"I was hoping I might talk you into doing a picture for the church. Perhaps Christ and the children."
"All right,” she said. “I'll do it.” And she backed away. “Good-bye, Father,” she called over her shoulder, leaving the priest standing in the street looking surprised. Now she'd have to send him a picture. From somewhere. Was that the train? Was it pulling in or leaving?
"Oh, Mr. Cameron,” cried Maude as Jack entered the house for his noonday meal. “I'm so worried. Poor Mrs. Cameron was very ill this morning.” Jack felt his heart jolt with anxiety.
"She took a chill last night at the bell dynamiting. I got her the Little Early Risers and—"
"I'll go right up and see how she is,” said Jack.
"But that's just it, sir. She's not there. Or anywhere in the house, and no one saw her leave. Do you think she could have been kidnapped? I've heard as how Mrs. Macleod was kidnapped. Maybe this is a bad town for it."
"You were supposed to keep your eye on her every minute,” said Jack.
"But sir, she needed medicine. What could I—"
"You could have sent someone else. Yvette."
"Yvette don't run errands, sir. She's too grand."
"She can damn well do whatever she's told,” snapped Jack. “Oh, what the hell! Probably doesn't make any difference now.” He strode down the hall to the studio. The first thing he saw was that Kristin had finished the self-portrait. It was on the easel, beckoning him. The sight of Kristin in her lavender gown turned his heart over. She was so beautiful, so seductive in her innocence and passion. Almost as beautiful as she'd been that night on the rug in her white nightdress—and out of it. But he'd taken her too far that night, much too far. He'd let himself be carried away. Then he discovered that almost all the landscape paintings were gone. “Yvette!” he shouted.
"We're about to eat, sir,” said Yvette primly. “Was there something you wanted?"
"Get yourself up to Mrs. Cameron's room and see if there is clothing missing."
"Missing? Mon dieu, monsieur, you theenk there ‘as been a thief in the house, a clothing thief?"
"Just get up there and find out,” snapped Jack.
Looking huffy, Yvette left. When she returned, she reported to him, lifting carefully one finger at a time, “Zee navy blue travel suit eez gone, an’ zee forest green."
When Yvette got to the tenth item of clothing, Jack interrupted. “In other words, she's taken a trip."
"She said notheeng,” Yvette replied. “How could she take ze treep weezout her lady's maid?"
Jack started for the door. “Damn women. You can't trust a one of them,” he was muttering under his breath as Abigail appeared and said, “The meal is getting cold. Both you and Mrs. Cameron are supposed to be eating in. I expect notice if—"
Ignoring her. Jack walked out and slammed the door behind him, leaving all the sausage girls round-eyed in the hall. His first destination was the ladies’ stop. Kristin had not climbed aboard there. She must have boarded in West Breckenridge. And she called him shameless!
He turned his horse toward the West Breckenridge Depot, where the station master was happy to give him a lecture on the proprieties of train travel on the Western Slope.
"I take it my wife boarded here,” said Jack.
"She did, sir, although I told her, not for the first time—"
"What direction?"
"Ticket to Denver."
Jack nodded and left without another word, sent a telegram to Pinkerton's in Denver to be on the lookout for her, and went back to eat a cold dinner. He'd be damned if he was going after her again. Let the detectives bring her home. She was probably traveling on the wardrobe money he had given her before she ran away the first time.
Well, they'd catch her. He'd given permission by telegram to detain her as a runaway wife, hoping that would be enough to get the job done. The wireless man had gaped as Jack dictated the message, so his marital troubles would be all over town by nightfall. Damn her!
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kristin kept her eyes closed as the train began the steep climb to Boreas Pass. At the Washington Spur, she started the multiplication tables, which took so much concentration that she wasn't even sure when the train crossed the Gold Pan Trestle. Once at Boreas Pass, she felt safe enough to take out her sketchbook, which fell open to the drawing of Jack, lying on the bearskin rug before the fireplace. She turned the page, but the picture stayed in her head, much more fixed than the multiplication tables.
