He bent to the pages again. Why was the unfinished manuscript still in Claire’s desk? Surely she wasn’t planning on having it published, was she? Wouldn’t she have told him? She and he had a perfectly open relationship, didn’t they? She wouldn’t have kept it from him, would she?
A dreadful thought began creeping around the edges of Tom’s mind. It was so ghastly a notion that he didn’t want to allow it in, so he only glanced at it sideways for a while as he concentrated on the story unfolding on the sheets of foolscap in front of him. The idea kept wanting to sidle past his guard and attack him, but he wouldn’t let it.
“Jedediah couldn’t find any trace of Uncle Gordo’s records of his book sale profits.”
Tom jerked up and looked around, wondering who had spoken. He realized with a start that it had been he who’d mouthed the significant words and frowned again. Once more, he bent to read the pages.
“No wonder she was so scared.”
Again his own voice startled him into looking around the room. This time, however, he knew who had spoken. He also had a fairly shrewd notion about what these papers suggested.
Allowing the manuscript to drift from his fingers, Tom stared straight ahead and thought hard.
He said, “Claire?” experimentally, hoping his reaction to her precious name would make him realize the total absurdity of what he’d just realized. He wanted inspiration to blind him with a truth completely contradicting the evidence. This afternoon, inspiration was not Tom’s friend.
“Hellfire,” he muttered unhappily.
Claire Montague. Clarence McTeague. Good God, why hadn’t he made the connection before? She’d even defended the idiotic novels on several occasions when he’d disparaged them.
Damn. No wonder she’d looked so disconcerted when he explained his lack of heroism. He must have burst her bubble with a vengeance.
“Poor Claire.”
Wait a minute. Why was he thinking “Poor Claire”? He was the one who had suffered from these blasted books! It was he, Tom Partington, who’d been made the object of Claire’s girlish romantic fantasies! It had been he whose entire life had been made a living hell by her misplaced hero-worship! He was the one who’d been teased beyond endurance by his fellow scouts.
She’d made him a damned laughing stock.
Tom sat back and stewed in righteous indignation for several minutes, his anger getting hotter the longer he thought about Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee.
Actually, it wasn’t the books themselves that angered him. It was the fact that Claire hadn’t trusted him enough to confess her authorship. Her keeping mum about the books seemed somehow vile to him—a treacherous sin of omission. She’d hoodwinked him! She’d out-and-out deceived him. She’d kept a big, fat secret from him.
And it wasn’t just any secret, either. It was a secret that had haunted him, waking and sleeping, for the last five years of his life.
She’d actually allowed him to believe that his uncle Gordon had written those wretched books. She, who claimed to have loved Gordon like a father, had allowed Tom to believe something ill of him.
“Damn!” Tom felt more betrayed than he’d ever felt in his life.
Claire was the author of those damnable books! It had been she who had ruined his life! She was the one to whom he owed all that misery.
Resting his elbows on the desk, Tom sank his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. Claire! The woman he cared for. The woman who claimed to love him. Good God!
Agitation bubbled in his breast like boiling water until it propelled him out of Claire’s chair and sent him storming around the room. He kicked the magazine stand viciously, splintering its frail legs and sending a year’s worth of McCall’s slithering across the floor.
She’d tricked him. Little Miss Holier-Than-Thou Claire Montague had tricked him as if he were a green boy and she a practiced fraud! She’d written those trashy books and undoubtedly made a damned fortune. Trading on his name! Trading on his reputation and career! She’d used him as shamelessly as if she were a randy cowboy and he a two-dollar whore
“Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!”
It was unfortunate, Tom thought later, that Claire should have entered her office at precisely that moment. A smile lit her face and she opened her arms to embrace him, but stopped in her tracks when Tom whirled around and skewered her with the blackest scowl he’d ever hurled at anybody. Her hand flew to her breast and she gaped, her eyes huge under her spectacles. Tom could plainly see fright war with bewilderment in those expressive eyes. Then her glance flickered to her desk and she paled.
