Secret Hearts

by Duncan, Alice

  “Oh, Dianthe,” she whispered unhappily, “I just haven’t found an appropriate moment.”

  “An appropriate moment?” Dianthe’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve made love, Claire! In spite of what he says, he’s trembling on the brink of a marriage proposal!”

  “No, no. Certainly—”

  “Certainly he is!”

  Dianthe’s vehemence made Claire blink.

  “You must tell him, Claire. To do otherwise is wrong. Not to mention excessively foolish. It will certainly be worse if you wait.”

  “I know,” Claire muttered, wringing her hands.

  “You should have told him at the very beginning,” Dianthe declared, making Claire stare. Dianthe was not given to bold declarations.

  “I know. I know.”

  “The longer you put it off, the worse you’re making it. You know he’ll be upset that you didn’t trust him enough to tell him sooner.”

  “But I do trust him!”

  Dianthe looked skeptical, quite a feat for her. “Do you?”

  “Of course, I do!”

  “If you trust him, then there’s no reason not to tell him. Are you afraid of his reaction?”

  Claire stared at Dianthe for several seconds as she tested her feelings. At last she whispered, “Yes.”

  “Well, then, it doesn’t sound to me as though you trust him very much.”

  Claire felt defeated as she trudged down the lane leading from the Pyrite Arms to town. Dianthe was right about one thing. The longer she kept her dirty little secret to herself, the harder it would be to tell Tom the truth.

  She was right about another thing, too. Claire was afraid of Tom’s reaction to the news she’d kept from him for so long. He was sure to be angry, and she wouldn’t blame him. Right now, he trusted her and admired her. She wasn’t sure she could bear to see his trust in her wither and die.

  Halfway to town, a dreadful plan began to form in her mind. It was so dreadful that Claire threw it out, only to have it bounce back again and take root.

  But it would be evil, she told herself.

  But it might work, herself answered back perfidiously.

  It was still evil.

  It still might work.

  Swallowing her scruples, knowing she was an arrant coward, vilifying herself as a wretched cheat, Claire hurried into the telegraph office. Powered by panic, she willed herself to think clearly and compose a message. Then, using all the artifice her father had taught her in her blighted youth, she smiled sweetly and bade Mr. Carter to send the message to Mr. Oliphant in New York.

  Her heart beat so hard it hurt, and Claire knew she was a fool. No, she was worse than a fool. She was trying to keep the truth from the only man in the world she would ever love, a man who respected and valued her, who believed in her. She hated herself. Even as she hurried away from the telegraph office, she was phrasing her confession to Tom in her mind. She’d tell him as soon as she got back home; before she could lose her nerve again.

  She was thwarted in her purpose that night because Tom and Jedediah had made a trip into Marysville and their return home had been delayed by the washing out of a bridge. A telegraph message arrived at Partington Place advising Claire to expect Tom home as soon as the bridge had been repaired.

  “The day after tomorrow,” she murmured, staring at the wire. “Bother.” She’d wanted to get the matter over with; to lay her sins bare before Tom and beg for his understanding. It was way past time she told him everything; he deserved to know.

  With a deep sigh, she folded up the wire and smiled at a dour Scruggs. “Why don’t we take supper in the breakfast room, Scruggs.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” Scruggs stalked away from her as if Claire herself had been responsible for the collapsed bridge.

  She had to content herself with continuing the very last novel in the Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee series that evening and the next. She missed Tom in her bed and slept poorly.

  # # #

  Tom was ecstatic to be back in his parlor at Partington Place and was only sorry Claire was out and couldn’t rush into his arms and welcome him home. Truly, he couldn’t recall another single time in his life when everything seemed to go his way as it was doing now. Life was grand. Life was good. He had his house; he had his horses; he had his Claire. Who could ask for any more than this?

  Claire was growing into an stylish horsewoman. Once she felt secure on the sluggish bay mare upon which he’d schooled her and he’d broken the prettiest Appaloosa mare to saddle, he’d presented it to her with a flourish. She’d been ecstatic. He’d even talked her into ordering another riding habit from Miss Thelma’s.

