Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  Damn, damn, damn. Somehow, Tom know that man was the key. He wished he were here now so Tom could beat the truth out of him. Whoever that man was, he’d done something to Claire to make her feel she wasn’t good enough; that she had to work harder and behave even more properly than most women in order to be worth the space she took up. Good God, if most of the men Tom knew felt that way, the world would be another Eden.

  But poor Claire. She’d thought she’d somehow enticed Tom into behaving in an ungentlemanly manner.

  In spite of his present state of disappointment and confusion, Tom chuckled. As if Claire Montague’s demeanor could in any way be considered seductive. He frowned, remembering her tearful disclosure this evening.

  Poor Claire. In his wildest imagination he couldn’t picture her setting out deliberately to seduce anybody. Her nature was too naturally refined, her character too perfectly pure.

  A thought struck him and he sat up. Maybe that portly gentleman had seduced Claire and then blamed her for it! He’d read stories about girls seduced and abandoned, of girls lured into intimacies and then denounced by their seducers. Why, just think about poor Hester and her scarlet A. Or Clarissa. She’d stood firm in the face of everything that damned rake Lovelace had done to her, and who had died in the end? It sure as hell wasn’t Lovelace. In fact, Claire’s story was as old as the Bible.

  That mustachioed gent was certainly a smooth enough operator to be such a villain. Tom wished he could remember some of the fellow’s stories. They might give him a clue. His memory of the evening was, unfortunately, a little fuzzy. He wondered if Claire would ever admit to having been seduced and abandoned.

  Tom wished he’d suspected about Claire’s unhappy love affair when he’d been drinking with that shifty old charlatan. He’d have given him an earful. Maybe a gut-full and a jaw-full, too. Tom kneaded his knuckles in anticipation.

  After sitting at Claire’s desk and wallowing in his black musings for a good half hour, Tom finally stopped trying to make sense of things. Until Claire came to trust him, he’d never know why she got so skittish every time he tried to demonstrate his affection. His heart heavy, he dragged himself from her office and trudged up the stairs. He paused in front of her bedroom door, contemplating knocking and asking admittance.

  After only a very few seconds, he realized he wouldn’t be able to chat coherently tonight, even if Claire answered his knock, which was unlikely. Seeing her again would just sharpen appetites better left unwhetted until they solved their problems. Whatever they were. With a sigh, Tom dragged himself to his room.

  Right before he drifted off to sleep, he determined to prove to Claire that he was the only man in the world for her. By fair means of foul, he aimed to have her. If that meant lulling her into complacency, weakening her with charm, and softening her up for the strike—much in the way he used to stalk game on the prairie—so be it.

  He realized that in a few short weeks his goals in life had undergone a subtle change. Before his arrival at Partington Place, all he’d wanted was his horse ranch and enough money for comfort. Now the notion of achieving those same aims without Claire at his side made his blood run cold and his heart pound with dread. He couldn’t let her go. He wouldn’t let her go.

  # # #

  It was a wonder to Claire that breakfast on Christmas morning was not more strained. After all, she’d made a fool of herself—again—last night when she’d run away from Tom.

  He was in a jovial mood, however, and kept the conversation light. Since Jedediah Silver seemed lost in a romantic fog, Claire could only bless Tom for his savoir faire; his light touch on a day that might have been nerve-wracking if dealt with less adroitly.

  How she loved him! Overnight she’d toyed with the idea of confessing her dastardly deed. After all, he’d told her he cared for her. Surely he wouldn’t hate her just because she’d made a mistake and written those wretched novels.

  Yes. With an aching heart, she acknowledged that Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee had been a mistake. Those books had been a labor of misguided love; nothing more, nothing less. If Claire had possessed the slightest inkling that Tom would be embarrassed by them, she would not have written them. She would have been awfully disappointed, of course, but she wouldn’t have written them.

  All that was beside the point, however. She had written them, and in doing so had hurt him.

