Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "Actually, he didn't,” said Kristin hastily. “I just didn't know what seduction meant, so I misrepresented what happened when I talked to Genevieve."

  "Are you saying you wouldn't have had to marry him if that foolish Patsy hadn't talked all over town?"

  "No, I wouldn't,” said Kristin and thought that she wouldn't have been so deep in sin either—or have found that astonishing pleasure, or know what a man looked like and be having sinful desires to paint him.

  "Well, he seems to be getting richer by the minute. Thank your lucky stars the mistake happened with someone who has a talent for making money. Not that I consider mining a steady business. Saloon keeping is much more to be depended upon. A mine runs out of gold, but men never run out of thirst. My new saloon is on Washington Avenue. Come tomorrow morning."

  "All right,” said Kristin, “but we have to settle on a price,” and the two women fell to haggling.

  When they had at last agreed, Maeve said admiringly, “You've a lot more spirit than I gave you credit for, girl, and a head for money. I like that in a woman. A man too."

  Once Maeve left, Kristin remembered that she had been planning to flee. She could hardly do that now that she had taken a new mural commission. It hurt her feelings that Maeve had thought the mining mural ugly, but the mural of Ireland wouldn't be. Kristin wondered if Maeve wanted leprechauns and fairies. Beautiful green leprechauns and dainty fairies peeking out among the greenery. Although perhaps that scene wouldn't be appreciated by men in their cups. Kristin thought she'd have liked it when she was in her cups, but then she wasn't a man.

  As for running away from home—well, she'd put two pieces of furniture in front of her door and delay her escape until she'd finished the mural. By that time neither Jack nor Maude would be on the alert.

  As Kristin was dancing with some fusty old gentleman wearing a black mask, her imagination was awash in green. While she prepared the walls at the Chicago Irishman for the mural, Maeve had described the country in endless detail between conversations with workmen, wholesalers of spirits, and grocers who would provide supplies for the free lunch. Kristin herself had a sausage order, although Maeve had balked at putting money in Ingrid's pocket and asked frequently when Ingrid would be leaving. Kristin finally thought to reply, “When she has enough money, I imagine.” That was when Maeve ordered Traube's Colorado Sausages for the free lunch. Kat wouldn't sell her butter and eggs, but then Kat was a woman of principle. Kristin just wanted to be rich and avoid the more serious sins.

  She was passed by the old gentleman to another dancing partner, but in imagination she was skipping through the green meadows of Ireland, hunting leprechauns and fairies in the forest, plucking wildflowers, dancing in and out of rustic cottages, circling ancient castles. Green had taken over her imagination to such an extent that she had told Yvette she wanted a green gown for the masked ball and green silk flowers to put in the curls of her hair. Yvette, of course, had argued. “Blue is madame's color. To match her eyes.” “Green,” Kristin had insisted. “There are no green flowers,” said Yvette. “I don't care,” said Kristin. “Everything must be green. And done in time for the ball."

  Grumpily, Yvette had acquiesced and performed her usual magic. Jack had purchased a Singer sewing machine. As a result, the Frenchwoman spent much of her time designing and sewing clothes. While Kristin painted in the studio, Yvette pinned things to her body, talking away about the foolishness of Kristin's modesty. One was not modest with one's lady's maid. One simply stood still and allowed oneself to be fitted, dressed, and coiffed. So Kristin had done sketches for the Irish mural as Yvette pinned and grumbled. Although the Frenchwoman was grumpy and pushy, Kristin was fast becoming the most fashionable woman in town. The new green ball gown was lovely, if a bit bare at the top. It plunged to a deep V front and back, with white tulle bows below the points and catching up the fabric on the skirt to show a green and white flocked underskirt. Jack had certainly approved of the dress, but Kristin didn't notice any other ladies so bare. Most of them had more bosom, but less of it showing.

  Her second partner stepped on the toe of her evening slipper, and Kristin was brought back from thoughts of Ireland and her French maid. Who was he anyway? she wondered. Someone respectable, so she couldn't stamp on his foot in retaliation. Everyone here was respectable. The sponsors of the ball took care of that by ushering each participant into a cloakroom and having them unmask to be sure no rowdies or women of ill repute tried to attend under cover of the required mask.

