"Get off the sidewalk,” shouted another man. “You want to set the town aflame?” Then a handful of mud actually connected with a lady. By that time the women were running toward the Denver Hotel, Kristin in the forefront.
Women's reform movements in Chicago, where the streets were paved, never had problems like these, she thought, hoping that no mud would connect with her outfit since she was the one who would have to deal with the damage. It had taken her three days and lots of advice to get the mud spots off the hem of the cream-and-blue suit in which she had arrived at the Macleod house. While she was trying to remember that recipe for mud removal, someone caught Kristin's arm and jerked her under the overhang of a store. She shrieked loudly for help and tried to poke the attacker with her sign.
"Hush,” said Jack Cameron. “What are you doing with those women? You could be injured.” He removed the sign from her hand and tossed it into the alley behind him.
"Let go of me.” She recognized his voice, although it was dark under the overhang, with only dim light from the passing torches. “Why haven't you left for Chicago?"
"Because I have business in Breckenridge,” he replied, tightening his grip on her arm. “For heaven's sake, Kristin, I came out here to rescue you, not to see you attacked by drunken miners while you are supporting women's suffrage, to which you'd probably never given a thought."
"I have too,” said Kristin. “Aunt Frieda told me about it.” The pressure of his chest and body against hers made her panicky and short of breath. “If women had the vote, maybe we could do something about men like you,” she gasped, trying to pull away and failing. “You probably don't approve of women's suffrage."
"I love it,” said Jack, “especially watching your Aunt Frieda attack your father on the subject."
Forgetting her anger for the minute, Kristin started to giggle as she remembered those delightful interludes at dinner. It never took Aunt Frieda more than two or three minutes to turn Papa absolutely apoplectic on the subject of women's suffrage. However, Kristin had never realized that Jack enjoyed it too. How mismatched he and Minna were. Minna had no sense of humor. “Are you still engaged to my sister?” she asked and tried to squirm away. She had to stop because the proximity and friction caused that peculiar, melting sensation in her body.
"Not unless you return home,” said Jack. “I told them I wouldn't marry her until they took you back. That being the case, maybe we should both stay here,” he added wryly.
Kristin was touched that he'd forgo a huge dowry for her sake—touched until she thought of all the trials she'd been through because of Jack Cameron, until she realized that he'd stay here rich and she'd stay poor. Unless he meant they'd—but he didn't mean anything, certainly not marriage to the girl he'd wronged. He just wanted to get her off his conscience. If only he didn't have such a nice, warm laugh, and a sense of humor that triggered hers. No one in her family had a sense of humor. Just then Jack brushed an escaping curl back toward her hat, touching her ear, making her shiver. “Let go,” she ordered, a bit hysterically.
"As soon as the rowdies have passed. Then I'll walk you home."
"Absolutely not,” said Kristin.
"Absolutely yes,” said Jack. “Any young woman who looks as fetching as you do—that's a wonderful hat—"
"Oh, do you think so?” She touched the blue velvet flowers self-consciously, knowing that they looked good with her blond hair. It was nice to look fashionable again after weeks of wearing dumpy wash dresses while she scrubbed floors and ironed.
"Actually, you'd look charming in just about anything,” said Jack, “even that dreadful rag you were wearing under your apron the day I first visited the Macleods."
"Well, I wouldn't be wearing rags if it weren't for you,” snapped Kristin. “What do you expect me to wear for bread baking? A ball gown?"
"Now, now,” said Jack. “I didn't mean to insult you. In fact, I was paying you a compliment. Most women wearing ugly clothes look ugly. You look wonderful in anything."
Again Kristin felt her heart give a little squeeze of pleasure. Then she remembered that Jack would remain engaged to Minna if she agreed to go home and spend the rest of her life being picked on by her family. At best, she'd be condescended to by some second-rate husband they managed to find for her, someone old and mean who thought he was doing her a favor by marrying her. “Well, I'm afraid you'll have to give up your plans to get richer on my father's money because I'm not going home,” she announced.
