Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  “Well, take heart, Addison,” Tom was saying in that nonchalant way he had, “maybe someday you’ll sell a book and then you won’t have to wait on people anymore.”

  After sputtering helplessly a time or two, Sylvester burst out with, “My prose is art, Mr. Partington! It exists on a higher plane than that which the world now knows. Only a hackneyed, insensitive boor would write for money.”

  Tom shook his head, as if in sympathy. “Too bad. Means you’ll have to work as a clerk for the rest of your life.”

  Claire decided it was only ethical to interrupt before Sylvester worked himself up so far that he fainted. It had been known to happen when he began breathing in that rapid, heated manner. As far as she was concerned, he deserved it.

  Of course, Tom wasn’t exactly in her favor at the moment, either. It might serve them both right if Sylvester were to faint dead away at his feet.

  She cleared her throat and strode toward the counter. “Good morning, Mr. Partington. I see you had your hair cut, at any rate.”

  She didn’t appreciate the way he eyed her coiled braids, and lifted her chin to show him so. She’d show him even more on the Saturday after next, when she had an appointment to have her hair styled in the afternoon—right before she dressed for the new Mr. Partington’s first-ever Artistic Evening. Her gown was to be delivered tomorrow afternoon. She smiled inside, although she didn’t share her smile with Tom or Sylvester. She didn’t feel like giving either of these aggravating males the benefit of a pleasant expression.

  “Good morning again, Miss Montague. Yes, I got myself a haircut. None too soon. Addison here and I were just discussing literature. He plans on having his talents abused for the rest of his life.”

  Sylvester uttered an agitated sound that might have been a stifled roar of outrage. Claire was sure she heard his teeth gnashing. She didn’t care. Nor did she care to contribute to this particular conversation. She stared at her employer stonily.

  He smiled back and asked, “Did you find some suitable lamps?”

  Claire decided it was unfair of God to have given Tom Partington such a glorious smile. He was the masculine equivalent of Dianthe St. Sauvre, and Claire resented it. So as not to succumb to the effects of his smile, she turned away abruptly and said, “No.”

  She didn’t see him blink in astonishment, but she could guess at his reaction by the silence that greeted her answer. She spared him a response. “No, I concluded you should be the one to decide upon the furnishings for your house, Mr. Partington. After all, this will be your first purchase for your new home, and I thought you should have the final say. Sylvester can show us some suitable lanterns,” she added, with a pointed look at her friend.

  “Oh. All right then. Sure. Show us some lamps, Addison.”

  “My name is Addison-Addison.”

  Claire finally condescended to offer Tom a tight smile. He took her arm and they followed Sylvester to the lamps. Claire couldn’t recall another time that Sylvester had walked in so stiff a manner. His usual pose of world-weary languor had vanished entirely.

  # # #

  Tom supposed he really shouldn’t have baited Sylvester Addison-Addison the way he had. It was hard to resist, though, because the man was such a nonsensical specimen of humankind. He wondered what the novelist would do if he ever had to face real peril. Undoubtedly, he’d scream. Or faint. Still, Tom knew Claire set quite a store by these boring artists of hers; and he’d already riled her once today. Her pinched lips and stern demeanor nudged him to try to jolly her out of her bad mood.

  “I think those lanterns we chose will be really pretty in the dining room, Miss Montague,” he ventured with one of his patented smiles.

  She’d been maintaining her air of rigid dignity ever since she broke up what might have become an all-out brawl in the mercantile. Not even the ever-so-proper Claire Montague could withstand the Partington charm, though, Tom was pleased to discover.

  He could tell she was trying not to smile when she said, “I believe you’re right, Mr. Partington.”

  “If you’re not still mad at me, would you mind showing me the rest of the town?”

  Claire responded to his roguish expression with a blush. Her brown eyes opened wide beneath her spectacles, her thick lashes fluttered and her dark brows rose. The sun struck her rattlesnakes and they shot burnished sparks into the late-morning sky. Insecurity showed clearly on her face and Tom’s heart quivered unexpectedly. He’d been mean to her, and was sorry for it.

  “Please forgive me, Miss Montague. I truly didn’t intend to embarrass you.”