  Kristin's mask was green satin and edged with pearl drops which, Jack had whispered, matched perfectly the translucence of her skin. Then he had leaned down, his back to the assembled sausage girls, who were there to see them off to the ball, and had flicked his tongue against her cheek, whispering, “You taste as delicious as you look.” Kristin had a fair idea of the color she had turned. Red with a strong dash of cream. What a pity Maeve wouldn't let her paint any fairies into the landscape of Ireland. James had argued for leprechauns, but Maeve wouldn't have them either. Just good Irish folk and Irish cottages in the emerald hills of home. That's what she wanted.

  That's what Kristin would begin to produce tomorrow. Maeve was opening on Sunday in defiance of Reverend Passmore and her own daughter. The grand opening was to feature three-penny beer, which was two pennies less than the cost in Denver, and a real live artist painting Ireland on the walls of the Chicago Irishman. Kristin sighed. She didn't much like the idea of drunken miners watching her paint, but Maeve had assured her that they wouldn't cause trouble.

  Poor Kat, thought Kristin. How embarrassing to have her mother flouting the new law, opening on Sunday, when Kat was the town's foremost supporter of Sunday closing, second only to Reverend Passmore, whose fault it was that Maeve had moved her grand opening to Sunday. Saturday night had been her previous choice.

  However, the previous Sunday the Methodist minister had preached a fiery sermon denouncing women in saloons, which, as he pointed out to his parishioners, was as much against the law as staying open on Sunday. He had declared that the end of the world was coming because of women like Maeve Macleod.

  "I'd like to reclaim my wife, sir,” said Jack. The gentleman bowed and disappeared into the throng of merrymakers. Jack put his hand at Kristin's waist and took her hand in his. He was looking so handsome in his evening clothes and mask, his hair slightly mussed above his forehead. “You've a dreaming expression on that lovely face,” he said, “and I doubt that it was because of your partner. What were you thinking about? Ireland? You look delicious in that gown."

  Kristin flushed. “So you said before,” she replied, trying to sound prim, but knowing very well that her whole body had reacted to that lick on the cheek. “Actually, I was thinking of Reverend Passmore."

  Jack groaned. “Never a more difficult person lived, although your friend, Kat, comes a close second."

  "How can you say that? Kat's as fine a woman as one could hope to meet, whereas Reverend Passmore is preaching sermons against Maeve. I think that's most ungentlemanly."

  "Most,” Jack agreed, eyes twinkling, “although I rather imagine Maeve Macleod can take care of herself. I do believe her tongue is sharper than his, and he can't knock down a woman, even Maeve."

  "I hope he doesn't preach a sermon against me while I'm painting in the saloon tomorrow."

  "What?" Jack's mouth drew into a tight line. Kristin felt smug. He'd been out of town for a few days and had missed the advertisements.

  "I'm the featured attraction of the grand opening."

  "The three-cent beer will be the featured attraction. I'll have to talk to Maeve about this. I don't want you up on a ladder amongst a crowd of drunken miners."

  "You just said Maeve could handle anything, even Reverend Passmore."

  "And if she doesn't? What am I supposed to do? Offer to box with him? The man has lethal fists. I've seen him knock out a burly miner in one blow. I thought you didn't want me to be injured in a fight."

  "I
wouldn't want anyone to be injured,” said Kristin, remembering her impulse to protect Jack's good looks when a Sunday afternoon suitor had challenged him to fisticuffs.

  "Then don't go to the Chicago Irishman tomorrow."

  "I'm contracted to Maeve."

  Jack sighed. “Looks like I'll have to spend tomorrow afternoon drinking three-cent horse piss."

  "Jack?"

  "Sorry.” Jack usually managed to keep from slipping into male-only language in front of his wife, who was so easily, delightfully shockable. To take her mind off his faux pas, he gathered her in close and whirled her around and around, her green skirts flying, a few curls coming loose from her fine French coiffure.

  At first Kristin giggled at the fun of it as they circled in and out among the other couples. Then she said plaintively, “Jack, I'm becoming dizzy."

  He pulled her in closer and said, “Good. Are you going to faint in my arms?"

