Secret Hearts (12 page)

      
Mr.
Oliphant did not try to hide his disappointment. Claire didn’t much
blame him. The accommodations to be found in Pyrite Springs, while adequate
in their way, were nowhere near as elegant as those achieved at Partington
Place. Thinking quickly, she said, “I don’t believe that will be
necessary, Mr. Oliphant.”

      
“What
about the servants, Miss Montague?” He sounded very glum. Claire almost
forgave him his loquacity and affection for her. She knew how much he
liked Mrs. Philpott’s chocolate soufflé.

      
“Neither
Scruggs nor Mrs. Philpott are in my confidence, Mr. Oliphant. The only
person at Partington Place who knew the true identity of Clarence McTeague
was the late Mr. Partington.”

      
Brightening,
he said, “Is that so?”

      
She
moved away from the window, her brain now awhirl with plots and schemes.
“Yes.” Turning suddenly, she asked, “Do you suppose you could
be one of the late Mr. Partington’s friends from New York, Mr. Oliphant?”

      
His
mouth opened and shut several times, giving him the appearance of large
fish gasping for breath. Claire tried not to dwell on the similarity
for fear she’d laugh.

      
At
last he said with remarkable humility, considering Mr. Oliphant was
not normally humble, “I’d prefer to be a suitor for your hand, Miss
Montague.”

      
The
very thought made Claire shudder inwardly. Since, however, she did not
wish to alienate him, she said, “I believe that would be unwise. Not
if you wish to spend your visit to Pyrite Springs at Partington Place.”
She smiled, letting not a drop of spite mar the expression. “I am,
after all, only the housekeeper. It would be odd if a suitor to my hand
were to be invited to stay here overnight.”

      
“Oh.”
Mr. Oliphant frowned. “I take your point. Perhaps you’re right,
my dear. I shall become the late Mr. Partington’s friend from New
York.”

      
“You
can still be a publisher’s representative, Mr. Oliphant,” Claire
offered magnanimously. “After all, the young Mr. Partington needn’t
know the whole truth.” Even as she spoke the words, a stab of guilt
smote her. She shook it off, telling herself she really did plan to
confess everything. Someday. When she knew Tom Partington better.

      
For
the first time in her adult life, she wondered if a taint ran through
her family. She’d tried so hard, since she’d escaped, to live a
good life. Yet now, the first time her honor was tested, she’d taken
refuge in falsehood and deceit. Savagely she thrust the thought aside,
vowing to atone somehow.

      
A
knock came on her office door, startling Claire into a small shriek
of alarm. Frantically she looked at Mr. Oliphant and hissed, “Will
you do it?”

      
He
nodded and opened his mouth to confirm his decision at length. Claire
didn’t wait, but darted to the door and flung it open. She’d armed
herself with a welcoming smile and was glad of it when she perceived
Tom Partington and Jedediah Silver outside her door, smiling back at
her.

      
Tom
spoke first. “Jedediah and I have come up with some plans, Miss Montague,
and Jed suggested I discuss them with you.”

      
“You’ve
got more common sense than a dozen men, Miss Montague,” Jedediah confirmed.
“I told Tom you’d be happy to give us some advice.”

      
Casting
a superior glance at Mr. Oliphant, Claire opened the door wider and
allowed graciously, “I’m sure Mr. Silver is wrong about that, Mr.
Partington, but I should be pleased to hear your plans. Please come
in and meet the late Mr. Partington’s friend, Mr. Oliphant. Mr. Oliphant,”
she said deliberately, “represents a publishing company in New York.
His firm publishes inspirational literature.”

      
Oliphant
gaped at Claire for a second or two until she gave him a quick scowl.
Then, with a jerk, he smiled and stammered, “Oh! Oh, yes. Why, indeed,
I was terribly sorry to hear about the late Mr. Partington’s demise.”

      
All
at once Claire remembered the books she’d hidden behind the chair
cushion. It looked as if Jedediah was aiming for that particular chair.
She bolted for it, almost running him down, and sat down in a fluff
of petticoats. Jedediah looked surprised, but Claire only smiled winningly
up at him. Far better he think her rude—even insane—than the author
of those wretched books.

      
“So
you knew my uncle Gordon, did you, Mr. Oliphant?” Tom sat on the sofa.
“You and Jed and Miss Montague will have to tell me all about him,
since I didn’t know him very well.”

      
Jedediah
sat at the other end of the sofa. “He was quite an excellent fellow,
Tom.”

      
“Indeed,
he was.”

      
Mr.
Oliphant looked around the room, obviously searching for a place to
sit. The only chair left was the one at Claire’s desk. She stood at
once.