  Seeing him here now, though, his blue eyes sparkling with friendship and Christmas cheer, she knew she couldn’t do it. Not today. In her present state of anxiety, watching the affection in his eyes turn to contempt and distaste would kill her. Claire resolved to put her mind to the problem later when she would certainly have overcome the worst of her nervousness. She applied herself instead to being a satisfactory Christmas companion.

  After breakfast, Tom visited the staff of Partington Place, gave them each a very nice present and a Christmas bonus, and allowed them the rest of the day off. Then he asked Claire if she’d like to go horseback riding with him.

  “When I saw Miss Thelma in town, she said you’d picked up your new riding habit.”

  Claire felt her cheeks get hot with pleasure and trepidation. “Well. . . . Are you certain you want me to go with you? I’m sure you’d have a better ride if a more accomplished horseman accompanied you.”

  “Ah, but I wouldn’t have the pleasure of your company, though, would I, Claire? It’s your company I want.”

  Immeasurably reassured by his words, Claire flushed hotter. “In that case, I’d be delighted to ride with you. Or, rather, to have a riding lesson. For you do understand that I’ve never ridden a horse before.” She didn’t suppose the one time Charley Prince, the animal trainer at the circus, led her around the ring counted.

  “Good.” Tom rubbed his hands together. “Hurry, then. I want to teach you all about horses, Claire, my sweet.

  Claire, my sweet. Tom’s honeyed words curled through Claire like fragrant steam.

  The winter day sparkled around them, the air crisp and clean, the magnificent Sierra Nevadas rising in the distance to frame the day with grandeur. Clouds that looked as though somebody had whipped them with a fork piled high in the deep blue sky like meringue on one of Mrs. Philpott’s lemon pies.

  The horses, Tom assured Claire, were sluggish shadows of his favored Appaloosas, but would be adequate for Claire to begin with.

  “If they’re slow and sleepy, so much the better,” Claire murmured uneasily, looking down from her perch on the animal’s back. It seemed a very long way to the ground.

  Tom chuckled, but assured her, “You’ll do fine, Claire. As long as you understand that as soon as I get my ranch started, I’m going to get you the prettiest, liveliest little mare you can imagine.”

  “Really?” she murmured with some concern, but he only laughed again.

  He waxed poetic about Appaloosas for several minutes, and soon Claire forgot to be afraid and devoured his words like candy. She longed to help him make his business succeed. And she knew she could be a help to him, too. Why, Gordon Partington used to tell her all the time that her ability with record-keeping and business accounts were all that kept him afloat. Of course, he’d been exaggerating, but Claire did know she had a good head for business.

  As she listened to Tom talk, she realized he was a solid businessman, too, and her heart was happy. He was everything she’d ever wanted in a gentleman, just as he’d said she was everything he’d ever wanted in a lady. It still didn’t seem possible he could have meant those words.

  The specter of Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee reared its handsome head and drove her happiness away for a moment, but happiness has a buoyant quality, and it soon bounced back. Somehow, some way, Claire would think of something. “Something,” a vague word, didn’t lie quietly in the grave to which Claire consigned it. Nevertheless, she covered it up and determined to think about her problems later.

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” Tom said after a few minutes. “I didn’t mean to bore you to death with my dreams.”


  “Your dreams aren’t boring at all, Tom. I think they’re wonderful. All my life I yearned to be part of something permanent, to have something of my own. I don’t blame you for dreaming about creating your own business.”

  She felt uneasy when Tom’s gaze searched her face as if he craved answers to questions she hoped he wouldn’t ask. She should have known better.

  “What is it, Claire? What is it about yourself you aren’t telling me? Are you afraid I’ll disparage you if you tell me you’ve made mistakes in your life? I won’t, you know. I’ve made plenty of my own.”

  Claire concentrated very hard on the knee she had hooked around her saddle’s leaping tree. She had to tell him. She couldn’t tell him. She had to. She couldn’t.

  All of a sudden her brain fastened on her childhood. Her childhood was sordid and ugly, but, while her books were her fault, her childhood wasn’t. She cleared her throat. “Actually, it’s my background,” she whispered nervously. “I’m afraid my origins were—were not at all refined.”