  "You're holding me too close. People will stare."

  Jack extended the distance between them so that his hand rather than his arm was at her waist. Then he twirled three more times. Kristin's laughter excited him. It was so light and happy, so at odds with the chaste, glum image she was always attempting to project. His wife was a laughing, passionate, talented girl, and he loved to bring out that side of her.

  "I'm going to Maeve's tomorrow,” she said defiantly. “I don't care what you want."

  "Maybe I should tell you what I really want.” He pulled her back in and whispered into her ear, “Remember Denver?"

  She glanced up at him, startled, giving him the opportunity to brush his lips across her cheek.

  "And Mohawk Lake,” he whispered. “Lying on that blanket, just the two of us. That's what I want. To make love to you until you do faint."

  Kristin couldn't believe he'd said that. And in a public place.

  Jack pulled her closer still. “Do you remember how it felt? When I was—"

  "Hush!” Her face flamed.

  "—deep inside you,” he continued into her ear. “Do you remember that, my sweet, passionate wife?"

  Kristin tried to break the hold of his arm at her waist, but he whirled her again, taking the full weight of her body against his when she lost her footing. He felt her trembling and was satisfied for the minute.

  "You're going to get us ejected from the ball as—as the kinds of persons they were looking for in the cloakroom,” she stammered, trying to recapture her poise.

  "All the better,” murmured Jack. “We'll go home together right now. Your room or mine?"

  Kristin swallowed hard but was saved from answering when the music ended and a gentleman in a blue mask claimed her. She thought a blue mask silly on a man. Jack's looked much more dashing. Oh heaven, she mustn't let him rattle her this way! She had to think of something other than the shocking things he'd said to her, which she was sure Sister Mary Joseph would have denounced on the spot, in front of all the dancers.

  "If you're feelin’ overheated, Miz Cameron, we could get some air. You're lookin’ sorta flushed, ma'am.” She recognized the voice of Mr. Henley, one of Jack's hunting companions. He'd gone into the mountains with Jack to retrieve the bear that Jack shot the day they made love on the blanket.

  "I would like some air, Mr. Henley. I've been whirled around once too many times.” Both physically and verbally, she thought.

  Mr. Henley offered his arm and gallantly escorted her to a window, which he threw open. “Is that better, ma'am?” he asked as a blast of frigid air enveloped her.

  She began to shiver. Dancers in their area shouted, “Close that window. You want to start up the pneumonia?"

  Jack appeared and, drawing her away from the window, murmured, “What's wrong, love? Feeling flushed, are you?"

  She felt like a mouse cornered by the house cat, big black Tom, who was planning to devour her. She couldn't ask to go home because Jack would insist on accompanying her. Yet if he partnered her again and said more—

  "Now, don't faint,” said Jack. “I promise to be good—at least for the rest of the evening.” And then he laughed, that warm, rich laugh that coated her nerves like honey on a hot biscuit.

  The whole mural was blocked onto the wall in charcoals, and the Chicago Irishman had been open an hour. This wasn't too bad, thought Kristin up on her ladder, working on a forest. No one had said anything untoward or jostled her perch. Maude was no longer her shadow. Jack had taken over guard duty himself, but he sat across the room, chatting with Robert Foote, who was checking out the competition.

  In fact, Jack hardly glanced her way, which was both surprising and irritating after his shockingly intimate conversation the night before. Then Connor Macleod came in and the two left together, Jack casting a glance at Kristin but not speaking to her. Well, she thought in a huff, that didn't show much concern! Some champion he was. He'd left before any real drunkenness manifested itself. Fortunately, Maeve and James were there to protect her. Kristin turned away from the swinging doors through which her husband had disappeared and began another tree.

  Fifteen minutes later, when she was taking a break on top of her ladder, flexing her wrists and fingers, Reverend Passmore charged into the saloon—rugged, black-suited, breathing fire and brimstone. Kat had not accompanied him, but he was a whole army of crusaders in himself, shouting, “Abomination! Look you!” He pointed to Maeve. “Not only is God's law being broken here, so is the law of man. The Colorado legislature hath spoken long since. Women are not allowed in saloons. It hath spoken in Godly fashion, just this April. Saloons may not stay open on the Lord's Day. Get thee to thy kitchen, woman. Tend thee thy child. Be not a harlot, nor a purveyor of drunkenness, sin, and death unto thy fellow man."

