Secret Hearts Page 13

  He shook his head and didn’t smile. “Aunt Minnie never looked like this. Not once.”

  Recalling her days with her knavish father, Claire smiled coyly. “And is that a good thing?”

  This time Tom nodded. “Yes. Yes indeed, Miss Montague. It’s a very good thing.”

  It was Jedediah’s turn to shake his head. “You look perfectly ravishing, Miss Montague.”

  Ravishing. Ravishing was good. Claire liked ravishing, too. Resuscitating all the tips her father had taught her in a childhood she’d done her best to forget, Claire smiled first at Tom and then at Jedediah. “My goodness, gentlemen, I can’t recall ever having received so many lovely compliments.”

  Tom poured her a glass of sherry and she took it, feeling a heady combination of happiness and worry. She wasn’t worried about the success of the evening. Mrs. Philpott had prepared a delightful dinner for the three of them, and a variety of refreshments for the guests who would be arriving shortly after dinner. The artists coming from the Pyrite Arms were primed and ready; she’d visited the Arms this very morning to be sure. She also knew herself to be an obsessively organized hostess. All was set for the evening’s entertainment.

  No; she was worried about herself. She hadn’t tried to be anything but a stuffy housekeeper for years; she wasn’t sure she could turn the Housekeeper Claire into an attractive young woman without shattering her or sending her slipping headlong into perdition. Achieving balance was certainly proving to be a nerve-wracking proposition.

  “Well, you’re quite magnificent this evening, Miss Montague. The perfect hostess. You do Partington Place—you do me—proud.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Partington.”

  “You certainly do, Miss Claire. Why, I don’t recall you ever looking so lovely for one of these things.”

  Daring a mischievous grin, Claire murmured, “Mr. Partington suggested I add some color to my life, and I took him at his word.”

  Slanting a peek at Tom, she found him staring at her as if enraptured, and she glanced away again quickly. The look on his face frightened her; it reminded of the looks on those long-gone-by men being cheated by her father—when they’d gotten close enough for her to see. She pushed her spectacles up on her nose; they hadn’t slipped, but they were familiar and gave her a feeling of security. They also provided a barrier—admittedly transparent—between herself and the world.

  “I never expected you to take my words so much to heart, Miss Montague. But I’m very glad you did.”

  At least he didn’t sound like those other men. His voice was perfectly respectful; not at all coarse or suggestive. She murmured, “Thank you,” again.

  “I had Scruggs raid the wine cellar. He said Uncle Gordon was especially fond of this sherry, so I hope it passes muster.” Tom lifted his glass. “To the admirable Miss Montague, without whom neither Uncle Gordon nor I could manage.”

  “To Miss Montague,” Jedediah repeated.

  Claire felt her cheeks burn hotter.

  Tom’s sherry almost got stuck in his throat. He hadn’t been so taken aback since he’d heard about his uncle’s legacy. Claire took his breath away. Jedediah had been right: she was stunning, even with those spectacles perched on her nose. They didn’t detract from the overall impression of attractiveness Claire exuded this evening; rather they added a unique finish to a perfect picture.

  Tom didn’t understand it, nor could he have explained it. All he knew was that Claire Montague appeared this evening to be the personification of everything he’d worked so hard to attain in his life. She was the embodiment of all that he’d ever struggled, fought and toiled for; the diametrical opposite, in fact, of his frivolous, unpromising roots.

  He wanted to throw his head back and laugh and then throw his arms around Claire and kiss her. This was it; he’d attained perfection, and it was Partington Place and Claire Montague.

  The door opened and he had to leave off staring at his housekeeper.

  “Dinner is served,” Scruggs announced as though he were proclaiming the end of the world.

  “Thank you, Scruggs.”

  With an imprudent leap up from his chair, which jarred his scarred leg, Tom managed to offer Claire his arm a scant second before Jedediah could perform the same service. “Miss Montague,” he said through gritted teeth.

  He was almost grateful for his foolishness when she clutched his arm with both hands and cried in alarm, “Good heavens, Mr. Partington, are you all right?”

  Her gown was not low-cut, but when she held her arms just so, Tom could detect a delicious hint of cleavage He gave her a reassuring smile. “Fine, fine, Miss Montague. My leg acts up when the weather’s cold or wet.”