      
“Please
take this chair, Mr. Oliphant, and I shall run out and get refreshments
for you gentlemen.”

      
With
a meaningful look for Oliphant, she made her escape. Because she felt
guilty, she took quite a while preparing an especially fine assortment
of tea cakes, coffee, and tea. She wanted to impress Tom Partington.

      
When
she returned to her office, Dianthe St. Sauvre had joined the gentlemen.
Oliphant had given up his seat for her and now stared at her, his expression
reminding Claire even more of a gaffed trout than it had before. Mr.
Silver, too, gazed at Dianthe, captivated by her beauty. Tom was smiling
at her. None of that surprised Claire, who expected men to swoon over
Dianthe.

      
What
surprised—or, rather, terrified—her, was that Dianthe held in one
graceful hand a slender volume bearing a portrait of Tuscaloosa Tom
Pardee at his most valiant. The title Tuscaloosa Tom and the River of
Raging Death was emblazoned above the portrait on front cover. Claire
almost dropped the tea tray.

      
“My
God!” she whispered.

      
Her
gaze swept the room, eventually, of course, colliding with that of Tom
Partington. He smiled at her, and her frantic brain immediately tried
to decide if it was an ironic smile, a bitter one, or a friendly one.
Unfortunately, discriminating between a virtual stranger’s various
smiles was a task beyond her brain’s capacity at the moment.

      
“I
do believe you were trying to keep something from me, Miss Montague.”

      
Claire’s
panicked gaze shot from him to Dianthe, who looked apologetic and gave
a little self-deprecatory shrug. It didn’t help.

      
Claire
breathed, “I’m so sorry.”

      
Chuckling,
Tom rose from the sofa and took the tea tray from Claire’s trembling
hands. “Here, Miss Montague. You don’t really want to drop all that
fine-looking food on your office carpet, do you?”

      
She
shook her head, unable to speak. She watched Tom place the tray on her
desk and felt the craven urge to bolt. She might even have done so had
her feet not suddenly turned to lead and her knees to water. When Tom
straightened and turned to look at her, she couldn’t make herself
move, but stood stock-still and prayed for deliverance.

      
When
he walked back to her and placed a warm hand on her shoulder, she could
only repeat, miserably, “I’m so sorry.”

      
He
looked concerned. “Please, Miss Montague, you’re taking this entirely
too much to heart. It’s not your fault another one of these books
is coming out.”

      
Claire
felt her world seem to tilt. “It—it’s not?”

      
“Of
course not.” Tom began to steer her toward her desk chair. “My goodness,
you’re shaking like a leaf. One would think you were responsible for
those Tuscaloosa Tom books. You mustn’t take this so seriously.”

      
Since
Claire was responsible for the Tuscaloosa Tom books, she found it difficult
to formulate a suitable response. Dianthe fluttered up from the armchair
and floated to Claire’s side. Claire saw Tom smile at her—a smile
as big and warm as the day—and her misery was complete.

      
“Let
me pour you some tea, Claire dear. I was just telling Mr. Partington
that you were undoubtedly trying to spare his feelings when you hid
those horrid books behind the chair cushions.”

      
“You
did?” Since she knew Dianthe to be somewhat less than quick-witted,
Claire gaped at her, astounded. Then she frowned as her rattled brain
assimilated the word Dianthe had used to describe her books.

      
“She
did indeed, Miss Montague,” Mr. Oliphant said quickly. Claire decided
to take umbrage later, looked at him, and found him winking at her as
if he had a tic.

      
“You
didn’t have to spare my feelings, Miss Montague. I’m sure I’m
used to those books by this time. Even if I can’t like them, I certainly
don’t expect you to hide them from me. Besides, I’ll warrant Uncle
Gordon has made a tidy sum from them, and I’m benefiting now.”

      
Claire
gazed up at Tom, dumbfounded. For the second time that day, she felt
as if she’d been tossed a life raft as she was about to go under for
the third time. She grabbed at it for all she was worth and could only
bless fortune and good friends.

      
“I—I
didn’t want to upset you during your first days in your new home,
Mr. Partington. You seemed so pleased with how things were going for
you. I didn’t want to spoil your good mood.”

      
“Thank
you, Miss Montague. That was very thoughtful of you, but you know there’s
no way I could have avoided finding out about this latest book indefinitely.”

      
Tom
took one of the offending volumes from Dianthe’s hand and looked at
it. At least he didn’t glare; he seemed merely exasperated and slightly
bemused. Claire shot Dianthe a desperate glance. Dianthe smiled sweetly.

      
“How
did these arrive, Miss Montague? They seem to be in advance of the publication
date, which is January of next year. That’s two months away.”

