“Yes,” she said. And, even though her heart still ached for Tom and her lost home, and even though the thought of creating a new life filled her with trepidation, Claire knew she would carry on and, eventually, thrive.
The lady across from her held out a gloved hand. “My name is Myrtle Finchley, dear. Mrs. Edwin Finchley, although my darling Eddie passed on eight years ago.”
Claire shook the woman’s hand gladly. “Claire Montague, Mrs. Finchley. Thank you for your kind words.”
Mrs. Finchley shifted in her seat to lean closer, and for the first time Claire noticed the novel resting on the woman’s lap. She could scarcely believe her eyes when she read the title: Tuscaloosa Tom and the Outlaws of Oak Ridge Wallow.
Mrs. Finchley saw where Claire’s gaze had landed and smiled. “Oh, my, yes, dear. Some people frown on novels, but I say, if a body can’t escape the hurly-burly of everyday life from time to time, then what’s living for? I do so enjoy a rousing dime novel. They’re just my cup of tea.”
Claire swallowed and licked her lips. “And—and do you find Mr. McTeague’s novels to be representative of the genre?”
“Oh, my goodness, Mr. McTeague’s books are the very best, my dear. If you haven’t read them, I highly recommend them. If you like that sort of thing, of course.”
Mrs. Finchley looked a little guilty, but Claire hardly noticed. She, who had never known a mother, was suddenly engulfed by a burning desire to talk to the motherly Mrs. Finchley—really talk to her—as a daughter might talk to a mother in times of trouble. Taking a deep breath, she blurted out, “I wrote them.”
Mrs. Finchley peered at her blankly and said, “I beg your pardon.”
“I am Clarence McTeague. I wrote those books.”
“You?” The woman’s eyes opened wide, and Claire could plainly read disbelief on her face.
Sweeping a look at their traveling companions and finding them still lost to consciousness, Claire sucked in another enormous breath. Then, in a tumble of words, her story fell from her lips and into Mrs. Finchley’s astonished ears.
She couldn’t recall ever talking to a complete stranger the way she was now. Or anybody else, for that matter.
Spurred on by the compassionate older woman’s frequent, “oh, my goodnesses” and sympathetic clucks, Claire discovered herself revealing things she’d never told a soul. She skipped the part about Tom and her becoming lovers, but she admitted her affection for him and how hurt she’d been by his anger when he discovered her to be the author of the Tuscaloosa Tom books.
“But I wrote them because I loved him so, you see. He’s—he was the hero of every one of my dreams.”
“Indeed, my dear, I do see.”
Dabbing at her eyes and sniffling, Claire said, “I know it was wrong of me to keep my authorship a secret, but I feared losing my job and—and his esteem. For he did esteem me, Mrs. Finchley. I know he did.”
Claire’s companion nodded soulfully and patted Claire on the knee. “Of course he did.”
“But he was so angry. He said such—such awful things to me.”
“If that isn’t just like a man! Men are such absurd creatures. As much as I adored my darling Eddie, he used to get such odd quirks. He made me very angry many, many times.”
“Did he really?”
“Of course, he did. They’re all alike, men are. Why, I think it’s criminal, the way that man treated you! Oh, I know, I know,” she said when Claire began to protest, “I know you kept something from him. And I know you love the fellow, my dear. But that makes it all the worse, don’t you see? If he had a shred of compassion in his heart, he’d have known you only wrote these wonderful books because you value him the way he’s always wanted to be valued. Why, I’ll warrant he was secretly pleased to have been made the hero of your novels. Men!” she repeated in conclusion.
After a moment’s thought, Claire decided she might just agree. It felt so good to unburden herself, and she was so grateful to the motherly Mrs. Finchley, that the two ladies spoke far into the night as the coach rolled and bounced them along the road to Marysville.
As they chatted, Claire began to contemplate the completion of her last Tuscaloosa Tom novel. She’d pondered the idea of writing Mr. Oliphant and begging out of the one remaining book in her contract, but now she believed she shouldn’t do so.
“A contract is a contract, after all.”
Mrs. Finchley agreed wholeheartedly.
