Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  “Come now, Miss Montague, I can’t imagine you possessing a weak character,” Tom said bracingly. “Why, you seem a fine, honorable, sensible young woman to me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Partington.” Claire gave him a melancholy little smile. “What I expect you mean is that I am such a poor drab thing, you’d expect me to enjoy dull passages describing Greek architecture. Well, I wish I did. Unfortunately, my taste in literature is not as—as refined as I wish it was.”

  Since he wasn’t sure what to say, Tom only murmured, “I see.”

  “Now, mind you, I’m not saying Mr. Addison-Addison isn’t a brilliant writer. Indeed, he’s one of the most prolific authors in the Pyrite Arms, and his prose is—is—well, his prose is truly edifying.”

  Tom managed another, “I see.”

  “I fear my mind is not of such an elevated nature that I can listen to very much of it without yawning.”

  Since she appeared genuinely grieved about what seemed to him a logical reaction to the pompous young Addison-Addison’s mind-numbing drivel, Tom didn’t so much as crack a smile although he really wanted to. He opted for a mild, “No?”

  She shook her head. “No. I much prefer Dianthe’s interpretive verses. Or even—or even dime novels.”

  Her last confession was rendered in such a dismal tone, Tom had to take a quick gulp of port to keep from laughing out loud. The resultant choking fit effected a change in the topic of conversation.

  After Claire finished patting him on the back and his eyes quit watering, he said, “Thank you, Miss Montague.”

  “Of course, Mr. Partington.” She was quite flushed when she sat down again.

  “Er, anyway, what I came in here for—or, not the only reason, of course, but—” Oh, Lord. Tom hated having to be polite. He wasn’t used to it. Funny. For the first several years of his life, his mama had drilled him on gentlemanly behavior until he’d behaved like a little gentleman with every waking breath. His manners sure hadn’t improved in the past fifteen or twenty years.

  “Yes?” Claire asked helpfully, blinking at him from beneath her lenses.

  “Er, well, I wondered about what you said this afternoon.”

  She cocked her head, giving her the look of a curious barn owl.

  “I mean”—Tom struggled on—“about asking people to dinner.”

  “Oh.” Claire’s head turned and she seemed to be observing her stitching very carefully. “You mean, you would like to invite Dianthe St. Sauvre to dine with you?”

  “Well, actually, didn’t you mention ‘arty evenings’ or something like that?” Tom downed the last of his port and poured another glass, deciding as he did so that he didn’t even want to get used to the vile stuff.

  “Oh!” Claire brightened immediately, her eyes going round and reminding Tom of big brown marbles. “I had no idea you’d really be interested in continuing the tradition of Artistic Evenings, Mr. Partington. I’m thrilled to hear you say so. Absolutely thrilled!”

  Tom felt like a fraud—not for the first time—but was glad anyway since he’d made Claire’s downcast countenance lift. “Yes, I do think that would be a good plan, Miss Montague. I don’t know anybody in this area, and I suppose it would be a nice way to meet people.”

  Actually, he wasn’t sure how many artists of Sylvester Addison-Addison’s stamp he could stomach in one evening, but he expected the ravishing Dianthe St. Sauvre’s face and Claire Montague’s conversation would keep him from smashing the insolent puppy’s pretty nose flat.

  “I’m sure of it, too, Mr. Partington. And through them, you’ll meet many like-minded people in Pyrite Springs. And even Sacramento. Why, we often have visitors from as far away as San Francisco.”

  “We do?”

  Claire blushed rosily, giving her a youthful appearance Tom was astonished to see. Why, she looked quite attractive when she blushed—quite attractive indeed. He simply had to get her to do something about her hair.

  “I mean—I mean the people at the Pyrite Arms do, you see. I guess I’ve taken to thinking of myself as one of them.” She let her head droop and was obviously embarrassed. “Of course, that’s silly of me, as I have absolutely no turn for the artistic.”

  Out of the blue, Tom murmured, “You possess the soul of an artist, Miss Montague.” He didn’t know what came over him to make him say such a stupid thing, but there it was.

