“Certainly, my dear.”
He sniffed and still looked hurt. Claire wanted to scream when he didn’t continue speaking immediately, but turned to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace several times. Governing with difficulty her urge to shake an explanation out of him, she said through gritted teeth, “Pray continue, Mr. Oliphant.”
“Yes. Well, my dear, what I meant to say is that I believe there may be—in spite of the excellent arguments propounded by various females who support suffrage and equal rights for ladies—valid reasons to account for the disparities one encounters between the sexes. Ladies, as you well know, possess exalted sensibilities, unlike we mere men who are slaves to our intellects. Ladies’ powers of reason are invariably influenced by their extreme emotions.”
To the best of Claire’s observations, about the only thing enslaving men was their cursed stupidity. Vanity and lust, perhaps. Her lips tightly compressed, she could barely squeeze out an “Oh?” Her own extreme emotions were telling her to pick up the fireplace poker and batter Mr. Oliphant with it, and she wondered cynically if he’d forgive her for succumbing to the urge and chalk it up to her exalted sensibilities. She suspected he wouldn’t.
His benevolent smile made her want to scratch his beady black-olive eyes out.
“You, of course, are a paragon among females, Miss Montague. You have somehow overcome your natural feebleness of nature and have produced some of the finest literature of this or any other age.”
Claire glared at him, exasperated. “They’re dime novels, Mr. Oliphant. Mind you, they’re good dime novels, but I don’t believe they qualify as elevated literary fiction.”
“Exactly, my dear.” He beamed at her as if she’d just made his point for him. Again Claire experienced the urge to shake him. Fortunately, he continued his belabored explanation before she could do so.
“You see, a normal female would not find within her lady’s breast the wherewithal to create a hero like Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee. Females do not generally possess the strength of character required to understand the nobility of Tom’s temperament, nor would they be able to overcome their natural timidity of nature to write about the violence inherent in Tom’s exploits.”
“You mean most ladies would faint when confronted with peril, Mr. Oliphant?”
“Exactly!” he exclaimed again, obviously pleased that Claire understood him so well.
Claire had to take several deep, sustaining breaths. She spared a thought to the idols of her youth, Clara Barton and Florence Nightingale—two ladies who had not merely faced the violence of men but dared to mop up after it and endeavor to heal the wounds such violence had inflicted. Then, still not trusting herself to speak without screaming and proving Mr. Oliphant right, she gave a moment’s contemplation to the valor of Susan Brownell Anthony, her present idol.
Then, silently asking those ladies for their indulgence in this instance, she forced herself to smile at her publisher’s representative. “You mean to say that young Mr. Partington would be shocked to learn his housekeeper writes dime novels because such an occupation directly challenges the role Nature intended for a female?” No honey was sweeter than Claire’s voice.
“With your usual astuteness, Miss Montague, you have captured the essence of the matter in a nutshell.”
Claire nodded, wishing Mr. Oliphant were always this succinct. He made a lunge for her hands again, which she avoided by a quick maneuver to her right. Tucking her hands demurely under her apron, she cast her gaze down and tried to look sweet and ladylike. “That’s it all right, Mr. Oliphant. You discerned the situation exactly. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
She politely refrained from pointing out that she had said it herself, having finally plowed through Mr. Oliphant’s mountain of words to find the kernel of meaning underneath. Not that she didn’t appreciate him for it, as she’d been too panicked to think of a suitable lie by herself.
Thwarted in his desire to hold Claire’s hand, Mr. Oliphant had to satisfy himself by looking compassionate. “So that’s the problem, is it, Miss Montague? You fear Mr. Partington will experience a disgust of you if he discovers you to be a writer of popular fiction? That he may censure you if he ever finds you to be, in your literary guise, Clarence McTeague?”
Taking a deep breath and a chance, Claire tried to sound pitiful. “It’s even worse than that, I fear.”
Mr. Oliphant’s remarkable eyes blinked rapidly several times. “What can be worse than that, my dear?”
Claire wished she could see without her spectacles. She was sure she would present a more affecting picture if her long lashes were not obscured by her lenses. None of her heroines ever wore spectacles, and for good reason. Nevertheless, she did her best. Schooling her voice to a mournful whisper, she said “He—he hates the books, Mr. Oliphant!”
