Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "Wonderful.” He jumped up and strode toward the door. “So from now on you'll sleep in my bed as a wife should."

  Kristin froze. Every night? Was that what he meant? Even if he left her alone during the prohibited times, which he seemed willing to do since he'd agreed to order a calendar of feast days, there was the question of enjoying it, which she wasn't supposed to do. How was she to maintain a proper lack of enthusiasm when he was so handsome and charming? She'd never manage if she had to sleep with him every night. “Jack, there's—” But it was too late. He'd just shouted to Maude to move his belongings into Miss Kristin's room. Everyone in the house must have heard him, Kristin thought, mortified.

  Kristin lay at the very edge of the bed, wearing her most all-encompassing nightdress, as Sister Mary Joseph had advised. This was the test, she thought. If Jack slept chastely beside her because it was Wednesday, she'd know that their marriage could work.

  "This is the first night of our real marriage, sweetheart,” he said, climbing into bed and reaching for her. Kristin stiffened as he slid his arms around her, lips closing in on hers. She could feel his breath against her mouth in the dark room.

  "Don't touch me,” she cried, trying to wiggle loose.

  "Why?"

  "It's Wednesday."

  "So?"

  Kristin burst into tears. He'd tricked her. He had no intention of following the rules.

  "Jesus Christ!” Jack let her go and rolled to his side of the bed.

  And beside his penchant for marital sin, he was blasphemous. Kristin hiccupped and wiped her eyes on the embroidered hem of her pillow slip. It was uncomfortable over here on the edge of the bed with an angry husband taking up more than his share and weighing down his side of the mattress so that she had to loop her arm outside the covers and cling to the bed frame to keep from sliding downhill into his arms. She'd probably take a chill in her arm and never get any sleep for the rest of her life. She shouldn't have believed him down there in the drawing room. He didn't want a chaste marriage; he just wanted to engage in “the act” any old time. Kristin wished Sister Mary Joseph were here to give him a good talking to.

  "How's it going?” asked Ingrid as she walked out of the dining room with Jack. Kristin had asked that her meal be served in the studio.

  "Wonderful,” said Jack sarcastically. “She tells me what day of the week it is, says good night, and sleeps falling off her side of the bed as if she'll catch smallpox if she gets closer to me than two feet."

  Ingrid shook her head. “That girl's a puzzle. Is there anything she's asked you to do or not to do that you've ignored?"

  "Hell, I even went to talk to Father Boniface Wirtner because she asked me to. Some conversation that was. I asked him if there was anything he wanted to tell me about marriage, and he looked embarrassed and said, not really. Then he asked me if there was anything I wanted to tell him, and I, being in a really foul mood, said nothing except that my wife wouldn't have marital relations with me."

  Then he said, did she understand that it was her wifely duty? and I said, there wasn't a man alive who could figure out what went on in her head other than ideas for paintings and worrying about what day of the week it was. Then I asked him how to go about getting her a feast days calendar, and he gave me one and said if I wanted to, I could have her come talk to him. Of course, I could tell he was hoping she wouldn't, and that was that. I gave her the damn calendar last night, she looked at it and told me it was Monday, as if I didn't know, and we went to sleep. I'm going crazy."

  Ingrid said, “I guess it's time to try jealousy."

  Jack shrugged. “At this point I'll try anything."

  Kristin stared moodily at the painting. She'd had to do the Christ figure three times because it kept turning out like Jack, which was completely inappropriate. Other than that problem, she thought the picture quite a success. The scene was thronged with children's faces, every child she knew in Breckenridge, including, of course, all the Fitzpatrick and Macleod children. Kristin was almost finished. She'd worked faithfully ever since returning home, considering it a sort of penance in advance in case, when Monday night rolled around and she and Jack could engage in “the act,” she should lose control and enjoy herself.

  Well, she needn't have worried because nothing happened on Monday night, except that she felt very disappointed after all that anticipation. Wednesday through Sunday was a lot of nights to share a bed with a man when you couldn't do anything acceptable to the church but sleep.