  Every now and then he wondered if Claire minded being his mistress. She was an extremely straight-laced sort of woman, and he sometimes got the feeling she didn’t approve of herself for having succumbed to his seduction. Indeed, he even got the feeling she still thought she had somehow seduced him. It might have been amusing if she didn’t seem so troubled by the misconception.

  He didn’t like the idea of her feeling ashamed of herself. As if she had anything to be ashamed of!

  That afternoon as he waited for Claire to return from Pyrite Springs, Tom traipsed up to the ballroom balcony. Gazing out over his kingdom, he tested the name Claire Partington very carefully to see how it sat on his tongue. And if it affected his digestion.

  “Claire Partington.” He blew out a cloud of cigar smoke and donned one of his society smiles—the ones he’d been practicing on the mayor of Pyrite Springs, Mr. Humphrey Albright, and their ilk. “Gentleman, please allow me to introduce my wife, Claire Partington.”

  He swallowed some smoke and choked. Then he scowled. He was being ridiculous; he knew it. There was absolutely nothing intrinsically wrong with the institution of marriage. Just because his own parents were idiots, it didn’t naturally follow that all married couples had to be idiots.

  In his heart he knew that Claire felt she had somehow fulfilled her destiny by becoming his mistress. He was sure she thought being his mistress was all she deserved out of life. He knew her to be dead wrong on the issue, too. Still, the very word “Marriage” sent shivers up his spine.

  He was being grossly unfair to Claire, and he knew it.

  So he sucked in a breath of fresh air and tried again. “How do you do, General Lee. And may I introduce my wife, Claire Partington.” Shaking hands with the invisible general, he continued, “Mrs. Partington is the one whom you have to thank for the evening’s entertainment, General. My w-w-wife—” Tom had to pause and wipe his sweaty brow with his handkerchief— “is a lover of the arts.”

  She was a lover of Tom Partington, too, Tom acknowledged with a hardening in his nether regions. Without half trying, she could set his body aflame. He’d never had such a satisfying carnal relationship. The straight-laced, prim-looking young woman who passed as the housekeeper Claire Montague during the day, turned into a tigress at night in his arms. Her passion nearly consumed him.

  As he gazed out over the frosty winter landscape, Tom did not feel cold. Just thinking about Claire in his bed was enough to heat him through and through. She was fire. She set him to burning with desire. She was every damned thing he’d ever wanted in his life.

  But marriage? Tom shook his head, and suddenly felt chilly.

  # # #

  “I know it’s none of my business, Tom,” Jedediah said later that afternoon, “but I thought you should know there’s a good deal of gossip about you and Claire in Pyrite Springs.”

  Jerking his head up from his newspaper and staring at his friend hard, Tom barked, “Gossip? What the hell are you talking about, Jed?”

  Jedediah looked tense. “I guess the servants are spreading tales, Tom. They say she spends her nights in your room.”

  Tom’s brows dipped and he slitted his eyes in irritation. He’d always heard servants gossiped, but he’d never considered they might sling dirt about him. And Claire. For God’s sake, they’d known Claire for years.

  He said, “W
ell, hell,” which he recognized as being inadequate.

  Pulling his collar away from his neck, which had turned red, Jedediah said, “Er, um, you know, Claire is well-liked in town, Tom. Dianthe—er, Miss St. Sauvre, that is—said that she hates to hear her spoken of as though she were a—a fallen woman.” He looked at Tom nervously. “Er, do you know what I mean?”

  Scowling, Tom grumped, “Yes. I know what you mean.”

  Damn. They were gossiping about Claire! His Claire! Good God. Everything she’d ever feared about having a relationship with a man seemed to be coming true. And it was all his fault. All his damnable fault because he was afraid of marriage. Him! The hero Tom Partington was afraid of a few lines on a legal document and the words, “I do.” Not very noble of him. Clarence McTeague would be dismayed. Except that his uncle was dead.

  “Uncle Gordo’d be dismayed, too,” he mumbled sourly, eliciting an, “I beg your pardon?” from Jedediah.

