Secret Hearts Read online

  Nevertheless, she met his smile with one of her own that she hoped didn’t declare too openly the adoration she felt for him. “I’d be happy to, Mr. Partington. Your uncle allowed me quite a free hand in the gardens. I hope you will approve.”

  In truth, about the only skill Claire prided herself on, besides housekeeping, was horticulture. The gardens at Partington Place were famous in the small town of Pyrite Springs. Even people from as far away as Sacramento sometimes visited the grounds during Partington Place’s Spring Open House or on the fourth of July, when Gordon hosted an annual party for the public. Claire wasn’t sure she dared hope Tom would continue some of the traditions she’d come to cherish at Partington Place.

  They walked outside as soon as they’d finished breakfast, Tom graciously allowing Claire to lead the way through the solarium, across the marbled terrace, down the stairs, and into the small rose garden. Her heart was thundering like cannon fire by this time. She prayed he’d like what she’d done here.

  The small rose garden led, by way of a perfectly cunning rose arbor, to more extensive gardens. Here Claire had overseen that various beds were stocked year-round with annuals and perennials so that the grounds seldom looked completely bare. Now, in the dead of winter, of course, the roses no longer bloomed, and there were no gay blossoms or sweet fragrances to caress the senses. The wisteria trellis seemed blank and cold to her, and she frowned at it critically. Even without the roses and wisteria blooming, however, green abounded and one could appreciate the beauty of the grounds.

  At least Claire could. She hoped to heaven Mr. Tom Partington would be able to share her enthusiasm. Peering at him from the corner of her eye, she thought she detected an expression of approval, and contained her sigh of relief with difficulty.

  She led him under the rose arbor’s arches, bare now except for canes which would, in April and May, come alive with cascades of sweet-smelling blossoms, and into the flower beds. She wished it were April and the daphne in bloom so he could smell the enchanting hedge lining the flower beds. It wasn’t April, though, and she held her breath and clamped her hands together in front of her.

  “The gardeners have already planted ranunculus and anemone bulbs, and the tulips, hyacinths and daffodils come up year after year. In early spring they’ll begin to bloom, and it will be quite colorful out here, and very fragrant.”

  Looking around, Tom’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. “This is wonderful, Miss Montague. I’ll bet the place is spectacular when everything’s blooming.”

  “Indeed, it is, Mr. Partington,” Claire said in a rush. “Why I—I believe the gardens of Partington Place are truly inspirational. At least, I did my very best to make them so.” She ducked her head, embarrassed at having said something so clearly bespeaking conceit in her own accomplishments.

  Tom didn’t seem to mind. His expression held respect—even deference—when he turned to look at her. “You are truly a woman of many talents, Miss Montague. My uncle was very, very fortunate to have found you.”

  Claire whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Partington.” It was difficult for her to speak past the lump which had suddenly grown in her throat. How kind he was, to say such a thing after her lapse this morning.

  All at once the solarium door opened and boots clicked on the marble. Claire viewed Jedediah Silver with pleasure. A young man, Jedediah was inclined to be overly serious. Yet he possessed a sense of fun that surfaced every now and then. Claire had a feeling the young accountant had raised himself up by dint of his own hard work from rather meager beginnings. He never spoke of it and she never asked. She herself came from a background she would prefer to forget, and she respected Mr. Silver’s reticence.

  Grateful for the accountant’s interruption, Claire hurried toward him with her hands outstretched. “Mr. Silver! It’s so nice to see you again. You haven’t visited Partington Place for much too long.”

  His smile for Claire was very warm. “Miss Montague, it’s a pleasure to see you again, too.” He looked up, smiled at Tom, and held out a hand. “I see Miss Montague has been giving you the grand tour, General Partington.”

  “I prefer ‘Mister’ Partington,” Tom said gently. “And you, I assume, are Mr. Silver.”

  # # #

  Later that same day, Claire was yawning over the household account books in the tidy office she’d made for herself in a small back parlor in Partington Place when Dianthe St. Sauvre came to call. Hearing the soft click of the door leading out to the yard being opened, Claire looked up and smiled when she beheld her friend.

  “Good afternoon, Dianthe.”

