Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  In fact, with Ingrid out of town, Kristin felt she might make some headway with Jack. He had wanted her once. And now she was sleeping right beside him in the same bed. Surely, she could think of some way to signal that she was available without actually coming right out and saying it. Which would hardly be proper, even between husband and wife.

  In a more sanguine mood, Kristin redraped the portrait, cast one mildly guilty look at the picture of Jesus and the adulteress, which hadn't felt the touch of her brush in three days, stripped off her paint-smudged apron, and dashed upstairs to choose a handsome mauve plaid afternoon dress for her trip downtown—just in case she found time to drop in on Jack.

  The carpenter promised to visit her house the next day to frame the new picture, but the visit to Jack's office was less successful. The office was closed; not even the clerk who slept in back with the safe and the bathtub was there. How strange, she thought uneasily, then decided that they—she and Jack—would see each other at dinner, without Ingrid sitting beside him and Kristin miles down the table. And they could talk in the drawing room, without Ingrid singing or playing the piano. Kristin loved Ingrid like a sister but not enough to hand over Jack. That thought brought her up short. She had taken Minna's husband-to-be. Was God punishing her by passing Jack on to Ingrid? No, that was silly. Jack just needed encouragement.

  "Ah-ha!"

  Kristin had never heard a more satisfied “Ah-ha!” in her life, even from her father. She glanced around and saw Reverend Florida Passmore. She hadn't forgiven his sermons on contaminating associations and about the insult to public decency of a man who would let his wife stay in a brothel. She supposed he had a point, but it wasn't any of his business. Jack might like her better if Reverend Passmore hadn't made a public spectacle of their problems. “Good day, sir,” she said primly and increased her pace, the heliotrope parasol, which matched the heliotrope vest of her walking dress, held at an angle that blocked out the minister. Mild weather had followed the snow.

  His voice followed her up the hill. “Are you not even ashamed, madam? Are you not even disturbed by this latest scandal in your household?"

  What scandal?

  "Now that they have run away together—"

  "Who?” Kristin whirled and stared at him.

  "Your husband and his paramour. They were seen leaving on the morning train to Denver. Your associations with fallen women have evidently led your husband to—"

  "I don't believe you,” Kristin whispered.

  "They didn't even leave from the ladies’ stop,” said Reverend Passmore.

  Ingrid had left this morning with a valise. Jack's office was closed. Sick at heart, Kristin walked away in the middle of Florida Passmore's continuing pronouncements on the many sins abounding in her household. They've eloped, she thought. And it serves me right. Kristin thought of the times she'd run away from Jack. Now he'd run away from her. Disconsolately, she trudged up the hill, opened the gate, and crossed the yard, hardly noticing that the pigs no longer roamed at will now that they had their neoclassic, heated pig house.

  Would it have made a difference, she wondered, if she'd told Jack that Father Boniface Wirtner didn't hold with all Sister Mary Joseph's rules about marriage? That they didn't have to practice abstinence on Wednesdays through Sundays, Lent, Pentecost, Advent, Rogation Day, feast days, and goodness knew what other days the nun had mentioned? That perhaps some of the things he'd done hadn't been unnatural, after all? Father Boniface Wirtner had been a little ambiguous on the matter of enjoying oneself, but perhaps if one had good intentions not to and then confessed afterwards, it wasn't too great a sin. Not that it mattered now. She'd never get the opportunity to commit that particular sin again. If it was one.

  "Oh, ma'am, I'm so glad you're home.” Winifred opened the door before Kristin could do it for herself. “It's ever so exciting. At least, I expect it is."

  "What is?” Kristin asked.

  "Your letter."

  Had he left her a letter? How could she bear to read it?

  "From that Mrs. Potter Palmer in Chicago who's so rich and sponsors artists. She's written to you. See.” Winifred waved the letter under Kristin's nose. “I remember how excited you was the last time she wrote."

  Kristin took the letter. It probably said that her nightscape hadn't even been accepted for the art show.

  "I thought you'd be more excited than that, ma'am,” said Winifred, as she took Kristin's light mantle, parasol, and gloves.

