Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  “Will it be orange?”

  “I expect so. Orange and perhaps yellow.”

  “I see. I suppose we can hang it in the downstairs washroom.”

  “Oh, there’s Sergei.” Claire said suddenly, pulling him along behind her.

  “The one you don’t blame?”

  She shot him a teasing look. “Exactly.”

  “Is there anything I need to know about this one before we’re introduced?”

  “Just don’t get him started talking about souls.”

  Souls. Tom looked ___≈at Claire’s gleaming hair bouncing along before him and mumbled, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  After Claire’s introduction, Sergei ignored Tom’s out-thrust hand, clicked his heels, and bowed from the waist, his arms held rigidly at his sides.

  “Sergei,” Claire whispered to Tom by way of explanation, “is Russian.”

  “I see,” said Tom, who wasn’t sure he did.

  With a sweeping look at Tom which encompassed his person from the top of his head to the tips of his evening shoes, Sergei declared, “I shall paint your soul.”

  “You shall?” After Claire’s brief warning about Sergei and souls, Tom was surprised to have the subject thrust at him so abruptly. He wondered how one went about painting somebody’s soul. Were souls as easy to get at as, say, barn doors? “Er, how do you paint somebody’s soul, Mr. Ivanov?”

  Sergei slapped his chest. “It is in here.”

  Tom looked at the hand spread over Sergei’s evening jacket. “It is?”

  “Dah. I look into the eyes and see ___‡the soul. I put the soul on canvas.”

  “Perhaps you’d better wait until you know Mr. Partington a little better before you attempt to do his portrait, Sergei. Remember what happened with Mr. Gilbert.”

  “Bah!” Sergei cried with evident contempt. “I paint the truth, and he cannot bear it!”

  Claire patted his shoulder sympathetically. “At least I understand he’s dropped charges.”

  Sergei muttered another “Bah!” and turned to stare morosely into the fireplace.

  “Oh, dear,” Claire whispered into Tom’s ear. “I think he’s going to brood now. You know these Russians.”

  Tom grinned at her. He liked having her lips so close to his ear. “Well, no, Miss Montague. Actually, I don’t.”

  “Oh, look!” cried Claire.

  This time she reached for Tom’s hand. He wasn’t sure if she knew she’d done something so intimate, but he wasn’t about to point it out to her.

  Chuckling, he asked, “And just what’s in store for me this time? Another mad Russian?”

  “Certainly not. It’s Freddy. And he’s brought his flute. That must mean he’s managed to compose an accompaniment to Dianthe’s poem.”

  “Really.” Tom guessed he was pleased, although he couldn’t imagine what kind of music would go with a poem called “In Praise of the Spotted Horse.” Particularly on a flute. He could understand a drum, maybe.

  “Freddy!” Claire called.

  When a tall, angular, red-headed man turned around to smile at Claire, an action that lifted his drooping mustache considerably, Tom decided it was foolish of him to be surprised. All of her artist friends were odd to varying degrees; he guessed Freddy March might just as well look like a hunting hound in a plaid coat as an orange marshmallow. Still, it was rather disconcerting to be looking at a fellow who might have passed as a younger version of Tom’s father riding to hounds. He summoned up a smile and shook Freddy’s hand politely.

  “Oh, Freddy, I’m so eager to hear what you’ve composed for Dianthe’s poem.”

  “I hope you’ll be pleased, Claire. It took me forever.”

  As soon as the first word left Freddy’s mouth, all resemblance to his father fled from Tom’s mind. Whereas Tom’s father spoke in a silky Southern purr, Freddy March twanged. Tom wondered that he hadn’t chosen to play the banjo.

  He didn’t have time to ponder the vagaries of human nature, however, because Mrs. Gaylord, who had been elected by some process beyond Tom’s ken as the mistress of ceremonies, whistled from the staging area erected in the front of the ballroom. He clapped his hands over his ears, and noticed others doing the same. Shoot. He hadn’t heard a whistle like that since he was a boy. He was impressed.

  After her whistle had silenced the room, Mrs. Gaylord spoke. “Friends, as you know, we are gathered here today at the invitation of Mr. Thomas Partington, new owner of Partington Place.”

  Cheers and applause burst forth. Surprised, Tom waved and smiled and hoped he wasn’t expected to perform.