  “Goodness, and it looks as if it’s going to start snowing any day now. I’m so sorry, Mr. Partington. Is this from the wound you sustained at Gettysburg?”

  Tom decided having Claire’s bosom pressed against his arm was almost worth having aggravated one of his old injuries. “Actually, that one’s in the left leg and doesn’t bother me too much. This one was from the arrow I took in ‘74 up in Wyoming.”

  “My goodness, Mr. Partington, what an incredibly adventurous life you’ve lived.”

  For the first time, Tom forgot to be sorry that his uncle used to romanticize his life to Claire. It felt pretty good to be idolized by her this evening.

  “It’s had its moments,” he said, patting her hand. He wanted to pat further, but knew she’d object. “I appreciate your concern, Miss Montague.”

  She blinked at him, her chocolate-brown eyes wide and quite beautiful beneath her sparkling lenses. “Anything I can do to make your life more comfortable is my prime concern, Mr. Partington.”

  As her proximity and sweet cosseting had begun to awaken exceedingly improper urges in Tom, he declined to suggest the most appealing way in which she might consummate her prime concern. Instead, he saw her to her chair as a gentleman should and seated himself at the head of the table.

  They dined on escalloped oysters, roast beef and, at Claire’s suggestion, Yorkshire pudding made the way Mrs. Philpott’s mother used to make it back home in England. Also at her suggestion, champagne was served in honor of Tom’s first Artistic Evening in his new manor. Scruggs poured the bubbling wine as though he were doling out poison.

  Sipping his champagne, Tom looked from his new friend, Jedediah Silver, to his new housekeeper, Claire Montague, and wondered how she’d take to fulfilling another role in his life.

  # # #

  Tom breathed a sigh of relief when the handsome, albeit grumpy-looking Sylvester Addison-Addison passed under the archway and into the small ballroom and Priscilla Pringle spotted him. She dropped his coat sleeve to which she’d been clinging and darted away to greet Sylvester.

  Tom brushed the wrinkle out of his sleeve and cocked a brow at Claire. “Good Lord, I didn’t think I’d ever be happy to see that surly puppy.”

  She giggled, which warmed Tom’s heart. “It’s merely that Mrs. Pringle admires you, Mr. Partington.”

  “She seemed bent on tormenting me.”

  “Nonsense! She finds you handsome and fascinating. Indeed, who can blame her? You look very elegant this evening, which only adds intrigue to your magnificent reputation.”

  “You can’t get out of it that easily, Miss Montague. The woman was plaguing me, and I expect you to take better care of me than that for the rest of the evening.”

  The flush in Claire’s cheeks deepened, and Tom felt a mad impulse to sweep her into his arms and make off with her, and to hell with these silly artists. Of course, he did no such thing.

  This whole scenario seemed right to him, though: he and Claire, greeting visitors to his home, playing host and hostess to what passed for high society in Pyrite Springs. Even the flirty Mrs. Pringle had added an amusing interlude. He could imagine if he and Claire were, say, a married couple, they’d laugh about Mrs. Pringle’s antics over breakfast on the morrow.

  What was he thinking of? Good Lord. They’d laug
h about it over breakfast tomorrow anyway. They didn’t have to commit anything as foolish as marriage in order to do that. Thank God.

  People were pouring into the room by this time. The small ballroom was only small when compared to the large ballroom on the floor beneath. It was actually a very large room, with a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows leading out onto a pretty balcony where folks could stroll in warm weather. The curtains were drawn over the windows tonight, and Tom didn’t expect the balcony would see much use. Except, maybe, by him when the crush of people got to him and he had to flee. The chilly weather didn’t daunt him; he’d lived through blizzards on the prairie countless times.

  “Oh, there’s Dianthe!” Claire rushed over to her friend and clasped her hands. Dianthe seemed equally pleased to see Claire. Her smile would have made Michelangelo’s heart palpitate and his palms itch to paint her.

  ___¯Watching both ladies critically, Tom decided that, while it was true Dianthe was the more classically beautiful of the two, Claire possessed more natural animation. Probably because she possessed a bigger soul. And a bigger brain.

