Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  By George, if he found her in, he'd send a note to his partners postponing the finalization until tomorrow. He'd take Kristin shopping himself. Better yet, they'd stay here and enjoy ... Jack scanned the room, puzzled. Nothing of hers in sight. He stalked over to the wardrobe. Empty!

  Jack took the stairs three at a time. “Have you seen my wife?” he demanded of the desk clerk.

  The man blinked. “The pretty blond lady? She checked out this morning."

  "Going where?"

  The clerk began to stammer. “S-s-she d-d-didn't say. M-maybe h-home? To B-breck..."

  Damn girl! She'd run away again. She hadn't sniveled or cried or complained the way he'd heard some brides did. In fact, she'd had a good time. Damned if she hadn't, so why had she run off? He headed straight for Pinkerton's.

  Kristin successfully concealed her terror on the three trestles and double switchbacks between Blackhawk and Central City. Surely the rest of the trip held nothing worse than that. She sketched, drawing and flipping pages as fast as she could, noting that Georgetown looked like a lovely place. Maybe she'd stop there for the night. But no, it was too close to Denver, only two and a half hours from Central City, she noted, glancing at the watch pinned to her lapel. Next time the conductor came through, she'd ask if there was a depot where she could get off and take a train to some city other than Denver.

  "Georgetown Loop coming up,” called the conductor. “In the next two miles, we got two horseshoe curves and a complete loop, not to mention the high bridge which is one hundred feet above Clear Creek."

  And up they went, the narrow-gauge train climbing the precipitous walls of Clear Creek Canyon until they crossed the spider-web trestle in the sky. Around her, the gentlemen turned pale. The ladies shrieked. Kristin's hands shook so badly that her drawings looked like the work of a woman crippled by old age and rheumatism. But she kept trying, stopping only once when they were on the highest trestle, a thing so fragile, so high, that her dinner from last night heaved in her stomach. On that trestle she didn't shriek; she did knock off her hat getting her head out the window to throw up. Happily, the other terrorized sightseers were in no condition to notice.

  When she ducked back in, the conductor, looking worried, asked, “Are you all right, ma'am?"

  "Just getting a better look at the view,” she mumbled, dabbing her mouth with a lace handkerchief and deciding that, escape or no escape, she would get off in Silver Plume. However, in Silver Plume her knees weren't firm enough to hold her up. She only got as far as the aisle seat. As soon as the train started back, she closed her eyes and, no matter how much shrieking went on around her, kept them closed until the conductor called Georgetown.

  Then she climbed down as he followed with her baggage. “Gonna stay the night in Georgetown?” he asked.

  She nodded, thinking that she might never leave Georgetown. She wasn't sure now that she could get through the Blackhawk-to-Central City section again. Georgetown looked prosperous, the scenery beautiful. Perhaps there were people in the town's fine homes who would want their portraits painted. Jack had no reason to look for her here. She'd never heard him mention Georgetown. She'd never see him again. She'd be safe. Kristin blinked back tears. “What is the best place to stay?” she asked the conductor.

  "Hotel de Paris,” he replied without hesitation.

  "Paris?” Kristin's sad, confused heart lifted a fraction. Maybe it was an omen. In Georgetown she would make lots of money and go on to Paris. When she got to France, she might even paint naked men! She'd already drawn part of one. If she did a whole one, she'd send it to her father just for spite. Or better yet, she'd enter it in a competition in Chicago. “Nude Male by Kristin Traube.” They'd never live it down.

  But she'd never see another male body as beautiful as Jack's, Kristin realized wistfully. She didn't really want to. Gathering all of her paraphernalia, she trudged off toward Sixth Street and the Hotel de Paris, to which the conductor had given her detailed directions.

  It was a long, two-story building of yellow stone with dark red crowns over the windows and doors, not her idea of a Parisian building. Nonetheless, the conductor had claimed that it was the best hotel between the Missouri River and San Francisco and had superb food, cooked by the owner himself, Louis Dupuy. Kristin staggered into the lobby under her burden of luggage and requested a room.

  "You by yourself, ma'am?” asked the desk clerk.

  "Do you see anyone else?” Why did he care?

