Secret Hearts (14 page)

      
He
felt her hand stiffen on his arm. “I had no idea you objected to my
appearance, Mr. Partington.”

      
Her
voice was as crisp as the weather. Taking yet another chance, he patted
her hand and was encouraged when she didn’t immediately draw it away
and slap his face with it. “I don’t object to a single thing about
you, Miss Montague. I just think it wouldn’t hurt to loosen up a little
every now and then is all.”

      
“Yes.
I’m well aware that you do not approve of formality.”

      
Even
her spectacles seemed angry as they reflected the sun’s rays. Grinning,
Tom decided if she stiffened up any more, she’d snap in two. “And
you don’t approve of me apologizing, either, but I’m going to do
it again anyway. I really didn’t mean to rile you, Miss Montague.
You’re a paragon among housekeepers, and you can do your hair any
old way you want, even twisted up like snakes. And if you want to wear
drab brown gowns, it’s perfectly all right with me.”

      
“Thank
you,” fell like sleet from Claire’s lips.

      
“I’m
afraid you’re really mad at me now, and I’d like to make it up to
you.”

      
“I’m
sure there’s nothing for which you need to make up, Mr. Partington.”

      
Tom
knew better. He’d seen her blush before, but he’d never seen those
two red flags of anger displayed on her cheeks until this minute. Hell,
he really had to practice his manners. All he’d meant to do was get
her to fix her hair another way. What he’d evidently succeeded in
doing was humiliating her. Civilization wasn’t all it was cracked
up to be, he guessed. None of the women he used to know were this touchy.

      
“We’ve
come to the mercantile and furniture emporium, Mr. Partington. I believe
we can find suitable lamps for your dining room here.”

      
Tom
saw the striped pole of a barber’s shop next to the mercantile and
decided if he couldn’t do anything about Claire’s abysmally coiffed
hair, he could at least take care of his own. “Would you mind if I
left you to choose the lamps, Miss Montague? I see a barbershop there
and have been meaning to get a haircut for a month or more.”

      
“Certainly,”
she said frostily, snatching her hand from his arm.

      
Tom
impulsively reached for her hand and held it in both of his. He had
a feeling she wished she could yank it back again but didn’t want
to appear foolish. “Please forgive me, Miss Montague. I’d like to
make up for my boorishness by taking you to luncheon after our shopping
expedition is over. There must be a place to dine here in town.”

      
“That’s
completely unnecessary, Mr. Partington.”

      
“I
insist, Miss Montague. Besides, I’m the boss, remember.” He left
her with a roguish smile. He’d known that smile to reduce women to
quivering jelly. He wasn’t sure what effect it would have on Claire,
who seemed to have more backbone than most of the females he’d met
in his precarious career.

      
Claire
watched until the door of the barbershop shut behind Tom Partington’s
finely tailored rear end, then whirled around and stalked into the mercantile.
Sylvester Addison-Addison stood behind the counter, moodily rolling
two spools of thread back and forth on the polished surface and completely
ignoring Mrs. Jellicoe trying to catch his attention by waving from
the fabric aisle.

      
Claire
ignored her, too. Marching up to the counter and slamming her reticule
on top of the black spool, she barked, “Sylvester, tell me the truth.
Am I dull?”

Chapter 7
 

      
She
swirled away again just as quickly, her reticule sweeping the spool
off the counter and sending it bouncing across the floor. She eyed it
malevolently as it rolled in front of her and gave it a savage kick.

      
“Here,
Claire! Stop kicking the merchandise. You know that old Philistine Gilbert
will have a fit if I lose his thread.”

      
Moving
faster than Claire had ever seen him move, Sylvester hurtled over the
counter and dashed after his thread. Claire watched him, scowling, as
he rooted under the notions shelf for the spool.

      
“Oh,
bother the thread, Sylvester. I’ll pay for the stupid spool. What
I need to know is if I present a dull appearance.”

      
Of
course, she presented a dull appearance, Claire thought murderously.
She’d spent the past ten years of her life attempting to appear dull.
Anybody would have, given her reasons.

      
So
why did it make her so furious to have her boring exterior pointed out
by Tom Partington? Why did it hurt so much?

      
She
wished Sylvester would unearth the stupid thread so she could kick it
again.

      
Ultimately
he did, but he held it in his fist so her desire was thwarted. Naturally.
When had Claire Montague ever entertained a desire that hadn’t been
thwarted? She opened her reticule, grabbed her handkerchief, and blew
her nose.

      
Slapping
at his trousers to remove the dust, Sylvester frowned at her. If Claire
wasn’t so upset, she might have been amused by his slightly disheveled
appearance since he’d picked up quite a bit of lint as he’d groveled
after the thread. She was upset, however, and didn’t so much as smile
at his smudged nose and chin.

      
“Now
what are you ranting on about, Claire?” Sylvester asked, annoyed.

      
“I
am not ranting! And do take care of your customers, Sylvester,” Claire
advised sharply, gesturing at poor Mrs. Jellicoe, whose arms had apparently
tired. She drooped disconsolately next to a bolt of striped seersucker.
“What do you think you get paid for?”

      
She
watched with satisfaction as his dark eyebrows arched in shock. Without
another word, he strode to Mrs. Jellicoe. Claire couldn’t recall the
last time she’d spoken unkindly to one of her friends, but at the
moment it felt good to rid herself of some bile. She got very, very
tired of being proper all the time.

