“But you have to promise me you’ll never, ever tell another single soul in the world what I’m about to tell you.”
“Can’t I even use it in my book? If I promise to change the names?” Sylvester began to look sulky.
“Oh, all right, as long as you change the names. It’s a sordid, awful story, though.”
The author’s demeanor brightened at the word sordid. He went over to lock the front door so they wouldn’t be disturbed.
So Claire related an edited version of her childhood to Dianthe and Sylvester, ending with her father’s sudden appearance and blackmail demand that very day. Dianthe looked suitably appalled. Sylvester smiled ecstatically and rubbed his hands.
“Besides the late Mr. Partington, you two are the only people in the world I’ve ever entrusted with my book-writing secret, and you’re the only people in the world I’ve ever entrusted with the story of my childhood. You must honor my secret. I—I don’t think I could ever live it down if anyone else were to discover my shameful past.”
“Oh, Claire!” Dianthe hugged her tightly. “None of what you’ve told us is your fault. None of us are given the opportunity to choose our parents. You should never, ever feel ashamed of what you’ve come from. Why, just look at you today. You’ve made yourself into a wonderful, responsible woman, and you’ve done it all by yourself! You should feel proud, not ashamed.”
Claire had never heard Dianthe speak so feelingly or with such incredible common sense. All at once, hearing herself being stoutly defended by her friend, she began to cry again. She forgave Dianthe every inch of her beauty and talent and hugged her back.
Sylvester looked as if he didn’t quite approve of the two ladies’ emotional display. He did say, however, “Dianthe’s right, you know, Claire. It’s amazing that you didn’t end up soliciting on the streets of San Francisco, given your background and—Ow!”
Glaring at Dianthe, Sylvester massaged his foot where she had stamped on it.
After blowing her nose and wiping her tears away, Claire asked shakily, “So, what should I do?”
Dianthe tapped her chin again. “Well, you know, Claire, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about your father for a while yet. You just gave him a substantial amount of money. Surely it will take him some time to run through it, and by then, we’ll undoubtedly have thought of a splendid plan. Or,” she added with a sly, knowing look, “Mr. Partington will have declared his intentions, and you’ll feel able to confess to him.”
“Never!”
“We’ll see.” Dianthe’s gave her a cat-like smile.
By the time Sylvester unlocked the front door again, loftily ignoring several upset citizens, Claire felt better. Nothing had been resolved, it was true, but she took Dianthe’s kindly words to heart. By the time Claude came back to demand more money, she’d certainly have thought of a good way to get rid of him.
She knew she’d never be able to tell Tom Partington she was, in reality, Clarence McTeague.
Chapter 13
In a determined effort to put her corrupt father out of her mind, Claire hurried home and threw herself into decorating Partington Place for the Christmas holidays. That very afternoon, she took Scruggs and Dolly, one of the housemaids, into the attic and began to haul boxes downstairs.
“Are you certain Mr. Partington will approve, Miss Montague?” asked a reluctant Scruggs, eyeing a large carton with disfavor.
“Mr. Partington will be thrilled,” Claire affirmed. “I’m sure he’ll enter into the spirit of Christmas just as the late Mr. Partington used to do.”
Scruggs allowed himself a doubtful, “Humph.” He did, however, pick up the carton and cart it off.
She had everything taken to her downstairs office, where she and Dolly set to work emptying the boxes. Since Claire had never really enjoyed Christmas as a child with her roving father, she almost forgot her worries in the excitement of the season.
“Look at this!” she cried at one point, hauling out a spool of red velvet ribbon. “I’d forgotten all about this. We can make red bows and tie them to the banister posts on the staircase.”
“They’d look lovely, ma’am,” Dolly said deferentially. All the servants, with the possible exception of Scruggs, treated Claire with the utmost respect.
“And we can make paper garlands, too, Dolly, to string between the bows, and maybe drape some pine boughs above the garlands.”
“Oh, ma’am, it sounds very pretty.”
“Good. Then I think I shall take a walk to the woods this afternoon and cut some boughs.”
