After a heated debate, the men decided that Mrs. Cameron's involvement in the church bell explosion might be only a rumor. Nonetheless, Jack felt compelled to tell the story all over town as if it were a great joke.
"If she's not guilty, where is she?” demanded one irate Methodist, who stopped Jack several days later.
"She's in Denver socializing,” he snapped, “and selling paintings. Would a bell dynamiter be keeping such a high profile?” No one in Breckenridge yet knew that she'd run away; the wireless operator had kept his mouth shut. Jack hoped no one in Denver knew, although when the Pinkerton detectives nabbed her, there were bound to be suspicions.
Kristin was torn. She had received a note from the committee that chose paintings for an important Denver art show. The note explained that they had one of her pictures, which had been submitted by Mrs. Cherry; now they wished to speak to her about other entries. Kristin didn't want to leave the house, yet how could she pass up this opportunity? Mrs. Peacock insisted that she go. “Oh, I don't know,” said Kristin, dithering.
"But why, my dear?"
"I'm always being accosted by men. On other visits to Denver, strangers on the street stopped me."
"In that case, I shall accompany you in the family carriage. You'll be perfectly safe."
Kristin considered the offer and decided that Mrs. Peacock was right. No one—not even Jack—would try to detain her against her will when she was in the safekeeping of such a prominent lady. “Very well. I suppose I must,” said Kristin. She did want to. “You're so kind. No artist could have a more thoughtful patron.” Mrs. Peacock beamed, all aflutter at having been named Kristin's patron. Kristin mused happily on what a coup it would be if she could take several prizes in the contest. If so, she could send paintings to Helen Henderson Shane, and they would be snapped up at marvelous prices.
On the morning of the appointment, she and Mrs. Peacock walked down the steps and climbed into the Peacock carriage, much to the distress of the two Pinkerton detectives who were hiding in the shrubbery.
Would it be discreet to take the runaway wife in front of her socialite friend? They had sent the note to lure Mrs. Cameron out but hadn't anticipated that Mrs. Peacock would be with her. By the time they had debated the issue, the carriage had gone, so they followed to the address they had given in the forged note, having decided that it was now or never.
"I'm sure I don't understand,” Mrs. Peacock was saying as she and Kristin left the Tabor Building. “I shall certainly speak to the committee about their carelessness in sending the wrong address."
As they stepped onto the street, two men in bowler hats and unfashionable checked jackets said to Kristin, “We have your husband's permission, ma'am, to escort you home."
Tricked, thought Kristin. I should have known. “I don't wish to leave,” she said.
"Who are you?” cried Mrs. Peacock.
"Pinkertons, ma'am,” they replied and hustled Kristin into a waiting hack.
Mrs. Peacock, thinking her friend and protegee had been abducted, summoned the Denver police, who, accompanied by Mrs. Peacock, followed Kristin and the Pinkerton detectives to the railroad station, where there was a grand confrontation which involved a weeping Kristin, the production of Jack's telegrams by the detectives, and the confusion of the Denver police, scratching their heads and deciding that a man had a right to retrieve his runaway wife. Kristin declared that she didn't want to go back and that she had left her belongings at the Peacock house; she should at least be allowed to return for them. Mrs. Peacock twittered around the scene and decided that it was all terribly Bohemian. She promised to send Kristin's baggage and invited her to visit again if Jack ever let her leave Breckenridge.
"I consider this an abduction,” Kristin told the taller of the two detectives as they assisted her aboard.
"Just doin’ my job, ma'am,” he replied. “You can complain to your husband before day's end."
It was a dreadful trip. She didn't have a sketchbook in her reticule, which left her with nothing to do but think about was how angry Jack must be. He hadn't even come after her himself, as he had the last time. Would he meet her at the railroad station?
He did.
"Good visit in Denver?” he asked. She sulked. “What luck you got home today,” he said. “We've a house full of guests wondering where their hostess is. I hope you're not planning to give them the silent treatment too."