  Her dimple gave him hope—for what, he wasn’t sure. “Well, all right then.” She slanted him a rather roguish look of her own. “Although I’m sure I’m being far too easy on you.”

  “I’m sure you are.” And he was, too.

  Nevertheless, Claire condescended to give him a tour of Pyrite Springs. She pointed out the cobbler’s shop, the butcher’s, the post office, the bank, the local attorney’s office, the farrier (to whom Claire introduced him), the bakery, the florist, the jewelry store, the livery, the Pyrite Springs Hotel, the courthouse, the tobacconist’s (complete with a ferociously painted wooden Indian) and even, from across the street and with a moue of distaste, the Fool’s Gold Saloon.

  They had their lunch at Sam Wong’s Gem of the Orient, because Tom said he’d never eaten Chinese food before.

  “I hope you’ll like it,” Claire said, nervously inspecting the menu. “I’m quite fond of Chinese cuisine myself.”

  Tom thought it was sweet that she cared whether or not he’d like his lunch. “Even if I don’t take a shine to it, Miss Montague, I will have had a new experience, and that’s the important thing.”

  “What a marvelous attitude, Mr. Partington,” Claire exclaimed. She looked startled for a moment, as if her thoughts had suddenly been diverted onto some other course entirely. Then she gave a little shake and beamed at him. “Yes, indeed. I think that’s the attitude we all need.”

  A little puzzled, Tom thanked her. She needn’t have worried. He enjoyed his lunch.

  # # #

  Dianthe dined with them that evening, and Claire was pleased to find the new lamps did their job well. Even though Scruggs had again seated them in the formal dining room, they could at least see each other and their food.

  It had not taken her employer any time at all to restore himself in her good graces, and she worried about that. Was she so easily swayed because of some intrinsic flaw in her character? It seemed to her that if she possessed true grit, she should have stayed annoyed for a little longer, anyway.

  For some years, she hadn’t had occasion to think about her life before Partington Place. Recently, however, her doubtful upbringing had been fretting her a good deal. She’d believed she’d left her father’s haphazard morals behind her; she’d forsaken them and him ten years before.

  Yet in the past few days, she’d not only found herself being coddled out of perfectly reasonable bad moods by nothing more than his smile, she’d also told more falsehoods than she could remember having uttered in ages. She’d lied and lied, and even drawn her friends into her lies. She was, moreover, attempting to mislead her employer, to “put one over on him,” in her father’s vulgar vernacular.

  What was even worse was that Claire knew Tom believed Gordon Partington to have been the author of the books he hated so, and she had done nothing to disabuse him of the notion. She was deliberately allowing him to think poorly of his wonderful uncle, and Claire’s conscience ached in consequence.

  Eyeing Dianthe askance, Claire knew her perfidy went even deeper. She had succumbed to petty jealousy. Oh, she’d long since stopped wishing for Dianthe’s graceful beauty. But with the advent of Tom Partington, Claire found herself actually longing for Tom to look beneath Dianthe’s glorious exterior and discover the poet underneath to be insipid. Claire knew Dianthe was brilliant and she suspected her own shortcomings led her to find Dianthe’s work inane. She knew it was base of her to wa
nt Tom to find them silly, too. She did anyway.

  At least Tom’s comment about his Chinese luncheon had given her a good idea about what to do with the forever-shrieking Miss Abigail Faithgood.

  Rising from the rocky floor of the cliff where she’d fallen, Miss Abigail Faithgood clapped a hand over her mouth. She would not scream again, no matter what horrors manifested themselves before her. Watching the noble Tuscaloosa Tom, she vowed to be worthy of his regard.

  “Are you all right, Miss Faithgood?” the chivalrous Tom inquired. He thrust the bloody knife away from him, aghast at the violent acts he’d been called upon to perform this day.

  Squaring her shoulders, Miss Abigail Faithgood lifted her chin and averred nobly, “I shall be, Mr. Pardee. Lead on. I shall not waver.”

  There. That should do it. If only her own problems were so easily solved.

  “Is everything all right, Miss Montague? Are you feeling well?”

