Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  Claire stared at him, her thoughts instantly congealing into a scene of riveting intensity.

  As the ferocious brave fell dead at his feet, Tom swirled around to behold yet another peril. A villain stood over Miss Abigail Faithgood, his dagger poised threateningly.

  “Stop, fiend!” Tom demanded.

  “Never!” the miscreant retorted. “Not until the wench agrees to give up her foul sheep!” He grabbed Miss Faithgood by her flowing tresses, eliciting another scream from her ruby lips.

  “Claire? Miss Montague?”

  Her attention thus jerked back to the here and now, Claire realized Sergei’s attitude had changed from one of belligerence to one of concern. Pressing her forehead, momentarily disconcerted, Claire said, “I’m so sorry, Sergei. I got lost in a fog there for a minute.”

  Turning to resume glowering at his canvas, Sergei muttered, “Fog is to be chosen over a tarnished soul.”

  Since Claire didn’t know how to respond to Sergei’s cryptic utterance, she chose to say instead, “I see you’re beginning work on another project, Sergei. Who will be honored by your artistry this time?” She gave him as sunny a smile as she could manufacture.

  With a gloomy sigh, the artist said, “Mrs. Humphrey Albright.”

  “Mrs. Albright?” Triumph replaced despair in Claire’s breast. “Why, Mrs. Albright is one of Pyrite Springs’ leading citizens, Sergei. What a wonderful achievement for you.”

  Scowling at his canvas, Sergei said darkly, “A tarnished soul will out, Miss Montague.”

  Her sense of triumph diminishing rapidly, Claire said uncertainly, “Do you mean you believe Mrs. Albright to be the possessor of a tarnished soul?”

  His slanting look rubbed the rest of the shine off of Claire’s moment. “Oh, dear, Sergei. Are you absolutely certain? I’m sure she’s a very nice lady. I can’t believe her soul can be so very tarnished.”

  Another darkling glance from her friend assured Claire that while she might not believe such a thing, Sergei certainly did. “Well, Sergei, you must remember that there are many people who prefer to keep their soul’s imperfections to themselves. Are you sure you must paint them?”

  Sergei scowled at her as if she’d just suggested he sell his firstborn. “I paint what I see, Miss Montague. I will not prostitute my art for fools.”

  With a sigh, Claire said, “No, I suppose you won’t. Well, just don’t be surprised if Mrs. Albright objects. You remember the ruckus Mr. Gilmore kicked up.”

  Throwing his head back, Sergei barked out a short, “Hah! Barbarians!”

  Claire decided to leave Sergei to his dark reflections. Shaking her head, she made her way up the gravel path to the front door of the Pyrite Arms. With a brisk tug at the bell pull, she pushed the door open and called out, “Mrs. Elliott, it’s just Claire. Is Dianthe in?”

  A harassed-looking woman scuttled through a door on the other side of the hallway and smiled at Claire. Waving in the appropriate direction, she said, “She’s in the parlor, Miss Claire. Creating a dance to go along with that dreadful picture Mr. Sergei painted last month.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Elliott.”

  “Think nothing of it, dearie. Why on earth anybody would want to dance around in front of that thing is beyond me. Worse than wild Indians these artists are.” Mrs. Elliott hurried off.

  Another hearty sigh saw Claire into the parlor. She stopped, mesmerized, at the scene that greeted her eyes. There, on an easel in front of the fireplace, in a place of honor, resided Sergei Ivanov’s portrait of Alphonse Gilbert, mayor of Pyrite Springs and proprietor of the Pyrite Springs Mercantile and Furniture Emporium.

  Although she admired Sergei as an artist of rare ability, Claire couldn’t help but wince as she gazed at the countenance on that canvas. Sergei, who claimed to paint the souls of his subjects, had evidently discerned sins in the jovial Mr. Gilmore’s soul that Claire couldn’t even imagine.

  Before the portrait, prostrate amid a buttery froth of chiffon, lay Dianthe St. Sauvre. When the door clicked shut, Dianthe’s head lifted, and Claire found herself being scrutinized by two glorious blue eyes in a beautiful face set into a head topped with tumbling blond curls.

  “Hello, Claire. What brings you here?”

