Secret Hearts (26 page)

      
“Is
he really so bad, Claire?” Sylvester asked, all ears. “You must
tell us more about him.”

      
“I
don’t want to.”

      
A
glance at her friends, however, both offering her their services out
of the goodness of their hearts—well, out of the goodness of Dianthe’s
heart, at any rate—made her decide it would be unfair of her to keep
her past a secret any longer.

      
“But
you have to promise me you’ll never, ever tell another single soul
in the world what I’m about to tell you.”

      
“Can’t
I even use it in my book? If I promise to change the names?” Sylvester
began to look sulky.

      
“Oh,
all right, as long as you change the names. It’s a sordid, awful story,
though.”

      
The
author’s demeanor brightened at the word sordid. He went over to lock
the front door so they wouldn’t be disturbed.

      
So
Claire related an edited version of her childhood to Dianthe and Sylvester,
ending with her father’s sudden appearance and blackmail demand that
very day. Dianthe looked suitably appalled. Sylvester smiled ecstatically
and rubbed his hands.

      
“Besides
the late Mr. Partington, you two are the only people in the world I’ve
ever entrusted with my book-writing secret, and you’re the only people
in the world I’ve ever entrusted with the story of my childhood. You
must honor my secret. I—I don’t think I could ever live it down
if anyone else were to discover my shameful past.”

      
“Oh,
Claire!” Dianthe hugged her tightly. “None of what you’ve told
us is your fault. None of us are given the opportunity to choose our
parents. You should never, ever feel ashamed of what you’ve come from.
Why, just look at you today. You’ve made yourself into a wonderful,
responsible woman, and you’ve done it all by yourself! You should
feel proud, not ashamed.”

      
Claire
had never heard Dianthe speak so feelingly or with such incredible common
sense. All at once, hearing herself being stoutly defended by her friend,
she began to cry again. She forgave Dianthe every inch of her beauty
and talent and hugged her back.

      
Sylvester
looked as if he didn’t quite approve of the two ladies’ emotional
display. He did say, however, “Dianthe’s right, you know, Claire.
It’s amazing that you didn’t end up soliciting on the streets of
San Francisco, given your background and—Ow!”

      
Glaring
at Dianthe, Sylvester massaged his foot where she had stamped on it.

      
After
blowing her nose and wiping her tears away, Claire asked shakily, “So,
what should I do?”

      
Dianthe
tapped her chin again. “Well, you know, Claire, I don’t think you’ll
have to worry about your father for a while yet. You just gave him a
substantial amount of money. Surely it will take him some time to run
through it, and by then, we’ll undoubtedly have thought of a splendid
plan. Or,” she added with a sly, knowing look, “Mr. Partington will
have declared his intentions, and you’ll feel able to confess to him.”

      
“Never!”

      
“We’ll
see.” Dianthe’s gave her a cat-like smile.

      
By
the time Sylvester unlocked the front door again, loftily ignoring several
upset citizens, Claire felt better. Nothing had been resolved, it was
true, but she took Dianthe’s kindly words to heart. By the time Claude
came back to demand more money, she’d certainly have thought of a
good way to get rid of him.

      
She
knew she’d never be able to tell Tom Partington she was, in reality,
Clarence McTeague.

Chapter 13
 

      
In
a determined effort to put her corrupt father out of her mind, Claire
hurried home and threw herself into decorating Partington Place for
the Christmas holidays. That very afternoon, she took Scruggs and Dolly,
one of the housemaids, into the attic and began to haul boxes downstairs.

      
“Are
you certain Mr. Partington will approve, Miss Montague?” asked a reluctant
Scruggs, eyeing a large carton with disfavor.

      
“Mr.
Partington will be thrilled,” Claire affirmed. “I’m sure he’ll
enter into the spirit of Christmas just as the late Mr. Partington used
to do.”

      
Scruggs
allowed himself a doubtful, “Humph.” He did, however, pick up the
carton and cart it off.