  "Well, I don't know what it says, do I?” She climbed the stairs, flopped onto her bed, and held the letter up. What difference did it make? She sighed and ripped the envelope open, tearing off pieces of two pages in her indifference. Then she saw the word prize on half of a line. Hastily she sat up and put the pieces together on the bed cover. “Nightscape” had taken first prize! All her paintings had sold, and a letter of credit had been sent to the Cameron Bank of Colorado in her name. She was invited to submit a painting to the Columbian Exposition in 1893. Chicago society was buzzing with the story of her family's cruelty to their talented, innocent daughter. Kristin pushed the letter aside and burst into tears.

  Winifred knocked timidly and came in. “Ma'am, was it bad news? Did someone die?"

  "No, it's wonderful news,” Kristin sobbed. “Tell Abigail I won't be down to dinner.” She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and slid off the bed. “I'll be painting.” She'd devote herself to her art. Never think of that faithless Jack again. After all, she might have run away from him, but never with another man! She'd devote herself to painting pictures for the church. Yes. She'd finish the one of the adulteress this very night. She wished the story had had an adulterer in it, one being pelted with stones, but she didn't suppose anyone ever got after men about their sins. Everyone would blame Ingrid.

  "Miz Abigail's gonna be ever so mad,” said Winifred. “What with Mr. Jack and Miz Ingrid going off unexpected, and now you—"

  Kristin burst into tears again, all her lofty plans for a career in religious art forgotten. Evidently Jack and Ingrid had given in to impulse. If she'd been at the table for breakfast, maybe she could have stopped them. Or maybe they wouldn't have cared what she thought. How could Ingrid do that to her? Women were supposed to stick together. Kat was always saying that.

  Kristin wiped her eyes a second time, blew her nose again, and announced, “I'm going to visit Mrs. Macleod."

  "But what about dinner, ma'am? And look outside. I think it might storm. Rain most likely, but it did snow one day. Who ever heard of snow in September?"

  "You're on the frontier now, Winifred,” said Kristin. “Anything can happen, and probably will."

  "He eloped with Ingrid?” Kat looked astonished as she sat on the green settee in her corridor room. “I'd have sworn he was in love with you. Why, he even wanted to fight that fellow who tried to buy you for ten dollars."

  "He did?"

  "Connor says the fellow offered him the same ten dollars if he'd forget the whole thing."

  "And Jack took it?” asked Kristin, outraged.

  "Well, not exactly. He said it wasn't worth fighting someone that cowardly, the fellow agreed, and that was the end of it."

  "I don't see that as any indication that he loves me. And running away with Ingrid—"

  "I'll have to admit that looks bad.” Kat shook her head. “I think I'm losing my ability to judge people. I'd have sworn Ingrid was still in love with Sean. Augustina certainly thinks so, poor thing."

  "Yes,” said Kristin. “We're all miserable. People should never get married. I told Jack way back in March that married people were always unhappy. I don't know why I expected anything else."

  "Well, I'm happy,” Kat objected. “So's Connor. I'll tell you what I think. Jack's your husband. You ought to go get him back."

  "Well, I couldn't—"

  "Why not? He came after you, didn't he? He followed you to Colorado, then to Georgetown, then to Marcie's. At this point, I imagine his pride is hurt. Men are great ones for pride.
So you just get on the train tomorrow morning and go after him."

  "I'd be embarrassed. They're in Denver together. What if they told me to go away, or laughed, or—"

  "What if they do? At least you'll have tried. You can't expect to get the vote if you don't show some gumption."

  "The vote?” Kristin wasn't sure how that came into it.

  "Right. What we need are laws that keep men from deserting their wives and children."

  "Jack and I don't have any children."

  "But you're husband and wife. If women had the vote, we could see that there were laws to protect—"

  "Kat, I just want my husband back."

  "Of course you do, but no sheriff's going to get him back for you, so you'll have to do it yourself. And let this be a lesson to you. In the future you should take a more active interest in women's suffrage. You haven't done a thing for the cause since you set fire to Mrs. Harby's feathers."