  She looked at him as though he’d just bestowed sainthood upon her. “Thank you, Mr. Partington.”

  It was Tom’s turn to blink. “Well . . . you’re welcome, Miss Montague.”

  Claire seemed much happier now. “That was a perfectly lovely thing to say. And I do believe you’re right. Even though I’m not able to express myself in words of an edifying, exalted nature, my soul is stirred by the works of great artists.”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”

  Although he thought she seemed a little fanatical on the subject, Tom said, “Well, there. You see? It shows. Your soul’s stirrings, and all.” He felt like an idiot.

  She said, “Thank you,” in as fervent a voice as he’d ever heard, and he guessed he’d said the right thing. He felt oddly as though he’d passed some sort of test.

  “Er, so when do you suppose we could have one of these evening things, Miss Montague?” A troubling thought hit him. “Is this the sort of thing Mrs. Philpott was afraid of?” Lord, he didn’t want the cook to start bawling again.

  “No, indeed. Mrs. Philpott was quite used to the late Mr. Partington’s Artistic Evenings, Mr. Partington. Why, if we invite the entire population of the Pyrite Arms, that would only be five extra people. She wouldn’t mind that. It was a big gathering she was worried about.”

  “I see.” Tom was glad to have that puzzle cleared up. He wondered what constituted a big gathering, if five extra people were nothing at all.

  “And if you wanted to invite some of the other citizens of Pyrite Springs, which the late Mr. Partington often did, then we could hire a couple of the girls in town to help.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” said Tom, who guessed it was.

  “When would you like to have the first evening, Mr. Partington? I’m sure all the denizens of the Pyrite Arms are dying to meet you.”

  He grinned. “Especially after Addison-Addison tells ‘em all what a Philistine I am.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t say such a thing.”

  Claire looked horrified, and Tom wondered if a sense of humor lurked somewhere beneath her starchy exterior. He thought he’d seen glimpses of one from time to time, but wasn’t sure. “I was only joking, Miss Montague.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She smiled uncertainly.

  “Well, let’s see. Silver’s coming tomorrow. I don’t suppose that would matter. He’s undoubtedly met some of your artist friends before.”

  “Yes, indeed. I’m sure he’d be very happy to join us. He’s often expressed an interest in the Arms.”

  “Has he now? Well, then, how about in two or three weeks? Would that be enough time to fix things up?”

  “Oh, Mr. Partington, that would be simply lovely! I’ll run over to the Pyrite Arms tomorrow and tell them all we have a special treat coming.”

  “All right. Sounds fine with me. Er, where do you hold these little shindigs, anyway? I mean, did Uncle Gordo—Gordon—have a little theater tucked away somewhere in this pile that I haven’t found yet?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, although we had discussed building one. The entertainments are generally held in the small ballroom.”

  “I see.” Tom cast about, trying to locate the small ballroom in the warren of rooms cluttering the map in his brain. He thought he’d succeeded, but wasn’t altogether sure. This house was so damned big. And it was his. A thrill of satisfaction made him sigh deeply and smile.

  Suddenly Claire put a hand on his arm. “Mr. Partington, I can’t begin to express to you the honor you’ll be showing the fine young artists at the Pyrite Arms. I was afraid the master of P
artington Place’s patronage would end with the late Mr. Partington’s death. Although I know it’s not an object with you, I must tell you how very happy you’ve made me.”

  To Tom’s utter horror, he saw tears sparkle in Claire’s eyes. Fortunately for him, Claire was too proper to shed them. Blinking furiously, she returned to her nearly forgotten pillowslip. “I’m sure you must think me quite demented, Mr. Partington.”

  “No, no, not at all, Miss Montague. I’m happy to do it.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him such a glowing look that Tom couldn’t stand it. Searching blindly for something to say, he blurted out, “So you like dime novels, do you?”

  Claire looked up from her mending, stunned. Dime novels? Good heavens. Her heart began beating against her ribcage like a military drum.

