Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  “How are you this morning, Miss Montague?” Tom asked pleasantly. “I missed you at breakfast.”

  Claire looked at him quickly. “Oh! I’m sorry. I ate early and then went to town for a while.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I’m sure you have many duties. Please feel free to dine with me, though. I’d enjoy your company.”

  “You would? I mean—thank you, I will be happy to take breakfast with you in the morning. Most mornings.”

  Looking around with a smile, Tom said, “This is really a beautiful place. If I’d known how pretty California was, I might have visited Uncle Gordon once or twice. As it is—especially in light of his remarkable generosity to me—I regret that I didn’t.”

  “He would have enjoyed your visits,” Claire said softly. She smiled at Jedediah, who had joined them. Tom was, she noted, taller than Jedediah. His limp gave him an aura of intrigue sadly lacking in the kind-hearted accountant, too. Jedediah Silver, while an admirable person, was not a man to stir one’s passions. At least he left Claire’s passions unstirred.

  “Yes. Well, my life didn’t allow much time for visiting, I’m afraid.”

  “No. I’m sure that’s the case.”

  “Mr. Silver and I were discussing how much my uncle Gordon valued your services, Miss Montague.”

  “You were? How very kind!” Claire felt ridiculously pleased.

  “Indeed, the late Mr. Partington held you in the greatest esteem, Miss Montague,” Jedediah said. He smiled at her, too, and Claire decided the day wasn’t half as bleak as it had been earlier, even without the glorious weather.

  “We were going out to the barn, Miss Montague. Would you like to join us? Mr. Silver thinks my ambition to breed Appaloosas might be on its way to being realized.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mr. Partington. I went to the library and found this book about horse ranching. I’m afraid there isn’t anything in it about Appaloosas.” She felt silly talking about horses, although in truth she knew quite a bit about them as she’d had to research horses in order to add veracity to her novels.

  “Why, for heaven’s sake,” Tom exclaimed. “Thank you very much. May I take a look at that book, Miss Montague?”

  “Certainly. It deals primarily with equine ranching and mentions only a couple of breeds in depth.”

  He gave her such a warm look, Claire could not maintain his scrutiny, but felt compelled to drop her gaze.

  “I feel honored that you would go to the bother, Miss Montague.”

  “It was nothing, really,” she said in a stifled voice. He was such a gentleman! Why, he just took her breath away.

  He walked beside her all the way to the barn, which perched atop a grassy slope. It was used at present to house the Partington cattle, two Morgan horses Gordon had kept for riding, two mules used for plowing, and a big rawboned farm horse.

  With a sweeping gesture, Jedediah said, “You see, these fields are generally planted with alfalfa, but it’s not crop that Gordon found particularly profitable. You could build stables here, and a couple of corrals over there. I think it would work quite nicely as a horse ranch, Mr. Partington.”

  “My, yes,” Claire added, getting into the spirit of Tom’s new venture. “And if you needed to grow fodder for the horses, why, the old beet field could be converted. I don’t believe Gordon cared much for beets.”

  Tom chuckled, sending a warm feeling sliding around through Claire’s middle. She looked at him and found him smiling at her in quite a friendly fashion.

  “You truly are a paragon, Miss Montague.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “Well, Claire has a sensible idea there, anyway.” Jedediah stopped speaking suddenly, his attention diverted. Squinting toward the house, he murmured, “I say, isn’t that somebody drawing into the drive?”

  They all turned to look down the hill where, sure enough, a carriage had just been driven down the circular driveway. It stopped in front of the door, and a gentleman emerged. He appeared to be carrying a large package under his arm.

  “Oh, good Lord, I believe it’s Mr. Oliphant.” Horrified, Claire turned to face Tom and Jedediah. “If you two gentlemen will please pardon me, I’d better see what he wants.”

  Without giving them time to answer, she hurried down the hill.

  “Who’s Mr. Oliphant?” Tom stared after Claire, puzzled by her abrupt departure and her even more abrupt descent into nervousness. She’d seemed really excited about the horses. When she relaxed like that, she was an extraordinarily appealing woman. Not a beauty perhaps, but quite attractive in her own way. And she’d actually seemed to be interested in horse ranching. He breathed deeply of the fresh morning air, and decided there was more to like about California than the weather.