  He chuckled, and she glanced at him quickly. “You can’t mean to tell me you’re worried about having less-than-perfect origins, can you? If you are, just take a long look at my background. The only thing refined about me is my name, and that’s only elegant if you live in Tuscaloosa, and then only historically. I’m afraid my parents managed to fritter everything we ever had away.”

  “No!” She was shocked.

  “Oh, but yes. My mother and father are about the most ridiculous, flighty human beings the world has ever known. I expect my uncle Gordon never told you that part about my family, did he?”

  “Good heavens, no.”

  “There. See? We’re even.”

  She tore her gaze away from his dear face. “No. I don’t think we’re even, Tom. My own background is—is even less refined than that, I’m afraid. We were—we were terribly poor, and traveled from place to place because we had no home. Our life was—was very uncomfortable.”

  With a funny little lopsided smile, Tom said, “Mine was uncomfortable, too, Claire, trust me. Half the time my folks couldn’t even afford firewood. Neither one of them would ever stoop to chopping it themselves, of course.”

  “My land. I had no idea.”

  “Of course not. Uncle Gordon knew my mother in her silly girlhood; I don’t think he realized she grew up to be an equally silly adult. My father was even worse.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “But our parents aren’t our fault, Claire. And if you think our childhoods were uncomfortable, you should have been along during my years with the railroad. You haven’t lived uncomfortably until you’ve camped by a frozen stream without even a tree or a rock to break the wind whipping down from the poles.”

  Claire’s grim mood began to lighten. She loved to hear about Tom’s breath-taking adventures, and she couldn’t wait to shift the topic of conversation away from herself.

  “Good heavens.” She shivered in spite of her warm serge riding habit.

  Neither of them spoke for a minute. Then Tom said with a chuckle, “That might be an interesting plot for one of those Tuscaloosa Tom novels. You know, the flat prairie, the frozen stream and the wind and all.”

  Claire, who had not thought about Tuscaloosa Tom for three or four blissful minutes, frowned. Tom was right, though, and she found herself filing the knowledge away, even though she didn’t plan to write another Tuscaloosa Tom novel after she’d fulfilled her contract. She said with a fair show of lightness, “Too bad Clarence McTeague isn’t with us.”

  “Yes. I’d like to have a chat with him, believe me.”

  Tom’s sour tone seemed to drive the sun from the sky in Claire’s world for a moment or two.

  Then he sighed and said, “I meant what I said last night, Claire. I care for you and would be the happiest man on earth if you’d agree to an alliance with me.”

  Claire jerked the reins and her horse protested. Tom reached over to settle it down again. She appreciated his concern.

  But, an “alliance?” That meant he wanted her to be his mistress, she supposed. Well, he’d said as much last night.

  “I won’t press you, Claire. I—well, I know something’s troubling you and I wish you’d confide in me. You must know I’d never, ever hold anything in your past against you. What happened before we met is all over with. You’ve overcome whatever it is and become the woman I care about very much.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” Claire whispered shakily. A little sadly, she wondered if she were simply not the sort of woman men married. Probably.

  He took a deep breath and then blurted out, as if he could read her mind, “And I suppose I should offer you marriage, but I—I can’t do it. The only marriages I’ve ever seen have been like prison sentences. I can’t do it.”

  His honesty caught her completely off guard. Her heart flipped over and she opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “I know I’ve botched things up by being too hasty. I’m sorry, Claire. You have some idea that I’m a grand Southern gentleman, but the truth is I’ve been living like a heathen for fifteen years. I hardly remember all the things my mother used to try to teach me about polite behavior.”

  Looking into his glorious face, Claire realized he meant what he was saying. His frankness had shaken her, though, and oddly cheered her. She shook her head. “You’re a wonderful gentleman, Tom. You have a natural talent for the social graces, I guess, because you’re—you’re perfect.”

  He looked astounded at her assessment. “Good God. Do you really think so? My mother would be thrilled to hear you say it.”