“So I will finish Tuscaloosa Tom and the Wool War. Then I shall begin a whole new series.” She nodded firmly.
“Bravo, my dear!”
“Why, I’ve already created one national icon. What’s to stop me from creating another? I’ll marry Tuscaloosa Tom off to Miss Abigail Faithgood, and go on to bigger and better things. It will serve the bounder right to be shackled to that idiotic, screaming female.”
“Exactly, my girl! You show him what he’s giving up!”
Claire had never had a cheering section before, and she discovered she liked it. “Imagine, Tom Partington yelling at me. Why, I made him into a famous hero, and he actually had the nerve to condemn me for it!”
“The monster!”
By the time Claire became aware of a disturbance in the road, she was no longer near tears. In fact, she was fighting mad.
Mrs. Finchley seemed to be in a similar condition when Claire suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, my! Do you hear that commotion outside?”
“Mercy! It’s probably some awful man holding up the stage or something.”
“I wish I had a gun!”
The two ladies were prepared for anything when the door was wrenched open. Claire was ready to impale any would-be criminal with her parasol, and Mrs. Finchley had Tuscaloosa Tom and the Outlaws of Oak Ridge Wallow poised and ready to strike.
When Tom Partington appeared in the faint yellow lamplight, Claire gasped and dropped her parasol. Mrs. Finchley looked at her in surprise.
“Claire!” Tom cried. “Oh, my God, Claire! I thought I’d lost you!”
In her shock at seeing Tom here, Claire found herself sucking in huge gasps of air. He stared at her wild-eyed, his gorgeous hair disarranged under his hat, his eyes sparkling. Then, in a rush, her boundless grievances against the men in her life and Tom in particular exploded over her. She jerked away from his extended hand as if it were a poisonous snake.
She shrieked, “Don’t you dare touch me!”
“Is this the cad who swore at you, Claire, dear?” Mrs. Finchley cried, appalled.
Unable to speak again, Claire nodded, and Mrs. Finchley brought Tuscaloosa Tom and the Outlaws of Oak Ridge Wallow crashing down, hard, on Tom’s head. Fortunately for him, it was covered by his hat.
In a flash, Claire picked up her parasol and began stabbing at him. He staggered back, shocked to his very core.
The other passengers in the coach had to varying degrees awakened during this ruckus. One of them muttered, “Here, here! What’s going on?”
A bearded gentleman said, “Don’t hurt that fellow, madam,” and tried to grab Claire’s parasol. Quarters inside the coach were tight, but Claire managed to elbow him in his stomach before she jumped down from the coach to confront Tom Partington. Mrs. Finchley finished the bearded gent off with her book, and clambered down to support Claire.
Her parasol at the alert, Claire frowned at Tom, who was bent over almost double and staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. She realized she’d got him pretty solidly in the stomach with her weapon and felt a surge of primitive, and wholly improper, glee.
“What do you want with me, Mr. Partington?” Her voice was as frosty as the weather, and hung in the air in a foggy clump between them.
“Mr. Partington?” Tom looked at her, disbelief sharing space with pain and helplessness on his countenance.
If she hadn’t been so irate by that time, Claire might have felt guilty about Tom’s present breathless state. As it was, she didn’t care. Chest heaving, she only scowled at him, parasol poised for another a
ttack should he try to touch her again.
He straightened with difficulty. “Claire? Please, Claire, don’t be mad at me.”
“And why not, pray?”
“Because I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? You disparage my heart, my mind, my essence, the work of my soul, my very meaning in life, and all you can say is you’re sorry?” She realized her voice had gone shrill, and she made an effort to control it. “And am I expected to fall down in a swoon because you’re sorry, Mr. Thomas, the Boy General, Partington? Am I supposed to beg you to take me back and serve as your mi—mmi—” Claire took a deep breath. “—housekeeper at Partington Place because you realize you were hasty and overbearing and—and horrid to me?”
“Please, Claire.” Tom ran a hand through his hair and reached out to her.
Mrs. Finchley, bosom heaving in agitation, swung her pocketbook at his arm. “Don’t you dare touch that dear child, you despicable fiend!”