"Now, Kristin,” said Jack, “the princess is never unkind to the prince when he comes to rescue her."
"I'm a housemaid, not a princess. And you are certainly no prince. More like the snake in Eden."
"And here I always thought you were such a quiet, retiring girl,” said Jack. “I'll swear you've got a tongue as sharp as your Aunt Frieda's."
"I'd be proud if I really were like Aunt Frieda,” said Kristin. When was he going to let go of her? The crowd of miners was thinning out. If he really insisted on walking her home, it might be another occasion for sin. Even if he was a snake, he was a charming one, and remarkably good humored. She'd never have got away with saying anything so outrageous to her brothers as she had to Jack Cameron.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a stream of profanity from a passing miner. Jack pulled her closer and murmured, “There's no need to be afraid."
"Who's going to protect me? You? Those men out there are always drunk and fighting."
"Actually, I'm fairly handy with my fists,” said Jack, “and besides that, I'm armed."
"You mean with a—a gun?"
"That's right, armed and ready to defend your honor,” he murmured. Kristin looked up into his face with surprise.
Her blond hair gleamed from beneath the brim of her hat in the dim rays of a newly risen moon. Jack inhaled sharply and, giving in to impulse, bent his head.
Because her mouth was open in surprise when he kissed her, Kristin experienced a mixed flood of passion and panic, but in this instance, panic prevailed. She now knew about baby seeds and twisted so violently that she managed to break free and run out among the last of the passing miners.
"May I take your arm, sir?” she said to the first miner she got hold of. “A bounder just accosted me."
Confused, the miner dropped the handful of mud he was carrying. “Are you from West Breckenridge?” he asked.
"Of course not. I understand that West Breckenridge is a den of—of—disreputable females."
"Yeah. Well, I guess you don't sound like one a them—uh, disreputable females. Where'd you wanna to go?"
"To the Denver Hotel."
"That's where them suffragettes are headin'."
"Really?” Kristin tried to look as if she hadn't realized that suffragettes were on the march.
"Well, obviously you ain't one a them. But it's a dangerous place. You sure you wanna go there?"
"Well, I can't ask you to escort me home when I don't know you,” said Kristin. “That would be improper."
"Improper?” He scratched his stubbled chin. “Guess I got a real, sure-enough lady on my hands,” he mumbled and dutifully escorted Kristin through the crowd of his angry confederates and on to the Denver Hotel, getting pelted with mud in his attempts to shield Kristin and then pummeled with an unlit torch in the hands of a lady who wanted to vote. “I hope you appreciate this, miss,” he shouted to Kristin before he bolted away from the hotel. “This here's about the most gentlemanly thing I ever done in my life."
"Kristin, what happened to you?” cried Kat.
"I was accosted on the streets by a cad,” said Kristin, about to name Jack Cameron. Kat didn't give her a chance.
"How lucky that you found a protector. I am sorry the poor fellow was attacked by one of my ladies. It looks bad when our male supporters are set upon, but now I must make my speech.” Kat took a place in front of the assembled women and said, “Ladies of Breckenridge, the vote is ours if we but—” A large clod of mud skimmed the edge of her hat.
Kristin went to bed that night and dreamed of Jack Cameron's arms pressing her against his chest in the darkness on Main Street and of his kiss, even of how funny he was. She woke up several times during the night wishing he weren't a bounder and semi-engaged to her sister Minna. What if he had been her fiance? Would the kiss have dishonored her then?
"I knew it,” said Maeve. “The girl is some relation to Ingrid and is little better than a harlot."
"Why do you say that?” asked James absently. He was studying a set of photographs.
"Because she's a fallen woman. Genevieve has just written me to say that the girl lost her virginity to her own sister's fiance, who is now chasing after her and has accused us of being procurers. Can you imagine? We must leave immediately for Breckenridge."
"What for?” asked James.
