Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  “I didn’t?” Claire said in a very small voice.

  “No. You didn’t. And I was sure he was walking away from you at the time.”

  “Is—is that why you went to town? To meet the—the portly gentleman you thought had been with me?”

  Was Tom Partington actually saying that he’d tried to track her father down for her sake? Because he was worried about her? Searching his face for clues, Claire saw only the features she’d loved for so long; she couldn’t read his mind, more’s the pity.

  “I don’t like to see you unhappy, Claire,” Tom said, his smile rueful.

  “Thank you, Mr. Partington.” Nobody had ever told Claire that he didn’t like to see her unhappy. It was undoubtedly the kindest thing anyone had ever said to her. She deemed the truth too pathetic to admit aloud, so she said, rather unsteadily, “My I fix you a remedy I’ve heard is good for your particular ailment?”

  The least she could do for this wonderful, wonderful man was mix him up a dose of her father’s physic for when he’d overindulged. She hadn’t thought she’d ever find anything she’d learned as a child useful, but perhaps she’d been wrong.

  “You know a hangover tonic?” Tom sounded incredulous.

  “A housekeeper’s duties are many and varied, Mr. Partington,” she said vaguely.

  “It’s hard for me to imagine my uncle Gordon getting himself into this predicament.”

  “He never did.” Tom looked at her curiously and Claire scrambled for purchase along the slippery path of her many deceptions. “I, er . . . I learned it during the course of another employment, you see.” It was the truth, more or less, Claire told herself.

  “You worked for somebody less sober than my abstemious uncle, I presume.”

  “Yes.” And that was definitely the truth.

  “Thank you, Claire. I’d appreciate a dose of your cure.”

  “All right. Then it would be best if you were to lie down for an hour or so with your eyes closed.”

  He sounded almost meek when he said, “All right.”

  So Tom drank Claire’s concoction. It tasted vile and he didn’t quite dare ask what was in it. Then he allowed himself to lie down on his bed with a cool damp cloth over his eyes, even though he’d wanted to discuss horses and stables with Jedediah Silver.

  When he arose an hour later, however, his headache gone and his stomach no longer rebellious, he mentally added one more feather to Claire’s cap. The woman was incredible, and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything—even his horses.

  Somehow or other, he was going to discover what was troubling her and eliminate it. Along the way, he was going to win her love.

  # # #

  The two and a half weeks between the reemergence of Claude Montague into his daughter’s life and Christmas passed quickly. Claire was terribly busy, and being busy allowed her to submerge her problems under activity. Besides, she loved the hustle and bustle attached to the season. As the days passed and her father stayed away, the threat of exposure seemed to fade. Claire supposed she was living in a fool’s paradise, but she decided to enjoy the peace while she could and resume worrying about her problems later.

  It didn’t take her more than a couple of days to get used to her new hair style after her initial unsuccessful attempt to tame her curls. She even admitted, to herself, that the soft “do” flattered her more than those braided coils she’d had tacked to her head for ten years. One morning, she actually found herself admiring the way the sun brought out the red highlights in her hair and made it glisten.

  Of course when she realized she was primping, she stopped at once and lectured herself for fifteen minutes about vanity, the wages of sin, and need to be ever vigilant lest her bad blood show. Until Tom complimented her on her appearance. Then she forgot all about vilifying herself and wondered if Miss Thelma had her plaid skirt ready yet. She was ever so pleased to discover that not only was the plaid skirt ready, but her blue sateen evening gown and one of her blouses were also waiting for her when she paid the modiste a visit.

  That evening when Dianthe came to dine at Partington Place, she, Tom, and Jedediah were very kind in their praise of her new style in dress. Claire felt pleased with herself and not at all as though she were a fallen woman parading her wares. After all, her new plaid skirt and blouse were extremely modest; in no way could even she—her severest critic—convict herself of putting herself forward unbecomingly.

  She started to relax and enjoy feeling attractive for the first time in her life.

  For years, Gordon Partington had held an open house at Partington Place on Christmas Eve. The entire village of Pyrite Springs used to drop by for eggnog and fruitcake. When asked if he cared to continue the tradition, Tom agreed with a fair show of enthusiasm.