  Claire hadn’t realized how heavily she’d sighed until the kind-hearted Jedediah Silver asked about her health. Good heavens, she simply must get a grip upon her nerves.

  “I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Silver. I was—just admiring the new lighting.”

  “Yes, it’s a pleasure to be able to see the food on one’s plate, isn’t it?”

  She shared a gentle laugh with Jedediah and glanced at Tom under her lashes. He looked amused and was staring straight at her, a circumstance that made her pay attention to her crab soufflé.

  “I think Claire and Mr. Addison-Addison must have had a tiff today,” Dianthe murmured in a voice as delicate as swans down.

  Claire looked up from her crab, guilt stabbing her like a knife. She had been mean to Sylvester, and it was all because she’d allowed herself to fall back into the evil ways she’d struggled so hard to overcome. What a wicked web she’d begun to weave.

  “Actually, I’m afraid it was I who ruffled old Addison’s feathers this morning, Miss St. Sauvre.”

  Claire’s gaze swung to Tom and she stared at him in astonishment.

  “I’m afraid I can’t resist teasing him because he takes himself so seriously. He reminds me of some of the young boys I used to serve with in the army.”

  “Really? How fascinating.”

  Dianthe batted her eyelashes at Tom, and Claire resisted the urge to throw a dinner roll at her. “He can be difficult,” she muttered, trying to keep her tone sweet.

  “He’s an insufferable bore, is what he is,” said Tom, not mincing words.

  “Certainly not insufferable, Mr. Partington,” Dianthe suggested gently.

  “Well, maybe only a bore,” Tom allowed with a grin.

  “Which certainly can’t be said for our present company.” Jedediah’s expression spoke of worship. It was, of course, directed at Dianthe, who blushed becomingly.

  “Of course not,” Tom mumbled right before he took a bite of his soufflé.

  Claire’s wine glass hit the table with a snap. “All the residents of the Pyrite Arms are admirable artists,” she said when her dinner companions turned to look at her. Her smile felt brittle; she hoped it didn’t show.

  “I’m sure that’s true, Miss Montague. Maybe I just don’t have a proper appreciation for the arts.”

  Claire felt her eyes narrow and opened them up again. Just because she felt guilty and touchy was no reason to be ill-humored. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had such a time governing her temper. “Don’t you care for any type of literature, Mr. Partington? There must be some writer somewhere who has managed to capture your fancy.”

  “Yes. I like to read. I’m fond of Mark Twain and Dickens. And I like Ouida’s novels, too.”

  “You mean to say you prefer Ouida to McTeague?” Claire’s voice had risen, and she made an effort to control her passion. But honestly! This was a man who claimed he hated Clarence McTeague’s works, yet he liked Ouida? Outrageous! Clarence McTeague was ten times the writer Ouida was. Or, Claire meant, she was ten times the writer Ouida was.

  Tom shrugged.

  “Really, Mr. Partington, I fail to see why you should not respond to Clarence McTeague’s works if you enjoy Ouida’s. At least McTeague’s works aren’t totally fantastic.” She took a vicious bite of her crab.

  “No?”

  “Certainly not. Why do you prefer Ouida over McTeague?”

  “Well, for one thing, Ouida hasn’t made my life miserable.”

  “Oh.” Her anger dissolved, and Claire studied her plate. Suddenly the scrumptious meal Mrs. Philpott had prepared took on the flavor of ashes.

  “But that’s not the only reason.”

  “No?” She braced herself.

  “McTeague writes about places I know. Ouida writes about exotic places. Lush south-sea islands and far-off Arabian deserts. The French Foreign Legion and adventure.”

  “McTeague’s books contain some pretty exciting adventures, if you ask me,” ventured Jedediah.

  Claire felt illogically gratified by his words. She said, “Thank you, Mr. Silver.”

  “You’re more than welcome.”

  Jedediah looked surprised, and Claire realized she’d almost made a monumental blunder. “I—I mean, I don’t like to think I’m the only one who likes a rousing dime novel set in the Americas every now and then.” She hoped the new lighting wasn’t so bright that her heated cheeks would show and give her away. “After all,” she added with what she thought was admirable logic, “the American frontier is exotic to most of us.”

