"Frivolities,” he muttered. “I shall pray for your soul."
"Thank you,” said Kristin politely, “and if you should ever want a nice mural, landscape, or portrait, do come by. I live on Nickel Hill. Kristin Traube-Cameron."
"I should have known. Another papist.” Reverend Passmore backed away from her and addressed himself to a table of miners on the dangers of drink, especially drink consumed on the Lord's Day.
Jack returned a half hour later, spotted the Methodist haranguing the left side of the room, and hastened to Kristin's side.
"Did he give you any trouble?"
Kristin finished cleaning off a brush, “He thinks I'm one of the innocents. He could see it in my eyes."
"Remarkably astute of him."
"Where did you go?"
"Did you miss me?"
"No."
"Hard-hearted woman. I was just voted into Connor's volunteer firemen's group. Had to accept the appointment."
"Fires are very frightening,” said Kristin. “Even false fires. I set one at Kat's house by neglecting to open the flue."
"Can't have that,” said Jack. “Maybe I should give you a friendly spanking.” He lifted her from the ladder and whispered, “Pat, pat, pat on your pretty little bottom. I guarantee you'll enjoy it."
Kristin turned pink and tried to squirm away from him.
"It might even remind you to close the flue. I'll make it as memorable as possible."
"I don't have to deal with flues anymore."
"But I'm still a volunteer fireman, and I'm sure it's my duty to mete out appropriate discipline to pretty arsonists. Shall we go home and—"
Kristin, red-faced, got loose and hid behind her ladder. “I haven't finished the forest yet."
Jack snapped his fingers and said, humorously disappointed, “Foiled by a forest. We volunteer firemen hardly ever have any fun."
Chapter Twenty
Talk warmed her up, thought Jack, elated. If he whispered outrageous things into her small pink ear, out in public where she couldn't run or object, she became as flustered as a virgin in a whorehouse. He laughed aloud. By God, marriage was fun! He'd never been this intrigued with the chase before. In fact, he'd never had to do much chasing. Kristin was not only a delight in bed, but a challenge the rest of the time. He might not be Fast Jack Cameron anymore, but he was sure as hell Lucky Jack Cameron.
Now what was to be his next strategy? Another dinner party? He had Chicago investors coming this weekend. He'd mix them up with Breckenridge money and, while they were eyeing one another and distracted by Abigail's superb cuisine, he'd talk another link out of Kristin's armor. Maybe he could slip his wife a bit of wine. Alcohol did things to her—alcohol and suggestive conversation.
Of course, now that she was nearing completion of Maeve's Irish mural, he'd have to set Maude to watching Kristin again—just in case she still dreamed about running away. A man couldn't seduce a wife who wasn't in town.
Kristin trotted down Washington Avenue thinking of her mural. It was like a live thing, a community effort. The picture kept changing as patrons of the Chicago Irishman sidled up to her to share their memories of the old country, to ask if she couldn't put in a church to which they'd gone as children, a priest in black robes with a friendly red nose and a swinging stride, walking on a path by the stream, a long-dead sister picking flowers in the lee of a rock wall, a woman washing clothes as Mother used to do. Her mural was drilling memories from the hearts of men who spent their childhoods in Ireland and their adult lives underground drilling for gold and silver. The scenes grew almost of their own accord like spring weeds, stretching vines of memory to other walls.
And Maeve encouraged the spread, paid Kristin more money than originally agreed upon, delighted in each new element, remembering such people, such places as those described so nostalgically by her Irish customers. The saloon was a great success, patronized at all hours. Men took off work, climbed on trains to enjoy its green nostalgia, closed stores, and asked Kristin what she called this thing or that so they could describe it to wives and children.
Women, made daring by curiosity, peeked in on their way to town to visit the butcher, the grocer, the dry goods store. In fact, an open carriage full of boisterous, laughing women was pulling up to the Chicago Irishman even as Kristin approached it. Such costumes! Bold colors, froths of lace, satin tucks, feather boas, hats more dramatic and sweeping than any Kristin had ever seen, necklines lower than propriety allowed. Who could they be? She didn't recognize them from church or town social events. They didn't shop at Kaiser's or buy overalls at Watson's. Their children didn't attend the school.
