"He doesn't seem to bully you."
"No. He's not enough of a fool for that. My granddaddy, you see, had the foresight to marry into an illustrious Yankee family that used a large part of its fortune to keep this fine university solvent. And my daddy and my favorite aunt are the reason there's an art school at Yale."
Hart raised his eyebrow in acknowledgment of the way of the world, and Rut laughed.
"Your own story I suspect, sir, may be far more colorful than mine. If you would care to accompany me to the Old Heidelberg, perhaps you'd tell me a bit about it over lunch."
Hart learned more about how the other half lives in that afternoon than a lifetime in Colorado could have taught him. Rut knew everything and everybody; he accepted all that was good in life as his due. He'd never been poor and never been desperate, as a consequence of which he'd spent his life pursuing perfection of mind and body by the hardest routes he could find.
"If you're born to excess, you have two choices: relax and grow soft on the available pleasures, or use your resources to hone yourself into a man other men will respect. That's what I'm attempting," he said.
To that end Hart discovered Rut spoke three European languages, played every sport you could name, most of them well, and had taken honors in history and politics at William and Mary.
He'd come to Yale to learn about Yankees firsthand, and to make use of what his relatives' endowment had purchased. He was a fine artist, but as is often the case with men who have too many talents, he had never committed himself to the undeviating pursuit of any one of them. Hart later came to think that Mireau's respect for Rut was as much a function of his recognition of Canfield's genuine artistic gifts as of his pedigree.
Yale University
New Haven, Connecticut
October 16
Dear Chance,
I know you'll be wondering what has become of your wandering brother, so I've decided to keep you posted on everything I experience in this amazing new life. You know how I've always loved to hear the tales you spin—now it's my turn.
First, the school itself. Yale is a venerable old institution and has a high opinion of itself—well deserved, I expect. The College of Fine Arts is new since '69 and was made possible by a grant from the aunt of my new friend, Rutledge Canfield. It seems she and her husband lived for years in Europe and were appalled by the "artistic illiteracy" of Americans, so she provided money to Yale so they could incorporate a college of fine arts into their curriculum. (That's a fancy word for the subjects they offer for study.)
The buildings are something to behold, a lot like the cities in Europe must be. The architecture is full of spires and stained-glass windows—they call it Venetian Gothic—and believe you me, nothing like it has ever been seen west of Arkansas.
We are an experiment. Never before has anyone in this country deemed art as important a pursuit as the older professions of law, medicine, and theology.
Chance, I love this place. All those dreams I've harbored damn near forever can be fulfilled here, and then some. I had to really hustle to catch up with the academic studies that are mandatory; my education was woeful compared to my classmates. Thank God Mama and Ford Jameson instilled in me such a love of books—it has carried me through.
Some of my professors say I have real promise—we shall see. There's so much to know, Chance, and I'm so lucky to have this opportunity to learn. What would Mama and Daddy say if they could see me now?
Give my love to Bandana and Fancy. I miss them, but most of all I miss you. Hope all goes well at the mine. Write if you can. money was meant to be enjoyed.
He had her frocks made by the fanciest couturier in Denver; extravagant dresses with flower-strewn bustles and lace by the profligate yard. Assortments of petticoats, peignoirs, and shimmies were shipped in from Paris—lingerie with delicate embroidery on the finest linens, silks, and voiles, lace that must have blinded scores of tatting nuns, even a satin robe with a collar of maribou that made her look sensuous and regal—all were gifts from the generous hands of Fancy's new and adoring husband. What Chance didn't give, he encouraged her to buy—high-heeled silver slippers, silk stockings, a fur coat—there was no single dream they'd fantasized on their destitute mountaintop that Chance didn't remember and realize.
He even supervised the architecture of their grand new house, and left Fancy to order the furnishings, wall coverings, and carpets from catalogs provided by his railroad cronies.
"I swear I don't know how you have time for work at all, you spend so much time on me," she told Chance contentedly, as they sat in the newly completed master bedroom suite.