  “I think he has something to do with those books you hate so much,” Jedediah said with a grin.

  “Oh, no! You don’t mean to tell me Uncle Gordon wrote one that’s going to come out now, even after he’s dead?”

  “Well, as to that, I can’t tell you.”

  “You’re his man of affairs. Don’t you know about his books?”

  Shaking his head, Jedediah muttered, “I don’t know a blessed thing about any books. If he wrote them, he sure kept it a secret from me.”

  Tom looked at him, puzzled. “I don’t understand. I wonder if he kept separate ledgers and accounts for his writing enterprise. He must have made a fortune with those damned books.”

  “I expect so. They’re everywhere.”

  “I know.”

  Jedediah laughed. “Aw‚ don’t sound so gloomy about ‘em! You’re famous now, because of those books.”

  “Maybe. But I didn’t want to be famous. All I wanted was to do my job and someday raise horses.”

  “Well, it looks as though you’re getting your wishes, in spite of the books.”

  Tom smiled, his moment of irritation lifting. “You’re right. And I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on Uncle Gordon. He did all right by me. And he brightened my mother’s life a lot. There’s something about knowing you’re making a man miserable that seems to make women happy.”

  Tom’s words provoked another hearty laugh from Jedediah. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about that. I don’t know much about women, in fact.”

  “You’re not alone there,” Tom said with a sigh. “Miss Montague’s about the only good woman I’ve talked to for five years or more. I’m afraid the frontier attracts a certain type of man, and a certain type of female generally follows.”

  Jedediah went so far as to blush, a fact Tom considered astonishing until he remembered that this part of California had been more or less civilized for a number of years now. He muttered, “Didn’t mean to shock you, Mr. Silver.”

  “No, no. Of course not.”

  Now he was embarrassed. Tom could tell. He turned back to a view of his pastures-to-be and said a little cynically, “But there are several genuine ladies around here. I have to watch myself.”

  Jedediah cleared his throat. “I see. Well, yes, I can understand how it must be.”

  Chuckling, Tom asked, “Can you?”

  Blushing even more hotly, Jedediah said fervently, “No. Actually, I can’t. I’d give anything to have had your experiences, Mr. Partington. My life has been so—so—so damnably dull!”

  Tom could tell it took a lot for Jedediah to utter his mild blasphemy, and he felt like sighing. “You’ve read those lousy books, haven’t you?”

  “I must admit that I have.”

  “And you believed them.”

  Looking terribly embarrassed, Jedediah mumbled, “Well, I suppose I did. To a degree.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “You have to admit your life has been more fascinating than that of an accountant, Mr. Partington.”

  “I’d love to have had the opportunity to be an accountant, Mr. Silver.”

  “I don’t believe it for a minute.”

  This time Tom did sigh. “It’s the truth, though. But let’s talk about somethin
g else for a while, shall we? Tell me, Mr. Silver, do you know many of the residents of the Pyrite Arms? Miss Montague seems to set quite a store by the artists who live there.”

  Taking his cue with good grace, Jedediah said, “Yes. The residents of the Pyrite Arms are all well known in Pyrite Springs. And Miss St. Sauvre, well. . . .” Jedediah’s words trickled out. Tom got the impression he didn’t quite have the proper ones with which to describe the angelic Miss St. Sauvre.

  “Yes, indeed. I understand Miss Montague is going to be setting up one of her evening art things, and Miss St. Sauvre will attend. With the rest of them, of course. You are cordially invited, too.”

  Jedediah brightened, embarrassment forgotten in a flash. “That would be splendid, Mr. Partington. I’ll enjoy that.”

  All at once, Tom decided there was one custom prevailing in civilization that annoyed him. “Do you suppose I could convince you to call me Tom, Mr. Silver? I’m not used to being called Mr. anything.”

  “Of course. If you will reciprocate, and call me Jedediah.”

  Jedediah looked quite pleased, and Tom congratulated himself on having performed a civil social function without blundering. He actually rubbed his hands together.

  “Good. Well, then, Jedediah, let’s talk horses.”