The sketch called up that night with him, which she was even now trying to escape in mind and body. She had since discovered that as well as copulating on Sunday, which was strictly forbidden, the second act had been committed on Monday, which would have been acceptable except that particular Monday had been a feast day. Kristin could never keep track of all the feast days, but Sister Mary Joseph's admonitions stayed in her head. Not Wednesday through Sunday. Not during Lent, Rogation Days, Advent or Pentecost. Not on feast days. How many days did that make in all? Forty each in the case of seasons like Lent, plus all the others. It was a wonder any wedded couple ever had a baby if they were living in a chaste married union, which she and Jack certainly weren't.
Not only was there the matter of days and enjoyment, but of unnatural acts. She felt the color rise to her cheeks as she thought of the places Jack had kissed her. Certainly that was unnatural kissing. She was double-damned for permitting and enjoying it. Shocking ideas had filtered through her brain that night, ideas for things she might do to him, planted there, no doubt, by things he was doing to her.
She looked down at her sketch pad and found it covered with naked parts of Jack—biceps, abdomen, large muscles of the thigh, Jack half clad in his dressing gown, a sinewy foot, a delicious knee, a tempting ear—she had barely escaped putting her tongue in it that night. Her one consolation was that she hadn't sketched his pleasure appurtenance in either of its two states.
With determination, she put pencil and book into her reticule to keep temptation away from her naughty fingers. Because of this obsession with Jack's body, she might have to give up art. No, she had to learn control. First, she must confess her sins. She'd find some stranger priest in Denver, or wait until she reached her final destination, which wasn't going to be any tourist train making an endless loop in Colorado. Where should she go? Chicago! He'd never think of looking for her there. She'd get off in Denver and board a train to Chicago.
If she had to wait, she could make a confession in Denver. If not, there were plenty of churches in Chicago. Also in Chicago she could visit Mrs. Potter Palmer with the landscape series. Mrs. Palmer would find buyers, and with the money Kristin would go—to Paris! Even if Jack hired detectives, they wouldn't cross the ocean to look for her. In Paris, she could be the famous, mysterious American artist, whose marital status was unknown because she never spoke of it. Maybe she could meet Mary Cassatt. On that thought, she leaned her head against the seat back and fell fast asleep, dreaming of Jack all the way to Denver.
With a porter carrying her two bags, Kristin headed for the ticket window to inquire about a train to Chicago.
"Yoo hoo, Mrs. Cameron, Mrs. Cam-er-on."
Oh lord, thought Kristin. Was she caught all ready? Were there female detectives? She tried to ignore the voice, but couldn't ignore the tug at her arm.
Turning anxiously, Kristin recognized the woman but couldn't recall her name. She had been one of the guests, a silent one, at the dinner party where Kristin and Jack had made such fools of themselves.
"I'm so sorry that I didn't get to speak to you before we returned to Denver,” said the lady. “To thank you for your hospitality. The dinner was—ah—” The woman blushed. So did Kristin. “—very unusual,” the lady stammered. “You don't remember my name, do you? I'm Celeste Peacock."
"Oh, yes. How nice to see you again,” said Kristin, glancing at the ticket window anxiously. A line was forming. What if, by the time she got away from this woman and had waited her turn, the train to C
hicago had already departed? “Well, good-bye."
Mrs. Peacock grabbed her arm. “I particularly wanted to speak to you because—"
"Most kind of you,” said Kristin, trying to get loose.
"—because I wanted to buy one of your paintings. If you could see your way clear—"
Kristin stopped. Her first respectable commission in Colorado from someone other than Jack. “You mean you want me to paint something for you?” she asked.
"Or sell me one of the beautiful landscapes I saw in your studio.” Mrs. Peacock was a pale woman with a sweet face, mousy hair, and an expensive brown outfit. “I'm a native Coloradan, you see. I was born at Gregory Gulch during the early placer strikes, and I haven't seen any paintings that I thought captured the beauty of my state so well as yours."
A Denver socialite who wanted to buy a painting! She certainly couldn't pass this up. How much should she ask?