"I told you to stick with me, Fancy, and I'd give you everything you ever wanted." Chance's reply had become a ritual response. He smiled at his beautiful wife, as he stood in front of the Jacobean armoire from which he'd just pulled a freshly starched shirt.
"Well, I certainly can't say you reneged on that promise, even if
Your errant brother,
Hart
Chapter 66
Being married to Chance was better than Christmas and the Fourth of July. Fancy hadn't been poor for a while, but not since childhood had she felt rich as she did with Chance, for he knew you are a bit smug about it," Fancy answered him, amused and benevolent.
Chance didn't bother to reply, but crossed to where she was seated at her boudoir table and kissed her, the kind of kiss that led to other things.
"I have this story I've been wanting to tell you..." he murmured as he let his hands stray down her back. She pushed him away playfully.
"I don't know why I even bother to dress up in all these gorgeous clothes you buy for me. All you ever want to do is get me out of them!"
They made love an uncommon amount, she thought delightedly. She wondered if those prune-faced biddies, who still turned up their noses at her on the street, were sought out by their husbands so constantly and so deliciously—surely not, or they'd be less surly.
It had come as no surprise whatsoever to Fancy when she found that she was pregnant again; not even Jewel's contraceptive measures could withstand such constant assault. She had mixed feelings about the pregnancy—thrilled to be carrying a wanted child, conceived in love and luxury—but the horror of Aurora's birth was still stark within her. Fancy didn't want to die, now that all her dreams were coming true. Chance would dote on the new baby, for he'd turned out to be a loving parent to Aurora, even if the little girl made it obvious in a thousand ways that she'd wanted Fancy to marry Jason instead. They'd decided she was too young to be told that Chance was her true father; later, when she was older, the right time would come.
It was after midnight when Fancy heard Chance come in the front entrance; instead of climbing the stairs to their bedroom, he walked to the study and shut the door behind him. His tread sounded oddly reluctant. Fancy slipped from bed, wrapped her dressing gown about her, and ran downstairs.
Chance was sitting by the study fire staring idly at the burning logs; he looked up, but didn't rise to embrace her.
"We've got to talk, sugar," he said with an unaccustomed brusqueness. Fancy sat down in the leather wing chair beside the hearth, apprehension replacing her curiosity.
"Things can't go on like this, Fancy."
"Things? What things? What on earth are you talking about?" Her mind raced toward scattered possibilities... everything had been so perfect a moment ago, now the old fear of something catching her off guard tightened her belly. "Whatever's wrong, love? Did something happen at Chaffee's that upset you?"
"You can't go on working, Fancy," Chance said, not looking her in the eye. "I've asked you nicely about it ever since we got married—now I'm telling you. It's made me a laughingstock to have an actress and a saloon owner for a wife."
Fancy stared at her husband. She'd thought for certain the question of her work could wait until after the baby was born.
"I thought you wanted me to stop working so I'd have more time for us, Chance, and because I'm pregnant... it
never occurred to me you were ashamed of me. I was under the misapprehension that you loved me."
"I do love you, Fancy, don't you see, that's the whole point. I don't want other men staring at you, lusting after you... and I sure as hell don't want a wife who makes a spectacle of herself doing work better left to men."
Color rose in Fancy's cheeks; she'd forgotten he could be cruel.
"You knew exactly who I was before you married me, Chance. I didn't keep any secrets from you about my profession. You never said a word about my businesses."
"It never occurred to me you'd want to keep on working after we were married, Fancy. I thought you'd just settle down like other women...."
"I'm not like other women, Chance. I'm a damned good actress, and a damned good businesswoman—and I intend to remain both."
"And how the hell do you think it makes me feel having my wife run a bathhouse and be part owner in a whorehouse-saloon and God knows what else in Chinatown? Don't you think men snicker about it behind my back? It's bad for my political future, Fancy, and to be honest with you, it brings up rotten memories."
Fancy's voice quieted to a dangerous monotone. "Exactly what memories do you refer to?"
