"Well, better a rich Traube than a poor Leifsdatter. Maybe I'm a Traube, an’ they gave me away."
"Why would they do that?"
"Who knows? They don't sound very nice. Well, I'm off to the kitchen to check on the sausages, but Kristin, you're goin’ to have to get out an’ start sellin’ them."
"I know. I'm just trying to find out which areas would offer the best material for my debut as a landscapist."
"If you'd think less about paintin's an’ more about sausages, we'd be richer. Right now this business isn't bringin’ in any more than what we sell to the locals, an’ Kat Macleod will expect to see us turn a profit. She's a tight woman with money. Never let me have any."
"Oh, I think you misjudge Kat,” said Kristin. “She's been most generous about launching us in this business."
"An’ she doesn't expect to get her money back?"
"Well yes, but not immediately."
"If you don't get on the road, I should."
Kristin thought about that. If Ingrid went, Kristin could stay in her studio painting, just peeking in on the sausage makers now and then. But if she sent Ingrid, Ingrid might disappear or get drunk, which would never do. “I'm the president. I promise I'll get out and sell sausages."
"Good,” said Ingrid. “How is it that you an’ Jack don't sleep together?"
"Because I don't want to."
"Well, that's no way to hold a husband. He'll be lookin’ elsewhere."
Ruthlessly, Kristin suppressed a stab of alarm. She didn't care what Jack Cameron did! She wanted him to leave town, and she had no plans to commit “the act” with him. But what was it, if it wasn't kissing? she wondered. Sister Mary Joseph had said “the act” was to be committed only with an eye to procreation. Kristin liked children, especially telling them fairy tales and painting their pictures, but she didn't need the added burden of a child to raise when Jack went to Chicago. “Let's not talk about him,” said Kristin.
"If he were my man, I'd have him in bed just like that.” Ingrid snapped her fingers and turned away toward the kitchen. Her attitude made Kristin uneasy.
"Oh, Gwenivere,” she said, patting the pig. “It's very difficult, even when you have plenty to eat and a roof over your head."
Dear Father and Mother,
Due to the prevalence of entirely unwarranted gossip, for which we can thank Heinrich Traube, I have felt duty-bound to marry his youngest daughter, Kristin. I would appreciate your seeing Mr. Traube about turning over her dowry, Father. He is entirely responsible for this match, having forced her to leave his house for no good reason, as you know. I have no doubt that if he does not hurriedly sanction our marriage and come up with the dowry, this scandal will spread through Chicago social circles as well, doing the reputations of both families harm.
I have found in Breckenridge and Colorado a fertile field for investment, and people seem intent on entrusting their money to me. Consequently, I have opened Cameron Investments and think to stay here. I would be glad of a participation by the Cameron Bank, which I can assure you would accrue to your financial advantage, Father; however, I must leave that decision to you.
You will be interested to know, Mother, that we are now living in a most interesting mansion in Breckenridge, Colorado. It was built in ‘87 by a New York mining financier named Medford Fleming.
In the hopes of your blessing and good wishes, I remain respectfully yours. Your son,
John Powell Cameron
Well, that took care of that, thought Jack, and precious little he'd told them about his marriage. It was not working out at all as he had anticipated. Kristin was still sleeping in her own room. He had appropriated a much larger one next to hers and furnished it for himself, but that did not give him access to his wife, who was always surrounded by sausage makers, maids, pigs, and Ingrid, who, irritatingly enough, remained sober all the time these days.
Good lord, just yesterday he had gone in search of his wife and found her in her studio keeping company with a pig named Gwenivere. What was a husband to do in the face of such bizarre behavior? And that damned portrait she had painted of him. She'd framed it and hung it over the mantel in the drawing room. Kristin had made him look like a procurer or some other decadent and immoral type.
How was he to gain ground in this battle of wills with his surprisingly adamant wife, who looked better to him every day she kept him at arm's length? Sausages, he supposed, were the key. He closed his office, untied his horse from the hitching post, and set off uphill toward his tumbledown mansion, which was now beginning to be called the Cameron mansion. Wouldn't Kristin hate that, since she held the title.