  All at once Claire wondered why Miss Abigail Faithgood’s tresses should be flowing if she were hiding out behind a rock in the wilderness. Such a circumstance didn’t seem right somehow, but she decided to put her mind to the matter later.

  Dianthe rose from the floor and fluttered onto the sofa. Claire couldn’t contain a tiny—virtually nonexistent—stab of envy.

  “I spoke with Mr. Partington last evening, Dianthe, and he told me he is definitely interested in continuing the tradition of Artistic Evenings.”

  “How wonderful!”

  Claire sat in a wing chair, trying very hard to keep her gaze from straying to the ghastly painting by the fireplace. She couldn’t stop herself from saying, “I can’t imagine why Sergei always seems to see one’s soul as black. Do you understand it, Dianthe?”

  “He’s a Russian, Claire.”

  “Do you think that accounts for it?”

  “Of course. You know how somber and dank the Russian spirit is.”

  “I hadn’t actually thought about it, to tell you the truth.”

  “Oh, yes, my dear. Positively centuries of oppression lurk behind Sergei’s wounds.”

  “His wounds!” Claire sat up, distressed that one of her artists could have been hurt without her having been told about it.

  “His spiritual wounds, Claire darling,” Dianthe murmured, sinking back against a pile of pillows on the sofa.

  “Oh. Of course.” Claire shot another nervous glance at Mr. Gilmore’s portrait brought forth a sincere. “What a terrible shame.”

  “Mr. Gilmore thought so, too.”

  “I know. Has he had second thoughts about pressing charges? Perhaps I should speak with him again.”

  “Well, since Sergei gave him back his money, he isn’t as angry, but I’m afraid he’s threatening legal action should Sergei ever show the portrait. At least he didn’t smash it, as he wanted to do.”

  Claire made herself look at the picture. “Maybe smashing it isn’t such a bad idea.” She giggled.

  Dianthe giggled, too. “Perhaps not. But wait until I finish my dance, if you please.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of smashing it, really. But I do hope it won’t sit in the parlor forever. It’s so very . . . tortured. I think I’d prefer to have a series of Mrs. Gaylord’s marigolds. Marigolds are at least cheerful.”

  Glorietta Gaylord, another Pyrite Arms artist, painted marigolds to the exclusion of all else. And, if there was anything Claire needed at the moment, it was cheer. She gave another heart-felt sigh.

  “Is something the matter, Claire?”

  Glancing at Dianthe, Claire detected concern in her vivid blue eyes, and was touched. While she honored all of the artists Gordon’s funds supported here at the Pyrite Arms, she had yet to discover among them much compassion for their fellow sufferers on this vale of tears. Except for Dianthe, whose beauty went through and through, and who genuinely valued Claire’s friendship.

  As though the agitation of the last several hours had waited until Dianthe’s worry pushed it over the edge, tears trickled from Claire’s eyes and she pulled her handkerchief from her pocket. “Oh, Dianthe, he hates them!” Hastily, she wiped at her leaky eyes and blew her nose, utterly humiliated by her childish display.

  Dianthe, however, was suitably horrified by Claire’s news. Nor did she need an explanation of what might have been considered a conversational non sequitur. Pressing one hand to her bosom and putting the other on Claire’s knee, she leaned forward and whispered, “Disaster!”

  Claire could do no more than nod unhappily as she tried to get her emotions under control.

  After her one concise summarization of Claire’s problem, Dianthe sat back against her cushions and tapped her lovely chin with an equally lovely finger
. “But not, I think, an impossible one.”

  Sniffing in a manner she knew Dianthe would never do, Claire said, “N-no?”

  Dianthe leveled her magnificent gaze upon her, and Claire took heart. If there was anybody who possessed the secret to a man’s sensibilities, it was Dianthe. Why, she had men dropping at her feet all the time. They practically littered the drive. Dianthe would know how to tame Tom Partington’s savage breast if anybody would.

  “Not at all, my dear. Let me put my mind to it. I’m sure I’ll think of some way to reconcile him with your novels.” Dianthe’s exquisite nose wrinkled a bit as she spoke the word novel, and Claire felt a swell of gratitude.