Tom snatched his hand back and looked at Claire’s champion in astonishment. Claire lifted her chin and announced defiantly, “You see, Mr. Partington? You might have forsaken me, but I still have friends!”
“But, Claire,” Tom pleaded, being careful to keep his hands to himself, “I haven’t forsaken you. I’ve come to beg you to come back and marry me. I can’t live without you. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, Claire. I—I—damn it, I love you.”
Claire’s mouth dropped open, but nothing emerged. She wanted to stick a finger in her ear and clean it out. Of course, she did no such thing. Nevertheless, she stood as if struck from stone. She couldn’t believe what she thought she’d just heard, but she was afraid to ask him to repeat it for fear he’d tell her she was mistaken.
“Please, Claire? I love you so much. If you leave me, I don’t know how I’ll survive.”
Tom sounded absolutely pathetic. Claire finally managed to shut her mouth, but she still couldn’t think of anything to say. Frantically, she looked at Mrs. Finchley, hoping to find inspiration in her staunch, albeit new, ally, only to discover Mrs. Finchley, too, gaping at Tom slack-jawed.
When nobody spoke, Tom looked nervous. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Claire, please come back to me. My conduct was unforgivable. If you can’t find it in your heart to forgive me yet, at least give me another chance.” He paused for a second and went on recklessly. “Your father came to the house tonight, Claire.”
Mrs. Finchley, whom Claire had regaled with the full ignominy of her vagrant childhood, gasped, “Saints preserve us!”
Claire finally found her tongue, but she only used it to cry, horrified, “My father! Oh, no!”
“Yes. You see, I understand everything now, Claire. Truly, I do. I don’t blame you for making a hero out of Tuscaloosa Tom, or for keeping the truth from me. You must have had a terrible childhood. You must have hated and mistrusted men until you met Uncle Gordon. I don’t blame you for trying to forget your past and for wanting to make your present better. Or for writing those books. I understand why you needed a hero, Claire. I was wrong to take you to task. Please, please, Claire, come back to me.”
Still wavering, Claire glanced once more at Mrs. Finchley and found her peering thoughtfully at Tom. The older woman no longer looked as if she’d try to slay him if he made a move to touch Claire. Then Claire glanced at the stagecoach, and discovered every passenger leaning out the windows and watching eagerly. One of them winked at her. She took umbrage and sniffed haughtily.
Still, Tom’s words meant a lot to her. “Well . . .”
“Please, Claire?”
She’d never heard Tom sound this humble. She hadn’t believed he had it in him to abase himself so thoroughly.
“Come on, young lady, tell the poor feller you’ll marry him. It ain’t right to leave them horses all standin’ out here in the cold. Nor us, neither.”
She glared at the gentleman who had made the suggestion, but he only winked again.
“Perhaps,” offered Mrs. Finchley cautiously, “you and your young man should continue on to Marysville and discuss the matter over a cup of tea, Claire dear.”
“Good idea,” another fellow inside the stagecoach grumbled. He said a few more things about waking a body up in the middle of the night for no better reason than to carry on a lovers’ quarrel in the middle of the road in the dead of winter, but Claire’s ferocious glare quelled his mutters.
“Children,” a roundish, cherub-faced man said, “As a minister of the Lord, may I offer my seat to the gentleman so that he and the young lady might speak to each other in the coach on the way to Marysville?”
He smiled sweetly at Claire, who had to swallow a sudden swell of sentiment. She shook her head, though, unwilling to share so intimate and confined a space with Tom Partington at the moment. She wasn’t sure she should forgive him yet. After all, she didn’t wish to appear easy.
Striving for poise, she said, “No, thank you, sir. Perhaps if he follows the coach to Marysville, I shall speak to him if he so wishes. You, sir, certainly have no reason to relinquish your seat inside the coach. After all, you paid full fare for a coach seat to Marysville.”
“I’ll pay his fare, Claire!” Tom said, obviously nettled.
“It’s a chilly night, Mr. Partington,” Claire shot back. “You may find it advisable to ride your poor horse to death in the freezing cold, but that gentleman—” Forgetting the manners she’d taught herself over the past ten years, Claire pointed at the cherry-cheeked fellow. “—is not as young as you, nor is he as used to rough accommodations as you are. I feel sure of it.”