  After the clapping died down, Mrs. Gaylord continued. “We five artists at the Pyrite Arms have long been in debt to the late Mr. Gordon Partington. Even though sweet Gordon has endowed the Arms in perpetuity through a magnanimous gift in his will, I was perfectly thrilled when Miss Montague told me the young Mr. Partington would be continuing his uncle’s patronage of the Arms.

  More cheers. More smiles. Another wave. He’d had no idea being rich could be such a pain. When he looked at Claire, however, and found her positively glowing at him, he decided acting the gent for this pack of fools was a small price to pay.

  “Since Sergei and I alone among the residents of the Arms are not performance artists, I wanted to take this opportunity to present Mr. Partington with a gift.” Mrs. Gaylord turned—a process that sent Tom back into his boyhood when he and his cousin George used to inspect pumpkins before carving autumnal jack-o’-lanterns—and called, “All right, Scruggs. You can bring it in now.”

  It took all of Tom’s control to keep from shouting with laughter when Scruggs, looking as miserable as a man had any right to look, slumped out onto the stage, bearing an enormous painting.

  “Good Lord, it is orange.”

  “Marigolds are orange, Mr. Partington, when they aren’t yellow,” Claire murmured apologetically.

  “I suppose. Well, the downstairs washroom’s too small, I reckon.” He peeked at her and grinned. “I’ll let you find a suitable place for the thing.”

  With a distinct twinkle, she whispered, “There’s always the bare spot over the dining room fireplace.”

  “Please,” Tom said with a shudder, “consider our digestion, Miss Montague.”

  “Very well.”

  She giggled again, and Tom’s heart went all mushy. Damn, he liked Claire Montague.

  _

  Chapter 10

  Halfway through Dianthe St. Sauvre’s rendition of “In Praise of the Spotted Horse,” complete with flute accompaniment by Freddy March, Tom still liked Claire Montague. He had, however, begun to harbor serious doubts about her sanity.

  He couldn’t figure out what any reasonable person could find entrancing about the lovely Dianthe doing her dainty best to make horse-clomping motions on-stage while reciting banal rhymes.

  “The spotted horse exalted/ On the plains where Indians roamed/ His majesty undaunted/ Under ebon skies star-domed,” Dianthe recited, her whispery voice almost drowned out by the flute’s piping. Then she whinnied and Tom had to slam the figurative lid on his sense of humor or burst out laughing. His eyes teared up with the effort.

  And yet, every time he glanced at Claire, he found her bright-eyed and gazing with rapt attention at the stage. A peek at his guests revealed that they seemed to be enjoying themselves, too. Deciding to ignore the rest of the audience, he concentrated on Claire.

  He didn’t understand it. While he had to keep from sticking his fingers in his ears to blot out the tuneless tattoo of flute notes battering his eardrums, Claire seemed perfectly enthralled. Eventually, he found himself more enchanted by Claire’s reaction to her friend’s poetry than by the performance itself.

  Appreciation of loyalty was one of the few absolutes in Tom’s life. Truth, justice, peace, security, wealth—he’d lived without those commodities countless times, but without the loyalty of his fellows, in battle or on the frontier, he’d have been dead a long time ago. He’d been loyal to his comr
ades, too, no matter what he thought of them as individuals, and he honored the attribute when he saw it. In this case, given the idiocy of Dianthe’s poetry, he awarded Claire extra points for her own allegiance.

  The lights in the ballroom had been dimmed by judicious snuffing-out of selected candles in the wall sconces. The faint light flickered against Claire’s lenses as she leaned forward so she wouldn’t miss a single word of her friend’s rendering. As Tom examined Claire’s features critically, he decided their overall effect was intriguing rather than beautiful. He recalled his first glimpse of her and wondered how he could have thought her dull. First impressions often led one astray.

  He’d never have guessed, for example, that in the brief time he’d known Claire, he’d start having fantasies about her. But he had. He was having one right this minute, in fact.

  She must have sensed his scrutiny because after of one of Dianthe’s more ridiculous verses, she turned her head, smiled at him and whispered, “Are you enjoying your first Artistic Evening, Mr. Partington?”

  “Er, yes. Yes indeed.”

  “Dianthe’s poem is stirring, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is.”