  “Thank you, Dianthe. You can’t know how much I appreciate this. I know you’d much rather be working on your expressive dance. Although,” she added with another peek at the painting, “I can’t imagine what you’re managing to dance about in Mr. Gilmore’s face as painted by Sergei.”

  Dianthe rose to her feet and swirled to the painting, draping a long, flowing sleeve over a corner and making Mr. Gilmore appear to be leering horribly at Claire from behind a yellow gauze curtain. “I’m creating an ‘Ode to a Tortured Soul,’ using Mr. Gilmore as my inspiration.” She smiled, and the contrast between her heavenly features and the grotesque painting struck Claire as almost alarming.

  “Oh. Well, do you suppose your dance will be ready to be performed a couple of Saturdays from now at Partington Place? That’s when Mr. Partington wants to hold the first of his Artistic Evenings.”

  Sighing, Dianthe sank to her knees in front of the portrait and stared up at it lovingly. “No, I don’t believe so. Besides, Freddy is working on a musical accompaniment, and I’m sure it won’t be ready by then.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so,” Claire said thoughtfully. “Perhaps if he were to learn to read music, his compositions would flow more smoothly.”

  Dianthe looked at her reproachfully. “You know Freddy doesn’t believe in adhering to traditional musical forms, Claire. He’s afraid that learning to read music conventionally will stifle his creativity.”

  “Yes, I do know that, Dianthe, but I can’t help wondering sometimes whether there aren’t reasons for such conventions as standardized musical notes and so forth. I think of them sort of as musical . . . well, letters, as it were, used to form words, which then can be used to create literature. If you see what I mean.” She peered doubtfully at Dianthe, unsure how her revolutionary ideas would be received.

  Dianthe, however, did not seem inclined to disparage them. Instead she sighed, plumped down onto the sofa again in a much less graceful manner than she had before and said, “You’re probably right, Claire. But you’ll never convince Freddy. The way he does it is so slow!”

  “Well, he is talented,” Claire said in mitigation of their musical friend’s odd compositional style. “Do you have another work prepared that you can perform, Dianthe? I’m sure Mr. Partington is particularly interested in your work.”

  “I think I shall do ‘In Praise of the Spotted Horse.’” Dianthe smiled at Claire in a conspiratorial manner. “I took what you said about his spotted horses to heart, my dear, and have written what I believe is rather a wonderful poem. My dance in accompaniment is quite lively, as well.”

  Secretly relieved when Dianthe admitted her “Tortured Soul” would not be ready for presentation, Claire was lost in admiration when told about her “Spotted Horse” work. “That will be wonderful, Dianthe. Mr. Partington will be thrilled. I’m sure of it.”

  “It was nothing, really,” Dianthe said, flicking a purple paint fleck fallen from Mr. Gilmore’s nose from her yellow chiffon. “And, Claire, I shall give every attention to your problem. No challenge is insurmountable when looked upon creatively.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Dianthe. Will you tell Freddy about the Artistic Evening? And Sylvester, of course, and Glorietta. I’ll tell Sergei on my way out.” Giving a thought to the morose Russian’s tormented sensibilities, she added, “Although it wouldn’t hurt to mention it to him again at supper tonight. You know how he is.”

  “I shall be happy to, Claire. Thank you so much for dropping by.”

  Dianthe led Claire to the door. Claire followed in Dianthe’s drifting yellow wake, feeling very ordinary in her plain brown calico gown.

  Her eyes opened wide when she passed Sergei, lost now in the throes of creativity. She saw slashes of red cutting across his formerly pristine canvas. They reminded Claire of knife slits and she stopped dead, mesmerized.

  With a sudden downward slash, the evil man cut through a handful of Miss Abigail Faithgood’s beautiful blond curls. She screamed.

  Tuscaloosa Tom cried, “Villain!”

  Well, that was good, if she could figure out how Miss Faithgood’s hair had come to be unbound in the first place. The paltry creature seemed to be screaming a lot, as well. Perhaps Claire should work on that. Ah, well. One thing at a time.

  “Sergei.”

  The artist, concentrating intently on his canvas, did not respond. Claire tried again, a little louder. “Sergei!”

  He heard her that time, and turned with a blood-curdling yell. Claire leapt back, startled.

  “My goodness, I beg your pardon.”

  Wild-eyed for only a few seconds, Sergei calmed when he beheld Claire. “I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I was lost in thought.”