  All the way to Como, where she had to transfer from the High Line to the Denver train, Kristin was bothered by clammy palms. She didn't even try to sketch. She did try not to think of the confrontation she faced with Jack and Ingrid. From Como to Denver, she gave up trying to control the direction of her thoughts. Instead she gave herself lectures. Jack was her husband. Both church and state recognized the marriage, so he'd have to give up Ingrid. Kristin was sorry about Ingrid, and she couldn't imagine how all this would affect their partnership in the sausage business, not to mention their friendship, but she still had a right to claim Jack.

  Father Boniface Wirtner said they had rights over each other's bodies. Think of that! If she wanted to, she could do all the things to Jack that he'd done to her. Well, taking into consideration the differences in men and women, which were rather major when you thought about it. Kristin fell to thinking about Jack and his differences. She wouldn't mind painting him front-lit instead of back-lit, but first she'd like to run her fingers over every inch of him. Trace all those muscles. Study them. Texture was important to an artist. Touch. And sight.

  Kristin sighed. What if he didn't want to touch her anymore? Or have her touch him? What if it was too late? What if Ingrid wouldn't even let her talk to Jack? Or maybe she could catch Jack when Ingrid wasn't around, if Ingrid went out to sell sausages or go shopping. Jack was so generous. He'd probably give Ingrid a roll of money. Then while Ingrid was spending it, Kristin could catch Jack alone. Maybe they could go straight home and just leave a note for Ingrid. Which wasn't very nice, but Ingrid and Jack hadn't left a note at all. She'd had to hear about them from Reverend Passmore. That wasn't very nice.

  She imagined Jack coming to the door of his hotel room—would he and Ingrid have separate rooms and visit each other when everyone had gone to bed? Probably. So Ingrid would be in her room, waiting for the hour of discretion. Jack would be alone. He'd come to his door when Kristin knocked. He'd be stunned to see her. She'd be wearing her prettiest dress—which one? The full-length, sleeveless fitted coat of marigold faille with its bronze silk underdress. She'd have to get a room so she could change. Fortunately, the gown wouldn't be wrinkled, not if Yvette packed for her. The outfit was stunning with Kristin's blond hair. Jack would see her and fall in love all over again.

  Had he been in love with her before she'd ruined it by trying to follow all Sister Mary Joseph's advice about “the act"? Surely he had. He'd sweep her into his arms, and Kristin would kiss him back instead of being a scared ninny. Maybe she'd unbutton his shirt. Untie his tie. That would take him by surprise! And in no time at all they'd be on the big carved bed in the Windsor Hotel, just like before, only better. She sighed, thinking how wonderful it was going to be when she didn't have to worry about what day it was or anything else but being Jack's wife. If he'd take her back.

  But what if they didn't care about discretion? What if Ingrid was in his room when Kristin knocked? Wearing one of those sheer things the women had at Marcie's, with bosoms overflowing necklines and—and Jack taking it all in. There was a lot more of Ingrid to take in, especially with Kristin covered from throat to toe in bronze silk. And Ingrid would know a lot more about “the act” than Kristin, who'd only engaged in it—let's see, one, two, three—she stopped counting because she supposed it wasn't nice to count things like that.

  Kristin wondered whether Ingrid knew how many times she'd engaged in the act, and with how many men—besides Sean. Had she yet with Jack? Kristin decided that maybe she shouldn't take the time to get a room and change her clothes. But then, they had left yesterday. Maybe last night ... oh, what was the use of thinking about it? She was making herself upset and nervous and scared and embarrassed and...

  "Union Depot,” called the conductor while Kristin was still wavering between hope and fear.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  He was a feast for the eyes, that muscular chest showing between the white halves of his unbuttoned shirt. If she hadn't been so tired and out of sorts from asking for him at six different hotels and from the fright of riding the vertical tram to his room, she'd probably have run a finger right down the middle to remind herself of what his chest felt like.

  "I suppose Ingrid's here,” she said. It had never occurred to her that he wouldn't be at the Windsor. By the time she discovered that and tried the other five hotels, she'd given up expecting anything to go right.

  "In this room, you mean? No, she isn't.” Jack was looking at her quizzically.

  "You mean she's in a room down the hall or somewhere else in this hotel?"

  "I take it you're looking for Ingrid. I was hoping you might have followed me."