Kristin said nothing, and Jack guided the horses onto Main Street. “You may be interested to know that there are a number of Methodists who hold you responsible for the dynamiting of Reverend Passmore's bell."
"What?"
"Ah, so you can speak! If anyone accuses you, just laugh it off. That's what I've been doing in your absence. Actually, it was your absence that got that rumor started. They figured you committed the crime and fled."
Kristin returned to her earlier silence.
"Yvette's finished a new gown—copy of a Worth, she said. A sort of narrow dress in blue with a flowing, cream-colored coat over it. I've never seen anything like it. Blue embroidery on the cream, cream on the blue. You should look stunning in it."
"Jack, would you please stop talking,” said Kristin. They had reached the house, and quite a crowd awaited them on the veranda.
Yvette said, “Welcome home, madame. In ze future, please inform me of unscheduled departures. I cannot create ze superb wardrobe when you are not here."
Maude said, looking hurt, “You tricked me, ma'am."
Ingrid said, “I hope you got some orders in Denver. The sausages are piling up again."
A strange woman, evidently one of the guests, said, “So nice to meet you at last, Mrs. Cameron. You really shouldn't wear light-colored clothes on the train. You'll never get the soot out of that gown."
"I was abducted while making a morning call,” said Kristin through gritted teeth.
"Abducted?" Laughing and murmuring, the strange woman exclaimed, “Imagine! I must tell my husband. He'll love it."
"Abducted?” said Jack dryly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
While Yvette emptied the bath water and laid out clothes for the dinner party, Kristin started disconsolately out of the window of her bedroom. She was the prisoner of a man determined to engage in unnatural acts on prohibited days. Moreover, she was wildly attracted to him—but not, she tried to assure herself, in love with him. Up and down the second floor hall, she could hear the muted sounds of guests she didn't even know donning fashionable clothes, chatting with one another, completely unaware of her plight. No doubt they found Jack attractive too and failed to realize the sinful underlayer of his character.
Her gloomy musing came to a halt when she noticed the new structure rising in her backyard. It appeared to be a miniature of the house itself. “What's that building across from the dormitory?” she asked Yvette.
"Ah, madame, zat eez your new peeg house."
"Pig house?" Was this some sardonic joke on Jack's part? His way of saying that she had turned his home into a pig house?
"Monsieur Jack has received many complaints from ze neighbors about ze peegs, zo Monsieur Jack, being ze thoughtful gentleman zat he eez, eez building ze house for ze peegs. Eet eez to be heated for zeir comfort in ze winter."
Kristin's mouth dropped open. A heated, neoclassic pig house? Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown. If he meant it as a joke, it was certainly an expensive one. Could he be building it to please her?
"Monsieur Jack, he say to ze carpenter, eet should match ze house zo eet would not be ze—how you zay?—eye illness in ze backyard."
Kristin giggled. So Jack didn't want an eyesore in the backyard. And he was worrying about the comfort of her pigs when the weather became colder. In fact, it was pretty chilly right now as the late summer evening fell. Kristin waited until Yvette had tied her corset strings before implementing her escape plan. “Yvette, I would like a few minutes to myself,” she said.
"Madame, I am not allowed to leave you al
one."
"What do you think I'm going to do? Jump out the window? Now go out into the hall. I wish to spend a few minutes in prayer.” Kristin had estimated correctly that even the pushy Yvette would not deny her private prayer when there was no way for her to escape during her devotions.
Yvette shrugged. “Only a few minutes, madame. We haven't so much time.” Kristin dropped ostentatiously to her knees by the bed as Yvette left, closing the door behind her. As soon as the door clicked shut, Kristin leapt up and hurried to the movable chiffonier for her reticule which contained, fortunately, every cent she had taken with her when she ran away from Breckenridge as well as all the money she had made selling paintings in Denver. It was a considerable amount, and her impulse to keep it with her always was a fortunate one. Although she could take no clothes this time, she would have all her money and her best jewelry.