"Because Kat shouldn't have another fallen woman in her household. It's bad enough that Phoebe and Sean Michael were born of one. They certainly don't need the influence of another serving as a maid in the household. And what if her seducer finds her and tries to start up an affair while she's living at Kathleen's? There'll be a scandal."
"Do stop wiggling, Molly.” Kristin had finally discovered a way to get some painting done. When Kat and Augustina were out of the house with Kristin left in charge of the children, she painted the portrait of one while the others played house. Although it was hard to get a child to hold still, they did make delightful and charming portrait subjects. She was sketching Molly this afternoon, seated on the floor with a doll in her lap, one leg extended, shoe sole foremost, one leg tucked under. The sketch was going well until Phoebe screamed, “Liama, you nasty thing."
"I the baby,” said Liama. “Babies do that."
"She's wet the carpet,” Sean Michael announced.
To Kristin that was the last straw. She rose, forgetting Molly, and went to peer despairingly at the spot.
Liama was grinning at her with devilish pride. “Sean Michael's fault,” she said. “He tickle me."
Kristin turned sad eyes on Sean Michael, who shrugged and said, “I thought that's what you did with babies."
"You know she always wets when you tickle her,” said Phoebe. “Now, don't cry, Kristin.” Phoebe looked conscience-stricken when she saw Kristin's expression. “I know how to clean it up, but oughten you to start dinner?"
Before Kristin could respond to that suggestion, there was a crash, and they all whirled to find that Molly had toddled over to the lamp table, grasped its embroidered skirt and, in falling over on her bottom, pulled the lamp with her. The crash signified the demise of Miss Augustina's fake Tiffany lamp.
"You're in for it, Molly,” said Sean Michael.
Molly burst into noisy tears, and Kristin, feeling the accident was partly her fault, didn't know what to say.
"It's Liama's fault,” said Phoebe. “If she hadn't wet the carpet—"
"I the baby.” Liama wasn't going to be blamed.
"Go on and fix dinner, Kristin,” said Sean Michael. “If we pick up all the pieces, they'll never even notice that the ugly old lamp's missing."
When evening came and they wanted to light the lamp, they'd notice. With that daunting thought, Kristin went off to the kitchen to start dinner, a process for which she had minute instructions from Miss Augustina, who was the cooking person in the family. Miss Kat evidently never cooked except in cases of dire need, and from all the jokes made about her efforts, no one wanted her to. But then Miss Kat was far too busy for domestic activities.
Kristin took out potatoes and began to peel them—very carefully because she already had cuts on her fingers, one of which had required bandaging. Kristin had thought her finger might fall off, ending her faltering career as a professional artist. However, nobody in the household had paid her injury any mind. They acted as if they came close to slicing off their fingers everyday.
Fingers or no, she'd best hurry up, or there'd be no dinner on the table when the adults returned. But wait. She was supposed to have warmed the stove up before she began preparations. She rose, ticking off in her mind the steps in the stove-lighting process. Miss Augustina had impressed them upon her. Kristin actually got the stove going. Pleased, she sat down again with the potatoes. Happy chatter drifted in from the children and they began to sing a song, Liama joining in boisterously with inarticulate hums and joyous shrieks since she didn't know and probably couldn't have pronounced the words.
Sean Micheal interrupted Kristin's musings by pointing out that the stove had begun to smoke. She turned and found that smoke was indeed trickling from every aperture. The volume increased in the few seconds she spent looking at it.
"Fire, fire,” shouted Sean Michael. “The house is on fire again."
"Aren't you going to put it out?” screamed Phoebe.
"I don't know how,” Kristin replied.
"With water,” said Sean Michael.
"We'll have to get the fire department,” said Phoebe and dashed out the door. Terrified, Kristin followed, scooping up Molly as Sean Michael grabbed Liama.
"There's Father Boniface,” shouted Phoebe. The priest was standing across the street in front of St. Mary's talking to a parishioner.
"Our house is on fire,” screamed Phoebe. By this time they had all reached the gate and pelted through. Kristin, trying to be a responsible adult, closed it behind them.