"I know, of course, that they'll be expensive,” said Mrs. Peacock, “but my husband's very indulgent. He's already said I can have two."
"Two?"
"Yes. I don't suppose you have any with you?"
"Well, as it happens—"
"Oh, my goodness, you do. How wonderful! You must come home to tea. May I choose any I like?"
"Yes, certainly,” said Kristin, casting one last glance at the ticket line. A lot more people had joined it, and the station was becoming crowded. Maybe it would be safer to get out of Union Depot, where detectives might be looking for her. They wouldn't think to look at Mrs. Peacock's.
"I have a carriage outside. Where are you staying?"
"Well, I—I haven't registered anywhere yet,” said Kristin, trying to remember the name of some hotel other than the Windsor. Jack would certainly look for her there.
"Then you must stay with us. How exciting! To have such a talented artist as a guest!"
Kristin's heart tripped happily. She found that she really liked Mrs. Peacock. Such a nice lady. She could stay with them overnight, then slip out of town tomorrow when she had the money for the paintings. Kristin signaled to the porter and off she went with Mrs. Peacock, who invited Kristin to call her Celeste.
"Which paintings did you like best?” Kristin asked.
"Oh, I liked them all. Which have you brought?"
"Colorado landscapes."
"Those are just the ones I want."
The women climbed into the carriage chatting about art. Because Mrs. Peacock expected to pay more than Kristin would have asked, Kristin's heart was fluttering with financial joy by the time they reached Capitol Hill.
"That's H.A.W. Tabor's home,” said Mrs. Peacock during the ride. “The one he built for Augusta Tabor, his first wife. He divorced her and married Baby Doe. I'm sure you've heard that story."
Kristin shook her head.
"Soon we'll pass the house he built for Baby Doe. It was quite a scandal in Colorado society, but perhaps you're not interested in gossip."
"Oh, I'm interested in everything,” said Kristin exuberantly.
"Wife seen disembarking at Union Depot, Denver. Left with unidentified woman. Send instructions."
Jack stared grimly at the telegram. Who the hell had met Kristin at the station? Perhaps some female artist was hiding his wife. “Canvas Denver art colony,” he telegraphed back and went about his business, feeling as bad-tempered as a man could.
In less than four hours, Kristin was on her way to becoming the toast of Denver society. They had no sooner reached the Peacock house than Mrs. Peacock whispered instructions to her servants, who scattered through town inviting people to dinner. Mrs. Peacock broke the news to her guest after an hour spent exclaiming over the six canvasses and choosing the two she wished to buy.
"And now, my dear, I have a lovely surprise for you, which I hope you will enjoy as much as I intend to,” she said and announced that the cream of Denver society had agreed to break whatever engagements they had in order to attend a formal dinner at which Kristin would be the guest of honor.
"I didn't bring a dinner dress,” said Kristin. Even that difficulty did not deter Mrs. Peacock. She offered Kristin the use of her stepdaughter's wardrobe, which included a yellow dinner gown. Yellow was chic that year. Yvette had told Kristin so a million times, bemoaning the fact that a woman of Kristin's complexion could not wear yellow. Surprisingly, with tucking here and letting out there, the gown looked magnificent with its short train and Medici collar. She wore Jack's emerald necklace, which she had brought along to sell.
"Stunning, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Peacock, who was more interested in the toilette of her guest than her own. She appeared wearing brown. Again. That evening, the four remaining landscapes were snapped up at fifty dollars apiece by dinner guests, and everything Kristin said was considered witty and Bohemian. Two days later, the Rocky Mountain News reported that Mrs. Kristin Traube-Cameron, the beautiful, talented wife of Colorado's newest financier, John Powell Cameron of Breckenridge and Chicago, was a new star shining in the firmament of Denver society.
Appalled to see her name in the paper, Kristin stopped going out. She reasoned that Pinkerton detectives would not invade the Peacocks’ house to get at her. Couples who had not had the good fortune to buy one of the six landscapes begged her to paint them one immediately, which she did. Mrs. Peacock, twittering with delight, set up a studio and sent her servants fanning out over the city buying art supplies. Kristin refused all invitations to tea, dinner, the theater, or any other out-of-house social events, claiming bondage to the artistic muse. She hoped that Denver gossip would not reach Pinkerton's or Breckenridge before she had milked every last cent she could from this unexpected good fortune.