“Need any help?” came a deep voice from the door.
Claire almost jumped out of her skin. She and Dolly leapt to their feet. “Mr. Partington, I had no idea you were there!”
“I hated to interrupt. You looked like you were having such a good time.”
Feeling her cheeks catch fire, Claire tried to smile. “We were having a good time. We’re decorating the house for Christmas.”
Tom’s eyebrows arched over his beautiful blue eyes and Claire couldn’t maintain his gaze. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Partington.”
“Mind? I think it’s a wonderful idea. I’d never even have thought to do such a thing.”
“Really?”
“Really. We weren’t much for decorating on the frontier. Not that we had anything to decorate.”
“Oh. Of course not.”
Dolly, obviously nervous in the presence of her grand employer, murmured, “Perhaps I should start on the parlor, Miss Montague.”
“Fine, Dolly. Thank you. Put the glass angels out on the mantelpiece and set to work making bows from the ribbon. I’ll be outside cutting greens. There’s another box we haven’t even opened yet. I think the crèche is in there, along with the Father Christmas Mrs. Gaylord made last year.”
“Mrs. Gaylord? Is it made of marigolds?”
Claire managed to smile at Tom’s teasing tone. “No. For once, she forsook marigolds and created a lovely Father Christmas, just for Partington Place. It’s crafted using a process called papier maché and then painted, and I hope you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I shall.” Tom held the door for Dolly, who fled with a box full of glass angels, the spool of red velvet ribbon hooked over her arm. “Now, where exactly did you plan to cut these famous greens?”
Claire felt uncomfortable now that they were the only two people in the room. She tried to keep her hands busy by lifting things out of one of the cartons. “There are some pine trees along the path leading toward the meadow where you plan to build your new stables. And I have two pyracantha bushes in the garden. Their foliage is lovely at Christmas. It looks very like holly. I planted a holly bush last spring, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking cuttings from it quite yet as it’s still too young.”
“I see.”
Tom’s tone was soft and sweet, and Claire realized she’d been rattling on in a most embarrassing manner. Clearing her throat, she said, “Yes. So, shall we be off? If we leave the house through the kitchen, I can grab my gardening gloves and cutters.”
“Of course.”
Tom had never seen Claire so nervous, and her attitude worried him. Either she was upset about that man he’d seen today or she was still fretting about last night’s kiss.
He wanted to kick himself for being so clumsy a prospective lover. But hell, he’d had no experience with proper females before he met Claire. He didn’t know the first thing about wooing. The loose women who used to follow the railroad had no truck with coyness. They were happy to spread their legs for anybody, as long as they were paid.
Claire set a spanking pace after she’d gathered her shears and gloves. Tom made her relinquish the clippers to him, although she was reluctant to do so, and then he almost had to run to keep up with her.
Because he wanted to lull her into letting her guard down so he could question her, he said, “I can hardly remember the Christmases from my boyhood, but I do recall that they were fun. We used to go over to my co
usins’ house. They were twins, Tommy and Emma, and we’d sing songs and play games.”
He looked at Claire, hoping she’d offer a Christmas memory of her own. She didn’t, and Tom decided to try again.
“Yup. My other uncle and aunt, their kids, and both sets of grandparents would all gather at my Aunt Ruby and Uncle Paul’s house. There’d be a real gang of us, all right. I remember Aunt Ruby used to crumple up white paper and make it look like snow, and I always wondered why, since Jesus was born in the desert. Nobody ever gave me a reasonable answer, either.”
He glanced at Claire once more. She looked worried. Again, she offered not a word to support the conversation, and Tom felt like huffing in frustration.
Deciding a direct approach was his only recourse, he asked, “What about you, Miss Montague? What did you do as a child at Christmas?”
Tom was appalled at the apprehensive look she shot him, and wondered what he’d said to disturb her. Everybody had Christmas memories from childhood, didn’t they? Did that constitute an improperly personal question? Even though he didn’t know much about polite society, he didn’t think so.