As he rode up Washington, musing on his marital problems, he spotted his wife at the corner of French Street being harangued by Reverend Florida Passmore, the Methodist temperance crusader. Ten yards away, Jack could hear the stentorian outrage of the preacher.
"Of course it looks sinful,” he bellowed. “You are sharing a house with a woman who was once—"
"—the sister-in-law of your strongest temperance supporter,” Kristin interrupted.
"—who was once a woman of ill fame,” Passmore finished even more loudly. “Furthermore, you are now running advertisements in both newspapers, selling off young women. It smacks of—"
"Good day, Reverend Passmore,” said Jack, dismounting. “Have you some quarrel with my wife?"
"Have you seen the ads your wife is running in the Journal? It is your duty as a Christian, even if you are Roman Catholic, to curb her shocking activities."
Jack took Kristin's hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “I believe she is simply advertising for suitable men to join in holy matrimony to the young women who come out here from Chicago and put themselves in her care."
"She's selling them!” thundered Reverend Passmore.
"Indeed. I hardly think—” Jack turned and frowned at his wife. “Are you selling them?” he asked.
"Have any of them left?” Kristin retorted.
"But is there talk of money?"
"There's a charge if the suitors actually marry any of the girls or if they partake of refreshments at the Sunday afternoon receptions. Why not? By marrying, they are depriving me of workers, not to mention food and drink. I should be recompensed for my loss."
"Good lord!” Jack burst out laughing.
"I hardly think this is cause for blasphemy or amusement,” said Reverend Passmore.
"But then, sir, you have no sense of humor,” Jack replied. “That is well known all over the Western Slope. May I offer you a ride home, Kristin?” He could see that she was torn between a lofty refusal, which would leave her at the mercy of Reverend Passmore, and indebting herself to Jack for a personal service.
"Thank you,” said Kristin. “I accept your offer."
Jack swung into his saddle, then held out his hand to pull her up in front of him. “I believe we've just made a step forward in our relationship,” he said as he rode off after tipping his hat to the preacher. “You do at least prefer me to Reverend Passmore."
"I'd prefer the devil to Reverend Passmore."
"But then,” said Jack, “you already consider me the devil, don't you?"
At the heavily carved mahogany dinner table, Jack sat at the head, Kristin at the foot, Ingrid beside her, reporting on the sausage-making events of the day, and all the young sausage makers between them. Oh, how the sophisticated have fallen, thought Jack wryly. He, who had once drunk champagne in the finest clubs of Chicago with beautiful women and men of his own class, now ate sausage at a secondhand table with a gaggle of female sausage makers.
"My dear,” he said, addressing his wife as he watched that little pig enter the dining room and head for Kristin's chair, “have you yet planned a selling trip?"
"No,” said Kristin. “I am considering which town I shall go to first, which second, which third. I'm hoping for places with saleable scenery."
"Then if I may help you make up your mind, I'm on my way to Denver and would be glad to
take you along."
"I've been there. The scenery is of no interest."
"But the potential for sausage sales is, and I think you will find it much easier to do business with a husband in town in case you have any problems."
"What problems?"
"Unescorted ladies have problems, as you well know. You will be in and out of railroad stations, which can be difficult for beautiful women."
"I wish I had a husband who called me beautiful,” said Winifred. She had cooked and was serving dinner—sausage. They had eaten sausage for four nights running since the supplies were piling up.
"Miss Kristin,” said Fanny, “do go out and sell some. I'm so tired of eating sausage."
"Wouldn't you like to have a nice piece of beef?” asked Pen Moriarty. “A fine Irish stew. That would be so tasty."
"Anything but sausages,” groaned Bea. “I never thought I'd be unhappy to see meat on my plate, but—"
"Oh, very well,” said Kristin, “I'll go. I count on you to make suitable hotel arrangements.” She gave Jack a sharp glance.
"You certainly may count on me,” said Jack. He managed to keep from smiling, for he knew exactly what arrangements he was going to make.
"About time,” Ingrid muttered under her breath.