  “I—uh—well, yes, I do enjoy reading a good potboiler every now and then.” Her laugh, she realized with distaste, sounded like that of a fatuous adolescent. She cleared her throat. “Do you care for them?” Then she held her breath. If he admitted to relishing having been made a hero through her books, how would she acknowledge her authorship without fainting?

  Sipping his port, Tom cocked a brow. “Well, now, Miss Montague, I’m not entirely sure.”

  “No?” Claire dared a smile. How she wanted him to know it was she who’d written those books. It was she who’d made him the idol of America.

  “I have to admit to being somewhat . . . embarrassed by the ‘Tom Pardee’ novels.”

  Claire’s hammering heart did a crazy swoop, and her mouth went dry. She dropped her pillowslip like a hot rock, grabbed for her port and took an enormous gulp. Embarrassed? Oh, no. “I—I’m sure they were meant as—well, as a paean to your brave deeds, Mr. Partington,” she said when she could.

  “Hmmmm. Maybe.”

  Oh, dear. He looked very much as though he were brooding, and Claire, who had never encountered a broody gentleman, wasn’t sure what to say. She decided upon, “But, well, you must admit your career has more than lent itself to—to acclaim, sir.”

  “Do you think that’s what those books are, Miss Montague?”

  “I’m absolutely sure of it, Mr. Partington,” she declared, because she was.

  “Hmmmm.”

  “Certainly they are. I mean,” Claire rushed on, worried about so many hmmmms, “just think about your heroic action at Gettysburg, sir.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “But you were so noble, so gallant. Leading that charge, saving General Lee’s life was—was magnificent. Simply magnificent.”

  Tom peered at her over the rim of his glass. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you it was a mistake? That I was really trying to get the men to retreat and that the air was so full of smoke I steered my horse in the wrong direction?”

  Claire gave a tinny laugh. “Of course not, sir.”

  Returning his moody stare to his port, Tom muttered, “No, I didn’t think so. Nobody else did, either.”

  “And you can’t tell me that stealing into enemy territory to rescue Colonel Fosdick was a mistake, sir.”

  “No, I meant to do that, all right. That bast—er, the colonel owed me too much money to let the damned Yankees kill him.”

  Claire looked at him hard, but didn’t detect a hint of teasing in his expression. He appeared, in fact, rather annoyed. Nevertheless, she forged on. “And then, after the war, when you became a scout for the railroad, why, your accomplishments are legendary.”

  “My accomplishments, Miss Montague, were minimal. It was the circumstances that were extraordinary.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute, sir.”

  With a frown, Tom said, “Well, I wish people would believe me. It would make my life much less difficult.”

  “Difficult?”

  “Yes. Those books. They’ve made my life hell.”

  Good heavens. This was a new slant on her novels. One she’d never considered. “I—I don’t know what you mean, sir. How have they made your life difficult?”

  “I suppose if the author hadn’t written that note in the first book telling the world that Pardee was modeled after me, nobody would have made the connection. But do you have any idea what it’s like to be among a group of men, all trying to do the same job, and have one of them break out a Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee novel and read it around the campfire at night? There were nights I wanted to crawl away and hide.”

  “You mean they mocked you?”

  “I guess it wasn’t me so much as the exalted prose. Luckily, we all got along well. It was just being singled out that made it embarrassing. I pretended to laugh it off, but it was pretty awful.”

  “But your friends must have known that your exceptional behavior would foster praise, Mr. Partington. Surely they didn’t object to the novels on that ground.”

  “That’s just it, Miss Montague. My behavior wasn’t exceptional. We were all just trying to do a job for which we got paid a moderate amount of money. I didn’t do anything anybody else wouldn’t have done—didn’t do, if it comes to that.”

  “Not even when you conquered that Indian village single-handedly, Mr. Partington?” Claire thought she had him with that one. He’d have to confess to having done an heroic deed this time.

  “That village consisted of twelve people. Three women and nine children. I didn’t conquer anything.”

  “Oh.” Claire digested this daunting piece of information. “That’s not the way the event was reported in the press,” she said in a small voice.

  “Of course it wasn’t.” He sounded disgusted.