      
Claire
looked frantically at Mr. Oliphant, whose gaze seemed to have stuck
fast to Dianthe. No help there. Striving to adhere as much to the truth
as possible, she stammered, “Mr.—Mr. Oliphant brought them, Mr.
Partington. He—His publisher is the same one, you see, and he knew
how much the late Mr. Partington loved those books.” She added almost
defiantly, “As do many of us, who don’t consider them horrid in
the least. Didn’t you, Mr. Oliphant?”

      
Hearing
his name, Oliphant jerked out of his Dianthe-induced stupor. “What?
Oh! Why, yes. I brought them for the late Mr. Partington. My publisher
is the same one, indeed.”

      
With
a soft chuckle, Tom said, “I guess the author gets advance copies.
Not exactly in the inspirational line, though, are they?”

      
Feeling
slightly stronger, Claire sat up straight and patted her hair, a nervous
gesture that was entirely unwarranted as no stray wisps ever escaped
those repressive coils. “Actually, Mr. Partington, I believe many
people might find inspiration in the strong character and noble nature
of Tuscaloosa Tom.”

      
“She’s
right there, Tom,” Jedediah said with a grin. “This Clarence McTeague
fellow has created a real hero in those books.”

      
“Surely
not ‘created,’ Mr. Silver,” Claire said, still feeling a need
to justify her hymns of praise to Tom. “Tuscaloosa Tom is modeled
after the career of our own Mr. Partington.”

      
Tom
shook his head. “Nonsense. McTeague’s created a monster, if you
ask me.”

      
“Surely
not a
monster
, Mr. Partington.”

      
Dianthe’s
soft exclamation lacked conviction, which irritated Claire. She said,
bridling, “No, he certainly did not create a monster. Why, those books
were intended as an homage to a gallant soldier and an honorable gentleman.
Any lad who attempts to emulate Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee can only improve
himself by following a splendid example. If—if the books embarrassed
you, Mr. Partington, I’m sure Mr. McTeague would be perfectly wretched
to learn it.” And she was, too.

      
Tom
laughed again. “Yes, I already know you were fond of my uncle and
are a hot defender of the novels, Miss Montague. And you’re such a
sensible woman in all other respects, I can only believe you’ve perceived
something in these books that has eluded me.”

      
“Perhaps
you’re just too close to the subject matter,” Claire muttered, feeling
terribly defensive, not to mention at a tremendous disadvantage.

      
“I’m
sure that’s it, Miss Montague.” He patted her hand in a brotherly
fashion. “Are you feeling better now?”

      
Claire
decided it was past time she got herself in hand and began to perform
the duties for which she was paid. Standing and clearing her throat,
she declared, “Yes, thank you. I’m sorry for being so silly, Mr.
Partington. Please allow me to pour tea.”

      
“Thank
you. That would be wonderful.”

      
Dianthe
wafted back to deposit herself in the armchair, and the three gentlemen
settled themselves like sardines on the small sofa, the plump Mr. Oliphant
in the middle. Claire handed out tea and cakes, then sat behind her
desk, wondering how long she could keep up this dastardly deception
and how, now that she’d begun to lie about it, she would ever be able
to confess.

Chapter 6
 

      
Tom
found it ironic that Claire Montague, while not as lovely as her friend,
was the one who possessed the truly lyrical soul. Claire only spoke
to add something meaningful to the conversation. Moreover, her little
tidbits were insightful, elegantly rendered, and made him laugh. He’d
always appreciated people who could make him laugh.

      
The
beautiful Dianthe, on the other hand, while splendid to look at, prattled
an almost mind-numbing stream of drivel, and most of her stories seemed
to revolve around herself. Not only that, but when she undertook to
tell one of them she seemed to find it necessary to start from creation
itself. By the time she got to the point, Tom invariably found himself
yawning, if not itching to throttle the ultimate point out of her.

      
Sipping
his tea and glancing at his fellows, he discovered they did not suffer
from his ennui. Undoubtedly, they were more accustomed to the type of
idle social chit-chat he’d missed out on during his active life.

      
He
did notice Claire drumming her fingers on her desk once or twice. Both
times, he caught her eye and she looked guilty until he winked and grinned.
Then she smiled, and a little dimple peeked from beside her mouth. That
silly dimple delighted him. He was finding more and more to admire about
Claire Montague with each passing hour.

      
He
guessed the thing that attracted him the most was her practical nature.
It didn’t hurt, either, that she seemed to be taking an active interest
in his enterprises. He’d always hoped to find somebody with whom to
share his enthusiasm.