Mr. Oliphant actually staggered backward, a circumstance for which Claire could only be grateful, as it put him farther away from her and her hands. It also gave her a brilliant idea.
With lightning speed, Tom thrust his booted foot outward and upward, catching the villain in the chest. He staggered back against the boulder. A quick lunge, and Tom was upon him. They grappled furiously for the deadly weapon yet clutched in the outlaw’s fist. Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed.
Bringing her mind back to her present difficulties, Claire nodded and sniffled sadly. Since she was too angry to summon tears, even false ones, she turned, grasped a curtain, and pretended to gaze soulfully out the window. “It’s the truth. I—I daren’t tell him it is I who have written the books he claims have made his life miserable, Mr. Oliphant. I simply daren’t.”
“Good God. I had no idea.”
Claire heard the genuine horror in Mr. Oliphant’s tone and sneaked a peek at him over her shoulder. He looked utterly dumbfounded so she turned and looked at him pleadingly. “So, you see, Mr. Oliphant, while the late Mr. Partington always enjoyed your visits a good deal, I fear it may be necessary to prevaricate slightly with the young Mr. Partington. I don’t believe it would be wise to introduce you as Clarence McTeague’s publisher’s representative.”
“Good God, no. If he knew who I was, he’d probably kick me out of his house and never invite me back again.”
“Exactly.” Claire hastily turned toward the window again to hide her grin of triumph.
“Does this mean you wish me to stay at a hotel, my dear?”
Mr. Oliphant did not try to hide his disappointment. Claire didn’t much blame him. The accommodations to be found in Pyrite Springs, while adequate in their way, were nowhere near as elegant as those achieved at Partington Place. Thinking quickly, she said, “I don’t believe that will be necessary, Mr. Oliphant.”
“What about the servants, Miss Montague?” He sounded very glum. Claire almost forgave him his loquacity and affection for her. She knew how much he liked Mrs. Philpott’s chocolate soufflé.
“Neither Scruggs nor Mrs. Philpott are in my confidence, Mr. Oliphant. The only person at Partington Place who knew the true identity of Clarence McTeague was the late Mr. Partington.”
Brightening, he said, “Is that so?”
She moved away from the window, her brain now awhirl with plots and schemes. “Yes.” Turning suddenly, she asked, “Do you suppose you could be one of the late Mr. Partington’s friends from New York, Mr. Oliphant?”
His mouth opened and shut several times, giving him the appearance of large fish gasping for breath. Claire tried not to dwell on the similarity for fear she’d laugh.
At last he said with remarkable humility, considering Mr. Oliphant was not normally humble, “I’d prefer to be a suitor for your hand, Miss Montague.”
The very thought made Claire shudder inwardly. Since, however, she did not wish to alienate him, she said, “I believe that would be unwise. Not if you wish to spend your visit to Pyrite Springs at Partington Place.” She smiled, letting not a drop of spite mar the expression. “I am, after all, only the housekeeper. It would be odd if a
suitor to my hand were to be invited to stay here overnight.”
“Oh.” Mr. Oliphant frowned. “I take your point. Perhaps you’re right, my dear. I shall become the late Mr. Partington’s friend from New York.”
“You can still be a publisher’s representative, Mr. Oliphant,” Claire offered magnanimously. “After all, the young Mr. Partington needn’t know the whole truth.” Even as she spoke the words, a stab of guilt smote her. She shook it off, telling herself she really did plan to confess everything. Someday. When she knew Tom Partington better.
For the first time in her adult life, she wondered if a taint ran through her family. She’d tried so hard, since she’d escaped, to live a good life. Yet now, the first time her honor was tested, she’d taken refuge in falsehood and deceit. Savagely she thrust the thought aside, vowing to atone somehow.
A knock came on her office door, startling Claire into a small shriek of alarm. Frantically she looked at Mr. Oliphant and hissed, “Will you do it?”