  “And the lady you rescued?” Her voice seemed to be getting smaller as the conversation continued.

  “That was no lady. That was a wh—a woman of . . . of easy virtue who’d managed to get drunk and fall off her horse. They’re always following the railroad. I just picked her up and poured her back into her tent.”

  “Oh.” Claire stared, unseeing, at her pillowslip for a moment. “But what about the war party? The one you diverted from attacking the railroad by clever stratagems?”

  With a big sigh, Tom said, “My only clever stratagem was to let the poor souls know where they could find food, Miss Montague. The railroad workers had taken to killing the buffalo for sport. The Indians needed them for food. I’d found a small herd of buffalo and showed ‘em where it was. That doesn’t sound terribly clever to me, but perhaps Clarence McTeague thought otherwise.”

  The way he spoke her pen name made Claire’s heart take a nose dive.

  “I’m sure Mr. McTeague meant no harm,” she offered tentatively.

  Tom threw his head back so that it rested against the antimacassar on his chair. He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them negligently at the ankles. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, exposing a tantalizing hint of curly golden chest hair. His pose was at once casual and elegant. He was the most magnificent male Claire had ever seen in her life, and her poor tattered heart throbbed in response.

  “He may not have meant any harm, but he made me a damned laughing stock.” He looked at Claire ruefully. “Sorry, Miss Montague. I’m used to rough company. I didn’t mean to offend you by my profane language.”

  “No,” said Claire, struggling to keep from bursting into tears. “No. You didn’t offend me.”

  His smile just about did her in. “I’m glad. You’re a very comfortable woman, Miss Montague. I’m afraid you’re so easy to be with that I allowed myself to say more than I should have. I hope I haven’t shattered too many illusions.”

  Comfortable. She was comfortable. Well, Claire guessed being comfortable was better than nothing. She tried to smile. “Thank you, Mr. Partington. No, you didn’t shatter my illusions. I already knew you were a modest man.”

  His little snort didn’t surprise her.

  “Well, I don’t know how modest I am, but I’ll tell you this, although you might think it shocking. If my uncle Gordon wasn’t already dead, I might just be tempted to put a bullet in his brain
for writing those blasted Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee books. They’ve made my life a living hell for five years.”

  Now, that surprised her.

  Chapter 4

  Claire’s brain raced. As if determined to keep up with it, her feet sped her towards the Pyrite Arms until she was nearly running down the road.

  Tom Partington hated her books. He not only hated them, but they had made his life miserable. What was even worse than that was he thought his uncle had written them and despised him for it!

  Good heavens. She’d been so upset after their conversation, she’d barely slept a wink all night long, worrying about how on earth she’d ever be able to confess that it was she and not his uncle Gordon who had created “Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee.” Yet she didn’t feel it right that Tom should continue blaming his innocent uncle for them.

  She wished she could apologize to Gordon Partington. It was all her fault that his nephew had not esteemed him as he surely would have done had not she, in her innocence, created a monster. But she hadn’t meant “Tuscaloosa Tom” as a monster; rather, her novels had been meant as praise for her hero.

  If she confessed her authorship, Tom would undoubtedly hate her. Claire didn’t think she could stand it if he were to dislike her. She loved him, for heaven’s sake. The whole situation didn’t bear thinking of.

  So why could she think of nothing else?

  Not only that, but her latest creation, Tuscaloosa Tom and the River of Raging Death was scheduled for release in January. Mr. Oliphant, her publisher’s representative, would be arriving any day now with her advance copies and to finalize arrangements for the one book remaining to be written under her current contract.

  If Claire had not learned early in life to disguise her emotions, she might have burst into tears. As it was, she jumped a foot when she rounded the hedge separating the grounds of the Pyrite Arms from the prying eyes of the rest of the community and almost collided with Sergei Ivanov.

  Sergei, a portrait artist and resident of the Arms, had been occupied in glaring at an empty canvas. When Claire uttered a stifled shriek and skidded to a stop, a hand pressed to her hammering heart, Sergei’s glare transferred to her, and he lifted his paintbrush in a sinister manner.