Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Kristin had been given the attic at the sporting club. It had two dormer windows, makeshift furnishings, and a heavy lock on the door at the foot of the stairs. In the morning, when there were no customers in the house, Kristin worked on the mural in a room beyond the parlor. Marcie planned to knock the parlor wall out once Kristin had finished the mural and gone.

  During the afternoon, when business picked up, the dormer windows in the attic let in enough light for her to paint. At sundown she went to bed and listened nervously to the noises that drifted through the closed door and up the stairs to her attic hideaway—music, laughter, screams—lord, she didn't dare think about what was going on down there. Those poor girls. Since it often took her a long time to fall asleep, she prayed for their souls and her own, still unshriven and now living in a house of ill repute. Would the Holy Mother understand that she was doing her best to be a chaste woman, even if her methods were unusual?

  Kristin hated to admit it, but she was having a wonderful time painting the mural downstairs. How unfortunate that sin was so jolly! Her mural showed laughing women in bold, shocking clothing, breasts pressing up from low necklines and tight corsets. The men were faceless blurs or turned away from the artist's eye, since Kristin had never encountered any after the first night and imagined that was the way the girls saw them. Surprisingly, there had been some complaints on that score, for the girls did have favorites among their customers and wanted them included. Kristin refused. She didn't want to know who they were, the men that came here. Let them imagine themselves part of the fun, she said, and went right on doing it her way. Marcie agreed, doubting that her customers would want to be memorialized on a parlor house wall.

  From her memories of Ingrid at the piano on Sunday courting afternoons, Kristin painted a woman at a piano. Another figure stood primping in front of a mirror. One smoothed stockings up above a daring knee. Marcie oversaw the whole with her enigmatic smile.

  In the afternoons when Kristin was locked away in her attic with a cold supper, she worked on Marcie's portrait, but she finished that the second day, then debated how she should use the few canvasses she'd brought along, the limited supply of paint. She owed Father Boniface Wirtner a picture for the church. Would doing it here be an offense against God or a way to gain forgiveness? She blocked it out, worked on the background, and did some of the children. But she couldn't do the Christ figure, not with the goings-on downstairs, so she started another painting, hoping she could return to the picture for St. Mary's later.

  After her nighttime vigils at home, Kristin was becoming used to painting in strange lights, so Marcie glowed out of the darkness—beautiful, mysterious, cynical. The finished portrait touched chords in Kristin's heart. She prepared a long piece of canvas and began to paint Jack from memory as she had seen him that night by firelight. Of course, she would have to destroy the canvas, but still she felt compelled to paint it. While she was here in this attic, she had perfect privacy. No one came up the stairs. The flames leapt out of the dark hearth on the canvas, highlighting the man on the bearskin rug. There was a satanic quality to the shadowed body, a grace that was too enticing to be pure.

  As she worked, she thought of her first portrait of Jack—the shallow rake who thought of no one but himself. That painting had been an insult, deliberately so, and hadn't done him justice because, as she knew in her heart, there were many more sides to Jack than the Jack who had been a man-about-town in Chicago. The one she painted now was the man she had seen since their marriage, the sensual side that both tempted and frightened her, that had brought her to his bed and then sent her running away.

  The first picture had as its background a busy Victorian room. This one had flames and darkness. It represented the danger to her soul that her attraction to Jack meant. And yet she knew in her heart that there was another level to Jack—laughing, generous, kind—a Jack she could talk to, a Jack whose company she enjoyed. That side of him drew her as well, but she could not paint Jack, the friend, lest she fall completely under his spell. Therefore, she painted Jack as the devil's tempter, and it was a brilliant picture. What a shame, she thought, that it would have to be destroyed.

  "What kind of man,” said Reverend Florida Passmore, “allows his wife to reside in a house of sin, in a haunt of fallen women? Or turns his head when she works in a saloon on the Lord's Day?” The Sunday Methodists gasped and murmured among themselves. To whom was he referring?

  "A husband has a duty,” said Reverend Passmore, “to see to the welfare and decent conduct of his wife. A godly husband will keep this duty in mind."