  "One minute, ma'am.” The clerk disappeared, then returned with another man. “Monsieur Louis Dupuy,” said the clerk as if announcing the king of France. The Frenchman gave her a thunderous frown.

  "I would like to stay the night,” she said, thinking, Perhaps the rest of my life if I have enough money.

  "Are you married?” asked the owner in a most delightful accent.

  "I am an artist,” said Kristin evasively and decided to try some of her St. Scholastica French on him. “Bonjour, monsieur," and she stumbled haltingly through a sentence.

  "Please, mademoiselle, speak English. Your French is très deesgusteeng."

  "That's just what Sister Denis Marie used to say.” Kristin sighed. “Do you think if I ever get to Paris, I will be disliked because of my terrible French?"

  "You are goeeng to Paris?” asked Monsieur Dupuy.

  "It is the ambition of my life, but in the meantime I need a room. I was so frightened on the Georgetown Loop that I got off as soon as my knees would hold me up."

  "I suppose you shrieked all ze way up and back,” said the Frenchman disdainfully.

  "No monsieur, not one shriek. I didn't even faint, which three other ladies did.” She didn't mention throwing up off the high bridge, the subject being indelicate.

  "Are you one of zese sporteeng women?"

  "Oh no,” said Kristin. “We played basketball at St. Scholastica and some tennis in the warm weather, but Sister George Augustine said I would never be an athlete."

  "Basketball?” Monsieur Dupuy turned to his clerk

  "It's a game where people throw balls through hoops."

  "Mon dieu, and women do zese? Why does she tell me about ze basketball when I asked her—"

  "It is a sport."

  Monsieur Dupuy roared with laughter. “Zat was not ze sport I had in mind."

  Kristin looked confusedly from one to the other.

  "Well, mademoiselle, perhaps you can stay ze night. I don't like women—"

  "Oh, that's all right,” said Kristin. “I don't much like men."

  The little Frenchmen raised his eyebrows and said, “Show mademoiselle to a room.” Then he disappeared, and Kristin was signed in and shown to a very comfortable room, where, without even unpacking, she lay down and fell asleep.

  "Well, have you found her?” Jack asked the Pinkerton manager.

  "Ten people at Union Depot saw a beautiful blonde wearing a navy boater with a kelly-green ribbon—"

  "That's her."

  "She was getting on the Georgetown Loop excursion train."

  "She went on an excursion?"

  "Yes, sir. She got off at Georgetown with all her baggage."

  "Then she must plan to stay a while.” Jack shook his head. “Why Georgetown?"

  "Lot of wealthy folks in Georgetown,” said the Pinkerton man, “and a fine hotel. Hotel de Paris."

  "That's where she'll be staying,” said Jack, remembering that she had dreamed of going to France.

  "You want us to pick her up for you, sir? You'll have to swear out a warrant on a runaway wife."

  "I'll get her myself tomorrow morning,” said Jack. “If you hear anything new, let me know."

  "Yes sir,” said the Pinkerton man and gave Jack the departure times for the excursion train.

  It was dark outside Kristin's windows when she awoke, wondering where she was. Then she remembered. “I hope I haven't missed dinner,” she mumbled to herself. She'd had nothing to eat since the sumptuous meal in Denver the night before.

  Kris
tin was very careful with her toilette, knowing that the French were particular about fashion. She chose a pale blue satin dinner dress with pale gold lace falling in two tiers from the edge of her shoulders to her elbows, edging the low, straight neckline, plunging in a deep V over her stomach, and banding the ruffles on the hem and train. With matching ribbons at the crown of her head, long gloves and a lace fan, she was ready to impress the only Frenchman she had ever met. Evidently she impressed someone, for when she went downstairs to dinner, Monsieur Dupuy himself came out of the kitchen, wearing a white chef's hat so tall that Kristin longed to paint it. There were few parties left in the dining room. “Am I too late?” she asked anxiously.

  "No, mademoiselle. Eet eez pleasing to me to meet an American who dresses so well—” Kristin blushed with happiness."—and who wishes to dine at ze civilized hour."

  Kristin replied merrily, “This American is so hungry, she could probably eat everything on your menu."