Hands trembling, she divided the greenbacks into four equal piles and began to force them up under her corset in four different places. She was gasping for breath by the time she had finished. The corset had been very tight to begin with; now it was torturous. She blinked hard, drew a shallow breath, and scooted over to the mirror where she turned slowly to be sure that none of the money peeked out below the boning.
Safe, she thought. Now if she could just get into the new dress without any of her fortune tumbling down onto her petticoat. Drawing another shallow breath, she knelt again, folding her hands piously, bowing her head, and murmuring, “Dear Lord, do let me escape successfully tonight."
She was in the midst of that brief prayer when Yvette reentered. Kristin said, “Amen,” dropped her hands, and rose cautiously from her knees.
"And now ze dress,” said Yvette. “Eet eez a masterpiece."
"I'm sure,” said Kristin. She'd never seen anything like it, but the flowing open coat would be welcome tonight when she was literally running away from home through the chilly evening streets. She stood still, hardly breathing while Yvette dropped the underdress over her head and pulled the waistline into place.
"Madame has put on weight?” she asked, puzzled. The dress was tight.
Kristin pointed out that she hadn't been at home to be fitted.
Yvette muttered to herself in French as she strained the buttons and snaps, tugged here and there at the fitted waist and hip line. “I deedn't notice,” she muttered, “when I was pulleeng ze corset streengs. Could Madame be, perhaps, weeth child?"
"Madame could not,” snapped Kristin. That's all she needed, to find herself pregnant. It was, of course, possible, but she'd better not be. She planned to stay in hiding until Jack became convinced of the unsuitability of their match.
"Madame, why do you look so sad?” asked Yvette.
"I didn't realize I did,” said Kristin. Was she sad? Well, a bit. She and Jack could have had a good marriage if he'd only played by the rules. Still, there was the problem of enjoying oneself. She might never have been able to get a grip on that. Kristin sighed, then winced as four packets of money dug into her ribs and waist.
"Madame eez ill? Or faint?” asked Yvette, frowning. “Take a deep breath and—"
"Oh, stop fussing,” Kristin muttered. As if she could take a deep breath.
"Madame eez irritable,” said Yvette. “Now I shall choose zee jewelry."
"The emeralds,” said Kristin. They were her most expensive pieces.
"Madame cannot wear green with ze blue dress."
"I will wear the emeralds."
"But madame—"
Kristin smiled craftily. “They were a gift from my husband. Need I say more?"
Yvette's eyebrows rose. “If madame treasures ze gifts of her husband, why did madame run off to Denver?"
"Because madame had business in Denver.” Kristin walked slowly to her dressing table so as not to become noticeably short-winded. Running later in the evening was going to be terrible, but she couldn't reach under her skirt on a public street and fish the money out from under her corset. Well, she'd worry about that when she had to. She sat down and allowed Yvette to clasp the necklace around her neck and thread the earrings into her ears.
"Dreadful,” said Yvette. “Een terrible taste."
Kristin looked at herself in the mirror. Actually, she liked the blue and green combination. It reminded her of that lovely shawl Jack had brought her from Denver, which she would have to leave behind again. Perhaps in the separation settlement, he'd let her have it back. He couldn't use it himself. Although he could give it to some other woman. Her heart twisted at the thought of Jack with another woman. Then she remembered smugly that he couldn't remarry; the church wouldn't allow it, unless he managed to get an annulment. Could he? What were the grounds for annulment? Kristin had no idea. And he'd have to petition Rome, so it would take him a good long time.
"Eet eez nice to see ze smile on madame's face,” said Yvette, “even if ze colors of her jewelry and gown are—"
"Superb,” said Kristin. “You simply lack an adventurous eye for color, Yvette. Now do my hair. I thought you said we were short of time."
Grimly Yvette did her hair, using the curling iron to produce dozens of curls, which were pinned and tied into place at the crown of Kristin's head. Yvette stuck pretty much to the same style for evening, but it was a flattering one. Kristin could just imagine what it would look like by the time she reached her destination tonight. If she managed to escape.
Jack eyed the blue-and-cream gown combined with the emeralds. “I guess you like something I've given you,” he muttered.