  Jack had been very grumpy when she reminded him of the day of the week on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. But then on Monday night, she'd been so pleased to hear that he'd gone to see Father Boniface Wirtner and even procured a feast days calendar that she'd thought everything was perfect. The calendar showed no feast day for Monday. Jack, having talked to the priest, must now know what was proper in a chaste marriage. Therefore, feeling quite bold, she'd thanked him for the calendar and reminded him that it was Monday. And what had he done? Snarled good night and gone to sleep.

  Kristin knew it was sinful of her to feel so disappointed. After all, why should she be looking forward to something she wasn't allowed to enjoy? Still—well, maybe he'd been tired. Or maybe Father Boniface Wirtner had said something mean to him about his previous conduct, probably assigned him a stiff penance. In fact, maybe the penance was abstinence, and Jack had been embarrassed to mention it. If that were the case, her pointing out that it was Monday had been very tactless. Kristin sighed. Being a famous spinster artist would have been a lot simpler than being a chaste wife. Although somehow, even given all her problems, spinsterhood didn't sound like much fun.

  Kristin clambered up onto the bed. Jack climbed in the other side and turned out the light. “It's Tuesday,” she said diffidently.

  "Right,” he said. She could hear him thumping his pillow. Then all was silent. Kristin sighed and settled down on her lonely side of the bed. Ingrid had been flirting with Jack tonight at dinner, and he had been flirting right back. It had really hurt Kristin's feelings, but she didn't know what she could do about it. He'd stopped paying any attention to her. It was as if once she'd agreed to a regular married relationship, within the bounds of propriety, of course. Jack had lost interest.

  "Ah, Mrs. Cameron. Your husband said he might send you to see me."

  "He did?” Jack hadn't said anything about seeing Father Boniface Wirtner to Kristin. In fact, he hardly ever talked to her. He was too busy talking to Ingrid.

  "I understand that you've been refusing to do your wifely duty."

  "Jack said that?"

  "He did.” The good father looked very ill at ease. “I realize that marriage and its—er—practices come as a shock to virtuous and inexperienced young women, but you do owe a duty to your husband, just as he owes one to you."

  Kristin felt very confused. “Actually, Father, I came by the rectory to give you the picture you asked for."

  "Picture?"

  "Of Jesus and the children.” She handed him the finished canvas, which Winifred had wrapped for her in butcher paper since the day was dark and threatening.

  "Your husband did mention that you seem to spend a lot of your time painting. Perhaps if you paid more attention to your wifely obligations instead of trying to usurp, as it were, a man's place in the world, your marriage..."

  Father Boniface Wirtner was going on and on about woman's place as wife and mother while Kristin fumed. The man had asked her for a religious painting. It wasn't as if he'd offered to pay for it, he probably couldn't even afford the prices her work brought these days—and now he thought she should paint less and—do what?

  "Maybe you ought to talk to my husband,” said Kristin. “In fact, I'd like to know what you talked about before. Ever since he visited you, he's not even interested on Monday and Tuesday when it's—it's proper."

  "When what's proper?"

  Kristin flushed. “The act."

  "What act?"

  "The act."
/>   "Are you talking about—ah—sexual congress?"

  "I don't know. Congress? You mean like the government?” Kristin felt completely befuddled.

  "I mean as in—ah—intimate relations between husband and wife."

  "Oh. Well, I guess so."

  "What do Monday and Tuesday have to do with it?"

  "That's when people can. I mean, if they're married. Unless it's a feast day—or Lent. Or Advent, or Pentecost, or—"

  The priest cleared his throat. “Er—Mrs. Cameron. Are you saying that you refuse your husband on all these occasions?"

  "Well, I try. I thought it would help to have the calendar of feast days so I'd know. I mean, I never could remember all the days. Of course, the nuns reminded us when we were in school, but here, without a calendar—by the way, thank you for sending it. Not that it matters because Jack doesn't seem interested anymore."

  "To get back to the matter of ah—Wednesdays and—"

  "—through Sunday,” said Kristin helpfully.

  "Just where did you get that idea?"

  "From Sister Mary Joseph."

  "I see.” The priest absently unwrapped her painting and stared at it. “My goodness, that's a very touching picture,” he said.

  "Thank you."