Father Boniface said to the parishioner, “I told the congregation we needed a belfry. If we had a bell, we could summon the fire department."
"I'll spread the word,” said the parishioner and dashed down the street.
"Come over here, children,” called Father Boniface. “We don't want you getting burned to crisps."
Kristin wondered if the invitation extended to her, or was she, as the adult who had started the fire, responsible for staying near the house, even going in and throwing a bucket of water on it? She didn't want to be burned to a crisp. Turning Molly over to Phoebe, Kristin settled for hovering anxiously by the gate. How she hated Jack Cameron! She should have been safely home in Chicago instead of out here on the frontier letting people's lamps get broken and setting fire to their houses.
As yet there were no flames showing in front, so Kristin supposed the back was afire, the kitchen and the bedrooms of Sean Michael, Phoebe, Liama, and their parents. Holy Blessed Virgin, she prayed, don't let the whole house burn down. Where were the firemen? If they didn't hurry, Miss Augustina would get back from fixing up the Rheinhardts’ cottage. She might try to save her house and be burnt to death. Then Mr. Fitzpatrick would be heartbroken. Kristin, conscience-stricken, would be thrown out in the street to fend for herself, and no one would ever hire her, knowing that she'd set fire to a house. She'd freeze to death under some bush. Even if she put on every piece of clothing she had, the temperatures became terribly cold after dark, and she'd never survive even one night.
Then she saw Miss Kat, turning the corner and running down French Street, interrupted, Kristin supposed, in the meeting she'd been having with Reverend Passmore. Did she already know that her house was on fire?
Well, it was Mr. Cameron's fault. For putting a stain on the virtue of his fiancée's sister, which no true gentleman would do. That stain was a good deal on Kristin's mind now that she had seen Mr. Cameron again and also because Miss Kat kept bringing home young men and trying to leave them alone with Kristin in the parlor, which paralyzed Kristin with alarm. She never wanted to be alone with another man. And she knew Miss Kat didn't like it when Kristin ran away from them. She'd like it even less that Kristin had set fire to the house, even if it wasn't Miss Kat's side. Well, technically it was, that side and the tower, where Miss Kat and Mr. Connor slept. Not that the Macleods seemed to sleep that much. Krist
in often heard them laughing in the middle of the night, not to mention the squeaks, thumps, sighs, and groans.
Miss Kat and Mr. Connor seemed to be very fond of each other. She was always making him laugh, and he was always kissing her. Wasn't that amazing? Kristin's parents never kissed each other, not even on the cheek, whereas Miss Kat and Mr. Connor kissed each other on the mouth as Mr. Cameron had Kristin. She put a palm to her waist and found it still reassuringly flat. As much as the Macleods kissed, it was surprising that they had only the one little girl, although they had been married four years.
Well, it was all a puzzle to Kristin. With Miss Kat only one house away, she glanced apprehensively over the gate. Still no smoke or flame showing. Maybe the fire had gone out on its own. Why hadn't she thought of that? It wouldn't be the first fire that had gone out on Kristin. The other three she had tried to set had done so.
"Out of the way."
With her eye on Kat, Kristin hadn't seen the men approaching from Lincoln Avenue.
"Damn,” shouted one. “Who's locked the gate?” He leapt over it, a whole crowd of men following him. Now she could see the fire equipment being trundled down the street.
"Good lord, have you set fire to the house?” asked Miss Kat. Kristin whirled the other way to see her mistress jerking the gate open and holding it for the firemen. “I swear you're worse than Diederick."
Who was Diederick? Kristin wondered.
"He's the carpenter who set fire to the house the first time,” said Sean Michael, who had crossed the street to get a better look at the action. “And then he kidnapped Aunt Kat. That was after our first mother ran off with a gambler and was never seen a—"
"Get back across the street, son,” said his father, who was evidently a fireman too. “And keep all the girls over there. You too, Kristin,” he added gently.
Elusive Lovers Page 9