He nodded and opened his mouth to confirm his decision at length. Claire didn’t wait, but darted to the door and flung it open. She’d armed herself with a welcoming smile and was glad of it when she perceived Tom Partington and Jedediah Silver outside her door, smiling back at her.
Tom spoke first. “Jedediah and I have come up with some plans, Miss Montague, and Jed suggested I discuss them with you.”
“You’ve got more common sense than a dozen men, Miss Montague,” Jedediah confirmed. “I told Tom you’d be happy to give us some advice.”
Casting a superior glance at Mr. Oliphant, Claire opened the door wider and allowed graciously, “I’m sure Mr. Silver is wrong about that, Mr. Partington, but I should be pleased to hear your plans. Please come in and meet the late Mr. Partington’s friend, Mr. Oliphant. Mr. Oliphant,” she said deliberately, “represents a publishing company in New York. His firm publishes inspirational literature.”
Oliphant gaped at Claire for a second or two until she gave him a quick scowl. Then, with a jerk, he smiled and stammered, “Oh! Oh, yes. Why, indeed, I was terribly sorry to hear about the late Mr. Partington’s demise.”
All at once Claire remembered the books she’d hidden behind the chair cushion. It looked as if Jedediah was aiming for that particular chair. She bolted for it, almost running him down, and sat down in a fluff of petticoats. Jedediah looked surprised, but Claire only smiled winningly up at him. Far better he think her rude—even insane—than the author of those wretched books.
“So you knew my uncle Gordon, did you, Mr. Oliphant?” Tom sat on the sofa. “You and Jed and Miss Montague will have to tell me all about him, since I didn’t know him very well.”
Jedediah sat at the other end of the sofa. “He was quite an excellent fellow, Tom.”
“Indeed, he was.”
Mr. Oliphant looked around the room, obviously searching for a place to sit. The only chair left was the one at Claire’s desk. She stood at once.
“Please take this chair, Mr. Oliphant, and I shall run out and get refreshments for you gentlemen.”
With a meaningful look for Oliphant, she made her escape. Because she felt guilty, she took quite a while preparing an especially fine assortment of tea cakes, coffee, and tea. She wanted to impress Tom Partington.
When she returned to her office, Dianthe St. Sauvre had joined the gentlemen. Oliphant had given up his seat for her and now stared at her, his expression reminding Claire even more of a gaffed trout than it had before. Mr. Silver, too, gazed at Dianthe, captivated by her beauty. Tom was smiling at her. None of that surprised Claire, who expected men to swoon over Dianthe.
What surprised—or, rather, terrified—her, was that Dianthe held in one graceful hand a slender volume bearing a portrait of Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee at his most valiant. The title Tuscaloosa Tom and the River of Raging Death was emblazoned above the portrait on front cover. Claire almost dropped the tea tray.
“My God!” she whispered.
Her gaze swept the room, eventually, of course, colliding with that of Tom Partington. He smiled at her, and her frantic brain immediately tried to decide if it was an ironic smile, a bitter one, or a friendly one. Unfortunately, discriminating between a virtual stranger’s various smiles was a task beyond her brain’s capacity at the moment.
“I do believe you were trying to keep something from me, Miss Montague.”
Claire’s panicked gaze shot from him to Dianthe, who looked apologetic and gave a little self-deprecatory shrug. It didn’t help.
Claire breathed, “I’m so sorry.”
Chuckling, Tom rose from the sofa and took the tea tray from Claire’s trembling hands. “Here, Miss Montague. You don’t really want to drop all that fine-looking food on your office carpet, do you?”
She shook her head, unable to speak. She watched Tom place the tray on her desk and felt the craven urge to bolt. She might even have done so had her feet not suddenly turned to lead and her knees to water. When Tom straightened and turned to look at her, she couldn’t make herself move, but stood stock-still and prayed for deliverance.
When he walked back to her and placed a warm hand on her shoulder, she could only repeat, miserably, “I’m so sorry.”
He looked concerned. “Please, Miss Montague, you’re taking this entirely too much to heart. It’s not your fault another one of these books is coming out.”
Claire felt her world seem to tilt. “It—it’s not?”