  Tom sensed undercurrents to Claire; undercurrents he’d like to explore one of these days, by hand. The only thing he’d sensed thus far in Dianthe was physical beauty, which he granted she possessed in abundance. He guessed she’d never had to strive for much of anything, however, and the blandness of her life expressed itself in her personality. He was looking forward to her poetic rendition this evening as an opportunity either to confirm his opinion or berate himself as being far too critical.

  Good old Jed didn’t seem to care about Dianthe’s relative lack of intellect, Tom noticed with a grin. He was already hovering over her like a good angel. Well, that was fine with Tom. Jed could have her. After the struggles he’d been through, the thought of being saddled with a mere ornament made Tom’s teeth clench and his flesh crawl. His mother had been an ornament, and Tom recalled with a shudder how much use she’d been to anybody. Of course, his father hadn’t been much more than ornamental, either.

  Maybe that’s what he should do for his parents, he thought suddenly, bring them here. The notion held little appeal, but at least if they were in his home he could keep an eye on them and make sure they didn’t get into trouble. Of course, if he invited them they probably wouldn’t come. It would take an act of God to pry them away from Tuscaloosa, where they lived among the fallen grandeur of a lost civilization; trading on the family name for the necessities of life.

  “God, what a pair,” Tom muttered, scowling into the milling throng filling up his ballroom but seeing his parents in his mind’s eye.

  “Is anything the matter, Mr. Partington?”

  Startled, Tom turned to behold a nervously fidgeting Claire. She looked worried, and Tom’s heart was stirred by her concern.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Montague, I didn’t mean to appear disobliging. I was thinking about Alabama.”

  “Oh.” Claire was obviously perplexed.

  “I’m afraid I don’t harbor too many fond memories of my childhood home,” Tom said by way of explanation.

  “You don’t?”

  “I don’t.”

  A crease appeared between her eyes and she said seriously, “I don’t, either, Mr. Partington, but I’ve always envied people who have pleasant memories of their childhoods. Such memories sound almost golden to me.”

  This time it was Tom who was perplexed. Before he could question her, she took his arm. “But do come along with me, Mr. Partington. Why, I do believe everybody to whom I sent an invitation is here this evening. Let me introduce you to the mayor, Mr. Gilbert. Mr. Gilbert is a supporter of the Pyrite Arms. At least,” she amended darkly, “he was.”

  “Did something happen to make him lose interest?” Tom asked curiously as he allowed Claire to lead him across the floor.

  “Not exactly. In fact, his interest is probably keener than ever. Unfortunately.” She muttered, “It was Sergei, you see.”

  “Sergei?”

  “I’ll explain later, Mr. Partington.” They had apparently reached their destination, because Claire tapped a portly gentleman on the shoulder and he turned around, revealing an apple-cheeked countenance framed by gray-flecked muttonchops and a similarly embellished mustache.

  “Mr. Partington, please allow me to introduce you to one of Pyrite Springs’ leading citizens, Alphonse Gilbert. Mr. Gilbert is our esteemed mayor.”

  “How-do, young man. I was right pleased to hear you’d be taking over the running of the Place here. Your uncle made a great contribution to our community, and I expect you’ll continue his good work.” Mr. Gilbert smiled broadly and gave Tom’s hand an almost too-hearty shake.

  Reflecting that politicians were the same the world over, Tom returned Mr. Gilbert’s smile. “Thank you, sir. I’ve appreciated what I’ve seen so far of your fair city.”

  “Silver tells me you’re going to breed horses. I think that’s a fine ambition, sir. A fine ambition. I expect a horse ranch will bring a lot of trade to the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Tom.

  Mr. Gilbert turned to Claire. “And just look at the changes you’ve inspired already. Why, I declare, I’ve never seen our Miss Montague look so splendid. I expect we owe this transformation to your influence, Mr. Partington.”

  Alphonse Gilbert possessed a politician’s voice, booming and genial, and Tom supposed there was really no good reason for him to want to punch him in the nose. Nevertheless, when he saw the mortified look on Claire’s face, it was all he could do to keep from grabbing Gilbert by his bow tie and slapping him down like a bad poker hand.

  Since he was in the very civilized environs of his own small ballroom, he had to content himself with blowing a cloud of cigar smoke in Mr. Gilbert’s face and saying tightly, “Miss Montague always looks charming, Mr. Gilbert. My uncle could not have managed without her, and neither can I.”