  Male Methodists glanced sideways at their wives, wondering if any of them had visited saloons or brothels. Surely not.

  Kat Macleod heard about the sermon from Methodist friends before the day was out. They wanted to know what woman, beside her, would visit a “haunt of fallen women.” Kat's mission in West Breckenridge was well known and considered little more than an eccentricity on her part. But Methodist ladies knew that Kat Macleod, Breckenridge's foremost female temperance advocate, would never have visited a saloon unless it was to demonstrate, which she did with Reverend Passmore, and before him Father John Dyer. So who was the lady in the sermon? they wanted to know.

  Ah-ha! Kat thought. That's where Kristin had gone. Without revealing her insight to members of the Methodist Ladies’ Aid Society, Kat marched across the Lincoln Avenue Bridge to Marcie's house, days early for her monthly discussion of saintliness with Marcie's girls.

  "All right,” said Kat to Marcie, “where is she?"

  Marcie sighed, “I don't know where that damn Brother Passmore gets his information,” said Marcie. “She's in the new room doing a mural."

  "I'm surprised you don't have her painting in the parlor while the customers are here,” said Kat. “Neither you nor Kristin nor my mother has an ounce of sense."

  "Give me a little credit,” said Marcie. “We won't knock down the wall to enlarge the parlor until she's finished, and I have her safely locked away in the attic during business hours."

  "Whose idea was it that she come here?"

  "Hers, of course,” said Marcie. “She's running away from her husband."

  "Well, you didn't have to take her in."

  "What was I to do, let her wander the streets by herself in the middle of the night? She claims that he makes unnatural demands on her."

  Kat frowned. “She said the same thing to me, but I thought they'd settled their differences when she came back from Denver."

  "Evidently not,” said Marcie.

  "I even thought she might be with child,” said Kat.

  "If she is, she hasn't mentioned it. Poor thing, she's such an innocent. As soon as she said unnatural, I had to take her in. You'd think Jack Cameron, if he has strange tastes, would know enough to indulge them elsewhere."

  Kat nodded. “The question is, what does she think constitutes unnatural? It could be quite innocuous."

  "Well, she wasn't specific, if that's what you're asking. Go in and talk to her. Maybe you can find out.” Marcie escorted Kat through the parlor to the door of the new room. “As soon as the first customer knocks,” she explained, “we send her straight up the stairs."

  "So she's never seen one of them?"

  "Nor they her, unless someone noticed her the first night. It's as respectable as I can make it. I don't know how that nosy preacher heard about her being here."

  "Florida Passmore can smell out scandal,” said Kat. “He's a good man for temperance, but otherwise, I'll take John Dyer any day. What do you do about feeding her?"

  "Well, we're a two-meal house. She eats a cold supper in her room and takes breakfast with us.” Marcie chuckled. “She's been spinning my girls some crazy tale about an elk prince and princess. I can tell you, they'll be sorry to see her go. They love that story."

  "But that's the one she told my children."

  "Well, my girls are children at heart,” said Marcie. “Children in their heads, a hundred years old in their bod
ies, if you know what I mean."

  Kat sighed. She'd rescued a few of Marcie's girls, not many.

  Marcie opened the door, and Kristin called, without even turning around, “What do you think, Marcie?"

  "I think a friend of yours has come to visit."

  Kristin twisted, almost falling off the ladder. The two women helped her down. Kat looked first at Kristin, then at the mural. “Is that the way you see these women? Believe me, their life isn't so merry."

  "No,” Kristin agreed, “but it helps them to think it is."

  Marcie nodded thoughtfully. “You're right. They love the painting. It makes them believe they're beautiful and happy."

  "Could you leave us alone, Marcie?” asked Kat.

  "It's no use your talking to me, Kat,” said Kristin. “I'm not going back, if that's what you've come for."

  "You can't stay here forever."

  "I'll slip out of town when he least expects it."

  "Is he really that terrible a husband?"

  Kristin brushed back a straying lock of golden hair. “It's not only his fault. It's mine as well,” said Kristin, being honest with herself and Kat for once. “Do you realize that I haven't been to confession since I arrived in Breckenridge? Jack's a sinner, and if I stay with him, he'll draw me irretrievably into his web."