  "My dear, I'm sure Sister Mary Joseph meant well, but she may have been misinformed."

  "Misinformed? Sister Mary Joseph?"

  "Why don't you just go home to your husband and—and forget about what day it is."

  "You mean any day—"

  "The Lord did tell us to increase and multiply. The church certainly supports that view of the marriage sacrament."

  "But what about enjoyment?"

  "Well, child, if you can't, you can't. Just keep in mind that the end result makes everything worthwhile."

  "The end result?"

  "Motherhood, my dear. Sacred motherhood.” Then he held up the picture. “This is truly lovely, and if you'd care to paint another for the church, you shouldn't feel that you are neglecting your wifely duties. After all, our duty to God comes first."

  Completely bewildered, Kristin trudged home from the rectory. Wednesdays through Sundays didn't matter? Or feast days? What about, say, Good Friday? Or Easter? Surely, Father Boniface Wirtner couldn't have meant—and what about Sister Mary Joseph? How had she got it all wrong? Father Boniface Wirtner had almost come out and said, “Enjoy it if you can.” What an amazing conversation!

  Kristin skipped several steps in sheer exuberance and headed home. She and Jack could just do whatever they wanted! And enjoy it! Then she bit her lip. She'd forgotten about unnatural acts. But then, maybe there weren't any. That would certainly be a load off her mind—and her conscience. Why, goodness, she wasn't even in any trouble because she'd stopped going to confession. As far as she could tell, she didn't have anything serious to confess.

  Humming cheerfully to herself, she opened the gate and hurried toward the house just as snow began to fall. Kristin lifted her face and stuck out her tongue to catch a flake of September snow. It must be an omen, she thought. Tonight she and Jack could snuggle under the quilts with the snow outside preparing a beautiful landscape for her to paint in the morning and Jack's furnace in the basement keeping the house cozy while they—they just did whatever they wanted and enjoyed doing it.

  She opened the door and skipped into the hall where she could see, through the open doors to the drawing room, Ingrid draped all over Jack, who certainly did seem to be enjoying himself, but not with Kristin.

  Book IV

  Hot Pursuit

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "I think it's working,” said Ingrid.

  "How do you figure that? She certainly hasn't thrown herself into my arms,” said Jack. Ingrid had dropped by his office on Main Street to discuss the progress of the jealousy campaign.

  "Well, that would be too much to expect of Kristin. She's not—flirtatious."

  "Hell, she's not even friendly! How am I supposed to know when she's changed her mind?"

  "Keep your eyes open,” said Ingrid impatiently. “She's mopin’ around. I think that's a good sign."

  "Maybe she's moping because I haven't left her. Now that she can't keep me out of her room at night, she's blockading her studio so I can't get in there."

  "Maybe she's painting another naked picture of you."

  Jack thought that over. “You told me the picture was a good sign when she was at Marcie's, but I can't see that anything's come of it. Maybe she likes my body but doesn't care for the rest of me."

  "It's a start,” said Ingrid. “Sean and I started that way and ended up getting married."

  "Well, I'm already married. Are you saying Kristin and I will end up getting divorced? That's what happened to you and Sean."

  Ingrid gave him a hurt look. “Tomorrow my children will be coming to the house. You can take us out for a sleigh ride if there's any snow left. We'll leave Kristin home."

  "What good will that do?"

  "It might upset Kristin. It's certain to upset Sean, and I'm supposed to get something out of this too."

  Kristin wandered restlessly through the studio. She had started a second picture for St. Mary's, showing the woman caught in adultery and Jesus telling the Pharisees to cast the first stone if they were without sin. She saw it in her mind—the woman's terrified face, the malicious faces of the crowd, Jesus, eyes shining with compassion. She had even blocked it out on canvas, but she was drawn to another picture of Jack—a picture of a dashing, laughing, lovable adventurer—and she had spent more time on that, painting compulsively and secretly with a chair shoved under the doorknob. What a pathetic creature you are, she told herself. Now that she was entranced with her own husband, he was entranced with her partner.