After a moment or two, Claire cleared her throat again. “Actually, Mr. Partington, my—my family did not celebrate Christmas. Much.”
“Oh.” Well, hell. “Er, did your parents have religious objections to the holiday?”
Was it his imagination, or did Claire’s face register the briefest hint of irony? It was gone now. Tom couldn’t be sure.
“No, Mr. Partington. I never knew my mother, you see. My father—well, my father didn’t—he didn’t have time for such things.”
“He didn’t have time? How could he not have time for Christmas?”
“I’m afraid you’d have to ask him that.”
Claire spoke more sarcastically than she’d intended to, Tom judged, if her quick flush was any indication.
“Oh. Did—er—did you have friends to spend the holidays with?”
“Good heavens, no.”
Tom was taken aback by Claire’s tone, which was faintly horrified. He narrowed his eyes as he concentrated. Had that fellow this morning known her from her youth? Was he a friend of her father’s? Somebody whom Claire held in aversion for some reason? Had he attempted something unsavory with a young Claire? Tom’s hand tightened around the clippers.
“Was that an acquaintance from your childhood with you today, Miss Montague?” he blurted out. Then he cursed himself as an addle-pated idiot when Claire stopped dead in her tracks and her cheeks drained of color. She looked like she might faint and he quickly took up one of her hands.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I didn’t mean to pry. But I saw a portly fellow with a waxed mustache walking away from you this morning, and you looking quite distressed. I didn’t like to think of you being troubled, you see.”
“Oh.”
“Was he someone out of your past?”
Claire seemed to recollect her wits after only an instant. Snatching her hand away from Tom, she attempted an airy laugh. “Good heavens, no, Mr. Partington. Why, I haven’t seen anybody I knew in my childhood for years and years. And no, I had no conversation with a portly man in town today. If I looked troubled when you saw me, it was . . . because I’d just received some bad news. Yes, indeed. It was just, er, some unfortunate news, was all it was.”
She was lying. Tom knew she was lying about something, but he had no idea what, or why. “I trust the news wasn’t terribly bad.”
“No. No, it had to do with an—an investment.”
“I see.” Tom examined Claire’s face for another second before deciding he’d alienate her by pressing further. He did, however, decide he’d pay a visit to Pyrite Springs this evening after supper. There were a very few places in town where a stranger might stay overnight, and that man had missed the last stage out of town. Tom wasn’t a scout for nothing.
Determined to put Claire at her ease, he turned the conversation back to greenery. With a good deal of effort on his part, eventually Claire seemed to relax. With a little more effort, she actually began to enjoy herself in his company. He hadn’t completely lost his ability to charm, he guessed. Thank God. For perhaps the first time in his adult life, Tom mentally thanked his mother for her insistence that he learn the art of inconsequential small talk.
Soon, Claire was actually laughing at his silly jokes. Her cheeks grew pink with exertion and the brisk winter air, and she looked extremely pretty. Tom was enchanted. This was what he wanted out of life: A home, his horses, traditions, and Claire.
They ambled back to Partington Place together, dragging several large pine boughs behind them. The urge to kiss Claire plagued Tom, and he tried to mitigate it with more conversation.
“Miss Montague, I want you to know how much I appreciate the way you take care of me and my home. Decorating for Christmas is a wonderful idea. You’re a real treasure, you know.”
“It’s my pleasure to decorate the place, Mr. Partington. Partington Place has been my own home for a good many years now, after all.”
She smiled at him and Tom’s urge blossomed like bluebells on a summer’s day. He dug his fingers into his bough and prayed for strength. If there was one thing Claire didn’t need, it was for him to perpetrate another clumsy attack on her person. He smiled, not daring to open his mouth for fear of what might emerge.
The scent of fresh-cut pine was strong in the clean air, and silence reigned about them except for the crunch of their feet and the rustle of branches. Tom looked up into a cloudless slate-blue sky beginning to pinken in the west as the day crept along towards evening. He wished he could think of something to say that would take his mind off of his base desires. He was surprised when it was Claire who broke the silence.