Lost to his wrath and in a voice dripping acid, Tom ground out, “Good afternoon, Miss McTeague.”
Chapter 19
If she’d yelled at him or been defiant, she might have pricked Tom’s defenses and he might have given her a chance. If she’d told him roundly that yes, she was the author of those books and she was damned proud of them, he’d probably have raged, but he’d have given it up in a moment or two. If she’d told him to go to hell or even demanded to know what he’d been doing pawing through her things, she might have thrown water on his anger.
When she just stood there looking like a frightened rabbit, her expression of patent contrition made him feel guilty. Him! Resentment flared in his breast and his guilt only fed his ire.
“Yes, my dear. I found you out, didn’t I? When did you plan to tell me, Claire? Or did you? Maybe you thought you could keep your little secret to yourself. Did you expect to feed off my name forever?”
“It—it’s not like that, Tom,” she stammered. “Truly, it’s not.”
“No?” He sneered. Tom couldn’t recall ever sneering before, but he created a sneer on the spot and threw it at Claire. “What is it like, Claire? Please tell me.”
“I—I meant to tell you. I wanted to tell you. But you hated the books so much.” Claire hung her head. “I was afraid.”
Tom’s heart lurched. Claire’s words hurt him more than he’d thought possible. She was afraid of him? “Because I’ve been so cruel to you, I suppose. Naturally you’d be afraid to tell me something like this.” He swept his hand over the scatter of papers on her desk and said with biting sarcasm, “I’m such a cruel monster.”
“You’re not a monster,” she murmured unhappily. “You’ve never been cruel to me.”
“No? For a second there, I wondered if I’d been beating you in my sleep or something.”
She shook her head and Tom saw tears gathering in her eyes. He wanted to run to her and throw his arms around her; he wanted to comfort her and tell her it was all right and that he forgave her.
But her lack of candor had wounded him deeply, bitterly. He hated himself for what he perceived as his weakness. He held himself back from her, rigid, his sneer in place, wanting to injure her the way she’d injured him. He felt stiff, unbending; like ice.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Even in his fury, Tom hated to see Claire wringing her hands and looking so conscience-stricken. But, damn it, she should be conscience-stricken! He’d taken her into his life and cared for her and told her all the secrets of his heart and she’d betrayed him. He felt like an utter fool. She’d lacerated his pride as surely as if she’d taken a machete to it.
“How did you expect to keep the truth from me, Claire? What did you plan to tell me when another one of these abominations came out in print? Did you think your nasty secret would stay hidden forever?”
“No, I . . I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“You just figured that after we became lovers, it would be easier to gull me, is that it? You figured if you used your body to entice me, I wouldn’t get mad at you for making an ass of me all those years?”
“No!”
She looked appalled, and he roared, “No? Well, then, damn it, why didn’t you tell me?”
It seemed to Tom as if his roar did her in. Her face crumpled and she cried, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Then she picked up her
skirts and hared out the door and up the stairs before he could draw breath to yell again.
For a second, Tom was stunned by Claire’s retreat. After he gathered his wits together, he chased out of the office after her, but he was in time only to see her plaid skirt swirl around the upstairs banister. He knew she’d be in her room before he could catch her.
Seething with indignation, he stood at the foot of the stairs and glared at nothing in particular, his hands clenched at his sides, his chest heaving in outrage. The wicked, lying cheat. Damn her!
“A wire just arrived, sir.”
Tom’s heart almost stopped when Scruggs’ lugubrious voice broke into his churning fury. He turned so fast, the old butler staggered backward. Snatching the telegram out of Scruggs’ hand, Tom said, “Thank you.” His jaw was set so tightly, it hurt to speak.
“It’s for Miss Montague, sir,” Scruggs said, as if Tom might not be able to read the envelope. “I was going to take it up to her.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Scruggs didn’t speak for a minute. His eyes squinted up and he looked at Tom as if he didn’t trust him to carry out the assignment. At last he said, “Very good, sir,” turned, and dragged himself off.