  Gilbert managed to choke out, “Quite, quite. I’m sure that’s true.”

  Tom didn’t wait to chat further with the oafish mayor. He clamped a hand on Claire’s elbow and steered her toward Sylvester Addison-Addison. “Don’t mind him, Miss Montague. The man’s a blockhead.”

  Claire still seemed somewhat embarrassed. She murmured, “Maybe Sergei was right after all.”

  Tom looked at her inquiringly, and she shook her head. “I’ll have to explain later, Mr. Partington. Here, please let me introduce you to Mrs. Gaylord.”

  On the way, they passed Sylvester, who turned to glower at them. Mrs. Pringle clung to his arm like a leech, and Tom hoped to God she’d keep her predatory eyes turned in that direction. Tom, who had been contemplating finding an obliging widow not more than a day or two earlier,___« wanted nothing to do with the pretty, fluttery, widowed Mrs. Pringle.

  Sylvester sneered, “I see you’ve been led to visit that tedious harpy, Thelma Grimsby, Claire.”

  Before Tom could snatch his arm away from Claire and deal with Sylvester Addison-Addison as he deserved to be dealt with, Claire said pleasantly, “Glorietta, do turn around and meet the young Mr. Partington.”

  She ignored Sylvester entirely. He frowned harder, and Tom decided perhaps Claire’s method of handling the sulky twit was superior to his. Old Sylvester seemed quite peeved about being ignored.

  “Oh!” came a high-pitched squeal from a clump of people milling around Sylvester.

  Then, in front of Tom’s very eyes, an enormous orange marshmallow emerged from the jumble. Forgetting all about Sylvester Addison-Addison, he peered more closely and discovered the creature to be, in reality, a person of the female gender, but amazingly fleshy and draped in a brilliant orange fabric. ___—It might have been silk, and it hung from beneath the woman’s several chins, washing over her plump flesh like orange ocean waves and sluicing to the floor where it puddled at what he assumed were her feet.

  “Mrs. Glorietta Gaylord, may I present Mr. Tom Partington. Mr. Partington, as you may have assumed from this wonderful gathering, pl
ans to continue his uncle’s good works at the Pyrite Arms.” Claire beamed at Tom, admiration shining from beneath her lenses.

  Tom managed to shut his mouth, which had fallen open at the bursting forth of Mrs. Gaylord. He felt his eyes go round again when, from the voluminous folds of orange, a chubby hand emerged. He took it and his eyes traveled up the amazing garment to discover a face wreathed in a smile. The hair surrounding the face was nearly as orange as the garment, and dyed-orange feathers had been stabbed into its upswept curls. He mumbled, “How do you do, Mrs. Gaylord?” and felt quite proud of himself.

  “I’m very well, thank you, Mr. Partington,” she said cheerfully. “And, please, don’t be shy about revealing your astonishment at my colorful appearance. At the moment my entire life is an homage to the marigold. I honor the magnificent marigold in dress as in art. In fact, I have brought you one of my renderings this evening, as a welcoming gift.”

  “How nice of you, Glorietta!”

  Claire clapped her hands together and looked so pleased, Tom found himself murmuring, “Er, yes. Thank you very much.” All that vibrant orange was making him feel a trifle bilious. He hoped they wouldn’t have to chat long with the ebullient Mrs. Gaylord or his oysters might rebel.

  “I gave it to Scruggs on my way in, dear,” Mrs. Gaylord said to Claire.

  “I’m sure he’s put it somewhere safe.”

  “Maybe we’d better go and check, Miss Montague,” Tom suggested, grabbing her arm and yanking her away. “Nice to meet you,” he called over his shoulder.

  Claire’s soft laugh made him look down at her. ___„ “Are you laughing at me?”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Partington. Perhaps I should have warned you.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “She’s really a lovely woman. But she claims she wants to perfect the marigold before she moves on to other flowers. I’ll actually be glad when she gets to roses, because they come in more colors. Perhaps anemones would give her even broader scope.”

  “I don’t think her scope needs to be any broader,” Tom muttered.

  Claire laughed and smacked his arm gently in reproof. “But she truly is a fine artist. I’ll be curious to see the painting she brought you.”