  “Oh,” said Tom. “Nothing.”

  After clearing his throat once more, Jedediah ventured, “I’ve asked Dianthe to marry me, Tom, and she’s agreed.”

  “Congratulations,” Tom said absently.

  Jedediah hesitated, as if waiting for Tom to say something more. When he didn’t, he said, “Yes, well, Dianthe suggested that—well—if you wanted to, we might have a double ceremony.”

  “A what?”

  “A double ceremony. You know, when two couples get married at the same time.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “You didn’t?”

  Tom took note of his friend’s look of surprise and grinned in spite of his annoyance. “I’ve never been to a wedding, Jed. Folks didn’t get married much out on the frontier. At least not the folks I knew.”

  “Oh. I guess maybe they didn’t.”

  Both men contemplated marriage for several silent moments. At last Tom said, “When are you planning on this wedding of yours?”

  “Dianthe wants to wait until April and ask you and Claire if we can use the garden at Partington Place. It’s really pretty when everything’s blooming.”

  “That’s what Claire says, too.”

  Jedediah licked his lips. He looked worried, as though he wasn’t sure he should be speaking so plainly. Nevertheless, he forged ahead. “So, will you think about it, Tom? I—I hate to think of Claire being ostracized in the town of Pyrite Springs.”

  “Ostracized!”

  “Dianthe said that Mrs. Humphrey Albright has been sniffing haughtily. I guess that means trouble.”

  “Damn.”

  Tom slapped his newspaper down on the table next to him and sprang to his feet. “This is abominable!”

  Jedediah cleared his throat and seemed to brace himself. “Neither Dianthe nor I believe the fault lies at Claire’s feet, Tom.”

  Tom went completely rigid for a second, infuriated by the accountant’s blatant disapproval. Then he slumped when the truth smacked him upside the head. “No. Of course it isn’t her fault. You’re right. I’m the one who’s to blame in this situation.”

  He didn’t like knowing it, either. He’d hurt Claire, and for no better reason than his own selfishness. His own bullheaded belief that because his parents were fools, the institution of marriage was wrong. What a damned coward he was!

  Jedediah made a stammered excuse and left Tom to stew in his bitterness. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Tom scuffed his toe on the parlor carpet and brooded.

  He felt bad; his heart hurt. Knowing Claire was suffering the humiliation of censure by her friends, the people she’d lived among for years, because of him sent waves of guilt knifing through him. Head bowed, he wandered out of the parlor and down the hall. It wasn’t until he stopped in front of a closed door that he realized he’d headed directly to Claire’s office. It was as if some instinct led him there; to her. Everything he’d ever done in his life seemed to have directed him straight to Claire.

  Pushing the door open, Tom peeked inside, hoping she’d have come back from town and that he’d find her bent over her desk, diligently working on accounts or menus or something. Everything she did in this room ultimately benefited him; she was his angel. And he’d hurt her. In his selfishness, foolishness, cowardice and, yes, blind lust, he had led her into a role completely beneath her dignity and alien to her nature.

  He was ashamed of himself. He ran a finger over the polished surface of her desk and looked at the result. Not a speck of dust sullied his fingertip; Claire would never allow dust to accumulate in his house. He sat in her chair and remembered the very first time he’d entered this room, bearing a bottle of port and a big empty place in his life. She’d filled up that empty place almost from the start with her sweetness and goodness and practicality. Damn, he appreciated practicality.

  He’d been so blind. He should have known they couldn’t keep their liaison a secret. No wonder Claire always seemed to be harboring some secret guilt, some deep sadness she tried to keep from him. She loved him; she even admitted it. Yet, he’d never so much as hinted at how deep his affection for her ran. The very thought of life without Claire made his insides knot up and throb.

  He shook his head, knowing he still hadn’t hit upon Claire’s secret. It was almost as if she were trying to hide something from him; something she felt made her less than a good person. That was ridiculous, of course. Tom had never met a better person than Claire Montague.

