Secret Hearts (11 page)

      
“Please
come into my office, Mr. Oliphant.”

      
He
did as she requested, and probably would have done so even if she’d
not had a firm grip on his coat sleeve and yanked him inside. He fell
rather than sat in the chair at which she launched him. The books he’d
brought her were still clutched to his chest, and Claire snatched them
now and thrust them behind a chair cushion. Fortunately, there were
only three of them and they were small.

      
Then
Claire stood before him, wringing her hands and wondering how to explain
her bizarre behavior. He stared up at her, looking almost frightened.
Claire didn’t blame him.

      
“My
goodness, Miss Montague! Are you ill?”

      
Immediately
Claire perceived she would have to honor Mr. Oliphant with some version
of the truth. She didn’t want to.

      
“No.
No, Mr. Oliphant, I am not ill unless heart-sickness can be accounted
ill. I—I—I—” She swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her cheek,
unable to think of a single thing to say. How could she ask this man
to lie for her?

      
All
at once Mr. Oliphant sat up. His look of terror vanished in a trice
and was replaced by an expression of almost unctuous concern. Heaving
his bulk out of the chair, he snatched her free hand in both of his.
Claire looked at his chubby fists in surprise. His palms were sweaty
and she had the unladylike impulse to snatch her hand back and wipe
it on her skirt. She refrained, because she’d treated him so oddly
already.

      
“Is
it the books, Miss Montague?” Mr. Oliphant’s voice vibrated with
solicitude. “Do you fear your employer might object to the books?”

      
Vastly
relieved, scarcely able to believe her luck, Claire breathed, “Oh,
yes, Mr. Oliphant! However could you know?”

      
He
patted her hand and nodded wisely. Claire tried to draw her hand from
his again, but he held firm. As his palm was soft and still rather moist,
she wished he’d not do that. Nevertheless, he seemed on the verge
of handing her an excuse when her own usually fertile brain had failed
her so she didn’t tug.

      
“Ah,
Miss Montague, I’m not surprised to hear it. Of course, being the
dear innocent creature you are, you can’t possibly understand a gentleman’s
sentiments at a time like this.”

      
“I
can’t?”

      
He
patted her hand again, and this time Claire almost succumbed to her
urge. She didn’t, and felt proud of herself.

      
“Of
course not. You’re too sweet. Too pure.”

      
Mr.
Oliphant was somewhat shorter than Claire, and shaped like an eggplant.
Claire peered down into his round little face and was unhappy to see
adoration shining there. Good grief. Why couldn’t a man she admired
adore her? Why must it always be the Mr. Oliphants and Mr. Johnsons
of the world who cherished her?

      
“What
does my being pure have to do with anything, Mr. Oliphant?” She was
beginning to feel a little miffy and knew the emotion to be irrational.
After all, she’d wanted a good excuse for her peculiar behavior. Besides,
she didn’t dare annoy Mr. Oliphant, who held great power over her
if only he knew it.

      
“Miss
Montague, you’ve been sheltered for entirely too long. I fear the
late Mr. Partington might have given you a false impression of men.”

      
It
was Claire’s considered opinion that the late Mr. Partington had saved
her from the hideous misapprehension that all men were beasts. She did
not say so to Mr. Oliphant, but her peevishness increased. Nor did she
speak for fear she might utter an indelicacy.

      
“Not
all men, my dear young lady, would be so complacent as the late Mr.
Partington at having a young woman in their employ who was in the habit
of penning popular fiction.”

      
Claire’s
mouth dropped open.

      
“You
see, my dear, writing novels, especially novels in the genre you, as
Clarence McTeague produce, are considered by many to be rather indelicate.”

      
“Indelicate?”

      
“Improper.”

      
“
Improper
?”

      
At
last Mr. Oliphant released Claire’s hand so he could stick his finger
in his ear and wriggle it. Claire knew he had done so to dislodge her
shriek, but she was didn’t care. Her temper soared like a lark ascending.