"That stinking auction, if you must know. Just tonight somebody made a snide remark about it. I would have decked the bastard if Tabor hadn't intervened."
"You of all people should know why I was in that particular fix, Chance McAllister. I wouldn't think you'd have the gall to shame me with it."
"Damn it, Fancy! I don't want to hurt you, you must know that... it just isn't any good this way. I love you so much I want everyone to respect you because you're my wife."
Cold fury settled around Fancy, like an ice-mantle. "I don't want to be respected because I'm your wife, Chance. I want to be respected because I'm me."
Chance looked at her in consternation. "How the hell could I have known you'd want to keep on working after we were married? It isn't as if I can't afford to keep you in style. And, damn it, you're going to have our baby—you must see that what I'm saying makes sense."
Fancy, hurt beyond words, just stared at her husband; what could she possibly say that wouldn't demean them both? Maybe it was embarrassing for a candidate's wife to be so flamboyant, but flamboyance was part of who she was... part of what he loved about her, wasn't it?
Chance tried to put his arms around her to soothe the hurt so clearly written in her face; their tempers were quick to kindle as their lust, but usually the latter healed the former. Fancy pulled away from his grasp.
"So I'm good enough to make love to, but not good enough to defend against your cronies?"
"It wasn't like that, Fancy. You're twisting my words."
"I'm twisting things? What exactly do you think this little scene has done to my feelings? Throwing the auction in my face after all these years! I have no intention whatsoever of giving up my businesses—Jewel and Wu were there for me when you weren't. I'll stop performing until after our baby's born, but you have absolutely no right to ask for more than that."
"You're overwrought, Fancy. Maybe it's the pregnancy."
"And what do you know about pregnancies, Chance? You were conspicuously missing from the last one."
"That's low, Fancy. Whose fault was it that I didn't know?" Chance stood, fists clenched, his eyes like a winter storm.
Fancy turned soundlessly and walked up the stairs, tears on her cheeks. She heard the slamming of the front door, but she didn't care where he went as long as it was nowhere near her tonight.
Chance stood outside his own house and replayed the conversation, angrily. He'd been right and she'd been wrong—what he'd asked was no more than any man would. Damn her that she was headstrong as a mustang, and just about as unpredictable. He didn't want there to be anything wrong between them, he'd been happier since their marriage than ever in his life. He glanced up at their bedroom window just as the lamp was extinguished. Damn his hasty temper... now he'd have to find a place to sleep tonight and a way back into Fancy's good graces tomorrow.
Tired and frustrated, Chance McAllister headed into town.
Chance squinted with the assault of morning sunlight. His head ached and he felt foolish; he should never have let her goad him into spending the night with Maddy. Not that he didn't have a right to do what he wanted, now that Fancy was pregnant and the doctor had cautioned sexual restraint. But he hadn't wanted Maddy at all, it was merely injured pride that had put him in her bed last night.
Chance told himself that bedding the occasional floozy didn't change what a man felt for his wife. He intended to found a dynasty with Fancy. He squared his shoulders and headed for home to make things right with his wife.
Fancy looked lost in the big bed, her legs curled up in a fetal position, her arms hugging herself like a child's. Her posture tugged at Chance's heart; she'd looked the same that far-off time when he'd found her in the snow. He sat beside the sleeping figure and rested his hand on the familiar curve of her body.
Fancy stirred; the night had been fitful and sleepless until nearly morning. She'd cried herself to sleep feeling lost and hopeless, no longer angry, merely bereft. Chance leaned close and brushed his lips against her cheek.
"I'm real sorry, sugar. I was a damned fool last night. I guess my pride hurt over anybody faulting you. You mean more to me than anything in this world and I want everybody to know how perfect you are."
Fancy sighed and reached her arms around his neck, grateful for a way back into their love.
"I'm sorry, too, Chance," she murmured. "I guess the old wounds run deeper than I thought. My head hurts so much from trying to puzzle it out, I just can't fight anymore."