“I used to dream about Christmas, though,” she said, as though continuing a conversation they’d been having for hours. “Even though we never celebrated it.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I used to dream of going off into the woods and cutting pine boughs and decorating a house prettily. Not a grand house like yours. Just an ordinary house. But I’d have decorated it with ribbons and angels and boughs. It would have smelled of pine and cinnamon and winter.” Giving Tom a little sideways peek, she added shyly, “It was just a silly childish dream, you know.”
“It doesn’t sound silly to me.”
And indeed it didn’t. In fact, it sounded downright normal to Tom, who’d never thought to dream about having Christmas because he’d lived it. Slanting Claire a glance, he saw her looking incredibly wistful and totally desirable.
His bough slipped out of his fingers and plunked to the dirt with a rustle. Claire looked at him, surprised.
“Why, Mr. Partington, what’s the matter?”
Tom clenched his fingers into tight fists and fought a major battle with himself. The desire to sweep Claire into his arms and tell her she’d never miss Christmas again, that he’d make up for all the unhappy Christmases of her youth, battled with common sense, which told him Claire would be shocked by such a bold overture. If she fell into a faint at his feet he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself.
Stiffly, he stooped to reclaim his fallen bough. “Nothing’s the matter, Miss Montague. I only dropped my branch.”
“Oh.”
And after he’d visited Pyrite Springs and determined who or what the evil man was who had disturbed Claire’s peace so greatly, Tom would slay him. He knew that man was responsible for Claire’s unhappiness. Anybody who caused his Claire distress deserved only one fate. It would be Tom’s great pleasure to mete it out.
He, Claire, and Jedediah dined in the breakfast room that evening. Tom wondered if Scruggs, foiled in his attempt to keep them in the dark, decided to serve in the breakfast room because he found no more joy in serving dinner in the dining room. He might have decided the supposition unworthy had not Scruggs’s demeanor been even more dismal than usual.
“He looks like he just lost his dog,” Tom muttered as
he watched Scruggs’s rear end disappear behind the door.
Claire smiled. “He doesn’t like to have his little kingdom disrupted. The new lanterns in the dining room have knocked his senses all askew.”
With a laugh of genuine amusement, Tom said, “Do you think that’s it? I’ve heard of regimented lives, but old Scruggs takes the cake.”
“I suppose he does at that.”
“You and Dolly certainly did a bang-up job of the Christmas decorating,” Tom continued, hoping to generate a lively dinner-table chat. “The place looks wonderful. I really like the pine bough wreath with the candle in the middle. It’s quite charming. Don’t you think so, Jed?”
But Jedediah was staring off into space at the moment, a faraway expression on his face, his fork dangling limply from his fingers. He obviously hadn’t heard a word that had been spoken thus far at the table.
Chuckling, Tom whispered to Claire, “Still under the intoxicating influence of Miss St. Sauvre, I presume.”
He’d expected Claire to share in his amusement. She didn’t. She jumped, in fact, and stared at Jedediah, aghast. “Merciful heavens, I’m afraid you may be right, Mr. Partington,” she whispered with what sounded like anguish. “But I feel certain she doesn’t return his infatuation. I’m just sure of it.”
“I don’t know why not. They were with each other all last evening, after that silly—er, that ode of hers was finished. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was love that’s captivated our practical Jed.”
“It can’t be! But—but if it has, I’m sure Dianthe doesn’t reciprocate.”
Tom was a little worried about Claire’s obvious chagrin, but chalked it up to whatever had upset her this morning. With a little shrug, he said, “No? Well, that’s too bad for Jed, then. I must admit that, while I don’t have too much use for Ms. St. Sauvre’s alleged poetry, she does seem like a nice enough person. I’d never have pegged her for a flirt.”
Claire’s owlish expression charmed him. She blinked rapidly several times and seemed to be at a loss for what to say. At last she avowed seriously, “I’m certain Dianthe would never flirt with a gentleman, Mr. Partington.”
Secret Hearts Page 19