“Of course not.” Tom began to steer her toward her desk chair. “My goodness, you’re shaking like a leaf. One would think you were responsible for those Tuscaloosa Tom books. You mustn’t take this so seriously.”
Since Claire was responsible for the Tuscaloosa Tom books, she found it difficult to formulate a suitable response. Dianthe fluttered up from the armchair and floated to Claire’s side. Claire saw Tom smile at her—a smile as big and warm as the day—and her misery was complete.
“Let me pour you some tea, Claire dear. I was just telling Mr. Partington that you were undoubtedly trying to spare his feelings when you hid those horrid books behind the chair cushions.”
“You did?” Since she knew Dianthe to be somewhat less than quick-witted, Claire gaped at her, astounded. Then she frowned as her rattled brain assimilated the word Dianthe had used to describe her books.
“She did indeed, Miss Montague,” Mr. Oliphant said quickly. Claire decided to take umbrage later, looked at him, and found him winking at her as if he had a tic.
“You didn’t have to spare my feelings, Miss Montague. I’m sure I’m used to those books by this time. Even if I can’t like them, I certainly don’t expect you to hide them from me. Besides, I’ll warrant Uncle Gordon has made a tidy sum from them, and I’m benefiting now.”
Claire gazed up at Tom, dumbfounded. For the second time that day, she felt as if she’d been tossed a life raft as she was about to go under for the third time. She grabbed at it for all she was worth and could only bless fortune and good friends.
“I—I didn’t want to upset you during your first days in your new home, Mr. Partington. You seemed so pleased with how things were going for you. I didn’t want to spoil your good mood.”
“Thank you, Miss Montague. That was very thoughtful of you, but you know there’s no way I could have avoided finding out about this latest book indefinitely.”
Tom took one of the offending volumes from Dianthe’s hand and looked at it. At least he didn’t glare; he seemed merely exasperated and slightly bemused. Claire shot Dianthe a desperate glance. Dianthe smiled sweetly.
“How did these arrive, Miss Montague? They seem to be in advance of the publication date, which is January of next year. That’s two months away.”
Claire looked frantically at Mr. Oliphant, whose gaze seemed to have stuck fast to Dianthe. No help there. Striving to adhere as much to the truth as possible, she stammered, “Mr.—Mr. Oliphant brought them, Mr. Partington. He—His publisher is the same one, you see, and he knew how much the late Mr. Part
ington loved those books.” She added almost defiantly, “As do many of us, who don’t consider them horrid in the least. Didn’t you, Mr. Oliphant?”
Hearing his name, Oliphant jerked out of his Dianthe-induced stupor. “What? Oh! Why, yes. I brought them for the late Mr. Partington. My publisher is the same one, indeed.”
With a soft chuckle, Tom said, “I guess the author gets advance copies. Not exactly in the inspirational line, though, are they?”
Feeling slightly stronger, Claire sat up straight and patted her hair, a nervous gesture that was entirely unwarranted as no stray wisps ever escaped those repressive coils. “Actually, Mr. Partington, I believe many people might find inspiration in the strong character and noble nature of Tuscaloosa Tom.”
“She’s right there, Tom,” Jedediah said with a grin. “This Clarence McTeague fellow has created a real hero in those books.”
“Surely not ‘created,’ Mr. Silver,” Claire said, still feeling a need to justify her hymns of praise to Tom. “Tuscaloosa Tom is modeled after the career of our own Mr. Partington.”
Tom shook his head. “Nonsense. McTeague’s created a monster, if you ask me.”
“Surely not a monster, Mr. Partington.”
Dianthe’s soft exclamation lacked conviction, which irritated Claire. She said, bridling, “No, he certainly did not create a monster. Why, those books were intended as an homage to a gallant soldier and an honorable gentleman. Any lad who attempts to emulate Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee can only improve himself by following a splendid example. If—if the books embarrassed you, Mr. Partington, I’m sure Mr. McTeague would be perfectly wretched to learn it.” And she was, too.
Tom laughed again. “Yes, I already know you were fond of my uncle and are a hot defender of the novels, Miss Montague. And you’re such a sensible woman in all other respects, I can only believe you’ve perceived something in these books that has eluded me.”
Secret Hearts Page 8