  "Can you afford everytheeng on my menu?” he asked, handing it to her.

  She glanced at the prices. “No.” She smiled. “But a few things."

  "Then I weel choose them for you, mademoiselle.” He left abruptly with Kristin looking after him in surprise, then glancing wistfully down at the menu, from which she would like to have chosen herself. Still, this was very exciting. She sat back to admire the dining room and peek at the other guests. In seconds, she had her sketchbook out, drawing faces.

  "I don't like oysters,” said Kristin sadly when the first plate was put in front of her.

  "Well, ma'am, you'd better eat ‘em,” said the waiter. “Mon-sewer Dupuy fixed ‘em up himself, and they're the best oysters in Colorado. Probably the best anywheres."

  "Are they cooked?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Well—” Bravely, she stuck her fork into one, getting as much of the sauce as she could, and put the whole thing in her mouth with her eyes closed and her face squinched up. “Why, they're delicious!” she exclaimed a second later.

  The waiter smiled. “Himself will be glad to hear you think so."

  As Kristin was eating her fourth oyster, Monsieur Dupuy appeared at her table with a bottle of wine. “So, you ‘ave decided you like oysters?"

  "Only yours,” said Kristin. “Can I have a second helping?"

  "Non, non, mademoiselle." He plunked down the wine bottle.

  "I don't drink,” she said, cowering away.

  "Fine food must be accompanied by fine wine.” He poured some into her glass.

  "Surely, you don't expect me to drink the whole bottle?"

  Monsieur Dupuy sighed. “Since you are only a woman, I suppose I can not expect zat much. Now, drink!"

  Timidly, Kristin took a sip. “It's very good."

  "Now, another oyster."

  She popped another oyster into her mouth and chewed.

  "More wine."

  From then to the meal's end, Monsieur Dupuy sat at her table like a bossy mother and supervised every bite and sip.

  "I have never tasted such food in my life,” she said as she was eating duck.

  "Of course not. Zere eez no such food anywhere else."

  "I wonder,” said Kristin, “if you would be interested in buying some of my sausage?"

  He scowled at her.

  "I have a sausage factory in Breckenridge,” she explained. To which she couldn't return, unless she was sure Jack wouldn't be there as a source of mortal temptation. Still, Ingrid had to make her living.

  "French sausage?"

  "No, German sausage."

  "German food eez ze worst in ze world. Except for English. Are you German?"

  "I had a Swedish great-grandmother."

  "Ze Swedes are not much better."

  "But—"

  "No mademoiselle, I weel not buy your sausage."

  "But you haven't tasted it. It's very good."

  "I have ze delicate palate. And now, mademoiselle. Dessert! Crème brûlée. Eat it."

  "Oui, monsieur."

  "Mon dieu. You can't even say oui properly."

  But Kristin was already sampling the crème brûlée. “Monsieur, an angel must sit on your shoulder as you cook."

  Monsieur Dupuy's stern face fell into pleased lines. “And you, mademoiselle, are a woman who has obviously overcome an unfortunate heritage."

  "Let me ask you, monsieur, have you ever thought of murals in your hotel? They would make a lovely addition."

  "And who would paint zese murals?"

  "I would, of course,” said Kristin.

  "But mademoiselle, you have already told me zat you have never been to Paris. If I commission murals, zey would have to be of Paris."

  "Oh."

  The few people in the restaurant were whispering among themselves. No one who knew Louis Dupuy and the Hotel de Paris had heard of the Frenchman spending an entire meal sitting with a young lady, much less actually smiling at her. He was a known hater of women.

  "Jack Cameron?"

  Jack turned at the voice. “Cal!"

  Within seconds, the two men were slapping each other on the back. “Cal Bannister, what are you doing in Denver?"

  "Having dinner with you, I reckon,” said the young man with unruly blond hair and brown eyes. “Have you tried Pell's Fish House?"

  "No, but I'm game.” The two went off together toward the beckoning lighted windows of Pell's with its large marquee touting Pell's clams and Pell's oysters.

  "What are you doing in Denver?” asked Cal when their first course had been served.

  "What I was born to do—make money,” said Jack. “What are you doing here?"