Kristin slipped in behind them and scooted over to her ladder, which was at another wall now. James, who was tending bar, greeted the women with laughter and compliments to which they responded in kind, telling him that everyone was talking of his fine new saloon and they'd just had to see it, had slipped away when Marcie wasn't looking. They ordered drinks and took seats at the tables as if their conduct weren't shocking in the extreme. They bantered with James and the smaller afternoon crowd of male patrons.
Kristin climbed down and slipped a sketch book from her satchel, making quick drawings of the women's faces. Unusual faces. One or two were fresh and young but framed old eyes. Some looked worn under paint. All laughed and smiled even when their eyes remained unmoved, or calculating, or even frantic with merriment. There were strange hair colors under the dramatic hats, unnaturally bright hues on cheeks and lips, voluptuous bodies displayed rather than concealed, low necklines during the daylight hours. As she sketched, Kristin remembered the station manager and his words about the women of West Breckenridge.
The suspicion was confirmed when Florida Passmore burst through the door shouting, “Harlots! Repent your sins!” He bore down upon the women, preaching as he came, calling down God's wrath upon them.
Poor things, she thought. Did they really participate in “the act” all the time and with men they weren't even married to, endangering their souls, no doubt struggling under the burden of their sins and trying as hard as they could not to enjoy themselves? And she had thought her lot a difficult one! All she had to contend with was Jack. Reverend Passmore was mean to harry them so. He reminded Kristin of her father. Always reprimanding someone. Never kind or loving. “Leave them alone!” she called impulsively. Her protest came while the minister was taking breath to launch into a new tirade. “Didn't Jesus say that people shouldn't go around casting stones if they weren't perfect themselves? Are you perfect?” Kristin asked, surprised at her own temerity.
Florida Passmore looked astounded. It occurred to Kristin that perhaps no one had ever questioned his perfection. “Spawn of the devil,” muttered the preacher. “Interfering in God's holy work."
Kristin flushed and clambered up her ladder. How had she dared? When she peeked over her shoulder, Passmore had gone. The women in their bright finery were staring at her, as was James, all looking astounded. “You must be a friend of Kat Macleod's,” said one of the women.
"How did you know that?"
"Ain't many respectable ladies take up for the likes of us. I'm Red Melba."
"An’ I'm Genevieve,” said another.
"The hell you are,” said a third. “Jus’ ‘cause we told you ‘bout St. Genevieve like Miz Macleod told us don't mean you kin take that name. ‘Tain't proper."
"Reckon we'd better be gettin’ across the river before the parson goes for the sheriff,” said Red Melba. She lifted her glass to Kristin, drank it down, and led her confederates from the saloon. Several of them leaned over the bar to smack kisses on James's mouth. Kristin was glad Maeve wasn't there to see it. Other patrons wanted to get in on the kissing and were told to visit Marcie's if they were feeling lonely, that loving wasn't free.
Loving wasn't free, mused Kristin when the last painted lady had departed. It was true. Men paid in money, women in guilt. She sighed, wondering how Jack would pay for the kisses he'd stolen from her.
"Afternoon, sweetheart,” said Jack, coming into her studio straight from the railroad station after two days in Cripple Creek. “I brought you a present from Denver."
Kristin tried not to look eager, but Jack did bring wonderful presents. This one couldn't be jewelry because it was a large bundle. Controlling her curiosity, she unwrapped it and revealed a beautiful fabric with an intricate design woven in rich blues and greens. She ran her fingertips over it, marveling at the texture. The weaver must have mixed silk and wool, she thought. But what was it? A fabric length to make a winter dress of?
"Shake it out,” Jack suggested.
Kristin tried to look nonchalant as she grasped the fabric at either edge of the bundle and lifted. As it unfolded, silken fringes rippled at the borders. It appeared to be a great, gorgeous triangular shawl.
"For cold nights in summer and days in winter,” Jack explained. “Thought you'd like the color and design."