"What's that?” asked Kristin.
"I said it's about time you stopped paintin’ pictures an’ started being salesman president of the company. Nobody knows about Traube's Colorado Sausages except for a few folks in Breckenridge. We'll never get rich just sellin’ in this pokey town."
"How true, Ingrid,” said Jack, giving her his most charming smile. “You obviously have a head for business."
Looking more sultry than ever, Ingrid smiled back at him. Kristin seemed so startled at the interchange that Jack dared to hope she was jealous.
"I myself,” continued Jack, “am extending my business as far afield as I can."
"It will be like a honeymoon for you,” said Fanny.
"Sean and I had a honeymoon,” said Ingrid.
"You were married, Miss Ingrid?” asked Pen.
"Yes. To Sean Fitzpatrick. He's living on French Street in a bigamous union."
"Now, Ingrid,” murmured Kristin, “you mustn't talk like that."
"They won't even let me see my children."
"Ooh, that's terrible,” said Winifred, taking her seat and cutting up her sausage. “Why don't you sic your priest on him?"
"I wish I could,” muttered Ingrid, “but I'll think of something."
Did thinking of something mean setting her cap for Jack? Kristin wondered.
Chapter Twelve
"Aunt Kat's gonna be really mad if she hears about this,” said Bridget.
"She's not your aunt,” replied Phoebe. “You're our aunt."
All the children giggled, while Bridget, scowling, said, “Since I'm the aunt, you should mind me."
"If you don't want to go to Kristin's, go on back home,” ordered Sean Michael. “I never found out what happened to the elk prince and princess, and I want to know. We all do.” Molly and Liama nodded their heads, curls bouncing vigorously as the five children scampered up the hill, having taken advantage of a rare opportunity to escape from a house full of adults. Augustina was napping, something she did often these days. Patsy, the maid, was gossiping with the lady next door. All the others were out of the house. Bridget, because the idea hadn't been hers in the first place, lagged behind sullenly, but she followed them. “Don't you tell either, Bridget,” threatened Sean Michael, “or no one will play with you anymore."
Kristin was working on “Nightscape” again, a third version. This one came closer still to her vision, for she layered her paint, letting the shadowy buildings dry, then putting in hints of their windows, doors, and ornamentation. On top of that layer she did another with a carriage and horses disappearing into darkness at the right edge of the picture, glances of light on the wheel rims, the curve of a horse's back and neck, the driver a dark huddle on the seat; in the foreground the glow of the gas lamp turned the cobblestones to swells of water like a partitioned sea. Men standing beneath the lamp were outlines with touches of white, mellow gold light glancing off top hats, faces turned to a woman, the reds of whose clothing darkened in the shadows as she hastened away. Kristin shivered at the mysterious, sinister beauty taking shape at the tip of her brush. This one she would send to Mrs. Potter Palmer in Chicago.
"We need to talk about the trip."
Kristin jumped, too wrapped up in her painting to hear Jack's footsteps in the hall. “I've decided not to go,” she replied without looking toward the door where he stood.
"The devil. Why have you changed your mind?"
She didn't trust him. The idea of leaving town with Jack—just the two of them—made her uneasy. Rather than admit to her own cowardice, she began to talk about the painting, which she could not leave, not when it was going well at last. Jack walked toward the uncurtained windows where she worked and looked over her shoulder.
"Good lord,” he murmured. “I didn't know you could do anything so—so—"
"Do you like it?” she asked, weak with pleasure at the admiration in his voice. For this particular painting she needed to hear praise. Kristin felt unsure of herself with “Nightscape” because she was reaching for something new, experimenting in both technique and subject matter.
"I've never seen anything like it."
"Yes, but do you—"
They were interrupted by the babble of children's voices at the front door, two of whom were shouting, “Mama!” Giggles, chatter, exclamations, weeping. Kristin hopped off her stool and ran toward the hall, Jack only steps behind. Winifred stood by the front door looking amazed; Bridget, Molly and Liama clustered around her. All were gaping at the drawing room where Ingrid knelt on the floor with her arms around Phoebe and Sean Michael.