      
Besides,
as much as she honored his literary talents, Sylvester was a miserable
failure as a mercantile clerk. He not only refused to pay attention
to customers, but he treated them like dirt under his artistic feet
when forced to do his duty.

      
While
Mrs. Jellicoe attempted to deal with the surly Sylvester, Claire reviewed
her conversation with Tom. He hadn’t meant to be cruel, she decided,
even though his words still stung. And why they should sting she couldn’t
say, either. After all, she’d obviously succeeded in transforming
herself from the alluring shill her father had used in his medicine
shows to the prim, intellectual housekeeper, Claire Montague. She should
be glad, not glum.

      
She
was glum, however. This was the first time she’d had occasion to rue
her spectacularly successful self-re-creation. Claire remembered her
early years with an internal shudder. They seemed so far removed from
her life today that recalling them was akin to viewing a bad melodrama
through a stereopticon. She’d been so unhappy as a child and a young
woman. And so embarrassed. She’d never been as comfortable an actress
as she was a housekeeper and author.

      
Of
course, if the purpose of her father’s shows hadn’t been to cheat
unsuspecting innocents out of their hard-earned money, this might not
have been the case. Claire had never taken to her father’s credo,
Caveat emptor. Nor had she appreciated his favorite quote from Tennyson:
“Ah, why should life all labor be?” She often wondered if she’d
inherited her appreciation of security and her basically honorable nature
from the mother she’d never known.

      
Not
to mention the fact that her father had never allowed her to wear her
spectacles when she worked, and she’d been operating blind half the
time. It had been frightening, dealing with all those men and not being
able to see them clearly. She’d been indecorously pawed many times
by men whose intentions she might have anticipated had she been able
to see them.

      
Men!

      
Until
she met Gordon Partington, Claire had not held a very high opinion of
men. Gordon was the first real gentleman Claire had ever met and, looking
back, she was surprised he’d taken her under his kindly wing. She’d
been so frightened when she’d tiptoed up to his enormous double doors
and knocked that long-ago day. Then, when the morose, imperious Scruggs
had opened the door, she’d very nearly fled without even stating her
business: that she was responding to Mr. Partington’s add for a housekeeper
in the
Pyrite Springs Weekly Gazette
.

      
Ten
years could be a long time, Claire guessed. Ten years ago she’d been
fleeing her past and doing everything she could think of to make up
for it. Right now, she wondered if she might have overdone it a trifle.

      
Eyeing
Miss Thelma Grimsby’s Frocks and Bonnets, a small shop directly across
the road from the Pyrite Springs Mercantile and Furniture Emporium,
Claire wondered if it was necessary that she continue to strive so hard
for respectability. If the opinions of her acquaintances were anything
by which to judge, she’d apparently already achieved it. Perhaps if
she were to don the occasional ribbon or frill, she wouldn’t be sent
tumbling back into the behavior of her scandalous past.

      
Miss
Thelma was a skilled hairdresser, as well. Even Mrs. Philpott had her
hair cut at Miss Thelma’s. The startling idea that she might wear
her hair in a less severe style without sacrificing her carefully created
image crossed Claire’s mind.

      
Her
anger returned, thundering into her heart like a rampaging bull. “He’s
surprised hairstyles haven’t changed in twenty years, my foot!”

      
“I
beg your pardon?”

      
Claire
had been so involved in her thoughts that Sylvester’s interruption
made her jump.

      
“Oh,
nothing, Sylvester.”

      
Sylvester
appeared to be out of sorts, which didn’t surprise Claire. He always
hated it when commanded to perform the function for which he was paid
his wages. The only time Sylvester was truly happy was when he was writing
or reading his own words. Well, she guessed he also enjoyed being supercilious
to his friends.

      
Right
now, however, he was dreadfully peeved. “What were you prating on
about earlier, about being dull? Has that barbarian you work for been
stuffing your head full of nonsense?”

      
“He’s
not a barbarian! How dare you speak of Mr. Partington in that demeaning
manner?” Claire conveniently forgot she had herself only moments before
harbored violent thoughts toward her employer. “For heaven’s sake,
his fortune may help keep you alive in the future, and I suggest you
not forget that. Anyway, I doubt you’d recognize a barbarian if you
saw one. You never get out of the clouds long enough even to look at
us lesser mortals.”

      
“Don’t
tell me you’ve begun to believe the drivel you write about that ridiculous
man, Claire.”

      
His
imprudent reference to her work, here, in the public forum of the mercantile
emporium, made Claire gasp a split-second before her anger bubbled over.
Stabbing Sylvester in the chest with her gloved forefinger, Claire hissed,
“Don’t you dare disparage my work, Sylvester Addison-Addison! And
don’t you dare speak of it in public, either. If you ever make such
a mistake again, you’ll not merely be seeking employment elsewhere,
you’ll be seeking another place to live! Don’t forget whom the late
Mr. Partington left in charge of the Pyrite Arms.”

      
Sylvester’s
mouth dropped open. Claire glowered at him for a moment or two before
sniffing haughtily and stalking out the door. She was mad enough to
spit tacks, and Sylvester had deserved every blistering word. She hoped
he’d choke on them! She headed directly to Miss Thelma’s Frocks
and Bonnets.

      
An
hour later, flushed and surprisingly pleased with herself, she stepped
out of Miss Thelma’s and made her way back across the street. When
she opened the door to the mercantile the first thing she saw was a
red-faced, furious Sylvester Addison-Addison. The second thing she saw
was the object of his fury, Tom Partington.

      
“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.