Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  “Thank you, Claire. I was afraid I had ruined myself in your eyes forever.”

  She did look at him then, a swift glance to ascertain if he was joking. It certainly didn’t seem like a joking matter to her, but she guessed an honorable gentlemen like Tom might have a large tolerance for disgusting behavior. He looked only relieved, and Claire began to believe he truly had forgiven her and that she really would be allowed to remain at Partington Place.

  “Now,” he said bracingly, “will you please ring for coffee so we can eat some of these good biscuits. I’m hungry, and Jed said you haven’t eaten anything yet either.”

  Although her stomach rebelled at the very thought of food, Claire whispered, “Of course, Mr. Partington.” She pulled the bell cord and sat down at her desk once more, feeling a little more secure with several feet of furniture between herself and Tom.

  Tom popped a piece of bacon in his mouth and began to butter a biscuit. “Hope you don’t mind, Claire. I’m used to getting up and eating a lot earlier than this. I’m not used to these city hours.”

  Claire blinked at him, surprised yet again by this declaration that he wasn’t the sophisticate she’d always believed him to be. “Of course. Please eat.”

  Scruggs knocked, opened the door, and walked slowly into the room. He looked as if his best friend had died overnight, but he always looked like that. Claire was used to it.

  “May we please have some coffee in my office, Scruggs?” she asked politely.

  With a look at the food on her desk and then a look at Tom, Scruggs said at last, “Very good, ma’am.”

  Right before the door shut behind him, she heard him mutter, “A perfectly good breakfast room, and where do they decide to spread the crumbs?”

  She felt guilty. If she hadn’t been such a coward, they would be eating in the room designed for such practices instead of in her office.

  After swallowing his bite of biscuit, Tom said, “Uncomfortable sort of fellow to have around, old Scruggs, isn’t he?”

  Gripping a pen in her hands to keep them from shaking, Claire said, “He’s simply accustomed to orderliness and routine, Mr. Partington. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be uncivil.”

  With a beautiful grin, Tom said, “I don’t mind, Claire. I think it’s sort of fun to have a death’s-head butler on my staff. Makes the place more interesting.”

  A smile trembled at the edges of Claire’s mouth and Tom said gently, “That’s right, Claire. Please smile for me. I won’t feel so much like a brute if you smile for me.”

  Of course, his kind words made her want to cry again. Fortunately, a knock came at the door and she managed to salvage her composure by jumping up to answer it. She took the coffee tray from Scruggs’s hands.

  “Thank you, Scruggs.”

  “Think nothing of it, Miss Montague. I’m sure I’m used to having my morning chores interrupted by trivial requests.”

  Scruggs shuffled off and Claire brought the coffee tray over and set it carefully on her desk.

  “All right. Your turn, Claire. You must eat something. I won’t let you not eat.”

  Looking at the biscuits this time with the knowledge that Tom didn’t plan to dismiss her from his service, Claire actually began to feel a faint quiver of hunger. She sat down and took a biscuit.

  “Mrs. Philpott’s a very good cook, Claire. I’m glad she’s over her fuss.”

  As she buttered a biscuit, Claire murmured, “Mrs. Philpott is an artist in her own way, I believe. I expect all artists are temperamental from time to time.”

  “A brilliant comparison. I do believe you’re right.” He kept smiling at her, and Claire felt nervous. “You don’t seem to be temperamental, Claire. Your disposition seems to be remarkably even.”

  If you only knew! Claire cleared her throat. “I’m not an artist, Mr. Partington.” She didn’t suppose her Tuscaloosa Tom novels counted as an artistic endeavor.

  “I don’t know. It seems to me that there’s art to keeping an estate of this size running as smoothly as you do it. You make your job appear effortless, and I know it’s not. You have to juggle a million different things, yet you do it so smoothly your management appears invisible.”

  “Thank you.”

  Claire tucked in her chin and took a bite of biscuit, aware of her cheeks turning hot. She’d never been complimented so prettily on her efforts at housekeeping before; indeed, she didn’t think anybody even noticed how much effort went into making the running of the place appear effortless.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, Claire feeling quite nervous, Tom apparently relaxed.