  "Marcie, maybe you should leave us,” said Kat again.

  As soon as Marcie had closed the door behind her, Kat said, “Kristin, has it ever occurred to you that the things that go on between married couples have just taken you by surprise? They may be perfectly normal, and you—"

  "I hope you're not saying that you participate in unnatural acts,” said Kristin, remembering all the laughter, sighs, and groans that went on in the tower room when she lived at Kat's house.

  Kat flushed. “Connor and I are a normal married couple,” she said with a bit of asperity in her voice. “The only unnatural thing about our relationship is that we're happy together, but we had to work at that. Maybe if you'd let yourself be happy with Jack—"

  "I thought you didn't like him."

  "I don't, but you're married to him. He doesn't beat you, does he?"

  "No,” said Kristin.

  "As far as I know, he hasn't been unfaithful to you."

  "I wouldn't be surprised if he had. His appetites are—” She flushed and fell silent.

  "You're Roman Catholic. You can't divorce."

  "We could separate. Then if he wants to, he can get an annulment—maybe. I certainly never want to marry again."

  "Maybe you'd better tell me what's been going on."

  "Absolutely not,” said Kristin.

  "At least go to Father Boniface Wirtner. Come on, I'll take you myself."

  "No,” said Kristin.

  "Sweet Jesus, you're a stubborn woman! You can't stay in a whorehouse."

  "Parlor house. And I've only been here a week. In another week, he'll have forgotten about me, and I can get out of town."

  "You're fooling yourself,” said Kat. “The man's crazy in love with you. I wouldn't be surprised to know that you're in love with him."

  "I'm not,” protested Kristin. “And I'm not leaving Marcie's.” It would be a really terrible sin to love a sinner like Jack. She was just infatuated. As she had been when he was Minna's fiance. Wasn't she?

  Jack studied Connor Macleod. He'd never seen his friend more ill at ease. Something terrible must have happened at the Chicago Girl, something for which Connor blamed himself. A flood? Explosion? Lawsuit bringing in question their ownership? Just what he needed. Another damned worry to add to those he already had about his wife. “Well, spit it out, Connor. What's happened at the mine?"

  Connor looked surprised. “Well, actually, Mortimer thinks he's hit a new four-inch vein. It appears to branch off right at the edge of our claim, but he's pretty sure we hold the apex."

  "So you're worried about litigation?"

  Connor sighed, slumped down in his chair across from Jack's desk, and crossed his boots at the ankle. “Kat made me come,” he mumbled.

  "She wants me to sell out the Cameron share."

  "Got nothing to do with the mine."

  "Then what?” Connor was making him nervous. A man more at ease in his own skin or happy with his own lot than Connor Macleod never lived—at least, not in Jack's experience. Now Connor was acting as if he had picked Jack's pocket and come to confess.

  "It's about Kristin."

  "Let me guess. Kat's been hiding her. Probably got her in your house, and you never noticed."

  "No, but she knows where Kristin is."

  "And she didn't tell me? My lord, does she have any idea how worried I've been?"

  "Surely someone's told you about Passmore's sermon."

  "About contaminating associations?"

  "Not that one. The one about—” Connor stopped and scratched his chin. “Look, Jack, Kat went to see your wife as soon as she heard where—well, she even advised Kristin to go home, but your wife seems to feel—ah, that you—ah—"

  "For heaven's sake, man, what's she upset about this time? The Pinkertons? The heated pig house? The—"

  "Unnatural demands,” mumbled Connor.

  "What unnatural demands?"

  "How do I know? She didn't spell it out for Kat, but she thinks she's going to hell because you—ah—hell, I don't know exactly what it is, but girls—some of them come to marriage without knowing what to expect. It takes them a while—or maybe you're not used to—"

  "Horse hockey,” snapped Jack. “I've been with enough women to know who's having fun and who isn't. Kristin did."

  "Well, hell. Maybe Kat got the wrong idea."

  "Right. So where's Kristin?"