Tom glared after Scruggs until he was out of sight. Then he glared up the staircase again and contemplated carrying this wire up to Claire. He didn’t quite trust himself. He was afraid he’d shout at her again; or worse, grab her and beg her to forgive him.
Believing both of those alternatives to be less than ideal, he stuffed the wire into his pocket and stalked off to his library.
# # #
“What have I done? Oh, what have I done?”
Claire allowed herself only a very brief while to lie disconsolately on her bed and weep. She knew tears didn’t solve anything. Tears hadn’t fixed anything when she was a child, and they wouldn’t fix anything now. The only thing in her life that had ever been of benefit to Claire Montague was action.
She laughed bitterly, and wished she’d taken action weeks ago and told Tom about those books. She hadn’t however, and now she was reaping the fruits of her deception. There was no going back; she had to live with what her lies had wrought.
Therefore, after Claire had willed her tears to stop, she stood up and contemplated her future. Her future did not lie here, at Partington Place, she realized with a stab of pain.
At least she had money. The last time she’d faced a new future alone, all she’d had was an advertisement ripped from the Sacramento Bee and boundless determination.
Her throat ached and heart felt as if somebody had scraped it with a rake. But she knew it wasn’t broken. Hearts didn’t break; her own heart had ached for years and years, yet Claire still lived. It surely would have broken by this time if it such a thing were possible.
Dully, she dug her old suitcase out from under her bed. Although she didn’t have many possessions, she had much more than she’d arrived at Partington Place with ten years ago. Resolutely, she decided to pack what she could carry in the suitcase and stow the rest in a carpetbag. She would send for the bag. She was sure Tom would not begrudge her the few treasures she’d collected during her ten years here. He was a kind, good, noble man. It wasn’t his fault she was a cheat and a vile deceiver.
Another tear slid down her cheek and she snatched it away angrily. It didn’t take long for Claire to pack enough clothes and toiletries to last her a few days. Then she waited until she was sure Tom and Jedediah were at supper and slipped downstairs and into her office. There she almost broke down once more as she stuffed her latest work into its tidy folder and tucked it under her arm.
She’d write to Dianthe and Sylvester. She’d probably write to Tom, too, once she was over the worst of her agony, and give him her new address. Not that he’d ever have use for it. She’d pen an apology now, though. She hadn’t been able to voice it this afternoon. She’d have to word her letter so that it didn’t sound as though she were making excuses for herself. There was no good excuse for not having trusted him enough to confess it was she who had authored those books. Yet, she wanted him to know that she had meant well when she wrote them. She didn’t want him to think she’d consciously mocked him. How could she mock the man she loved?
As silently as a wraith, she slipped out of her office and into the crisp evening. Because she had come to love them so much, Claire paid a last visit to Tom’s horses. She almost cried again when she stroked Firefly’s silky nose. She adored the pretty mare Tom had given her.
“Good-bye,” she whispered. The horse whickered in response. “Good-bye, Firefly. I love you. I’ll miss you. And oh, how I’ll miss Partington Place.”
Then, before she could break down entirely, she hurried down the lane to Pyrite Springs, carrying her suitcase, her folder snugged under her arm.
# # #
“She wasn’t feeling well,” Tom said harshly in response to Jedediah’s question. “I don’t think she’ll be joining us for supper.”
“Too bad. I was hoping I could persuade her to visit the Pyrite Arms with me after supper.”
Tom strove for a smile. “Going to visit your lady love, Jed?”
“Yes,” Jedediah said with a sigh. “I’ll go anyway, of course, but I know Dianthe and Claire are the best of friends. I thought she might like to go, too.”
“Yes. She might.”
He hadn’t given her a chance. He’d lit into her like a trout on a fly and hadn’t let her say a word. He felt guilty as hell. Oh, he knew she was at fault. She’d lied to him. She’d deceived him. She’d kept a terrible secret from him.
Unfortunately for Tom, his innate honesty had been knocking for admission ever since he’d allowed his anger to run riot over Claire. It finally kicked him in the shins and made him pay attention.