  Chapter 5

  Claire’s heart was battering her ribs like an artillery barrage and her lungs were fairly bursting by the time she reached the house. Corsets, she decided, were not designed to assist ladies in the act of running.

  She couldn’t stop, though. Panic propelled her. When she’d seen Mr. Oliphant with those books under his arm, sheer terror had seized her and she’d felt compelled to reach him, thrust him into the house, and hide him somewhere—anywhere—before Tom Partington could discover her black secret.

  Mr. Oliphant apparently heard her dashing down the drive towards him, because he whirled around, his round, usually benign face registering alarm. When he saw Claire, he smiled, and his plump cheeks turned rosy.

  “Miss Montague! What a delight to see you, my dear.”

  Gasping for air, Claire managed to wheeze, “Mr. Oliphant!” Then she grasped the pillar supporting the porch awning, pressed a hand to her heaving bosom, and hoped she wouldn’t faint and disgrace herself.

  Scruggs opened the door and blinked at her. Then he blinked at Mr. Oliphant. Claire couldn’t speak yet, but managed to wave her hand in a gesture entreating Mr. Oliphant to enter the house. She wanted him off the porch this instant, in case Tom should happen to decide to investigate the visitor.

  “Are you all right, Miss Montague?”

  Mr. Oliphant’s polite question bespoke only honest concern for her health, but Claire wasn’t in a mood to be impressed that a publisher’s representative should exhibit a spurt of human kindness. She actually stamped her foot and hissed raggedly, “Get into the house!” Then, using her last ounce of energy, she shoved him. Mr. Oliphant stumbled into the cool, tiled entryway of Partington Place, bumping into Scruggs, who danced backwards under the blow.

  When both men stopped staggering, they gaped at her. After Claire caught her breath, she realized they’d been staring at her in silence for at least two or three seconds. She smiled, hoping the expression didn’t look as sickly as it felt.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Oliphant. Scruggs, please forgive me.”

  Palm flattened against his solar plexus, which is where poor Mr. Oliphant’s well-padded shoulder had connected, Scruggs uttered blightingly, “I’m sure I shall survive, ma’am.”

  Mr. Oliphant’s cheeks had deepened in hue from rose to burgundy. “Are you quite all right, Miss Montague?”

  “Yes. No. Yes.” Striving for a calm that seemed to elude her every grasp, Claire finally announced, “Mr. Oliphant, you are the only person in the world who can save me!”

  Mr. Oliphant’s eyes, which were of so dark a color that they resembled ripe olives to Claire’s inventive mind, widened until the pupils were surrounded by a halo of white. “Good heavens, my dear Miss Montague, whatever can the matter be?”

  Feeling more foolish than she could remember feeling in a good many years, Claire grabbed Mr. Oliphant’s arm and dragged him down the hall towards her office, leaving Scruggs behind, his moose’s face longer than ever. She wasn’t sure how she was going to do it, but she knew she must enlist Mr. Oliphant’s support. Mr. Oliphant was, unfortunately, another of her admirers. She generally regretted the fact, but today she experienced a thrust of gratitude for his unrequited affection.

  “Please come into my office, Mr. Oliphant.”

  He did as she requested, and probably would have done so even if she’d not had a firm grip on his coat sleeve and yanked him inside. He fell rather than sat in the chair at which she launched him. The books he’d brought her were still clutched to his chest, and Claire snatched them now and thrust them behind a chair cushion. Fortunately, there were only three of them and they were small.

  Then Claire stood before him, wringing her hands and wondering how to explain her bizarre behavior. He stared up at her, looking almost frightened. Claire didn’t blame him.

  “My goodness, Miss Montague! Are you ill?”

  Immediately Claire perceived she would have to honor Mr. Oliphant with some version of the truth. She didn’t want to.

  “No. No, Mr. Oliphant, I am not ill unless heart-sickness can be accounted ill. I—I—I—” She swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her cheek, unable to think of a single thing to say. How could she ask this man to lie for her?