  Connor thought a minute, said he guessed he'd fulfilled his part of the bargain with his wife, and admitted, “She's at Marcie Webber's."

  "The whorehouse?” asked Jack, astounded.

  "Yep. Mornings when there's no customers, she's painting a mural in the parlor. Rest of the time she's in the attic doing Marcie's portrait. Reckon you'll want to be getting over there right now."

  "The hell I will,” said Jack. “This time she's going to have to come home on her own.” He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a bottle and two glasses, and poured, shoving one of the glasses across the desk to Connor.

  "Little early in the morning for me, and I'm not much of a drinking man anyway."

  "Fine.” Jack retrieved the glass and set it beside his. “A whorehouse. My wife's accusing me of unnatural demands, but she doesn't mind living in a whorehouse?"

  "You still ought to go get her. If you don't, she'll sneak out and catch a train."

  "No, she won't. I've got men at both stops and a deal with every livery stable in town. Now I'll hire one to watch the Sporting Club. She sets foot out of Marcie's, I'll know it.” Jack downed the first glass and picked up the second. “Sure you don't want to get drunk with me?"

  "There's a lady askin’ for you, ma'am,” said the scantily clad maid.

  Marcie looked up from her weekly accounts to see a heavily veiled woman in her doorway, a woman who might have been on her way to a funeral. “Ingrid,” she cried a minute later when the woman had undraped the black veiling. Marcie rose to give her a hug. “How long has it been?” she asked when they were both seated and having coffee.

  "Long time,” said Ingrid. “Lotta things happened since."

  "I guess. I own this place free and clear, and I hear you have a half interest in a sausage business."

  "That's what I've come about. My partner. I hear she's livin’ in your attic."

  Marcie nodded. “If you'd been a day earlier, you'd have heard her telling my girls some crazy story about an elk princess being abducted by an evil elephant who's fallen in love with the princess and stolen her from her true love. For a woman who's running from a handsome husband, she certainly has romantic ideas."

  Ingrid laughed. “My children love those elk stories too, an’ I imagine your girls like them better than Kat Macleod
's saint's tales."

  "They're not particular. To them a story is a story. I was sorry to hear about you and Sean, Ingrid. I thought for a while there you two would make it."

  "We're not through yet,” said Ingrid. “I mean to get him back. Now what's this about my bein’ a day earlier? Has she managed to get out of town? I thought Jack had all the escape routes covered."

  Marcie sighed. “That's bad news, because believe me, I'd like to get her out of town. She's a sweet girl, and we've kind of enjoyed having her here, but we had trouble last night.” The alarm on Ingrid's face caused Marcie to add hastily, “She's all right, but she had such a fright that she wouldn't come out of the attic this morning."

  "What happened?"

  "The maid forgot to put her chamber pot back after emptying it. I guess Kristin really had to go because she slipped down the attic stairs trying to get to the necessary house, and one of the customers spotted her. Offered ten dollars. Can you believe it? I couldn't convince her it was a real compliment if you could overlook what the ten dollars was for.

  "Poor fellow won't be coming to a sporting house any time soon. She jabbed him where it hurts the worst with a parasol. Never heard such a fuss in my life—him moaning like he'd been killed, her in hysterics. I thought it would be all over town today. Or is that why you came?"

  "I came to talk her into goin’ home. Didn't hear about the rest.” Ingrid put down her cup. “Why don't you give me the key to the attic, an’ I'll see what I can do about talkin’ her down."

  "Take one more step and I'll unman you.” Kristin stood trembling at the top of the stairs. She had heard the door opening and the footsteps, which continued even after her threat.

  "That's goin’ to be hard to do, honey, since I'm not a man,” said Ingrid just before her head cleared the opening in the attic floor. “Good lord, how can you stand it up here? An’ what's that you're wearin'? It's not your kind of dress, Kristin; take my word for it."

  "I had to borrow clothes since I couldn't bring any."

  Ingrid stepped out onto the attic floor and looked around, eyes narrowing as she caught sight of the picture of Jack, highlighted by the noon sun from the dormer window. Kristin followed the direction of her glance, flushed, and hastened across the room to turn the painting to the wall.