  “Tell me, Claire,” he said after a while, “have you ever ridden?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “You mean horses?” she asked, then berated herself. Of course, he meant horses!

  “Yes. I wondered if you used to ride as a child or anything.”

  “No. No, I never had the opportunity to learn to ride, Mr. Partington.”

  The two or three times her father had managed by foul means to get his hands on a piece of horseflesh, he’d immediately sold or gambled it away. Claire felt her mouth tighten and made an effort to relax. She’d have loved to ride as a child; it had almost broken her heart when she’d seen those pretty horses go away again.

  “Well, if you would allow it, I’d like to teach you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Would you allow me to teach you to ride? I’d enjoy—I mean I’d appreciate it. I—I think you could help me a great deal in my horse-ranching endeavors if you wouldn’t mind. If you have time. That is—”

  “Mr. Partington, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be of service to you in any way possible.”

  “Yes. Your value as an employee is measureless.” He smiled almost ruefully. “Are you sure you’ll have time? I know you’re busy. I’d be happy to hire another person to help you with your housekeeping chores if you need one.”

  “No, please. I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Why, I’ve always wanted to ride. It will be a joy to assist you.” It would, too.

  Claire knew that after Tom married Dianthe, the beautiful poetess would never enter into his interests as she herself did. If she could make herself even more useful to him, perhaps she’d never have to leave Partington Place. Granted, it would be difficult___⁄ to see her best friend married to the man she herself loved, but Claire could do it. She’d spent her entire life watching others have the things she wanted; she was an expert by this time.

  “Wonderful!”

  Tom sounded happy with her acquiescence, and Claire was pleased.

  “I shall visit Miss Thelma today and order a riding skirt, Mr. Partington. I don’t believe any of my present clothing would be suitable for riding.”

  “Let me pay for it, please, Claire. After all, you’ll be doing me a favor.”

  Shocked, Claire exclaimed, “Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly allow you to buy clothes for me, sir. Why, it would be most improper!” She blushed, recalling the very improper kiss she’d participated in a mere few hours earlier.

  “Well. . . .” Tom didn’t look particularly resigned, but he finally muttered, “All right. But you must promise that you’ll allow me to buy your boots. After all, you can’t ride without boots, and they’re expensive items.”

  She smiled grimly, aware that she had already earned more money than she could spend in three lifetimes, thanks to her books. “Please, Mr. Partington. Indeed, I have a good deal saved up. I should not dream of allowing you to buy boots for me. Why, you will be giving me one of my life’s fondest dreams when you teach me to ride.”

  “Will I really?”

  Tom looked genuinely pleased, which only confirmed Claire in her opinion that he was a truly wonderful man.

  “Indeed you will, Mr. Partington. I used to long to ride when I was a girl.”

  She refrained from telling him about the brief period during which she and her father had tagged along with the circus. Ten-year-old Claire had haunt
ed the ring where the bareback-riding lady used to practice. The lovely woman had never even bothered speaking to the carnival hack’s scrawny daughter, but Claire had been in awe of her. With a sigh, she told herself to stop remembering her dismal childhood and to concentrate instead on her much more agreeable present.

  “Well, then, good. It’s settled. I look forward to your first lesson, Claire.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Partington. As soon as I have the house organized, I’ll set off for town.”

  Tom rubbed his hands in pleasure. “Jed and I will be seeing to the stables, Claire. The first horses will be delivered the week after Christmas. That’s only four weeks away. By that time, maybe you’ll be able to help me break them.”

  She looked at him blankly and he elaborated. “Tame them. Calm them down enough to take a saddle.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She felt foolish.

  “Don’t worry, Claire,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. “You’ll soon learn the language of horses.”

  Her skin caught fire under his touch. Good grief, she simply must suppress this infatuation of hers.

  Chapter 12

  Tom wanted to take Claire to town himself, to storm into Miss Thelma’s and order all the prettiest gowns and bonnets in the place. He wanted to deck her out; to show Pyrite Springs exactly what he saw in Claire Montague: a lovely woman of rare merit in a world filled with fools. But the minute he’d set foot inside her office, he’d sensed he had better move very slowly, very carefully.