She tried to rise, but he folded her into his arms instead.
"I know how to make you feel better, sugar. I'll tell you a story and make the pain go away."
Grateful for his touch, Fancy turned and slipped her chemise off over her head. She saw in his eyes that her body was beautiful and felt redeemed by the acknowledgment.
Chance's hands, strong and knowing, began to knead the tension from her flesh, the sound of his storytelling voice was both soothing and inflammatory. She turned her head from side to side, soaking in the luxury of his strength, reveling in the trail of sensitive fingers down her spine from neck to buttocks. Long, firm strokes that melted her anxiety into contentment, tender exploratory fingers that moved her legs apart and reached between to search out her deeper pleasure.
Fancy moaned a little as she felt his hot hard strength insinuate itself between her thighs, seeking welcome. She stretched herself to take him in, loving the long, pulsing perfection that she'd feared through the night would never be theirs again. To lose Chance a second time would be unthinkable.
He lifted Fancy's body and drew her in with maddening patience until she was once again completely in his power. She let the spasms fall in rings around her, through her, in her—like the widening circles from a pebble in a pool. The intensity of feeling left her breathless, as she felt him pull away and sink to the bed beside her, still cradling her in his love.
For an instant, last night's hurt tried to surface, but she pushed it back and listened only to the voice of her body. Could it be, she wondered as she drifted off to sleep, that their bodies were perfectly mated and not their souls?
Fancy waved to Chance over the heads of the other people in the audience at the political rally. His speech had been so well received; there was cheering and clapping and congratulating going on. What a fine actor he would have made, she thought, filled with love and pride; politics and acting had so much in common. Ever since their fight, Fancy'd made a concerted effort to pay more attention to her husband's career and less to her own. She'd had to stop performing because of the baby; it made good sense to put pride aside and let Chance think he'd gotten his way. The other businesses were a handful she didn't want to deal with just now, and she did so want to be a perfect wife.
Chance caught Fancy's eye and smiled; he looked so grand
up there, beguiling the crowds with his talk of the future—so much the way he used to spin dreams for us in the cabin, she thought. Now everybody in Leadville was caught up in Chance's dreams-even the state politicians had turned up to hear what he had to say about expansion, and everyone knew Elmore Trask didn't waste his energies on undeserving contenders.
All those people who'd been so sure she was marrying wrong... all those who thought Chance didn't have any substance, could just eat their hearts out now. As could all the nasty church-going harpies who'd put it about that Chance was marrying a whore. Anyone could see he was going places, and she and Aurora and the new baby were going with him, the world and all its petty snipers be damned!
Jason stood at the edge of the crowd assessing what he'd seen, staying clear of Fancy's line of sight. McAllister was good. Very good. He had friends, oratorical skill, and the kind of charm that took a man to high places. It was easy enough to see why Fancy was enchanted by him; Chance had the kind of physical sensuality that mesmerized women. But there were other qualities a man should have, that were equally seductive and far more substantial over the long haul—and Jason suspected Chance lacked these. Nonetheless, he would be an intriguing adversary.
It was obvious McAllister would have to be gotten out of the way before he could woo Fancy. Madigan sighed as he thought it; he was not a patient man by nature, but Fancy was worth it. Besides, there were few real pleasures left he hadn't already mastered; removing McAllister from Fancy's path could be a chess game of the spirit, and a challenging and entertaining one. Now that the railroad went straight through to New York and he had a private car of his own, there was no reason why he couldn't spend as much time in Leadville as pleased him. He'd already started construction on a hunting lodge and established business and banking connections, so whatever happened with Fancy in the future, his time in Leadville would be valuable. Jason knew precisely which deals to make and with whom, where to curry favor and where to carry a big stick. He'd already spotted John Henderson at the Fiduciary Bank as a useful ally, and Judge Krasky struck him as eminently manipulable. Fancy might have been the catalyst that had brought him here so willingly, but she wouldn't be the only treasure to be plucked from Leadville.
Paint the Wind Page 46