  “Why not?” he’d asked after a moment’s thought. “Why not act like the landed gentry? I reckon that’s what I am, after all.”

  Then he’d laughed, his blue eyes twinkling gaily, and Claire had caught her breath and wondered yet again how any one man could be so perfect.

  So she set to work getting the front hall and the parlor prepared, and helped Mrs. Philpott bake gingersnaps, tiny pecan-studded meringues, shortbread, and brandied cherry drops to augment the traditional holiday fruitcakes which had been packed away in the basement months before and were now awaiting the day.

  Scruggs directed the setting up of the Christmas tree and the stacking of firewood with his usual glum efficiency. He also saw to the resurrection of several bottles of Gordon Partington’s best wine and cognac. It wouldn’t do for the mayor and the other leading citizens of Pyrite Springs to be entertained with mere eggnog. Tom was glad to he wouldn’t have to drink the rest of Uncle Gordon’s fancy stuff all by himself. He’d already ordered some liquor more to his taste from San Francisco.

  The piano tuner was called in from Marysville to make sure the grand piano was in voice. Claire and Dianthe sang Christmas carols for one whole day as they made paper and popcorn ornaments for the tree. Tom and Jedediah found them in the parlor that afternoon, flushed and happy, with mounds of paper garlands coiled at their feet, and a tubful of popcorn between them. They’d asked to join in the fun, and Claire didn’t think she’d ever been happier in her life than she was then.

  After supper they’d sung more carols, and Claire discovered another childhood trick was useful in her present life. She could play the piano. Claude Montague, of course, had never owned such an expensive instrument, but she’d been made to learn in a variety of unsavory establishments. Her father had found her musical ability useful in his various rackets.

  That evening, though, Claire was glad for her skill. She played from a Christmas song book, and Tom turned the pages for her while Jedediah and Dianthe decorated the tree. For once Claire didn’t bother to worry that the accountant and the poetess seemed to be on remarkably friendly terms. She smiled at Tom, he smiled at her, and she felt herself as close to heaven as she would undoubtedly ever get.

  Tom kissed her again on Christmas Eve. A light snow had fallen earlier in the day, but it didn’t keep the citizens of Pyrite Springs from attending the annual open house at Partington Place.

  “Wonderful party, Mr. Partington,” Mr. Gilbert, the mayor, said, slapping Tom on the shoulder in a show of hearty brotherhood.

  After he’d recovered from the staggering blow, Tom said, “Thank you, Mr. Gilbert. I find I’m enjoying these traditions my uncle established.”

  “Good thing, tradition.” Mr. Gilbert puffed out his chest as though accepting credit for the tradition of traditions.

  Tom didn’t figure he’d argue. He only smiled.

  It was just as well he’d armed himself with a smile because the next person to walk into the parlor was Sylvester Addison-Addison, complete with flowing red silk scarf draped around his literary neck, a bouquet of white lilies tied up with a red ribbon—for Claire, he said—and Mrs. Pringle firmly attached to his arm. If he hadn’t already been smiling, Tom might well have gaped
in astonishment. He was sure the Author would never have stood for that.

  “Good evening, Mr. Partington,” Mrs. Pringle cooed, never releasing Sylvester from her talons.

  “Good evening.” Tom nodded to them both. He received a frosty inclination of the head from Sylvester and a spirited flutter of lashes from Mrs. Pringle.

  Mrs. Gaylord had forsaken orange this evening in deference to the season. She was swathed all in red when she waddled in with a brooding Sergei and a happy Freddy March a few moments later.

  Tom sneaked a peak at Claire, who was pulling duty at the punchbowl and looking absolutely ravishing in her sapphire-blue evening gown. She gave him a glorious, conspiratorial smile, and he winked back and decided his life was truly abundant and that Mrs. Gaylord’s red looked superb.

  Dianthe floated in on a cloud of white silk and lace. Almost immediately Jedediah snatched her away to the Christmas tree. Later in the evening, Tom saw the two of them disappear out the side door and return a good twenty minutes later, Dianthe flushed and more ruffled than he’d ever seen her, and Jedediah looking positively moonstruck. He grinned and blew several smoke rings because he was happy.