      
She
had everything taken to her downstairs office, where she and Dolly set
to work emptying the boxes. Since Claire had never really enjoyed Christmas
as a child with her roving father, she almost forgot her worries in
the excitement of the season.

      
“Look
at this!” she cried at one point, hauling out a spool of red velvet
ribbon. “I’d forgotten all about this. We can make red bows and
tie them to the banister posts on the staircase.”

      
“They’d
look lovely, ma’am,” Dolly said deferentially. All the servants,
with the possible exception of Scruggs, treated Claire with the utmost
respect.

      
“And
we can make paper garlands, too, Dolly, to string between the bows,
and maybe drape some pine boughs above the garlands.”

      
“Oh,
ma’am, it sounds very pretty.”

      
“Good.
Then I think I shall take a walk to the woods this afternoon and cut
some boughs.”

      
“Need
any help?” came a deep voice from the door.

      
Claire
almost jumped out of her skin. She and Dolly leapt to their feet. “Mr.
Partington, I had no idea you were there!”

      
“I
hated to interrupt. You looked like you were having such a good time.”

      
Feeling
her cheeks catch fire, Claire tried to smile. “We were having a good
time. We’re decorating the house for Christmas.”

      
Tom’s
eyebrows arched over his beautiful blue eyes and Claire couldn’t maintain
his gaze. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Partington.”

      
“Mind?
I think it’s a wonderful idea. I’d never even have thought to do
such a thing.”

      
“Really?”

      
“Really.
We weren’t much for decorating on the frontier. Not that we had anything
to decorate.”

      
“Oh.
Of course not.”

      
Dolly,
obviously nervous in the presence of her grand employer, murmured, “Perhaps
I should start on the parlor, Miss Montague.”

      
“Fine,
Dolly. Thank you. Put the glass angels out on the mantelpiece and set
to work making bows from the ribbon. I’ll be outside cutting greens.
There’s another box we haven’t even opened yet. I think the crèche
is in there, along with the Father Christmas Mrs. Gaylord made last
year.”

      
“Mrs.
Gaylord? Is it made of marigolds?”

      
Claire
managed to smile at Tom’s teasing tone. “No. For once, she forsook
marigolds and created a lovely Father Christmas, just for Partington
Place. It’s crafted using a process called papier maché and then
painted, and I hope you’ll like it.”

      
“I’m
sure I shall.” Tom held the door for Dolly, who fled with a box full
of glass angels, the spool of red velvet ribbon hooked over her arm.
“Now, where exactly did you plan to cut these famous greens?”

      
Claire
felt uncomfortable now that they were the only two people in the room.
She tried to keep her hands busy by lifting things out of one of the
cartons. “There are some pine trees along the path leading toward
the meadow where you plan to build your new stables. And I have two
pyracantha bushes in the garden. Their foliage is lovely at Christmas.
It looks very like holly. I planted a holly bush last spring, but I
wouldn’t feel comfortable taking cuttings from it quite yet as it’s
still too young.”

      
“I
see.”

      
Tom’s
tone was soft and sweet, and Claire realized she’d been rattling on
in a most embarrassing manner. Clearing her throat, she said, “Yes.
So, shall we be off? If we leave the house through the kitchen, I can
grab my gardening gloves and cutters.”

      
“Of
course.”

      
Tom
had never seen Claire so nervous, and her attitude worried him. Either
she was upset about that man he’d seen today or she was still fretting
about last night’s kiss.

      
He
wanted to kick himself for being so clumsy a prospective lover. But
hell, he’d had no experience with proper females before he met Claire.
He didn’t know the first thing about wooing. The loose women who used
to follow the railroad had no truck with coyness. They were happy to
spread their legs for anybody, as long as they were paid.

      
Claire
set a spanking pace after she’d gathered her shears and gloves. Tom
made her relinquish the clippers to him, although she was reluctant
to do so, and then he almost had to run to keep up with her.