  All at once Mr. Oliphant sat up. His look of terror vanished in a trice and was replaced by an expression of almost unctuous concern. Heaving his bulk out of the chair, he snatched her free hand in both of his. Claire looked at his chubby fists in surprise. His palms were sweaty and she had the unladylike impulse to snatch her hand back and wipe it on her skirt. She refrained, because she’d treated him so oddly already.

  “Is it the books, Miss Montague?” Mr. Oliphant’s voice vibrated with solicitude. “Do you fear your employer might object to the books?”

  Vastly relieved, scarcely able to believe her luck, Claire breathed, “Oh, yes, Mr. Oliphant! However could you know?”

  He patted her hand and nodded wisely. Claire tried to draw her hand from his again, but he held firm. As his palm was soft and still rather moist, she wished he’d not do that. Nevertheless, he seemed on the verge of handing her an excuse when her own usually fertile brain had failed her so she didn’t tug.

  “Ah, Miss Montague, I’m not surprised to hear it. Of course, being the dear innocent creature you are, you can’t possibly understand a gentleman’s sentiments at a time like this.”

  “I can’t?”

  He patted her hand again, and this time Claire almost succumbed to her urge. She didn’t, and felt proud of herself.

  “Of course not. You’re too sweet. Too pure.”

  Mr. Oliphant was somewhat shorter than Claire, and shaped like an eggplant. Claire peered down into his round little face and was unhappy to see adoration shining there. Good grief. Why couldn’t a man she admired adore her? Why must it always be the Mr. Oliphants and Mr. Johnsons of the world who cherished her?

  “What does my being pure have to do with anything, Mr. Oliphant?” She was beginning to feel a little miffy and knew the emotion to be irrational. After all, she’d wanted a good excuse for her peculiar behavior. Besides, she didn’t dare annoy Mr. Oliphant, who held great power over her if only he knew it.

  “Miss Montague, you’ve been sheltered for entirely too long. I fear the late Mr. Partington might have given you a false impression of men.”

  It was Claire’s considered opinion that the late Mr. Partington had saved her from the hideous misapprehension that all men were beasts. She did not say so to Mr. Oliphant, but her peevishness increased. Nor did she speak for fear she might utter an indelicacy.

  “Not all men, my dear young lady, would be so complacent as the late Mr. Partington at having a young woman in their employ w
ho was in the habit of penning popular fiction.”

  Claire’s mouth dropped open.

  “You see, my dear, writing novels, especially novels in the genre you, as Clarence McTeague produce, are considered by many to be rather indelicate.”

  “Indelicate?”

  “Improper.”

  “Improper?”

  At last Mr. Oliphant released Claire’s hand so he could stick his finger in his ear and wriggle it. Claire knew he had done so to dislodge her shriek, but she was didn’t care. Her temper soared like a lark ascending.

  “What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Oliphant? Clarence McTeague’s novels are most assuredly not improper. Nor are they indelicate!”

  “My dear Miss Montague—”

  “No! I can’t believe you said such a thing, Mr. Oliphant. Why, you represent the publisher who has been producing Clarence McTeague’s novels for five years now. It’s a fine time to be telling me you think they’re indelicate!”

  Furious, Claire whirled around and stormed to the door. Then, recalling that Tom Partington lay beyond the door—somewhere—she whirled around and stomped the other way.

  “Please, my dear Miss Montague,” Mr. Oliphant said, obviously ruffled by Claire’s discomposure, “I didn’t mean to disparage your work, per se. Why, I know I speak for most of the publishing world when I tell you that Clarence McTeague’s books are probably the finest in the genre.”

  “You do?” Slightly mollified, Claire stopped stomping. She yanked her spectacles from her face and wiped them on her handkerchief, something she did when agitated. She didn’t entirely trust Mr. Oliphant’s seeming change of heart, and glared at him. “Why did you say they were improper then?”

  “What I meant to say, my dear, although I’m afraid I fumbled terribly—I’m not, after all, a writer, you know, and haven’t your gift for words—and I trust you won’t take what I have to say amiss, because I mean it only for the good—”

  “Will you please just get on with it?” Claire could have bitten her tongue when an expression of grave hurt entered Mr. Oliphant’s beady eyes. She’d forgotten what an old wind-bag he was. She muttered, “I beg your pardon. My nerves are a bit unsettled today.”