  The disappearance of his accountant and Claire’s best friend gave him ideas, too. He wondered if Claire would take more kindly to an overture from him this evening than she had the night of the Artistic Evening. He’d been showering her with respect and friendship these past few weeks, and hadn’t tried to sneak a single kiss or one improper embrace. He considered he’d been acting with incredible nobility since, although he was a master at patience, sexual restraint wasn’t one of his more solid virtues.

  Looking back on their brief encounter on the balcony, he decided his kiss that night had been premature. Yes indeed. Entirely too impetuous. That was the reason she’d been scared; he’d jumped the gun and attacked her without notice. He should have buttered her up first. Fired a warning salvo over her head, as it were.

  He was getting better at this society stuff. He now realized a lady required time and preparation. He figured three or four weeks was probably long enough, considering they lived together and, therefore, undoubtedly knew each other better than most people did before they kissed. Or even got married, for that matter.

  Not only that, but the very season required exuberance. A kiss was exuberant, wasn’t it? It could be considered part of making Christmas truly merry. What was all that mistletoe for, if not for kisses?

  Tom had never hesitated to kiss a female before; his hesitancy in this present instance troubled him. He discovered himself staring at Claire from across the room while she played Christmas carols at the piano.

  She had suspended her spectacles on a blue satin ribbon pinned to her bodice, but had slipped them on now so she could read the music. She was surrounded by a choir of Pyrite Springians, and he shook his head and told himself not to be a fool. He’d never had trouble attracting women before. Granted, Claire was a bit more straight-laced than most of the women he’d dealt with in his life, she shouldn’t require this much thought. Should she?

  Perhaps it was true the other women he’d kissed had been ladies of the evening; still, women were basically all alike, weren’t they? Besides, his mother had thrown him together with several belles the few times he’d dared visit her home in Alabama, and they’d seemed to like him. He frowned, recalling his mother’s concerted attempts to get him to marry one of those feather-brained twits.

  “Tom!”

  Tom nearly dropped his cheroot in surprise when Jedediah slapped him on the back.

  “‘Evening, Jed. Having a good time?”

  “I’m having a wonderful time,” Jedediah said, reverting to dreaminess for a second. He snapped right out of it. “But what’s going on here? You looked unhappy.”

  “Did I? I’m not unhappy at all, Jed. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I had such a good time.”

  Jedediah looked at him closely. “Are you sure? I distinctly saw you shudder.”

  “Oh, that.” Tom chuckled. “I was thinking about the delicate females my mother used to throw in my face back home, that’s all, and thanking my lucky stars I don’t have to put up with that nonsense anymore.”

  Jedediah followed the path of Tom’s gaze. “I notice you’re looking at our Claire as you have these thoughts,” he said, sacrificing slyness with a wink.

  Tom sighed eloquently. “Do you think she cares for me at all, Jed?” He caught himself up short and stared at Jedediah in amazement. He’d never asked such a ridiculous question of another man in his life. What in God’s name was the matter with him?

  Jedediah evidently didn’t mind. In fact, he laughed. “Tom Partington, I think Claire is madly in love with you.”

  “You what?”

  “Well,” Jedediah equivocated, embarrassed about having spoken so boldly, “I actually don’t think that. Dianthe’s the one who thinks that.”

  “Does she really?” Tom was vastly intrigued. “They’re best friends aren’t they? If she thinks so, there must be a reason.”

  Jedediah went moony-eyed for a second, apparently having gone into a trance at the mention of his beloved. Tom grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “Don’t you think so, Jed?”

  “Hm? Oh, Claire.” The accountant frowned, as if trying to recall the topic of their conversation. “Oh, yes. Claire! Well, I suppose so. I guess Dianthe should know if anybody does.”

  “Yes. Yes, I guess she should.”

  The notion pleased Tom inordinately. Could Claire really be in love with him? If so, that would solve all his problems since he was about to die from wanting her in his bed. If she loved him, then she must feel some carnal desire. He wasn’t altogether sure how these things worked, but it seemed to him that if two people—one being female and the other male—desired one another, then there should be nothing to stand in the way of kisses. Lots of kisses. And more.