"We thought you were dead,” said Sean Michael. “You went away, and Daddy married someone else."
"But we love you, Mummy,” said Phoebe. “Don't cry. We love you. I was learning to play the piano just like you. I remember all your songs, and I taught myself some ‘cause the teacher doesn't know them and neither does Augustina. Then the piano went away too and—"
"Oh, Phoebe, they didn't tell me you played."
"Who's they?” demanded Sean Michael. “Why didn't you come to see us? Why didn't anyone say you were here?
"They wouldn't let me. Your grandmother—"
"Let's go into the parlor,” said Kristin. “It's so nice of you to call, children."
"We came about the elk prince,” said Sean Michael. “Is Mama visiting you? How long has she been here?"
"I saw her,” said Bridget. “I just didn't know who she was. Is she the bad woman my mother is always—"
"Where were we in the elk story?” Kristin interrupted firmly. “Or maybe you don't want to hear it, Bridget.” She gave Maeve's daughter a firm look, which caused Bridget to close her mouth and push one toe against the other.
"Kristin, you and I were having an important discussion,” Jack protested.
"Good afternoon, sir,” said Sean Michael, noticing Jack in the doorway. “How are you?” He offered to shake hands, and Jack, unused to the company of children, shook the boy's hand awkwardly. “Are you making lots of money?” asked Sean Michael in the social tones he had picked up from callers at his parents’ house.
"Lots,” said Jack, glaring at Kristin.
"Not now, Mr. Cameron,” she murmured. “So you've come about the elk prince?” She smiled at the children and invited them to sit down. Sean Michael and Phoebe pulled their mother over to the stiff red velvet settee and cuddled up to her.
"I the baby,” said Liama, following and clambering into Ingrid's lap.
"She's our mother, Liama,” said Phoebe in a lecturing tone. “Your mother is Augustina. Are you coming back to live at our house, Mummy? Are you bringing the piano back? That's our old piano, isn't it? Can Daddy have two wives?"
Ingrid sighed and l
ooked to Kristin for help.
"Your mother is living here, Phoebe,” said Kristin. “She's a partner in my new sausage-making business."
"I guess I could send the piano back,” said Ingrid, who looked on the verge of tears again. She was holding both children clutched to her while Liama snuggled up, refusing to budge from her place on Ingrid's lap. She obviously felt that she belonged with her brother and sister, even if the blond woman wasn't her mother.
"I the baby sister,” she offered at the first break in the conversation.
"If you're not coming home,” said Phoebe, looking disappointed, “then we'll leave the piano here and come for lessons. Mrs. Pitts, my teacher, doesn't play at all like you used to, Mummy."
"Do you realize how much trouble this is going to cause?” Jack muttered to Kristin. “And Kat Macleod will blame me. You can bet on it."
"My mama's Kat,” said Molly, who had been watching everyone, round-eyed, thumb in her mouth. “And my daddy's Connor.” She removed her thumb. “But I can sit on your lap, just like I do Daddy's, while Kristin tells us about the elk princess.” She was speaking to an astonished Jack.
"Prince,” corrected Sean Michael from the sofa. “We never found out what happened when the Sir Bad Bear challenged the prince, who didn't have his horns any more."
"I'll bet the fairy godmother put them back,” said Phoebe.
"She did not!"
"She did too."
"Actually, what happened,” said Jack, remembering his first visit to Kristin, when she had pushed him out and he stood on the Macleod porch hearing part of the tale through the door, “is that the elk prince, who was very rich, paid a bunch of coyotes to chase Sir Bad Bear away, and off they went, the coyotes yiping at the bear's heels and the bear running for his life. The moral of the story is that even princes need to keep a watchful eye on their finances—"
"That's not what happened,” hissed Kristin as the children all cheered.
"—and invest their money creatively. You see, children,” said Jack, “the elk prince was smarter than anyone and didn't need big antlers to get the best of his enemies."
"You haven't an ounce of romance in your soul,” muttered Kristin. “You're just a—just a money grubber."
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