  Poor Claire had been almost frozen with terror. Her red-rimmed eyes told him more clearly than words what she had suffered overnight. Not only that, but she’d obviously tried to subdue her new curls this morning. And she was back to wearing those ugly brown gowns, too. It was as if she was struggling with all her might to suppress her natural feminine instincts.

  He didn’t understand her motive for hiding her true beauty any more than he understood her reaction to the quite wonderful kiss they’d shared. Any of the painfully proper females his mother used to fling at him would have already begun planning the wedding if he’d kissed one of them the way he’d kissed Claire. Claire, obviously, had been reared according to principles far different from those of his parents; yet another reason to value her.

  When she’d apologized for the kiss as if it had been all her fault, his puzzlement grew. Something besides mere innocence was at work here. He didn’t know what it was. When she’d asked if he wanted her to leave his service, he began to perceive that the job of persuading her to become his lover would be a formidable one.

  He’d certainly like to get to the bottom of her fear, whatever it was. Had she been the victim of an unlucky love affair? Had she been exposed to brutality in her early years? Had some scoundrel trifled with her or disparaged her sleek, trim elegance? The very thought made Tom’s blood boil. Whatever it was that had frightened her so, Tom vowed he’d unearth it and lay it to rest, no matter how difficult the job proved to be.

  Ah, well. Tom Partington had never shrunk from a challenge in his life and he sure as the devil didn’t plan to shrink from this one. In fact, as he stepped outside and drew in a bracing breath of crisp winter air, he smiled and knew he was looking forward to the wooing and winning of Claire Montague.

  Jedediah Silver joined him a moment later. Clapping Jedediah on the back hard enough to jolt the look of spellbound vapidity from the accountant’s face, Tom said, “Come with me, Jed. We’re going to the saddler’s this morning to buy Miss Montague a sidesaddle.”

  Trying to catch his breath, Jed gasped, “We are?”

  “Yep. She’s going to be helping me with the horses.”

  “Didn’t know she knew anything about horses.”

  “She doesn’t. I’m going to teach her.”

  “Oh.” The look in Jedediah’s eyes was quite eloquent.

  Tom ignored it. Pulling Jedediah along, he set off at a spanking pace toward the stables. “Tell me, Jed, what do you know about Miss Montague’s background? What did she do before she came here to work for my uncle?”

  Still trying to regain his lost breath, Jedediah almost had to run to keep up with Tom. He panted, “Miss Montague? I don’t know. She was working for your uncle when I became his man of business five years ago.”

  With a conspiratorial look at his companion, Tom said, “Well, Jed, I have a new job for you. After we discover where Uncle Gordon hid his Tuscaloosa Tom profits, I want you to tackle Miss Montague’s background. Only you must be absolutely discreet.”

  Wheezing by this time, Jed managed to gasp, “Discretion is my middle name.”

  They had arrived at the stables by this time. While Tom laughed, Jedediah sank onto a hay bale and eyed him in some surprise.

  The accountant’s scrutiny didn’t bother Tom. He was glad Claire had work to do in the house before she went to town, because it would give him time to visit Miss Thelma’s before she did. He planned to make good and sure Claire’s riding habit, at least, was crafted in a color other than brown.

  # # #

  Claire stared in dismay at the forest green serge draped over Miss Thelma’s arm.

  “This is quite the latest thing, Miss Montague,” Thelma said with a twinkle. “And it will look ravishing with your hair and complexion.”

  Since the very last thing in the world Claire wanted was to look ravishing, Miss Thelma’s words filled her with consternation. “I was hoping you’d have something suitable in brown or black, Miss Grimsby.”

  “Nonsense. Why, I have it from the highest fashion authorities that serge is the ultimate fabric for riding, and it only comes in this beautiful green or in the cherry red over there. I think the green would suit you better.”

  “Oh, dear.” Claire looked dismally from the beautiful green to the beautiful cherry red and felt trapped. “Can it be made in a demure fashion?”