  Dianthe didn’t so much walk as waft toward Claire. As she sank into a chair, her flowing skirts settled around her like a soft cloud, and Claire sighed. She was past envying Dianthe, she guessed, but it did seem somehow unfair that such beauty as Dianthe possessed couldn’t have been shared more equitably among God’s creatures instead of bestowed exclusively upon this one exquisite woman.

  What used to depress Claire even more than her abundant beauty was that Dianthe enjoyed genuine artistic genius. Unlike Claire herself who wrote hack dime novels for so sordid a commodity as money, Dianthe created magnificent romantic verses which she then interpreted in dance. Naturally, she was poor as a church mouse, as befitted a True Artist.

  Without returning Claire’s greeting, Dianthe lifted her head and breathed, “Did he arrive?”

  Even her voice was beautiful, Claire thought resignedly. There wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t be stirred to gallant deeds by Dianthe’s voice.

  “He came last night.” Claire sat forward on her chair and leaned over the desk. “And, oh, Dianthe, he’s everything I expected him to be.”

  Dianthe’s eyes grew round. She tossed her blond curls and whispered, “Oh, Claire, truly? He’s truly the hero of—you know.”

  The very few of Claire’s friends who knew her dark secret were extremely kind to her. None of them ever mentioned “Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee” to her face; they honored her friendship too much.

  “Yes. He’s simply wonderful. You must meet him, Dianthe. You and he would be—well, you’d be perfect together. I just know it.”

  Dianthe blushed becomingly, as she did everything. Claire couldn’t suppress a wistful sigh. If only she’d been given a fraction of Dianthe’s glorious femininity. Ah, well. As her father had told her more than once, each person was given gifts suitable to his or her abilities. It was probably the only sensible thing her father had ever said, in fact, but that was another matter entirely. Claire guessed it was her lot in life to be practical. She wished she’d been given a practical soul to go along with her practical looks.

  “Do you really think so, Claire?”

  “I truly do, Dianthe. He’s every bit as handsome and noble as the newspaper and magazine accounts depict him as being. Why, he even tried to disparage his achievements when Mr. Silver came to call this morning.” She decided not to mention his mustache.

  Dianthe pressed a hand to her bosom, a feature as gloriously lush as the rest of her. “He’s modest as well as heroic? Oh, Claire!”

  “Indeed he is. Why, he insisted upon being called merely ‘Mr. Partington,’ as if his achievements in the war meant nothing at all to him. Also, he claimed to know nothing about business or farming or running an estate, and very humbly begged Mr. Silver’s guidance in those matters.”

  “Truly? My goodness.”

  Dianthe rose from her chair and Claire discovered she hadn’t entirely overcome her deplorable tendency to envy her beautiful friend. Graceful as a sylph, Dianthe circuited the room, fingering objects delicately, her lovely face thoughtful.

  “He even offered Mr. Silver a generous bonus if he’d spend a few weeks here and teach him ___«everything there is to know about the farm and grounds. Apparently he has an idea about breeding horses, but doesn’t want to embark on such an enterprise unless the estate is well able to support it.” Claire approved such a pragmatic attitude.

  “Horses,” Dianthe breathed,
endowing the word with all the mythic properties of Pegasus. Claire wished she could make her voice do that.

  “Indeed. He seems to be interested in a particular breed. I believe it’s called Ap-Ap-Appaloosas. At least, I think that was the name.”

  Dianthe stopped wafting. “Appaloosas?” Her flawless forehead wrinkled when she spoke, as though she did not find the word aesthetically pleasing.

  “Yes. The breed was evidently developed somewhere in the Northwest. I understand they’re spotted.”

  “Spotted?” Dianthe’s brows dipped over her crystal-blue eyes.

  Sensing her friend’s disapproval, Claire hastened to say, “I asked about them this morning, Dianthe, and they’re not nearly as awful as they sound.”

  Still frowning, Dianthe resumed her chair in front of Claire’s desk. “No?”

  “No, indeed. Why, in fact, I understand they possess a princely temperament and their spots are primarily confined to their rear quarters. Although,” she added conscientiously, “I don’t really know much about them. I’m hoping Mr. Partington will permit me to learn along with him, so that I may be of some help to him in his new enterprise.”