      
“What
on earth are you talking about, Mr. Oliphant? Clarence McTeague’s
novels are most assuredly not improper. Nor are they indelicate!”

      
“My
dear Miss Montague—”

      
“No!
I can’t believe you said such a thing, Mr. Oliphant. Why, you represent
the publisher who has been producing Clarence McTeague’s novels for
five years now. It’s a fine time to be telling me you think they’re
indelicate!”

      
Furious,
Claire whirled around and stormed to the door. Then, recalling that
Tom Partington lay beyond the door—somewhere—she whirled around
and stomped the other way.

      
“Please,
my dear Miss Montague,” Mr. Oliphant said, obviously ruffled by Claire’s
discomposure, “I didn’t mean to disparage your work, per se. Why,
I know I speak for most of the publishing world when I tell you that
Clarence McTeague’s books are probably the finest in the genre.”

      
“You
do?” Slightly mollified, Claire stopped stomping. She yanked her spectacles
from her face and wiped them on her handkerchief, something she did
when agitated. She didn’t entirely trust Mr. Oliphant’s seeming
change of heart, and glared at him. “Why did you say they were improper
then?”

      
“What
I meant to say, my dear, although I’m afraid I fumbled terribly—I’m
not, after all, a writer, you know, and haven’t your gift for words—and
I trust you won’t take what I have to say amiss, because I mean it
only for the good—”

      
“Will
you please just get on with it?” Claire could have bitten her tongue
when an expression of grave hurt entered Mr. Oliphant’s beady eyes.
She’d forgotten what an old wind-bag he was. She muttered, “I beg
your pardon. My nerves are a bit unsettled today.”

      
“Certainly,
my dear.”

      
He
sniffed and still looked hurt. Claire wanted to scream when he didn’t
continue speaking immediately, but turned to pace back and forth in
front of the fireplace several times. Governing with difficulty her
urge to shake an explanation out of him, she said through gritted teeth,
“Pray continue, Mr. Oliphant.”

      
“Yes.
Well, my dear, what I meant to say is that I believe there may be—in
spite of the excellent arguments propounded by various females who support
suffrage and equal rights for ladies—valid reasons to account for
the disparities one encounters between the sexes. Ladies, as you well
know, possess exalted sensibilities, unlike we mere men who are slaves
to our intellects. Ladies’ powers of reason are invariably influenced
by their extreme emotions.”

      
To
the best of Claire’s observations, about the only thing enslaving
men was their cursed stupidity. Vanity and lust, perhaps. Her lips tightly
compressed, she could barely squeeze out an “Oh?” Her own extreme
emotions were telling her to pick up the fireplace poker and batter
Mr. Oliphant with it, and she wondered cynically if he’d forgive her
for succumbing to the urge and chalk it up to her exalted sensibilities.
She suspected he wouldn’t.

      
His
benevolent smile made her want to scratch his beady black-olive eyes
out.

      
“You,
of course, are a paragon among females, Miss Montague. You have somehow
overcome your natural feebleness of nature and have produced some of
the finest literature of this or any other age.”

      
Claire
glared at him, exasperated. “They’re dime novels, Mr. Oliphant.
Mind you, they’re good dime novels, but I don’t believe they qualify
as elevated literary fiction.”

      
“Exactly,
my dear.” He beamed at her as if she’d just made his point for him.
Again Claire experienced the urge to shake him. Fortunately, he continued
his belabored explanation before she could do so.

      
“You
see, a normal female would not find within her lady’s breast the wherewithal
to create a hero like Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee. Females do not generally
possess the strength of character required to understand the nobility
of Tom’s temperament, nor would they be able to overcome their natural
timidity of nature to write about the violence inherent in Tom’s exploits.”

      
“You
mean most ladies would faint when confronted with peril, Mr. Oliphant?”

      
“Exactly!”
he exclaimed again, obviously pleased that Claire understood him so
well.