  "Looking for money,” said Cal. “I expect to be a millionaire by this time next year if I can come up with a little financing."

  Jack's eyes sharpened. “Have you found a gold mine?"

  "This place will make the whole country rich."

  "Oh? Where is it?"

  "Are you interested in financing me?"

  Cal Bannister had been one of the smartest students at Yale, with a flair for science and engineering and the kind of enthusiasm that should make him a fine prospector. If he'd taken it up and said that he knew where there was gold, Jack believed him. “I can provide you exploration money, and if your prospects look good, I'll round up investors."

  "By God, I knew my luck was in today."

  "Now, tell me where this place is."

  "Cripple Creek."

  That sounded familiar. What had he heard about it? Oh, the mining hoax! “Ah—rumor has it—"

  "It's a volcanic area, Jack. I'd bet my place in heaven that it's laced with veins of gold—tellurides of gold—and I'm not the only one who thinks so. The assays so far are impressive. Besides that, in the last twenty years the costs of hard-rock mining have been cut two thirds—the smelting, the shaft timbering, even the dynamite and fuses. And Jack, we could see a plunge in the price of labor costs too. If the government stops supporting silver—"

  "—the silver mines will close,” Jack agreed. He believed that would happen. That was why he refused to buy into Colorado silver interests.

  "And the miners it puts out of work will drive the wages down. If we're going to buy in, now's the time."

  "And you're sure about the gold?"

  "Dead sure."

  "Well, you've got your financing."

  "We're going to be very rich,” said Cal, grinning. The two men raised glasses of champagne to one another. “Shall we celebrate by going over to the House of Mirrors?"

  "On Market Street?"

  "Fanciest parlor house in town."

  "With a madam who finances herself through blackmail,” said Jack, thinking of his pretty wife.

  "Well, if you're going to be picky, how about Mattie Silk's place?"

  Jack shook his head. He really hadn't any interest in Market Street. Tomorrow he'd be in Georgetown at the Hotel de Paris with Kristin, who was both more beautiful and more exciting than any trollop. With a little experience, he imagined she'd even be
more talented in bed. But why had she run away?

  Chapter Fourteen

  "They're in the basement,” said Mrs. Hamill when Jack presented himself at the front door of William Hamill's Gothic revival house on Argentine Street in Georgetown. “The general is showing her the—"

  "I'm her husband,” interrupted Jack, “who would like to show her the way home."

  Mrs. Hamill raised her eyebrows delicately. “Mrs. Traube-Cameron didn't mention you."

  "I'm sure,” said Jack. Traube-Cameron? Maybe he should be glad she hadn't dropped the Cameron. He could have been discussing gold prospects at Cripple Creek with Cal Bannister; instead he was chasing his runaway wife over high trestles and breathtaking switchbacks amid squealing tourists and pursuing her into a hotel run by a bad-tempered Frenchman who had said that “for a woman” Kristin had a “fair palate.” Jack had had a bad moment there, remembering how alcohol affected Kristin, but he didn't really believe that she'd been sharing her concealed passions with the misogynistic Mr. Dupuy.

  And now, in order to retrieve his errant wife, Jack was forced to embarrass himself with the family of General William A. Hamill, veteran of the Ute Wars and many a mining triumph. Mrs. Hamill led him to a narrow stairway, explaining that her husband was showing Kristin the furnace. “The general is very proud of his furnace,” she said. “Almost as proud of his furnace as of his solarium and his...” They were making their way down a steep staircase, and Jack, hearing the light, sweet tones of his wife's voice, almost forgave her for running away.

  "We've got two feet of soft brick around the furnace,” boomed a man's voice, presumably the general's.

  "My dear, here's Mr. Cameron, come to fetch his wife."

  The general looked up, as did Kristin. How had Jack found her? Kristin wondered. And how angry was he? For her part, it was almost a relief to see him. The general didn't want his portrait painted. He had said he owned one portrait; any more would be a vanity. He also had a painting of his wife and five children; again, one was enough. Having disposed of that matter, he pointed out all the glories of his solarium, in which Kristin had found him sitting—the curved glass walls and ceiling, the exotic plants, the pewter statue of a boy.