“All right.” Unhappy, Tom acquiesced. “But you must speak to me when we arrive in Marysville.”
“Must I?” she asked, bridling.
“Please, Claire?”
He sounded desperate, and Claire relented. “All right. I will speak to you in Marysville.” She didn’t like making the concession, and stalked back to the coach and climbed aboard without so much as a backward glance.
Mrs. Finchley sniffed meaningfully at Tom before following in Claire’s huffy wake.
The two ladies conferred the rest of the way to Marysville. One of their fellow passengers tried to offer a suggestion once, but was glowered at so savagely by Claire that he subsided. The minister smiled sweetly at them and wisely held his counsel. The rest of the men went back to sleep as soon as they could.
# # #
Tom was almost frozen solid by the time the Wells Fargo coach finally rattled to a stop in front of the staging office in Marysville. He’d never been so happy to see civilization in his life. If he’d known he’d have to chase Claire all the way to Marysville, he’d have worn his buffalo robe, his knitted head scarf, fur-lined gloves, and a second pair of woolen stockings before he set out. He hadn’t felt this cold since he’d spent the winter of seventy-three in the Montana Territory chasing Indians away from the railroad tracks.
It would all be worth it, though, if Claire agreed to marry him. He opened the door and helped her and Mrs. Finchley to alight. Neither lady seemed especially pleased to accept his hand. He sighed and wondered how long it would take him to thaw Claire out.
“Do you need my support during your ordeal, dear?” Mrs. Finchley asked Claire, thereby winning herself a frown from Tom. She ignored it and him with exquisite disdain.
“I believe I can handle it. Thank you, Mrs. Finchley.”
“I’ll be taking tea in the coffee room if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
Crushed to his soul, Tom waited until Mrs. Finchley bustled into the coffee room before he burst out, “Why the devil do you think you’ll need protection from me, Claire? Don’t you know me better than that by now?”
Claire looked at him as if he were a particularly disgusting road deposit she’d just found smeared on her boot. “Mrs. Finchley,” she said coldly, “is my friend.”
Tom wanted to holler at her and ask her what she thought he was, but he held himself back. Refinement was what he needed here. Sadly,
refinement was something Tom hadn’t practiced much in his life.
Since it was past midnight and the stagecoach office was thin of company, he led her to a corner where a hard bench had been built against the wall. It wasn’t an ideal trysting place, but Tom didn’t guess he’d better risk asking her to share a hotel room with him yet. The other stagecoach passengers who had witnessed their performance on the road to Marysville peered at them curiously. Tom turned his back on them.
When Claire settled herself on the bench, her back as straight as a poker, her skirt folded precisely around her, and her lips pinched into two straight, white lines, he sighed unhappily. He guessed he deserved her displeasure; he hadn’t handled her well at all.
Meekly, he said, “Claire, I know I hurt your feelings. All I can do now is to beg you to forgive me. I had no business shouting at you, and no business being mad at you for writing those books.”
Claire inclined her head imperiously, as if she were a royal duchess granting absolution to an errant knave. He knew he was taking a big chance, but he dared reach for her hand and was pleased when she didn’t snatch it back again immediately.
“I love you, Claire. I know I’ve never told you so before, but that was because I’ve always been afraid to admit to having such emotions. I didn’t trust love. The only people I’d ever loved before treated me like dirt and tried to suck me dry. I—I was afraid of being hurt, you see.”
The truth, when it hit the air, scared the living tar out of him. Entrusting the secrets of his heart to another human being was a frightening proposition. His parents, the first people to whom he’d extended his heart, had not treated it gently. And here he’d just handed Claire his entire being.
Breathless, he waited to see what she’d do with his humble offering. As he waited, he experienced torment because he realized she’d already offered him her own heart, and he’d failed her; had thrown it back into her face, as a matter of fact.
Claire, however, perhaps because she was female and, therefore, more accustomed to granting forgiveness than Tom, recognized the importance of his admission, and it touched her. She had been inspired with the fire of self-worth by Mrs. Finchley, however, and didn’t think it wise to let Tom off too lightly.
Secret Hearts Page 30