  It almost, in fact, stirred him to sleep when he decided he’d better pay attention to the stage for a while. A burst of clapping jolted him out of the first stages of slumber. He hoped he hadn’t been so gauche as to snore.

  Next to perform was Sylvester Addison-Addison, who not only held a lily, but also took great pains to inform his audience that he considered them beneath him. At least that was the impression he left with Tom, who shook his head in wonder. Sylvester read several phenomenally boring pages from his opus, and this time Tom actually did fall sleep.

  Claire wondered if she would ever get used to the sight of Tom Partington. She hoped so because if she had to endure these incredible pangs every time she looked at him, she wasn’t sure how long she could last. Alert, he was magnificent. In repose, he was perfect.

  He hadn’t seemed to find Dianthe’s ode banal, but had watched her performance with evident pleasure. With a sigh, Claire told herself she’d expected as much. Indeed, she was glad her spiteful wish hadn’t been fulfilled.

  She wasn’t surprised he’d fallen asleep during Sylvester’s chapter. Sylvester’s prose, while uplifting, was geared to an audience that hadn’t led the exciting life Tom Partington had lived. Sylvester also had a mean streak, and Claire wondered why she’d never noticed it before. She was frowning when he finally stopped droning on about those wretched Greek ruins of his. The applause was polite rather than enthusiastic.

  At the first clap, she turned to Tom, who jolted awake in an instant. She wanted to put her hand on his arm to calm him, but knew it wasn’t her place to do such a thing. Instead she smiled.

  Blinking, he murmured, “Did he finally shut up?”

  She couldn’t help chuckling. “Indeed he did, Mr. Partington.”

  “Thank God.”

  The audience had begun to rise, and Tom and Claire did likewise. Scruggs, Mrs. Philpott and a boy from the village had begun spreading refreshments on a long table against the wall. Tom offered his arm to Claire and led her over to the champagne.

  He handed her a glass and lifted his own. “To you, Miss Montague.”

  “Heavens, no, Mr. Partington. The toast must be to you. After all, if it weren’t for you, this evening’s entertainment could never have taken place.”

  With a crooked grin that nearly made Claire’s knees buckle, Tom said, “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not going to pin this one on me.”

  “You mean you didn’t enjoy it?”

  “Don’t look so scandalized, Miss Montague. I told you I wasn’t used to polite company. You enjoyed it, and that’s what matters. Drink up. Anything that gives you pleasure is a pleasure to me.”

  “Those are very pretty words, Mr. Partington, but I was so hoping you would take an interest . . . Oh, Mr. Partington, did you hate it?” Claire felt a foolish urge to cry.

  His expression was sweet when he said, “Of course I didn’t hate it, Miss Montague. I enjoyed the evening very much. In fact, I’m still enjoying it. Now drink your champagne, my dear.”

  “Thank you.”

  Still feeling shaky, Claire sipped her wine. She wanted to question Tom further, to determine if he was merely humoring her or if he truly cared about the arts. She thought she’d die if she discovered he had agreed to this entertainment for no better reason than to amuse his housekeeper.

  As the idea that he might have done such a thing for her began to settle in her heart, however, she almost choked on her champagne. Good heavens! Could it be true?

  All at once, Claire realized how foolish she was being. Of course, he hadn’t put on the Artistic Evening for her. He’d done it for Dianthe. Beautiful Dianthe. Brilliant Dianthe. Ethereal, lovely Dianthe. Of course. Silly Claire.

  There was no time to repine, however, because the refreshment table had been discovered and seemed to draw Tom’s guests like a magnet. Or like maggots, as her father might have said.

  She frowned, wishing she could stop remembering her crafty father’s crude sayings. She wished she could stop thinking about her father. She’d had no reason to think about him until she’d begun to lie to Tom Partington. Maybe her unhappy suspicion that bad blood ran in the family was true.

  Tangled web, sang in Claire’s brain to the ugly tune Freddy had played on his flute, and she felt unhappy for a moment. A voice intruded into her despair.

  “I’m sorry about what I said, Claire.”

  She turned to discover Sylvester Addison-Addison standing at her elbow. Priscilla Pringle’s talons were firmly attached to his arm and his lily had begun to droop.