      
She
didn’t have to be such a dowd, either. It looked to Tom as if she
deliberately tried to make herself appear dull. During another of Dianthe’s
boring stories, he studied Claire’s face. It was the hair, he decided,
that did the most damage, and he began to plot ways in which to get
her to try a more flattering hairstyle. She’d be quite charming if
she loosened up a bit.

      
Overall,
he was pleased with how things seemed to be working out here at Partington
Place. There was plenty of room for him to build stables and fence pastureland,
and he could still keep a profitable farming operation going. Now all
he had to do was make arrangements to get the horses delivered.

      
He
jerked to attention when he realized everybody was looking at him expectantly.

      
“Don’t
you think so, Mr. Partington?” Claire asked, her expression serious.

      
He
scanned their faces for clues to the question he was supposed to be
answering. They didn’t tell him much. Except for Claire, their eyes
seemed almost glazed. From that, he deduced it had been Dianthe who’d
last held the floor.

      
He
decided there was no hope for it but to tell the truth. “I beg your
pardon, ladies and gentlemen. I’m afraid my mind wandered off the
subject for a moment.”

      
Claire’s
momentary expression of incredulity surprised him. He guessed she wasn’t
used to anybody of the masculine gender not paying attention to Dianthe.

      
“I
merely asked if it would be appropriate for me to dance my new work,
‘In Praise of the Spotted Horse’ at the Artistic Evening, Mr. Partington,”
Dianthe purred. She fluttered her lashes and smiled.

      
“‘In
Praise of the Spotted Horse’?”

      
“Yes.
I created the poem to honor your horses and would, of course, recite
it as I dance.”

      
“Oh.”
Tom didn’t know what to say. After a moment’s pause, he told her
so. She smiled as if he’d just handed her a compliment.

      
“Dianthe
is such a talented poet, Mr. Partington. Anybody would be flattered
to be the subject of one of her verses.”

      
Wondering
if Claire was being deliberately ironic, he mumbled, “I’m sure the
horses will be delighted, Miss Montague.” Encountering her blank stare,
he guessed he couldn’t count satire as one of Claire’s manifold
virtues. He admired the affection she seemed to have for a friend whose
beauty put hers in the shade, but he wondered if Dianthe didn’t occasionally
take advantage of her. ‘In Praise of the Spotted Horse’? Good God.

      
Since
everybody was still staring at him as if he held the answer to all the
world’s questions, he said, “Er, that sounds like a great idea,
Miss St. Sauvre.”

      
Dianthe’s
smile never wavered. Claire’s, on the other hand, burst upon her countenance
like the sun after a storm, and Tom realized she’d been worried for
her friend. He gave her an encouraging grin, wondering if she cared
about all her friends so much. He could appreciate loyalty more than
men who’d never seen duty in a war or had to depend on their fellows
on the frontier as he had. But he did appreciate it. A lot. And he gave
Claire Montague another point for her loyalty to Dianthe.

# # #

      
Claire
wasn’t entirely sure how she managed to get through the rest of the
evening, but she couldn’t remember a time when she’d been so happy
to retreat to her room.

      
Dinner
had seemed endless. The late Mr. Partington’s great dining table was
not suited to intimate dinner parties, but Scruggs had rebelled at serving
the meal in the breakfast room.

      
“The
young general deserves all the respect we can give him, Miss Montague,”
Scruggs said stolidly. “He has guests this evening, and will wish
to have them entertained with the deference due his stature.”

      
“But
Scruggs, truly, he tends to discount his own valorous reputation, and
he doesn’t seem to appreciate all this formality. He’s even told
me so.”

      
Scruggs
looked down his long nose at Claire. “It is an honor to be in the
employ of the young general, Miss Montague, and until given specific
instructions to the contrary, I shall continue to serve him with the
esteem due his station.”

      
She,
Oliphant, Silver, and Tom, therefore, shared the gleaming mahogany table
in the dining room. Candles did their best to illuminate the room, but
it was a battle destined for failure. As the winter’s night was deep
and heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows, obscuring any
hint of moonglow and starshine, the lighting was poor at best.

      
More
than once, Claire saw Tom lean close to his plate and squint to determine
exactly what it was he was going to be putting into his mouth. A candle
flickered at each place, but so much table extended between the individual
diners that to Claire’s fertile brain, it looked as if she were sitting
with three disparate people, each seated at a point of an invisible
cross.

      
Candles
in the wall sconces lit approximately a foot square of wall each. The
darkness was so complete that the light never made it to the floor.
Even Claire wondered how Scruggs managed to serve the meal without tripping.
She guessed he’d had so much practice he could negotiate the room
blindfolded.

      
She
wasn’t surprised when Tom, obviously vexed, asked at one point, “God
bless it, can’t we get more light in here?”