Kristin sighed. She'd never seen anything more beautiful, It looked and felt luxuriously, sinfully sensuous. How could she thank him in an offhand manner, this man who was set on tying her to him body and soul? Then, in all likelihood, he'd forget all about her, treat her the way most husbands treated their wives, for she saw that danger too. She hadn't had a full night's sleep since that episode on the picnic blanket. In bed at night, dresser against the door, she thought of Jack, remembered shocking, exciting details that kept her awake. There had been nights when sleep eluded her so thoroughly that she gave up hope, pushed the dresser away from the door, and went downstairs, lighting all the lamps in her studio and painting strange, dark still lifes from which fruit or flowers in luscious colors beckoned the eye. At those times the devil seemed to be her muse.
She could lose her soul for Jack's sake and then be abandoned in all but the most obvious public ways. Sometimes she wondered if she would willingly give up her principles if she were sure that Jack would continue to—but no, of course, she wouldn't. Kristin knew what was right. Sister Mary Joseph had told her.
"You don't have to say a word, love. I can see on your face how much you like it.” Jack looked unbearably smug as she bundled up the trailing shawl. “And now we need to have a discussion. I heard some strange talk on the way home."
Kristin bit her lip. She knew just what he'd heard and tried to pull away from the hand he put at her elbow. She'd already been lectured by Maeve, who was furious that anyone would allow women of ill fame in the Chicago Irishman, much less stand them to a round of drinks, as James had, or defend them, as Kristin had. “Have you no sense of propriety, girl?” Maeve had demanded and given a fifteen-minute lecture on the importance of a woman's reputation.
That lecture had taken all the joy out of Kristin's depiction of an Norman-Irish castle on the second wall. Furthermore, Maeve had looked at the faces of two peasant women dancing in front of the castle and recognized them as harlots from West Breckenridge. She had insisted that Kristin paint them out and put no more strumpets on her walls. No doubt Jack had heard of Kristin's indiscretion.
He seated her in one of the chairs and took the other himself. Between them on the table sat a bowl of apples whose sheen was so delicious that no one could wonder why Eve had succumbed to the lure of their sweet, sharp flesh. Kristin tore her eyes away from the bowl and its contents, which she had painted last night and finished just before dawn; how it was hidden away behind a portrait of Phoebe and Sean Michael at the piano in the drawing room—innocence shielding temptation.
"I certainly admire the Christian charity that led you to face down Reverend Passmore,” said Jack.
"You do?” Surprise jerked her from her thoughts.
"But next time you want to attack him, couldn't you do it on some more worthy subject?"
She scowled. Kat thought those women worthy of her attention. Who was Jack, of all people, to be casting stones? Kristin at least worried about the state of her soul. Jack had the moral sense of a radish.
"Sticking up for sporting ladies isn't a stand that's likely to win you many friends in a small town."
"Sporting ladies? But I thought they were harlots. That's what Maeve said."
"Same thing,” said Jack.
"A sporting lady is a harlot?” Monsieur Louis Dupuy in Georgetown had asked Kristin if she was a sporting lady, and she hadn't even realized that she was being insulted. She'd thought he was talking about basketball, not “the act.” Did men consider “the act” a sport? How despicable! “I suppose you've never patronized women like that,” she retorted.
"Not since I met you, love. You're much more fun in that way, and prettier to boot."
Kristin flushed. Her husband had just compared her to a harlot. She felt like weeping.
"I meant it as a compliment,” he protested, then burst out laughing at the look on her face.
Kristin dropped his gift on the floor in a blue-green heap, stormed out of the room, then paused in the hall because she didn't know where to go, not with Maude jumping up from her seat by the marble table, ready to follow Kristin anywhere. “Are we going out, ma'am?” she asked eagerly. Maude was enjoying the excitement of her watchdog assignment.
"Yes,” said Kristin through gritted teeth. “We're going to visit Mrs. Macleod."
"You figure to tell on me?” asked Jack from the door of her studio. “It won't help.” He was still laughing. “She dislikes me more than ever, but now I own half of the Chicago Girl instead of a fourth, and the Macleods are twice as rich, thanks to me."
"Kat is a woman of principle and Christian charity,” said Kristin. “You are interested only in money."