  His smiled one of his glorious smiles, and Claire’s breath snagged in her chest. “Any mother would be thrilled to have you as a son.”

  Tom snorted. “I’ll have to tell you more about my family one of these days, Claire. I know it’s disloyal to say so, but it’s true. I’ve never met two more useless human beings than my parents.”

  “I’m sorry, Tom.”

  Apparently deciding the topic of parents was too glum a one for Christmas morning, Tom continued, “And don’t forget that you can always talk to me, Claire. You can tell me anything. There’s nothing you ever need fear from me.”

  His expression was so sincere, his eyes so somber, and his affection so evident, that Claire began to weaken. If he could overlook the wretchedness of her past, perhaps he could forgive her for making a mistake and writing those books. He seemed to understand human foibles better than most people. Perhaps she could confess. Perhaps he would understand that she’d written her books out of love and had no idea they would hurt him.

  “Um, Tom, I think it’s very kind that you’re not holding my humble origins against me.”

  “Good grief, Claire, a person can’t be held accountable for his or her origins. Life’s hard enough already. If we were expected to be responsible for our parents’ faults as well as our own, we’d all be in the soup.”

  It was an effort, but she maintained her smile. “So—so do you think people should be forgiven for making mistakes?”

  “Depends on the mistake, I reckon.”

  Pretending to concentrate on guiding her horse around a dip in the grassy field, Claire said, “Well, I mean if somebody did something in the misguided belief that he was doing a good thing and it turned out that it actually hurt the person it was intended to help, so you think that person could be forgiven?”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Well—well, I mean, take Clarence McTeague, for example.”

  “I’d rather not, thank you.”

  Somewhat daunted, Claire cleared he throat and fumbled on. “Well, I mean, I’m sure Mr. McTeague meant his books as a—as an homage to you, if you know what I mean. I’m sure he didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sure he had no idea you’d be inconvenienced or embarrassed by them.”

  “You’re sure of that, are you?”

  “Well, yes, I believe so.”

  “You were really fond of my uncle, weren’t you, Claire,” Tom
said softly. “I guess I can understand that, given your wandering childhood and all.”

  She wished he didn’t think his uncle had written those books. It complicated things so. “Why are you so certain the late Mr. Partington wrote the books?”

  With a shrug, Tom asked, “Who else could have done it, Claire? Those books included incidents nobody else could have known about, except my parents, and I know they didn’t write them because they’d never expend so much effort on anything. I can’t imagine them tackling something as time-consuming and difficult as novel-writing.”

  “I see.” Oh, dear heaven. “Your uncle was a wonderful man, Tom. He’d never have done anything to hurt you. He looked upon you as a hero. We all did. The Tuscaloosa Tom novels—whoever wrote them—were written by somebody who meant to honor you, not cause you misery.”

  With a laugh, Tom said, “Yes, I know how much you like those books, Claire. It’s one of the few topics about which I disagree with you.”

  “But if I’m right, don’t you think you’re being a little hard on poor Mr. McTeague, whoever he is—was.”

  Tom snorted again. “From what I hear, he’s not poor at all.” A smile broke across Tom’s face like the sun breaking through clouds. “Oh, all right, Claire. I’m absolutely certain my uncle meant no harm when he wrote those damned books. There. Are you happy now?”

  Claire digested his words for a few seconds. She wished she wasn’t so dreadfully anxious. If her heart wasn’t thundering and her brain shrieking, she was sure she’d be able to use her normally sound judgment to construct an appropriate confession.

  But she was anxious and her brain was shrieking, and if her judgment proved faulty, her whole future was in jeopardy. Yet she couldn’t go on deceiving Tom; she knew that, too. Throwing caution to the wind, she took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak.

  “Claire! Mr. Partington! Merry Christmas!”

  The happy greeting surprised Claire into clamping her mouth shut. Daring to turn slightly in her saddle, she beheld Priscilla Pringle galloping toward them on a striking bay gelding, Sylvester Addison-Addison hard at her heels.