  “Well, I should like to know how a riding habit can be anything but demure, Miss Montague,” Miss Thelma said somewhat tartly.

  Brightening minimally, Claire murmured, “I suppose you’re right.”

  “We also have some lovely new batiste and lawn for blouses, and I have a perfectly stunning scarlet sateen that would make a gorgeous gown for Christmas. In fact, I have one made up in blue, if you’d like to try it on.” Miss Thelma waved vaguely toward the back of her shop. “And we have some delightful plaid and striped calicoes for skirts. You did say you wanted to brighten your wardrobe, if I remember correctly.”

  Claire looked with real longing at the magnificent peacock-blue sateen gown draped over a dress form. “I believe I did, yes, but I’m not certain brightening my wardrobe is a good idea any longer.” Her voice sounded stifled. She felt stifled.

  “Nonsense!” Miss Thelma declared roundly, surprising Claire, who had assumed the customer to be always right. “Why, I have it from an unimpeachable source that the young Mr. Partington desires his staff to look fashionable.”

  Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, Claire asked sharply, “Who told you that?”

  Miss Thelma gave her a triumphant smile. “None other than Mr. Partington himself, Miss Montague.” Seeing Claire’s eyes widen in shock, she continued. “Yes, indeed. He came in here himself and ordered new paisley shawls as Christmas presents for the female staff at Partington Place—except you, my dear, for whom he has something entirely different in mind. He said himself that he has an image to maintain and wanted his staff to look fashionable.”

  “He said that?” Claire was so startled that she didn’t even pause to consider how different Miss Thelma’s Tom Partington sounded from the one she’d come to know; the one who claimed not to know beans about fashion and to care even less.

  Almost smugly, Thelma nodded and said, “He most certainly did, Miss Montague. And if I may be so bold as to give my opinion, I must say I agree with him. Why, Partington Place is the grandest estate in the county. It’s only fitting that you, as its most visible representative, dress accordingly.”

  After a moment’s thought,
Claire muttered, “I suppose so.”

  Botheration! A sense of ill-usage bubbled up in her, and she resented Tom Partington’s officiousness for a good solid minute or two. Still, if he wanted a fashionable staff, Claire guessed it was her duty at least to try to be fashionable. But how could she possibly repress her base urges if she dressed fashionably? Those awful urges seemed to take over her personality unless she was dressed in the severest of modes. This was all so very troubling!

  Straightening, Claire told herself to stop being idiotic. Wearing a colored skirt could not possibly betoken a wanton nature. There was certainly no evil goblin lurking just out of sight waiting for her to don a hint of red so it could take over her soul and make her do lascivious things. Why, the very thought was laughable.

  She knew herself to possess a strong inclination to do right, even if she hadn’t been bred for it. One tiny lapse did not a hussy make. After all, she had escaped from her past, and for ten long years had done nothing even remotely indecorous. Certainly she could maintain her strength of character if she were to wear the occasional color.

  That pretty plaid, for example, was quite nice. And the blue gown Miss Thelma had pointed out was exquisite. Scarlet, of course, was out of the question. But the blue . . .

  “Perhaps you’re right, Miss Grimsby.” Claire hesitated another several seconds before she threw caution to the wind and asked, “May I try on the blue gown? Do you expect it might fit me?”

  Miss Thelma, who knew quite well it would fit Claire since, after a long conversation with Mr. Tom Partington this morning she’d had her assistant add a lengthening flounce to its hem and take in the waist, said, “I do believe it might, Miss Montague. Let’s just see here.”

  Claire could hardly believe what she’d done an hour or so later when she left Miss Thelma Grimsby’s Frocks and Bonnets. Not only had she purchased that gorgeous blue gown to wear at the open house on Christmas Eve, but she’d ordered a riding habit in forest-green serge; three blouses, two of batiste and one of lawn; and three skirts, one in a dark-green plaid with a dashing stripe of red, one in blue-and-white-striped calico, and one in a crisp, frivolous rust-colored sprigged muslin.