  "Now, see here, my friend,” said James Macleod, who looked like a sprite beside the burly preacher. “That's no way to talk to a respectable woman."

  Maeve walked straight up to the preacher and planted her fists on slender hips. “I've got permission from the sheriff, since it was my money that bought this place, and I've a right to look out for my own business interests."

  "Sinful papist woman!” shouted Reverend Passmore, as if she were hard of hearing. “Daughter of Eve—luring men to lives of drink and debauchery."

  "Off my premises!” Maeve shouted right back. “And don't be talking to me about debauchery, you Protestant hypocrite. There's no debauchery going on on any premises of mine. Just a little good, clean drinking, which every man needs at the end of a hard week's work.” The patrons cheered, and Maeve, who had just hit her stride, continued. “Maybe if you ever did an honest day's work yourself, instead of just working your mouth all over town, interfering in people's private and business affairs instead of minding your own business and the Lord's—"

  "Drinking is the Lord's business,” Brother Passmore shouted. “Drinking is an abomination unto the Lord."

  "Poppycock. The sweet Lord Jesus himself was a drinking man. Why else would he change the water to wine? He had a thirst on him, that's what!"

  "Now there's a sensible woman,” said Jonathan Cooper Fincher, editor and owner of the Summit County Journal.

  "Blasphemy!” shouted Reverend Passmore.

  "Unlike her daughter, who shows signs of insanity on the subject of tipple,” continued the editor.

  "Watch your tongue when you speak of my Kathleen,” Maeve snapped, and glared at the newspaperman.

  "Harken to me,” shouted Florida Passmore. “If there be any Christians among ye, follow me out of this den of iniquity."

  Kristin sat, wide-eyed, on top of her ladder, taking it all in, covering her mouth to stifle a giggle. So far, Florida Passmore hadn't noticed her.

  "God doth abhor a scarlet woman,” said Passmore to Maeve.

  She looked down at her prim gray dress. “You're colorblind,” she retorted. “Now, out of my saloon."

  "The only way you'll get me out, woman, is to call the sheriff. Do it. You're crossways of the law, so he'll have to put you in jail."

  A min
er with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in front of him, from which he was drinking alternately, advised Maeve to ignore the preacher. “He's entertainment, an’ don't cost you nothin', ma'am. More fun listenin’ to a preacher gittin’ all red-faced and hell-bent than watchin’ a girl paintin’ trees on the wall. Me, I thought maybe she'd sing a song or show her knees or sompthin’ when they read yer advertisement to me.” He downed another shot and squinted at Kristin. “Pretty though, but I like ‘em livelier, myself. Whores, that's the ticket."

  Maeve rapped him on the head, but it was too late. The miner had called the attention of Florida Passmore to Kristin, perched on her ladder, brush in hand. He strode in her direction. “Why aren't you home with your children, young woman?” he demanded, spotting the diamond wedding ring Jack had bought her in Denver.

  "I don't have any children,” said Kristin meekly.

  "But you have a husband? Why has he let you come to this sink of sin?"

  "Actually, he was here to look after me a while back, but he seems to have been called away on business."

  "The only business on the Lord's Day is the Lord's business. You should not be working—unless it is in your home, looking after your family. I can see in your eyes that you are one of the innocents—"

  Kristin thought it ironic that he attacked Maeve as a scarlet woman and thought of Kristin, who was a sinner in an unchaste union with the devil, as one of the innocents.

  "—a simple female who has been led astray,” continued Passmore in his booming voice.

  "I'm just painting a mural,” said Kristin. “Maybe you'd like one for your church. How about a depiction of Christ saying, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me'? I'm very good at children.” Maybe if he thought he was saving her soul, she could get a commission. “I'd be glad to show you samples.” She'd have to borrow from Kat and Maeve, and Reverend Passmore might not want to look at pictures of Roman Catholic children.

  "My church is made beautiful by the faith of its worshippers,” said the minister.

  "Well, I could paint some of your worshippers. Maybe they'd like a portrait of you."