  Peering at the red-smeared canvas, Claire decided not to ask what his thoughts had been. “The young Mr. Partington is hosting an Artistic Evening, Sergei. He would be honored if you would attend.”

  Drawing himself up straight and striking a noble pose, Sergei declared, “I shall paint him, Claire. I shall paint his soul’s deepest stirrings.”

  Claire patted his arm. “Perhaps you’d better wait until you’re through with Mrs. Albright, Sergei.”

  Frowning, Sergei considered for a moment before allowing, “Perhaps.”

  Claire left the Pyrite Arms in a much sunnier mood than when she had arrived. Just knowing Dianthe was working on her problem made her feel better.

  A visit to the lending library, also heavily supported by an endowment from Gordon Partington, provided Claire with a book about horses. She looked in the table of contents for a chapter on Appaloosas, but as the book was an older edition, she was unsuccessful in finding information about them. When she asked Mr. Johnson, the City Librarian, she was informed that he’d never heard of the breed, but that the book in her hand would give her lots of information on horse ranching.

  “You may check it out for as long as you need it, Miss Montague, although most patrons are only allowed to keep our books for two weeks. You, of course, needn’t worry about that.”

  Mr. Johnson smiled at her warmly, and Claire felt a pang of regret that she couldn’t feel more than tepid friendship for him. He obviously admired her. It was just her fate, she decided, to be attracted to a man who could only see her in the light of a competent housekeeper rather than to this kind, albeit somewhat stuffy, librarian.

  Still, being Tom Partington’s housekeeper was not a task to be sneered at. Perhaps one day Mr. Partington would consider her his friend, and that was a good deal better than nothing.

  Besides, it was an absolutely spectacular day, and Claire decided it would be foolish to spend it moping. Winter clouds galloped across a sapphire-blue sky like white horses. Mountains rose majestically in the distance, green, brown and magnificent, a miracle of nature.

  She strode toward home feeling quite happy, in fact. Inhaling a lungful of crisp Sierra air, she viewed the prospect of Partington Place with real pleasure. It was a lovely house, set in park-like grounds. The farm spread out behind it: acres upon acres of fields, fallow now in the clutches of winter, but bearing rich crops in season. And soon, perhaps, beautiful spotted horses would grace at least one of those fields. Claire hoped Mr. Partington could achieve his dream here.

  Partington Place was the grandest house in Pyrite Springs, and it had been built with gold Gordon Partington
had mined out of the rich California lodes. Claire frowned, wondering if the pursuit of wealth was as much of a sin as the artists at the Pyrite Arms wanted her to believe. Certainly Gordon had never caviled about how he’d made his fortune.

  “Gold has its place in the world, Claire, as much as art does,” he used to tell her. “It’s one of the most useful commodities a person can have, and it can do a world of good if used judiciously.”

  And he was right. Why, if Claire had not made lots of money with her books, she’d never be able to support her garden or the arts as she did now. A sudden pang made her remember how much she had loved Gordon Partington. They had shared so many similar viewpoints, so many ideas and aspirations. Gordon had liked her books. He’d even told her they had literary merit, when she’d seen them only as a means to an end.

  Happy memories of Gordon accompanied Claire down the lane. One recollection led to another and another and eventually to her work in progress. The first thing she had to do was solve the problem of Miss Abigail Faithgood’s unbound hair. She could tackle her inclination to shriek at the least provocation later.

  “Perhaps she lost her pins while riding on the back of Tom’s horse,” she mused aloud.

  “Who was riding on Tom’s horse?”

  The deep voice startled her, and Claire whirled around to behold her hero, in the flesh, astride a big black horse. She wondered if she would ever become inured to his masculine beauty, and had a sinking feeling the answer was no. A frontiersman through and through, there wasn’t a single thing about him that didn’t proclaim his maleness, even without his mustache. Why, he put Jedediah Silver, a handsome man in his own right and riding next to him, in the shade.

  “Mr. Partington.” She felt her face heat and knew she was blushing.

  He dismounted and led his horse, with which Claire was familiar, up to her. She patted the horse’s nose in order to do something with hands that felt suddenly clumsy. “Good morning, Ebony.” The horse snorted.