  She tried to keep her galloping heart from giving her words any special emphasis. She knew her new employer could never find it in himself to view her as anything other than a employee, but if he would allow it, perhaps she could make herself useful. Long ago, Claire had given up hope for anything more out of life.

  “You’re interested in horses?” Dianthe sounded faintly appalled.

  Quelling a spurt of indignation, Claire said rather tartly, “Horses are noble beasts, Dianthe. I’m surprised at your attitude, quite frankly.”

  Waving a delicate hand in the air, Dianthe said, “Of course, Claire. But horses with spots?” She shook her head, endowing the gesture with an elegance it probably did not deserve.

  As it often did while Claire was writing, inspiration struck her now. She carefully schooled her expression to betray only indifference. “I believe the first persons to develop Appaloosas as a separate breed were Indians, Dianthe.”

  It did not surprise Claire when Dianthe’s expression of distaste immediately transformed into one of rapt interest—even awe.

  “Indians?” Again, she made this word sound mysterious, glorious, magical.

  “I believe so.” Claire smiled, pleased that she’d crossed that hurdle so easily.

  “Oh, my.” Dianthe sank back in her chair, adopting a pose Claire had seen captured on canvas by great artists. Her own little sigh was unintentional.

  She was surprised into an unladylike start when a brisk rap came at the door. Dianthe, of course, expressed her alarm in a much more elegant manner, merely lifting an eyebrow and sitting slightly forward. When the door opened to reveal Mr. Thomas G. Partington, her lips parted and her eyes grew round.

  Claire was not astonished when the Young General glanced at Dianthe, looked away, swiveled his head back as if it had been wound by a spring, and stared, going somewhat bug-eyed.

  She said calmly, “Mr. Partington, may I introduce you to my very good friend, Dianthe St. Sauvre. Miss St. Sauvre is a poet whose works are soon to be heralded world-wide.” She gave Dianthe a smile which Dianthe returned warmly.

  Rising from her chair as Venus might have risen from the sea, Dianthe glided toward Claire’s dumbfounded employer, her hand held out. Her heart squeezed when she saw the man of her dreams swallow, draw himself up straight, and give Dianthe a smile Claire would have died for had it been directed at herself.

  She’d been right. They were absolutely perfect together.

  “Mr. Partington, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Miss St. Sauvre,” Tom said feelingly. “Believe me.” He drew her limp hand to his lips, and Claire experienced a pang of regret. There wasn’t a gentleman alive who would kiss her hand that way; she knew it.

  “Claire has been telling me about your interest in horses, Mr. Partington.”

  “Has she now?”

  Tom’s smile for Claire was brief and friendly, not at all akin to the one he’d bestowed upon Dianthe.

  “Indeed, it sounds like a fascinating venture,” Claire said, aware even as she spoke that she’d lost his attention to Dianthe again.

  “So you’re a poet, Miss St. Sauvre?”

  “Yes. I do my poor best.” Dianthe lowered her lashes in a becoming manner.

  “She’s not a mere poet, Mr. Partington,” Claire said hurriedly. “Dianthe writes brilliant odes to Nature and then creates evocative dances to go with them.”

  Tom said, “Really,” in a lost-sounding voice.

  “Oh, yes.” Claire drew in a deep breath. This seemed as good a time as any to beg the new master of Partington Place’s indulgence; better than most, in fact. Might as well hit him with it while he was under Dianthe’s spell.

  “In fact, the late Mr. Partington used to support the arts in several extremely practical ways.”

  “Did he now?”

  Claire watched Tom watch Dianthe as she floated to her chair and drifted into graceful repose once more.

  “Yes, indeed. He was a great supporter of the Pyrite Arms.”

  “Beg pardon?” Tom’s gaze, which had been stuck like glue on Dianthe, lifted. He looked quizzically at Claire.

  “The Pyrite Arms. Several fine, fine artists live there. It is an hotel endowed by the late Mr. Partington specifically to give talented individuals a home. They are provided room and board at a modest cost, and are given the freedom to devote their energies to art without the mundane world stifling their creative sensibilities.”