      
Claire
had to take several deep, sustaining breaths. She spared a thought to
the idols of her youth, Clara Barton and Florence Nightingale—two
ladies who had not merely faced the violence of men but dared to mop
up after it and endeavor to heal the wounds such violence had inflicted.
Then, still not trusting herself to speak without screaming and proving
Mr. Oliphant right, she gave a moment’s contemplation to the valor
of Susan Brownell Anthony, her present idol.

      
Then,
silently asking those ladies for their indulgence in this instance,
she forced herself to smile at her publisher’s representative. “You
mean to say that young Mr. Partington would be shocked to learn his
housekeeper writes dime novels because such an occupation directly challenges
the role Nature intended for a female?” No honey was sweeter than
Claire’s voice.

      
“With
your usual astuteness, Miss Montague, you have captured the essence
of the matter in a nutshell.”

      
Claire
nodded, wishing Mr. Oliphant were always this succinct. He made a lunge
for her hands again, which she avoided by a quick maneuver to her right.
Tucking her hands demurely under her apron, she cast her gaze down and
tried to look sweet and ladylike. “That’s it all right, Mr. Oliphant.
You discerned the situation exactly. I couldn’t have said it better
myself.”

      
She
politely refrained from pointing out that she had said it herself, having
finally plowed through Mr. Oliphant’s mountain of words to find the
kernel of meaning underneath. Not that she didn’t appreciate him for
it, as she’d been too panicked to think of a suitable lie by herself.

      
Thwarted
in his desire to hold Claire’s hand, Mr. Oliphant had to satisfy himself
by looking compassionate. “So that’s the problem, is it, Miss Montague?
You fear Mr. Partington will experience a disgust of you if he discovers
you to be a writer of popular fiction? That he may censure you if he
ever finds you to be, in your literary guise, Clarence McTeague?”

      
Taking
a deep breath and a chance, Claire tried to sound pitiful. “It’s
even worse than that, I fear.”

      
Mr.
Oliphant’s remarkable eyes blinked rapidly several times. “What
can be worse than that, my dear?”

      
Claire
wished she could see without her spectacles. She was sure she would
present a more affecting picture if her long lashes were not obscured
by her lenses. None of her heroines ever wore spectacles, and for good
reason. Nevertheless, she did her best. Schooling her voice to a mournful
whisper, she said “He—he hates the books, Mr. Oliphant!”

      
Mr.
Oliphant actually staggered backward, a circumstance for which Claire
could only be grateful, as it put him farther away from her and her
hands. It also gave her a brilliant idea.
 

      
With
lightning speed, Tom thrust his booted foot outward and upward, catching
the villain in the chest. He staggered back against the boulder.
A quick lunge, and Tom was upon him.
They grappled furiously for the deadly weapon yet clutched in the outlaw’s
fist. Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed.
 

      
Bringing
her mind back to her present difficulties, Claire nodded and sniffled
sadly. Since she was too angry to summon tears, even false ones, she
turned, grasped a curtain, and pretended to gaze soulfully out the window.
“It’s the truth. I—I daren’t tell him it is I who have written
the books he claims have made his life miserable, Mr. Oliphant. I simply
daren’t.”

      
“Good
God. I had no idea.”

      
Claire
heard the genuine horror in Mr. Oliphant’s tone and sneaked a peek
at him over her shoulder. He looked utterly dumbfounded so she turned
and looked at him pleadingly. “So, you see, Mr. Oliphant, while the
late Mr. Partington always enjoyed your visits a good deal, I fear it
may be necessary to prevaricate slightly with the young Mr. Partington.
I don’t believe it would be wise to introduce you as Clarence McTeague’s
publisher’s representative.”

      
“Good
God, no. If he knew who I was, he’d probably kick me out of his house
and never invite me back again.”

      
“Exactly.”
Claire hastily turned toward the window again to hide her grin of triumph.

      
“Does
this mean you wish me to stay at a hotel, my dear?”