiar ‘ouse’ old,” said Yvette, giving the chiffonier a shove so that she could stalk out with dignity.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "I don't have time for all this socializing,” said Kristin. “We've been to balls, lectures, dinner parties—"

  "Which is exactly why we need to give a dinner party ourselves. We'll start in a simple way with a few Cripple Creek investors here in town."

  "Sean would expect to bring Augustina, but she wouldn't want to be around Ingrid."

  "Ingrid's going on a selling trip to Aspen. She won't be back until Sunday. Now let's see. We'll need to send invitations and alert Abigail and Yvette."

  "Why Yvette?"

  "For your hair and dress."

  "I'm tired of having Yvette hovering over me,” muttered Kristin. “I'm trying to paint, and she's fiddling with my hair. It's not conducive to artistic inspiration."

  "Then give her the time to do your hair first."

  Kristin was still feeling grumpy because of the embarrassing scene that Yvette had created, making it clear to everyone that Kristin and Jack did not share a bed or room. Now Yvette kept telling her that it would be much more convenient for Jack if there were a door between Kristin's room and his.

  "Zat is ze proper way to handle sleeping arrangements, madame,” Yvette assured her, citing such arrangements among the French aristocracy.

  Kristin had to grit her teeth through all this. She couldn't tell Yvette that she and Jack did not sleep together at all, except for that once, and that Kristin had no intention of doing so again, even if she did dream of him at night and still caught herself making sketches of him—the way his hair sprang thick and lively from his forehead, his heavy brows and fine nose, the tempting definition of his lips, an elbow and biceps. She was getting compulsive about it and couldn't seem to keep either her mind or her pencil under control. Muttering to herself, she went back to her studio and her series of landscapes, the result of her trip on the Georgetown Loop. She wished now that she hadn't closed her eyes. What a sissy she was! That trestle would have made a marvelous picture.