"Wrong again, love,” he replied, striding toward her so that she was caught between him and Maude. “Come upstairs and I'll tell you what else I'm interested in.” He whispered the last in her ear so that Maude couldn't hear.
Kristin fled out the front door with the parlor maid in pursuit, calling, “Wait for me, Miss Kristin. You haven't even picked up your calling card case. Don't you want your hat? What if it rains? We should stop for your umbrella.” Kristin had reached the street before Maude caught up, without any of the missing necessities for formal Breckenridge afternoon calls in midsummer.
"I'm interested in joining your efforts to bring—bring—” What was Kat doing over in West Breckenridge? “Consolation to those poor creatures on the other side of the river,” Kristin finished lamely.
"I heard how you stuck up for them at Mother's, Kristin, and although I admire the kindly impulse, perhaps you should have considered that you were defending their right to drink strong spirits in a saloon."
"All right,” said Kristin, feeling very ill used. Here she was offering some of her precious painting time to the pursuit of good works—and to spite her husband—and what encouragement had she got? None. Maybe Kat sensed that Kristin was in no position to be counseling women whose sins were of the flesh. “If you don't want my support—"
"Of course I do,” said Kat. “We'll go this afternoon. Maybe we can talk someone into giving up the business."
"Maude goes everywhere with me,” warned Kristin.
"Not to West Breckenridge, I don't,” said Maude. “That's where I draw the line. Mrs. Macleod will have to protect you from yourself, ma'am, if that's where you're going."
"Protect me from myself? Is that what he told you?” Kristin could hardly contain her anger. Did Jack fear, now that he had planted the seeds of lust in her soul, that she might want to blossom elsewhere? In different soil? Of all the nerve! She didn't lust after anyone but him. And that was lust enough for any woman.
Marcie Webber, the proprietor of the Gentlemen's Sporting Club, had more curls than any three women Kristin had ever seen, even any three women in this house, where curls abounded—curls and cleavage. Kristin and Kat had been greeted like old friends, which made Kristin nervous. Although these women didn't know her, perhaps they sensed something in her. Did she communicate silently some sisterhood in sin? Or was she simply uneasy in knowing Sister Mary Joseph would have c
onsidered any association with a harlot very sinful?
Still, it was fascinating—the women with their shocking clothes, the furniture, which looked like Ingrid's red velvet suite that had sat in Kristin's drawing room until replaced by Jack's penchant for ordering anything and everything from expensive Denver and Chicago stores. Of course, Ingrid had been a harlot, which explained her taste in home furnishings. Poor Ingrid. Look at what harlotry had done to her—married, divorced, given to drunkenness, now a sausage factory manager. What a life!
Kat was discussing Reverend Passmore's legal action to force Sunday closing. “Finally, we've done it,” she said triumphantly. “There's not a saloon left open on Sundays."
"Well, that's all very well,” said Marcie, “but he'd better not come here trying to keep me from serving liquor."
More interested in Ingrid than Sunday closing, Kristin wondered whether her partner had confessed her sins to Father Boniface Wirtner. It was quite possible that Ingrid had long ago been shriven, while Kristin, coward that she was, would go straight to hell if she should meet an untimely death while she was still in a state of sin and party to an unchaste marriage. Did pushing the dresser in front of her door at night count for anything, promise her purgatory instead of hell?
"You're mighty quiet,” said Marcie to Kristin when she could insert a word into Kat's discussion of the benefits of marriage, good works, and temperance. “You look enough like Ingrid to be her sister."
"We're partners, not sisters,” said Kristin defensively. “And I'm an artist, so I'm naturally quiet. Artists look instead of talking.” Kristin took another long look at Marcella Webber. “Would you like your portrait painted?” she asked impulsively. Kristin knew that she'd probably try to do those curls anyway, but it wouldn't hurt to be paid for the effort.
Marcie's mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Aren't you afraid for your reputation? You'll never get any commissions from respectable folk if you paint me."
"I don't get any commissions from them anyway,” said Kristin. She'd love to catch that smile with its subtle mixture of experience, humor, and disillusion. Marcella Webber was a beautiful woman, and besides beauty, her face was full of character—not in the sense that most people used the word, but still—
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