  Leaning his forearms on the desk top, Tom picked up Claire’s pen and idly flipped it between his fingers. A memory struck him, of this pen clattering to her blotter as they’d chatted one day. The same day she’d shoved those papers in her drawer and he’d teased her about being an embezzler.

  The pen clattered to the blotter again and Tom sat up straight. Good God! She couldn’t truly be an embezzler, could she? Was that the reason she seemed to be so sad and guilty all the time?

  “No, damn it,” popped out of his mouth of its own accord. He glanced at the door to make sure it was closed. He didn’t relish being discovered talking to himself.

  Finding the door firmly shut against the rest of his home, Tom resumed brooding. The idea of Claire being an embezzler was absurd. She could never engage in criminal activities; he knew she couldn’t. Her principles would not allow her to do anything shady or devious.

  But what was it she trying to hide from him? What was making her nervous and sad? Was it just that she felt guilty about their relationship? Or was there something else? Something deeper? Something that had nothing to do with him?

  Love notes? Had that idiotic puppy, Addison, been writing her love notes? Anger erupted in him suddenly and had to shake his head to clear it.

  No. Addison was being firmly lured into the man-fishing creel of the pretty widow, Priscilla Pringle. Besides, Addison was such a self-serving nitwit; he wouldn’t write love notes to anybody unless it was to himself.

  Still, and although it seemed illogical, Tom suddenly had a very strong hunch that those papers, whatever they were, had some bearing on Claire’s discontent. Anything that kept Claire from pure happiness was a blot on his life, too, and he resented it.

  Shooting another glance at the closed door, Tom compressed his lips and then did something he’d never done before in his entire life. He snooped.

  The drawer opened smoothly and without any betraying squeaks or scrapes. Of course, he’d expect nothing less of a drawer entrusted to Claire Montague’s care. Although he felt sort of sheepish about it—not at all the hero Claire had called him so often—after another glance at the door, Tom settled in to pry.

  Everything was very tidy. He’d anticipated that it would be. After all, the drawer belonged to Claire. A pair of scissors rested neatly next to two pencils and a pen in a wooden tray. A bottle of ink, a piece of blotting paper, a rubber eraser, and a list of household items Tom suspected was a shopping list were laid precisely out next to the miscellany tray.

  How like his Claire to keep such close tabs on things, Tom thought with a
smile. God, he valued her; he’d never been in an establishment that ran more smoothly than did his estate. A sponge sat in a little dish ready to be filled with water to moisten postage stamps. A small envelope revealed the stamps, as well. At the very bottom of the shallow drawer lay a brown folder tied with string. Carefully, Tom removed the folder and untied the bow.

  When he pulled out a sheaf of papers from the folder and glanced over them, their import escaped him at first. Claire’s fine hand covered the sheets in tidy rows. He noted with interest that her handwriting sloped neither up nor down, but trotted across the pages in firm, straight lines. He smiled. She was absolutely amazing. He didn’t know another single soul in the universe, besides himself, whose regularity of mind allowed for such perfectly even rows.

  But what was this? There were pages and pages here, all covered with Claire’s beautiful cursive, unembellished with curlicues or fancy scrollwork. Her efficiency reflected itself in her handwriting, as it did in everything she did. Peering more closely, Tom began to read.

  After a minute or two, his eyebrows lowered. His smile faded. His forehead wrinkled. His eyes narrowed. A pounding started in his head. His heart began to thud heavily. He finished the first page, set it carefully down on the blotter and began reading the second.

  Suddenly he dropped the entire folder onto the desk and sat up straight.

  “Good God!”

  This was one of those damned Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee novels! Right here. In Claire’s desk. In her very hand.

  What did this mean?

  His frown left him and his brow wrinkled harder as he concentrated. After a few moments of ponderous thought, his worry eased.

  “Of course,” he said, and nodded.

  His uncle Gordon used to dictate his books to her. That’s what this was. This was the book his uncle had been writing when he died. Of course. Tom actually laughed, but the noise sounded too loud in the silence of the room and he stopped immediately and swallowed.