  Claire and Dianthe shared a smile. Dianthe whispered, “Mr. Partington was truly an enlightened benefactor.”

  Blinking, Tom murmured, “Was he now?”

  Warming to her subject, Claire said, “Oh, yes, sir. Why, Dianthe is only one of five truly gifted artists who live and—and create—at the Pyrite Arms.”

  Tom cleared his throat. “A truly noble enterprise, ladies.”

  Dianthe breathed, “Truly noble.”

  “Yes,” Claire continued. “And your uncle Gordon used to enjoy hosting Artistic Evenings for residents of the Pyrite Arms, too, Mr. Partington.”

  Claire looked down at her blotter, worried lest her passion for the Pyrite Arms enterprise give away her fervent interest. Yet if she could enlist the support of Mr. Thomas G. Partington to his uncle’s pet project, she would be so happy. Somehow it seemed to Claire that when she helped the artists at the Pyrite Arms, she was making up in some way for “Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee”. Using her paltry skills in making so much money in so crass a manner embarrassed her. She tried at every opportunity to enlist further support for the Pyrite Arms. Besides, keeping the Pyrite Arms project alive would keep Gordon’s memory alive, as well. Claire sometimes felt the Pyrite Arms would be her absolution.

  Good Lord. Tom had never seen a woman as lovely as the creature draped in the chair across from his housekeeper. The contrast between the two ladies was almost painful to observe, and Tom felt a tug of sympathy for Claire. She was a good woman and was quite taking in her own subtle way.

  It seemed almost a shame, however, that she should have become friends with the ethereal Dianthe St. Sauvre, who must eclipse her in any setting. Yet they obviously shared a strong friendship. That puzzled him in more ways than one, as Claire seemed infinitely brighter than her more beautiful friend. Dianthe reminded him in all too many ways of his own lovely but empty-headed mother. He wondered what she and Claire found to chat about.

  “Well, perhaps you will do us the honor of visiting again, Miss St. Sauvre.”

  A glance at Claire assured him he’d said exactly the right thing, and he was irrationally pleased with himself. Although Tom had never had much truck with poetry, preferring the bawdy verses warbled in the countless seedy saloons he’d frequented in his impoverished days, he found himself saying, “I’ll speak with Miss Montague about one of your—your evening art things
.”

  “Artistic Evenings,” Dianthe murmured. She gave Tom another dazzling smile.

  “That would be so wonderful of you, Mr. Partington.” Even though Claire knew Dianthe’s beauty and not her own eloquence had nudged her employer into making the offer, she was very grateful. After he witnessed for himself the wonderful work the denizens of the Pyrite Arms created, he would surely be swayed to further generosity.

  Dianthe left shortly after Tom’s arrival. It seemed to take Tom a few minutes to recover. Claire thought dryly that he looked as though he’d been sucker-punched. With an internal sigh, she guessed he had been. They discussed the business of the estate for a half-hour or so before Mr. Partington took himself off for another chat with Mr. Silver.

  As for Claire, her accounts settled, her work done, she went up to her room, fetched her work in progress, toted it downstairs to her office, and immersed herself in the further thrilling adventures of Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee. She knew it was shameful to take such delight in the unedifying pastime but guessed it was only to be expected, considering her origins.

  # # #

  Tom couldn’t remember another time in his life when he’d eaten dinner alone. Or in such luxury. Sitting at the head of his magnificent dining table—capable of seating thirty with room to spare—he stared at a vast, empty expanse of polished mahogany that seemed to go on forever.

  His uncle hadn’t had the place piped for gas, and the glistening wood faded away into the shadows. An arrangement of dried flowers banked by two candles leapt into view about the middle of the table and saved it from looking utterly desolate, but even that one clump of flowers seemed a mile away. The room was gloomy, lit as it was only by candles set quite far apart. Tom felt ridiculously forsaken.

  Hell, he’d been around people his entire life. Scads of people. Hordes of people. Even when he’d been scouting for the railroad in the vast emptiness of the American frontier, there had been people around. In fact, the fellows in the railroad camps had been like a big, bawdy family to him. He’d never been alone like this.