"Certainly,” said Kristin. “I said thank you."
"Yes, and then ran off.” He put his hand over hers where it rested on his arm and led her to another couple for another introduction. Kristin tried to remember the names this time, hoping they'd prove in the future to be art customers to whom she could make sales. Once the last introductions had been performed, Maude called the party in to dinner, still casting Kristin hurt looks. With a twinge of conscience, Kristin wondered how harsh Jack had been with poor Maude over the temporary loss of his wife.
Mr. Pembroke of Chicago escorted Kristin in to dinner and informed her with relish that the Chicago Traubes were the target of a gossip storm for their treatment of Kristin. Mr. Pembroke then sent her a jolly grin as he seated her and took his own place to her right. “You little dickens. You were probably just itching to get away. I take you for an adventurous girl."
Kristin smiled. He was certainly right about that as regarded her life these last few months, although she had never thought of herself as an adventurer. Even her daydreams hadn't been very adventurous—a handsome prince, a prize in the Interstate Industrial Exposition, that sort of thing. She wondered how the paintings she'd sent to Mrs. Potter Palmer had done. Had they sold? Won any prizes? If money came to the house, she wouldn't be here to receive it.
She sighed and again felt the breathlessness imposed by a money-stuffed corset. Being a runaway was so complicated. Doing one's duty as a chaste, Roman Catholic woman was even more so. She glanced down the candlelit table at her husband, who was flirting with a pretty, dark-haired woman.
During a lull in the conversation as soup was being served, Kristin heard the voice of Maeve Macleod in the hall, saying, “I don't care if she's entertaining the grand emperor of China. I'll have a word with her.” Then Maeve threw open the doors to the dining room. “What's this I hear about your selling those sausage makers?"
Kristin laid her napkin beside her plate and tried to rise. Mr. Pembroke knocked his chair over in his haste to pull hers back for her. Having tried to take too deep a breath, Kristin became dizzy and grasped the table for support, pulling the tablecloth an inch or two and causing a great tinkle of crystal among the place settings. Gentlemen grabbed their wine goblets, ladies their water. “I don't know what you're talking about, Maeve,” said Kristin.
"The sausage girls. I heard you're charging a fee to the fellows who marry them."
"Well, of course. Those ceremonies cost me money."
"You're no better than a procurer,” said Maeve.
The dinner guests gasped.
"I didn't know you were doing that,” said Kat, who was seated halfway down the table.
"Don't complain,” said Connor. “At least, they're not housed at our place any more. We lost money on that operation, you know."
"The idea isn't to make money,” said Maeve. “The idea is to find good places in life for the girls. Marriages—"
"Or businesses,” said Kat.
"I consider your actions extremely unchristian,” said Maeve. “I'm going straight to Father Boniface Wirtner.” She whirled and left the room.
"What was that about?” asked Mr. Pembroke as he helped Kristin into her seat again.
She had to take four shallow breaths before she could answer. “I run a courting parlor on Sundays for the girls who come out here to make sausages and find husbands,” she explained. “Naturally we charge a small fee to cover refreshments, the cost of the weddings, and so forth."
"Amazing,” said Mr. Pembroke. “You're—would you say—a sort of professional matchmaker?"
His wife said, “I belong to Mrs. Potter Palmer's social reform group, and we don't charge for our good works."
"I did too,” said Kristin, “when I lived in Chicago, although I must say my family didn't approve. They were very snobbish about having anything to do with the lower classes, even in a charitable way."
"What a strange attitude,” said another Chicago matron.
"But I persevered. I went out at least twice a week rescuing young women in railroad stations."
"Very commendable,” said a lady from Denver. “We need such a service in our city."
"You certainly do,” said Kristin. “I was abducted from the Union Depot.” She stared meaningfully at Jack.
"The devil you were,” he muttered.
"Yes, indeed,” said Kristin. “I do feel the devil had much to do with it."
"But if you are in sympathy with the goals of the women's movement in Chicago, Mrs. Cameron, why are you charging these young women?"
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