  The thought of more almost made Tom salivate.

  “You think a lot of Claire, too, don’t you, Tom?”

  Tom had forgotten all about Jedediah. He jumped to hear the accountant’s voice so close to his ear. “Of course. Of course, I do. I’m very—very fond of her. Yes, indeed.”

  “Do you think you’ll ask her to marry you?”

  “Marry her?”

  “Sure.”

  Good Lord. Tom had conveniently skipped over that step in his lurid fantasies about Claire.

  He said, “Er—um—well . . .”

  “I’m thinking about asking Dianthe to marry me,” Jedediah confided softly.

  “You are?”

  With an enormous, happy sigh, Jedediah said, “I certainly am. To have that treasure to myself for all eternity is just about the finest thing I can imagine. Permanence. A family. Until I met Dianthe, I never thought about marriage or a family. But if a fellow meets the woman of his dreams, I reckon he begins thinking about establishing something for himself. And his heirs. I’ve actually been thinking about heirs.” He laughed as if he couldn’t believe it of himself. “Yes, indeed. Marriage is the answer in such a case, I reckon.”

  Tom nodded. Of course. He’d conveniently forgotten about marriage. Marriage had always looked like such a dreadful, deadly trap to him. He’d forgotten that any proper female would expect marriage before she’d even consider the part that came after kisses. What an appalling thought.

  He reminded himself that Claire Montague and his mother were entirely different women. As were he and his father. Why, the two sets of them—Claire-and-Tom and his-mother-and-father—might as well belong to different species entirely.

  “She’d be a wonderful wife for the master of Partington Place, you know,” Jedediah continued. “She seems to belong here. Sometimes I used to think Gordon might marry her, but he either didn’t want to or never got around to asking her.” Jedediah didn’t notice the look of shock on Tom’s face. “I wonder if she’d have married him if he’d asked.”

  “Of course she wouldn’t!”

  Now it was
Jedediah who looked shocked. Then he grinned. “Why, Tom, I do believe you’re jealous.”

  “I am not!”

  “Well, if it’s any comfort, I’m sure Claire had no feelings of that nature for Gordon.”

  “Of course, she didn’t. She says he was like a father to her.”

  “So do you think you’ll ask her to marry you?”

  “No. I mean, I’m not sure.” Tom swallowed and made himself say, “I—I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  Jedediah roared with laughter. Tom was miffed. “Well, I’m not used to this living-in-civilization nonsense, you know, Jed. Marriage is a pretty stiff penalty to exact from a fellow.”

  “Ah, but it’s worth it.”

  “How do you know?”

  Jedediah frowned. “I just know. The thought of making Dianthe, the lady I love, my wife—why, it would be wonderful. To love and cherish and protect her. To have all the rights and privileges of a husband . . .” His voice trailed off and he was apparently too moved to speak of those rights and privileges.

  “Yeah. That’s right.” Tom looked at Claire again. Yes, indeed. All the rights and privileges. Still, there were other ways of achieving those rights and privileges—ways not as irrevocable and frightening as marriage. Shoot. The very word sent shivers up his spine. Of course, if a body was married, he wouldn’t have to worry about consequences. If little baby Partingtons were to result, for example.

  God, what a thought! It made Tom cringe. As he thought about Jedediah’s words, Tom tried to envision having children, but his imagination wasn’t quite up to it.

  What was he doing, thinking about children anyway? He’d never thought about children in his life.

  Dianthe momentarily blocked his view of Claire and he frowned. Then he looked at Jedediah and shook his head. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how a smart cookie like Jed could prefer the silly, ode-writing Dianthe St. Sauvre to the stable, practical, delightfully useful Claire Montague. Then he grinned again. To each his own.

  And Claire’s practicality of nature might work to Tom’s advantage, too. Why, certainly she’d understand that a body didn’t just rush into marriage. No. A sensible person would understand the merit of practicing first, to make sure the fit was right. Yeah. That’s what she’d do.