  "Miss Kristin!” Maude was knocking at the door. “Mr. Fitzpatrick—he's in the parlor insistin’ that you come out an’ talk to him. I told him you didn't like bein’ interrupted, but he says it's that important. Are you in there, Miss Kristin?"

  Kristin threw an old sheet over the newest portrait of Jack, tugged the chair away from the door, and opened it.

  "Thank goodness you answered. He come here lookin’ for Miz Ingrid an’ his children, an’ when he heard they was sleigh-ridin’ with Mr. Jack—"

  "What?"

  "Well, I reckon they'd have asked you along except you was locked up in your paintin’ room, so they jus’ went off. Abigail, she's that mad, what with not a member of the family at the table an’ her havin’ to fix up a picnic besides. Likely she'll be tearin’ a piece off Mr. Jack's hide when he comes home—him an’ Miss Ingrid both."

  Jack had gone off on an outing without even inviting her? He and Ingrid? Kristin hurried into the drawing room and greeted Sean. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.

  "You can tell your husband to stay away from my wife,” said Sean. His face was so flushed that she wondered if he had been drinking or perhaps had a return of his old malady. But no, the malady had been Ingrid's perfume, which she no longer used, unless she'd taken up some new scent for Jack's sake. Kristin tried to remember how Ingrid had smelled the last time they'd passed in the hall.

  "You mean Augustina?” Kristin asked. She hadn't known Jack was pursuing Augustina. Had the man no shame? Kristin felt like weeping.

  "Of course not. He's off this minute with Ingrid."

  "Ingrid's not your wife,” Kristin pointed out.

  Sean looked even more upset. “Well, I still feel a duty to see to her welfare. Don't you care that he's flaunting his infatuation for my—for Ingrid?"

  Kristin did care, but she wasn't going to discuss her feelings with Sean Fitzpatrick.

  "Ingrid will get hurt,” said Sean.

  Kristin sighed. That was true—if Ingrid was truly in love with Jack. Kristin certainly understood how Ingrid could be. After all, Jack was devilishly attractive, and Ingrid thought Kristin didn't want him. She'd said several times that Kristin was a fool for running away from him. Ingrid had even said sh
e wouldn't mind having a go at him herself. Kristin had thought it just one of those outrageous things Ingrid was given to saying because she didn't know any better. Because of her background, Ingrid didn't think engaging in “the act” was any great moral dilemma. Whether or not she had fallen in love with Jack, she might commit adultery. Lose her soul. Find herself with child. Tarnish her already dubious reputation beyond redemption. Jack might break her heart, and poor Ingrid had already been hurt by Sean. Kristin glared at him. Men were such sinners.

  And Jack. What if he fell in love with Ingrid? Asked for a divorce because he wanted to marry her and to claim his child? He could endanger his soul. He could be excommunicated from the church. And all those dire consequences aside, thought Kristin, he's mine! “I'll talk to Ingrid,” said Kristin.

  Sean beamed at her. “I knew you wouldn't let me down."

  "You don't have anything to do with it."

  It was twenty-four hours before Kristin got up the nerve to approach Ingrid about her pursuit of Jack, and then Kristin couldn't find her. Finally she asked Winifred, who said, “Miss Ingrid's gone sausage selling. She left with a valise this morning."

  Puzzled, Kristin drifted back to the studio. Ingrid hadn't mentioned a trip last night at dinner. In fact, she and Jack had talked of nothing but the sleigh ride and picnicking in the forest. Evidently, it had been great fun. Wistfully, Kristin remembered her picnic with Jack. Well, at least he and Ingrid weren't having that kind of fun, not with the children along, not in the snow. But really, Jack shouldn't be giving Ingrid false hopes. He had a wife! Kristin whipped the sheet off his new portrait and stared at it.

  What a handsome devil he was! Would he take the hint that she was interested in him if she hung this portrait in place of that awful, effete, snobbish one she'd painted of him before they were married? It was hardly fair to have the pretty self-portrait of her in the drawing room and such an unflattering one of him. That's what she'd do. She'd walk downtown to the carpenter's and engage him to make a matching frame for her new painting of Jack. She might even drop in on Jack at his office. Have a friendly conversation away from Ingrid's sultry glances.