Was her secret really so terrible? He knew she’d only kept the truth from him because she knew he hated those damned books and feared his anger. For good reason, as it turned out.
If she’d told him in the first place, he might have been annoyed, but he wouldn’t have felt betrayed.
But he wouldn’t have allowed Claire to get close to him, either, if he’d known, and then he’d have missed out on l-l-liking her. He’d have missed out on the last several glorious weeks with her beside him.
But those books! Those books were trash!
Trash, were they?
Yes. They’d made his life miserable.
Miserable?
Yes, miserable.
Really.
Humph. Tom scowled into his soup bowl. Well . . . All right. Maybe not miserable. If he were to be absolutely honest, perhaps he’d sort of enjoyed the notoriety.
A little bit.
And perhaps he had pretended a somewhat exaggerated umbrage when newspaper reporters had sought him out. He might, possibly, have been said to profit—indirectly, of course—from Claire’s hero-worship when he’d been given plum assignments.
The President of the United States had asked for him by name when he’d come West on a hunting trip. Said he’d read all about Tom in Claire’s dime novels.
Maybe it had been kind of gratifying when that Russian archduke had insisted that nobody but Tom Partington could lead his expedition. Dime novels again.
If he were to be absolutely, unconditionally honest with himself, he might even have to admit that the silly books had boosted his confidence and turned him into a better scout. Not that he wasn’t the best to begin with, of course. Still, when one had an image to uphold, one was apt to perform one’s duties with more flair. People would be watching, after all.
Humph. He shoved his soup bowl away, his appetite gone.
He guessed it might be true, too, that he hadn’t bothered wearing those outlandish fringed buckskins until the first of the Tuscaloosa Tom books hit the stands. Those buckskins were his trademark now, and he’d always feigned utter oblivion of his myriad imitators. In fact, he used to laugh inside when he saw people dressing like him. Well, actually, not like him. L
ike Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee. Claire’s creation.
When Absolute Candor finally struck Tom, it hit during the roast beef course and with a humbling blow.
Great God in heaven. Claire Montague, his housekeeper, his mistress, his—his lover, had created a national icon. And not just any old icon, either. She’d created an ideal of American manhood, a model of masculine virtues to which young boys aspired. What was it she’d said that long-ago day when they’d been discussing the books? That little boys in America who strove to emulate Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee were striving to achieve goodness and chivalry and—and—and—
Tom couldn’t remember everything she’d said. He did remember, however, that at the time her words had struck him as ridiculous. Staring blindly at the long, polished table stretching out in front of him, Tom admitted to himself that her words no longer seemed foolish. He found himself strangely moved, in fact.
And she’d based her fictional character on what she perceived him to be.
“Good grief,” he murmured, stunned, and swallowed an ache of maudlin emotion that had lumped up in his throat.
“I beg your pardon?”
Tom jerked and stopped staring into space. He’d forgotten for a minute that Jedediah was sharing the table with him.
“Oh, nothing. Sorry. Just thinking.”
“Mmmmm.” Jedediah returned to his own thoughts, obviously of Dianthe St. Sauvre.
Why, Claire must have loved him—or her image of him—before she’d even met him. According to her, she loved him still. Even after she’d come to know him. Did that mean he possessed enough of Tuscaloosa Tom’s many fine qualities that she hadn’t been utterly disillusioned? It was difficult to imagine.
Taking great care, Tom ate what he could of the rest of his dinner. He skipped dessert. And, since Jedediah was obliging enough to leave him after supper and go courting, he skipped port in the parlor. All Tom could think about was how hurt Claire had looked in the face of his rage.
He didn’t know what to do. The memory of Claire’s penitent expression as he’d yelled at her made his head ache. The thought that Claire might think he wanted her to go away was too awful to contemplate. He should apologize to her, but how? Should he wait until tomorrow, until she’d calmed down? If he waited, would she suffer all night? Would he suffer all night?
Secret Hearts Page 28