  "Well, I—” In a way, she was looking for Ingrid. Kristin just didn't want to find her.

  "As far as I know, Ingrid's in Aspen."

  "Aspen?” Kristin frowned, then rubbed her finger over the frown lines. “If Ingrid's in Aspen, what are you doing here?"

  "I'm running away from home,” said Jack. “You know how it is. Things aren't going your way at home. You leave."

  "What wasn't going your way?” asked Kristin hopefully. “Maybe I could come in and talk about it."

  Jack opened the door and waved her in. “It's my wife,” he explained as he closed the door. “No matter what I do, she doesn't like me."

  "I do too,” said Kristin indignantly. “I lo—” She stopped and eyed him suspiciously. “You've been flirting with Ingrid. Is that supposed to make me like you?"

  "She said it would. Did it?"

  "No."

  "There. What did I tell you?"

  "I mean, I already liked you."

  "But that's all?"

  Kristin walked over to the bed and sat down. “No. I love you."

  "Hallelujah,” said Jack. “I'd have run away a lot sooner if I'd known how much good it would do."

  "And you don't love Ingrid?"

  "Not at all. We were trying to make you jealous. You and Sean."

  "But do you love me?"

  "Of course. I've been chasing you all over the country, haven't I? Rescuing you from ironing boards and furnace rooms and parlor houses. I'd say I've proved myself a very devoted, loving, and tolerant husband. Especially tolerant. I should have given you a beating."

  As he talked, Kristin's smile became brighter and brighter. “Oh, do be quiet and come over here,” she said when she could get a word in edgewise.

  "Why?” asked Jack.

  "Because I'm going to exercise my wifely rights over your body. Father Boniface Wirtner said I could."

  "When did he say that?"

  "A couple of weeks ago."

  "Then what took you so long?” Jack sat down beside her on the bed.

  "You were flirting with Ingrid.” Kristin threw her arms around his neck and pulled him over on the fine silk coverlet.

  "Are you sure it's the right day?” Jack asked once she'd stopped kissing him long enough to tug his shirt off.

  "I don't know,” said Kristin. “Father Boniface Wirtner said Sister Mary Joseph had got it all wrong about the days, so we don't hav
e to worry about that anymore."

  "That's nice,” said Jack, who had no idea what she was talking about.

  "I'm still not sure about unnatural acts,” she said earnestly, “so if you think I'm doing something I shouldn't—"

  "I'm not likely to complain,” Jack interrupted.

  "Does that mean you don't know either, or you just don't care?” She was rubbing the tip of her finger against his nipple but now looked up suspiciously.

  "That means, love, that I find everything about you enormously seductive, so why don't we make love now and discuss these proprieties you seem to worry so much about later?"

  Kristin sighed. “You find me seductive?"

  Jack groaned. “So much so, that if I don't get to seduce you within the next two minutes, I may just die on the spot."

  Kristin giggled. “Don't do that,” she murmured and began to undo his belt. She had him naked in seconds.

  "Well, one of us is ready for action, but you, sweetheart, are still much too well dressed."

  "How much of a hurry are you in?” she asked seriously.

  "Can't you tell?"

  "It's really very interesting how that happens. I mean, one minute you wouldn't even notice it's there under your trousers, and the next—"

  "Kris-tin!"

  She reached out a finger and touched it. “It's really velvety, isn't it?"

  Jack groaned and lay back on the bed. “What did you have in mind, love? A leisurely discussion of my private parts? A sketch? Maybe a pastel or an oil painting for our collection of Jack Cameron au naturel artwork? What are you doing now?"

  Kristin had suddenly disappeared in a flurry of skirts and petticoats. “I'm taking off my drawers,” came her muffled voice.

  "And that's all?” Jack came up off the pillow on his elbow to watch her.

  "Well, you don't seem to be interested in discussion or art, just hurrying things up, so—” Triumphantly, she tossed the lacy drawers onto the floor and scooted over him. “—we don't both have to be naked,” she pointed out.

  Jack laughed delightedly and caught her around the waist. “You sure you're ready?” he asked, even as he slid into her. Kristin gave a sigh of pleasure. “All right, now hold still,” he commanded.