      
“Yes,
indeed,” Claire had responded promptly. “I attempted to get Scruggs
to bring in several lanterns, but he deemed them unfit for a formal
dinner party.”

      
“But
this isn’t a formal dinner party. It’s a few friends dining together.”

      
“I
agree, Mr. Partington,” Claire said with a sigh. “But Scruggs is
Scruggs, you know.”

      
“Good
grief.”

      
“Actually,
if you wouldn’t feel it beneath your dignity, you could even entertain
small parties such as this one in the breakfast room. It’s a delightful
room and can be made to look quite elegant.”

      
Tom
goggled at her and she knew she’d phrased her question improperly.
“Beneath my dignity? What are you talking about, Miss Montague?”

      
She
felt herself flush. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Partington. I didn’t
mean it that way. It’s just that Scruggs thought it would have been
insulting if he had taken it upon himself to serve your guests in the
breakfast room without a direct command from you.”

      
Tom
put a hand to his head as if Claire’s news had stunned him. Claire
felt her eyes open wide.
 

      
Wresting
the knife from his adversary’s hand, Tom plunged it into
the villain’s chest. Distraught at the violence so rudely displayed
before Miss Abigail Faithgood, he put a hand to his noble brow.
Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed, and a soft prayer left his lips that
the delicate maiden would be spared further brutality.
 

      
On
the other hand, Claire thought sardonically, perhaps poor old Tom merely
had a headache from Miss Abigail’s constant screeching. She really
had to do something about that.

      
Returning
to the problem at hand, she said, “Perhaps if you were to speak to
him, he would understand your desires in the matter.”

      
Tom
looked troubled. “But, Miss Montague, I really have no experience
in dealing with servants, and quite honestly don’t want to learn.
I had believed you to be the one who would take care of these little
matters.”

      
Her
heart plummeted and he apparently discerned her distress. He hurried
to add, “Not that I don’t think you’ve done a magnificent job
here. You certainly have. I’ve seldom seen such a well-run household.”

      
“Hear,
hear,” said Jedediah, raising his wine glass to her in salute. At
least, Claire was sure it was a wine glass. Since the object he lifted
went beyond the range of his feeble candle, she wasn’t sure. For all
she knew, it was his fork.

      
“Thank
you,” she said in a tiny voice.

      
“But
I don’t know the first thing about giving instructions to butlers.”

      
“Maybe
you should simply tell Scruggs that you expect him to take his orders
from Miss Montague from now on, Tom,” Jedediah suggested.

      
“Why,
that’s brilliant, Mr. Silver!” Claire, beaming at Jedediah, realized
by his utterly blank look that he didn’t appreciate his own profundity.
“If Mr. Partington follows your advice, it could save me literally
hundreds of hours.”

      
“Good
lord, is Scruggs that bad?”

      
Now
Claire felt guilty. “He’s not bad, Mr. Partington. He’s merely—merely—”
Obstreperous
was the word that popped into her head, but it seemed
too harsh. She said instead, “Set in his ways.”

      
“And
do you think something as simple as my telling him to take orders from
you would solve the problem?”

      
“Absolutely.
You see, Scruggs is used to looking upon you as something of an ideal
of perfection—as indeed we all are—and he believes your gallantry
and heroism deserve only the finest. Scruggs is, I am afraid, inclined
to consider any relaxation in the rules of the conventional protocol
he learned in his youth as a rank indignity.”

      
“Good
Lord.”

      
Since
the topic of their discussion entered the room at that moment, conversation
stopped.

      
Scruggs
looked particularly ghoulish as he came through the door, backlit by
candle glow from the pantry. He bore a tray of Mrs. Philpott’s floating
island desserts and stood in the doorway for a moment, probably to get
his bearings before attempting to serve them.

      
The
dinner seemed interminable, and Claire excused herself as soon as politely
possible from after-dinner tea and brandy in the parlor. Her head aching,
she sank onto the chair in front of her vanity table and propped her
chin in her cupped hands.

      
“What
have I done?” she asked her reflection, which did not offer an opinion
on the matter. Nor did it give her any hints on how to undo the tangle
of lies in which she’d enmeshed herself. Feeling like a fly caught
in a spider’s web, she crawled into her bed and prayed for guidance.

# # #

      
Tom
felt wonderful when he awoke the morning after what might be considered
his first real, albeit small, dinner party in his new home. In spite
of the lousy lighting, he believed everybody had enjoyed themselves.
And after Claire had left them in the parlor and he’d broken out some
of Uncle Gordo’s Havana cigars and French brandy, the conversation
had become very mellow indeed.