      
Because
he wanted to lull her into letting her guard down so he could question
her, he said, “I can hardly remember the Christmases from my boyhood,
but I do recall that they were fun. We used to go over to my cousins’
house. They were twins, Tommy and Emma, and we’d sing songs and play
games.”

      
He
looked at Claire, hoping she’d offer a Christmas memory of her own.
She didn’t, and Tom decided to try again.

      
“Yup.
My other uncle and aunt, their kids, and both sets of grandparents would
all gather at my Aunt Ruby and Uncle Paul’s house. There’d be a
real gang of us, all right. I remember Aunt Ruby used to crumple up
white paper and make it look like snow, and I always wondered why, since
Jesus was born in the desert. Nobody ever gave me a reasonable answer,
either.”

      
He
glanced at Claire once more. She looked worried. Again, she offered
not a word to support the conversation, and Tom felt like huffing in
frustration.

      
Deciding
a direct approach was his only recourse, he asked, “What about you,
Miss Montague? What did you do as a child at Christmas?”

      
Tom
was appalled at the apprehensive look she shot him, and wondered what
he’d said to disturb her. Everybody had Christmas memories from childhood,
didn’t they? Did that constitute an improperly personal question?
Even though he didn’t know much about polite society, he didn’t
think so.

      
After
a moment or two, Claire cleared her throat again. “Actually, Mr. Partington,
my—my family did not celebrate Christmas. Much.”

      
“Oh.”
Well, hell. “Er, did your parents have religious objections to the
holiday?”

      
Was
it his imagination, or did Claire’s face register the briefest hint
of irony? It was gone now. Tom couldn’t be sure.

      
“No,
Mr. Partington. I never knew my mother, you see. My father—well, my
father didn’t—he didn’t have time for such things.”

      
“He
didn’t have time? How could he not have time for Christmas?”

      
“I’m
afraid you’d have to ask him that.”

      
Claire
spoke more sarcastically than she’d intended to, Tom judged, if her
quick flush was any indication.

      
“Oh.
Did—er—did you have friends to spend the holidays with?”

      
“Good
heavens, no.”

      
Tom
was taken aback by Claire’s tone, which was faintly horrified. He
narrowed his eyes as he concentrated. Had that fellow this morning known
her from her youth? Was he a friend of her father’s? Somebody whom
Claire held in aversion for some reason? Had he attempted something
unsavory with a young Claire? Tom’s hand tightened around the clippers.

      
“Was
that an acquaintance from your childhood with you today, Miss Montague?”
he blurted out. Then he cursed himself as an addle-pated idiot when
Claire stopped dead in her tracks and her cheeks drained of color. She
looked like she might faint and he quickly took up one of her hands.

      
“I
beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I didn’t mean to pry. But I saw a
portly fellow with a waxed mustache walking away from you this morning,
and you looking quite distressed. I didn’t like to think of you being
troubled, you see.”

      
“Oh.”

      
“Was
he someone out of your past?”

      
Claire
seemed to recollect her wits after only an instant. Snatching her hand
away from Tom, she attempted an airy laugh. “Good heavens, no, Mr.
Partington. Why, I haven’t seen anybody I knew in my childhood for
years and years. And no, I had no conversation with a portly man in
town today. If I looked troubled when you saw me, it was . . . because
I’d just received some bad news. Yes, indeed. It was just, er, some
unfortunate news, was all it was.”

      
She
was lying. Tom knew she was lying about something, but he had no idea
what, or why. “I trust the news wasn’t terribly bad.”

      
“No.
No, it had to do with an—an investment.”

      
“I
see.” Tom examined Claire’s face for another second before deciding
he’d alienate her by pressing further. He did, however, decide he’d
pay a visit to Pyrite Springs this evening after supper. There were
a very few places in town where a stranger might stay overnight, and
that man had missed the last stage out of town. Tom wasn’t a scout
for nothing.