Secret Hearts Read online

  She giggled, and Tom paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. She could be utterly enchanting, this dowdy housekeeper of his, and he wondered if he could somehow persuade her to stop hiding her light under a bushel but bring it forth so that the world could appreciate it.

  “Great idea, Miss Montague. It’ll be nice to be able to see what we’re eating on the Artistic Evening when there are lots of people here. Of course,” Jedediah added dreamily, “it will also be pleasant to be able to see each other.”

  Tom and Claire exchanged a glance, and Tom knew they both knew Jedediah was thinking about Dianthe. He grinned and winked at her, which seemed to take her by surprise. He saw her eyes go round before she tucked her head down and tackled her breakfast.

  Ah, well. She’d get used to him. Tom finished his bite of eggs. “Would you mind company on your trip to town, Miss Montague? I’d like to see my new home, and I’d appreciate having a guide along on my first visit.”

  Was it his imagination, or did the color in her cheeks deepen? Tom couldn’t be sure.

  “I’d be happy to show you the town, Mr. Partington. I have a few duties to attend to first, and then I shall put myself at your disposal.”

  “No need for that. I’ll just tag along. Maybe I can make myself useful by carrying things for you.”

  “Thank you,” Claire said, her voice stifled.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay for your Artistic Evening, Mr. Partington.” Mr. Oliphant’s voice conveyed real sorrow. “I must leave today.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Oliphant. I was hoping to learn more about the publishing business.”

  Before Oliphant could utilize the breath he was drawing for speech, Claire broke in. “I’m sure Mr. Oliphant has hundreds of clients to visit, Mr. Partington.”

  Puzzled, Tom looked at her. “I’m sure you’re right, Miss Montague.”

  Now he knew she was blushing. Her cheeks flamed a bright pink. He shook his head and wondered why she seemed so fidgety. She hadn’t seemed this nervous the first time they met, and he wouldn’t have blamed her for being nervous then. By this time, she must know he wasn’t that exacting an employer.

  # # #

  They set out for Pyrite Springs shortly after the morning meal ended. The late November morning air was crisp and clean and tickled Tom’s nostrils pleasantly. A slate-blue sky hung above them, cloudless and cold. When he looked to his right and left from his front porch, Tom could see nothing but his own land, and his spirit rejoiced.

  He’d been scraping and saving for years so he could buy a piece of land somewhere. Not for Tom the feckless, reckless, insecure life of his parents, hanging on by their fingernails to the necessities of life, flinging opportunities away like so much chaff because they didn’t fulfill their exacting notions of what “proper” folks did.

  All that worthless pride had ever gained for them was poverty, as far as Tom could tell. He knew they despaired of him and believed he’d forsaken his gallant old southern roots for wages earned at the demeaning profession of scouting for the railroad, but Tom couldn’t make himself care.

  Not for a minute. His entire adult life had been spent in making something of himself so that he could make something for himself. He’d have been happy with a little dirt farm in the Arizona Territory with room for a horse or two. Never in his wildest imagination had he envisioned this.

  Thank God for Uncle Gordo. And thank God for those silly books, too, if they’d played any part in landing him this magnificent estate.

  Light-hearted, feeling better than he expected he had any right to feel, he crooked his elbow and smiled at Claire. He thought it was charming when she blushed and took his arm.

  Mr. Oliphant walked with them, since he had arrangements to make in town. Tom wasn’t sorry when they parted ways at the telegraph office; he wanted Claire to himself for a while.

  “So, please tell me more about these Artistic Evenings, Miss Montague. Are they formal affairs?”

  “I don’t believe you would call them extremely formal, no.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” he said sincerely.

  Her spontaneous giggle enlivened an already pleasant morning. Tom smiled at her.

  She smiled back, her dimple flashing. “Apparently you don’t enjoy the pomp your uncle used to favor.”

  “I’m not fond of pomp, no.”

  “Well, here in Pyrite Springs, I suppose even our most elegant soirees would fade when compared to the elaborate entertainments one finds on the east coast.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Tom murmured. He hoped she wouldn’t start harping about his supposed sophistication again. He thought they’d covered that topic quite thoroughly already. Maybe he should invite some of his old scouting buddies for a visit. One gander at them would drive any remaining misconceptions about his refinement out of these people’s minds.

  “The ladies, of course, will wear formal gowns, but nothing elaborate,” Claire continued, warming to her subject. She apparently set a good deal of store by her artistic friends.

  “Black ties for the gentlemen?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom guessed he could stand it. Besides, it would be interesting to see how Claire took to formal attire. He’d be willing to bet she’d polish up just fine. Glancing down, he noticed that her rattlesnakes seemed to be supporting her sunbonnet this morning. He wondered if she’d change her hairstyle for formal occasions and, feeling intrepid, decided to ask.

  “I’ve been out of civilized society for a long time, Miss Montague, and I’m not up-to-date on current modes. I notice you favor a hairstyle my Aunt Minnie in Alabama used to wear. I’m surprised hairstyles haven’t changed all that much in twenty years.”

  When Claire didn’t answer, he peered down again to find her looking perfectly mortified. Immediately he regretted his bold question.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I didn’t intend to embarrass you. It was rude of me to ask such a personal question.” With a rueful grin, he added, “I guess you’ll believe me now when I say I’m not used to polite company.”

  “Please don’t apologize, Mr. Partington. I, ahem, don’t suppose my hairstyle is particularly flattering, but I had believed it suited to my position. A housekeeper isn’t generally expected to be a fashion plate.”

  Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of a snap to Claire’s answer? If there was, he was delighted. About all she needed to be perfect was a little fire. Risking her further wrath, he opined, “I suppose that’s true, but I don’t think it would hurt your reputation any if you were to adopt a little color every now and then. Or even a new hairstyle.”

  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 mann
ers. 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 ti
me 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.