Her greatest regret involved all the ladies who declared that they intended to spend the following summer in Breckenridge so that she could do their portraits. They asked her advice on what houses might be available to renters. Kristin hated to miss so many potential clients but couldn't warn them that she would not be in Breckenridge next summer. All these proposals kept Jack on her mind because she would not be with Jack next summer either. So she sighed and painted, getting richer and sadder as a week passed.
"Wife with Peacocks on Capitol Hill. Toast of Denver Society. Please advise."
Jack swore and crumpled the telegram. What the devil was she doing staying with his friends, the Mortimer Peacocks? Had she told them why she wasn't at home? He found himself in a foul mood, for he too was the center of attention. Four neighbors appeared at his door to demand that he control his pigs, who rooted in their yards and wandered into their houses. It did him no good to point out that the pigs weren't his. His neighbors said, “Well, where's your wife? Tell her.” To take care of the problem, Jack hired a carpenter to build a pig house.
"Never built a pig house,” the carpenter said. “Don't know what one looks like."
Neither did Jack. “Make it look like the main house, so it won't be too unsightly. And you'd better heat it,” he added, “or the damn pigs will freeze to death this winter."
Shaking his head, the carpenter began to build a Greek revival, heated pig house in back of the old Fleming mansion. The Summit County Journal reported the project.
Jack wired the Pinkerton detectives, “Bring her back home discreetly, but make it fast."
Helen Henderson Shane came to call and gave Kristin the money, less commission, from the sale of Aunt Frieda's portrait, which had been acquired just the day before as a result of the many newspaper articles about Kristin's great social success in Denver.
"Newspaper articles,” Kristin echoed in a weak voice. She had thought they'd stop now that she was staying in.
"Oh yes, my dear. You're the talk of Denver."
If she was the talk of Denver, her husband could have found her. Obviously, he wasn't interested anymore. And why should he be? A woman who'd sell her own aunt. Frieda should be hanging on her wall, not some stranger's. At least, she now no longer needed the money so badly. Feast or famine. That's what her life had turned into.
But the portrait was sold. There was nothing she could do about it.
After Mrs. Shane, three more ladies came to call, one who had bought Aunt Frieda's portrait and now wanted one of herself. One wanted her children painted, one her husband, and all promised to come to the Western Slope the following summer for the sittings, although Kristin suggested that they have photographs made from which she could do the portraits wherever she might be. However, the ladies insisted on coming to Breckenridge, having heard about her deliciously Bohemian household.
Kristin was amazed to find life at the old Fleming mansion so described. What had they heard? About the dynamiting, the dining room table falling into the cellar, the pigs nuzzling the guests’ ankles, sausage girls underfoot? Well, she supposed Bohemian was in the eye of the beholder.
"Mrs. Cameron never leaves house,” telegraphed Pinkerton's. “Should we go in after her? Please advise."
"Lure her out,” Jack telegraphed back. He returned home to find a committee of Methodists awaiting him in the drawing room, looking very grim.
"Word has it, Mr. Cameron, that your wife hired rowdies to dynamite our church bell."
"Nonsense,” said Jack. “Why would she do that?"
One of the men sighed. “Because of the sermon Brother Passmore preached about contaminating associations. We're sorry about that, but she shouldn't have dynamited our bell. We think she ought to pay for a new one."
"She didn't do it,” said Jack angrily. “She's terrified of dynamite. Surely you've heard that our dining room collapsed into the cellar in the middle of a dinner party as a result of dynamite."
"I had heard that,” said a third member of the committee. “But we find it very suspicious that your wife left town the morning after our explosion. Rumor has it that you yourself don't know where she went."
"My wife's whereabouts are our business,” said Jack, “but in her absence I am quite prepared to take you to court for slandering her."
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