  “Hmm. You might be right there,” said Tom judiciously, drawing attention away from her. “I can’t say that I object to McTeague’s writing. In fact, I think he had quite a way with words. It’s just that he chose me to idealize, and it was embarrassing. I guess if I wasn’t the brunt of those ridiculous books, I might even like them. He was better than Buntline, anyway.”

  “Buntline is a hack,” Claire declared flatly.

  Tom laughed. “Now, Miss Montague. I know you were very fond of my uncle, but you needn’t belittle Ned Buntline for Uncle Gordon’s sake. They were both pretty good.”

  Claire sat up straighter. She had very firm opinions on some issues, and Ned Buntline was one of them. “I believe that if you were to judge Buntline and McTeague solely on the merits of their literary talent, you would find McTeague’s work offers infinitely more real value for your dime.”

  With a sigh, Tom said, “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Poor old Uncle Gordon’s gone to his reward.” He lifted his wineglass. “How about a toast to him? He must have been a fine man to have earned your approbation, Miss Montague.”

  His smile could melt a heart of ice. If Claire hadn’t already fallen in love with him years before when Gordon had begun reading to her about his thrilling exploits and noble deeds, his smile alone might have sent her over the edge.

  “He was a fine man,” Jedediah agreed. He lifted his glass, too.

  Claire and Dianthe followed suit.

  “He was a saint,” Dianthe whispered.

  Claire saw tears sparkle on Dianthe’s lashes and felt a twist of uncharacteristic disbelief. She told herself to stop it. Dianthe was a good friend, and possessed a sympathetic heart. She couldn’t help it is she was perfect in every respect and wept at all the appropriate moments.

  “He took me under his wing and treated me as a daughter,” she said softly. “I loved him very much.”

  “No man could ask for a finer tribute.”

  Claire looked at Tom quickly to see if he was joking and was astonished to discover he wasn’t.

  They drank to the late Gordon Partington.

  “At least I won’t have to endure any more of those books of his. I expect this Tuscaloosa Tom and the River of Raging Death will be the last.”

  Claire, who knew very well it wouldn’t be the last because she had one more book to write in order to fulfill her contract, choked on her wine.

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Unable to speak, holding a napkin to her lips to preven
t her from coughing, her eyes watering, Claire gaped at Jedediah. Could salvation come from that quarter?

  “Why not?” Tom demanded. “Uncle Gordon’s dead, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t write any more of those stupid books if he wanted to.”

  With a shrug, Jedediah said, “Well, you know, Tom, publishers will often hire other writers to carry on a series if the original writer becomes unavailable for some reason. If the books are doing well—and I expect they are—then you might have to face more of them.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Tom propped his elbows on the table and ran his fingers through his hair. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “I wish I could.”

  Claire finally managed to catch her breath. Watching Tom’s genuine despair, she felt a terrible mixture of unhappiness and exhilaration. She’d never expected to get a reprieve such as the one Jedediah had just handed her. On the other hand, she was mortified to have caused Tom such misery. She knew herself to be beyond redemption when elation overrode compunction and she thought with a thrill that maybe she’d never have to confess!

  She caught Dianthe’s eye and almost forgave Dianthe for being perfect when she winked at her.

  “I believe Mr. Silver is correct, Mr. Partington,” Dianthe said in her angel’s voice. “I understand that to be a common practice among successful publishers.”

  “Why, it may be that even Mr. Buntline’s output is augmented by hired writers. I understand he does drink to excess.” Claire was appalled when her venomous words sailed into the air. Good grief, she truly must be evil! Not only was she grasping at excuses to continue her deception, but she had now taken to maligning her competition.

  “Oh, Lord,” Tom moaned again.

  “Cheer up,” advised Jedediah with a laugh. “All the money from those books must be ending up in Gordon’s estate somewhere, and that only benefits you and your plans for the horse ranch. We’ll figure out the bookkeeping one of these days. If all else fails, I can always write to the publisher.”

  Claire stared at him, wondering how, in the space of seconds, her savior could have turned traitor.