  Since she wasn’t sure she should believe what her ears had just heard, she stammered, “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “About your hair. I didn’t mean to sound churlish. It actually looks very nice. I like the curls in front and the twist in back. It’s quite elegant.”

  If Claire hadn’t been so stunned by Sylvester’s apology—the first she’d ever heard him utter—she might have taken note of the word “elegant.” It had been used to describe her quite often recently. As it was, she mentally filed it away and planned to take it out to examine more closely later. Right now, she allowed her mouth to drop open in awe.

  “Thank you so much, Sylvester. How nice of you. I don’t believe you’ve ever begged pardon of anyone for being churlish before. I feel honored.”

  Sylvester’s face crumpled into petulance at once. “Well, by God, I—ow!”

  Startled by his cry of pain, Claire’s eyes opened wide when she saw Mrs. Pringle’s fingers loosen on his coat sleeve. Her nails were long, and they must have pinched terribly.

  “I mean,” said Sylvester after dragging in a deep breath, “I do like your new hairstyle, Claire. It suits you admirably.”

  To spare him further pain, Claire said simply, “Thank you, Sylvester. Your reading tonight was . . . flawless.” She expected that might be true.

  “Wasn’t he wonderful?” Mrs. Pringle asked. She fluttered her lashes at Sylvester, who gave her a smile that made Claire’s eyes open wide again.

  “Yes. Yes, he was wonderful,” she murmured.

  “And he’s quite right, you know, Claire. You should wear your hair like that all the time. It looks simply wonderful. And that gown becomes you much better than it did me. Why, you look quite pretty this evening.”

  “Thank you, Priscilla.”

  “Come along, Sylvester. You promised me a crab patty.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Pringle.”

  “Priscilla,” Claire heard her say coyly. “You know I keep telling you to call me Priscilla, Sylvester darling.”

  When Mrs. Pringle whacked Sylvester’s arm playfully with her fan, Claire was shocked. My goodness. Could the flirty widow be setting her sights on Sylvester Addison-Addison? If she was, it might be just as well for the citizens of Pyrite Springs. If Sylvester married a rich woman, he wouldn�
�t have to work anymore and Mr. Gilbert might hire a civil clerk to work in his mercantile establishment.

  “Claire!”

  She swirled around to encounter Dianthe, wafting toward her on Jedediah Silver’s arm, her white-and-black-speckled dress fluttering around her like a butterfly’s wings. Dianthe had her arms outstretched, and Claire clasped Dianthe’s hands in hers, her earlier uncharitable thoughts engulfed by genuine affection for her friend.

  “Your ode was wonderful, Dianthe and your dance utterly charming.”

  “Wasn’t she magnificent?”

  Claire wasn’t sure she approved of the look of devotion in Jedediah’s eyes. Nevertheless, she said, “Indeed, she was. Why, the poem was so—so—so appropriate.”

  Jedediah subsided into silent worship and Dianthe blushed. Now Claire was sure she didn’t approve. If Tom Partington was in love with Dianthe, it would never do for Dianthe to take a liking to Jedediah Silver. As envious as Claire was of Tom’s possible regard for Dianthe, she would never wish him to suffer from unrequited love. As Claire herself did.

  “Well, Claire dear,” Dianthe said, her face alight with gaiety, “I suppose we must be off. It is an artist’s duty to mingle with her patrons, you know.”

  “Of course, Dianthe. Have a good time.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for planning this, Claire. I know it was your doing.”

  “It was nothing, really.”

  Dianthe gave her a sisterly kiss on the cheek, and Claire lifted her hand in farewell as Dianthe and Jedediah drifted away. She wondered if she should have tried to pry him away from Dianthe. With a sigh, she decided Tom Partington, who was so very clever at everything, must be much more adept at love games than plain dull Claire Montague. He’d just have to wrest Dianthe away from Jedediah himself this evening if he wanted her.

  The party was quite jolly. Everybody seemed to be having a splendid time, laughing and chatting. Claire was both relieved and pleased. Even if Tom had held the Artistic Evening merely to humor Dianthe, it was a wonderful way to introduce himself to his new neighbors. She watched him smile and converse with Mrs. Humphrey Albright and her husband, Mr. Humphrey Albright, two of Pyrite Springs’s wealthiest citizens, and knew a moment of complete satisfaction. He seemed to have a natural talent for friendly intercourse.