Secret Hearts (13 page)

      
At
first it had circled around his plans for Partington Place and his ambition
to establish an Appaloosa horse-breeding ranch. Naturally, other topics
arose. Even more naturally, since there were only the three men were
present, Miss Dianthe St. Sauvre’s name was mentioned.

      
As
he sat back in his chair and listened to Oliphant and Jedediah, it became
clear to him that those two gentlemen had yet to see past the ethereally
lovely Dianthe’s exterior to discover the equally ethereal intellect
inside. Shaking his head, Tom had listened to them extolling her virtues
in language that would have done Tom’s nemesis, Clarence McTeague,
proud.

      
Well,
a dim-witted, decorative female might do for either one of these gentlemen,
but Tom Partington required a good deal more than beauty in a lady.
Or anybody else, for that matter. Especially if that body were to become
a partner of his.

      
Claire
Montague, now, there was a lady of an entirely different stamp. She
seemed equally at home with the insipid Dianthe as with the razor-sharp
Jedediah Silver. Why, she was up to anything and anybody, and Tom appreciated
that quality in an ally. Even if she did like those damned silly books.

      
He
was chuckling when he made his way into the breakfast room, where he
discovered Claire and Scruggs in an animated discussion. At least it
was animated on Claire’s part; Scruggs was stiff as a cold marble
statue. The door didn’t so much as swish, its hinges were so well-oiled,
so neither of them realized he had joined them.

      
“I
shall go into Pyrite Springs today, Scruggs, and purchase lanterns more
fitting to the dining room’s elegance. You simply can’t expect diners
to eat in the dark. It’s stupid and really not fair. Why, the gentlemen
couldn’t even find their plates last night.” Claire’s voice was
sharp. Tom got the impression she’d lost her temper some time ago,
and he grinned. He enjoyed seeing her proper demeanor ruffled occasionally.

      
“The
late Mr. Partington did not care for lanterns, Miss Montague, believing
they conveyed an inelegant atmosphere and one not conducive to artistic
conversation. Besides,” he added as if to put the cap on the conversation,
“lamps smoke.”

      
“That’s
ridiculous and you know it, Scruggs. Why, I’ve seen perfectly beautiful
lamps, and if you use the right oil and open them properly, they won’t
smoke. I believe I’ve even seen lantern holders crafted from scrolled
metal that are positively works of art.”

      
Scruggs
looked as rebellious as a cold marble moose could look until he spotted
Tom. Then he snapped to attention like a precisely disciplined soldier.
Strolling away from his vantage point at the door, Tom smiled at both
parties.

      
“I
think Miss Montague’s right, Scruggs,” he said casually, and watched
Scruggs’s mouth tighten. “We need more light in that room if we’re
going to eat in there very often. Lanterns sound like the right idea
to me, until I can get the place piped for gas.”

      
“How
wonderful, Mr. Partington! Do you really plan to install gas?”

      
Claire
looked ecstatic, and that pleased Tom. “Indeed I do. I’m all for
the modern conveniences.”

      
Something
that sounded like a groan emanated from Scruggs, drawing Tom’s attention
to his gloomy butler. The poor man already looked like he’d sustained
a punishing emotional blow, but Tom, never one to shrink from necessity,
decided he’d better land the knock-out punch right now. Maybe Scruggs
would have recovered by dinnertime tonight.

      
“Since
I’ve got lots of other things to see to, Scruggs, I want you to take
your instruction from Miss Montague. You can consider her as my voice
in the running of the household from now on.” With one of his most
companionable smiles, he cocked his head to one side and asked, “That
all right with you, Scruggs? It’ll save me a lot of time and bother.”

      
Scruggs
had to clear his throat before he could answer, in a suspiciously hoarse
voice, “Yes, sir.”

      
Then
he tottered out of the room like a broken man, leaving Claire to gaze
after him anxiously.

      
Her
concern over the butler’s wounded sensibilities touched Tom. “Will
he be all right, Miss Montague? I hope I didn’t shatter the poor fellow’s
feelings.”

      
She
left off wringing her hands, for which Tom was grateful. “I believe
he’ll be better soon, Mr. Partington.” She gave a huge sigh. “He
was actually used to taking his instruction from me, you see, but your
. . . approach to things is at great variance with what he’s used
to, and I believe he’s worried that he will give offense if he departs
from the traditions of Partington Place.”

      
“I
see,” said Tom, who didn’t. He’d always figured servants merrily
went about doing what the boss wanted and didn’t worry about traditions.
Showed how much he knew about servants.

      
He
rubbed his hands together happily. “At least I’m glad you got him
to serve breakfast in the breakfast room. This is much more cozy.”
Waving his hand toward a chair, he said, “Have a seat, Miss Montague.
Let’s have breakfast together and plan our day.”

      
She
looked pleased, and that pleased Tom. He liked her better when she smiled.
She’d seemed so troubled yesterday afternoon and evening, he’d become
quite worried about her.

      
Mr.
Oliphant entered the room, along with Jedediah Silver. The breakfast
dishes had been set out on the sideboard, so they each served themselves.

      
“Did
I hear you say you were going into Pyrite Springs today, Miss Montague?”
Tom asked after swallowing a mouthful of eggs prepared with a delicious,
creamy cheese sauce. He was very happy that Mrs. Philpott, while obviously
high-strung and prone to tears, could at least cook up a storm.

      
“Yes,
indeed, Mr. Partington. My friend, Mr. Addison-Addison, works at the
Pyrite Springs Mercantile and Furniture Exchange. I’m sure he’ll
know just where to find lamps for the dining room that won’t offend
poor Scruggs’s feelings.”

      
She
giggled, and Tom paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. She could
be utterly enchanting, this dowdy housekeeper of his, and he wondered
if he could somehow persuade her to stop hiding her light under a bushel
but bring it forth so that the world could appreciate it.

      
“Great
idea, Miss Montague. It’ll be nice to be able to see what we’re
eating on the Artistic Evening when there are lots of people here. Of
course,” Jedediah added dreamily, “it will also be pleasant to be
able to see each other.”

      
Tom
and Claire exchanged a glance, and Tom knew they both knew Jedediah
was thinking about Dianthe. He grinned and winked at her, which seemed
to take her by surprise. He saw her eyes go round before she tucked
her head down and tackled her breakfast.

      
Ah,
well. She’d get used to him. Tom finished his bite of eggs. “Would
you mind company on your trip to town, Miss Montague? I’d like to
see my new home, and I’d appreciate having a guide along on my first
visit.”

      
Was
it his imagination, or did the color in her cheeks deepen? Tom couldn’t
be sure.

      
“I’d
be happy to show you the town, Mr. Partington. I have a few duties to
attend to first, and then I shall put myself at your disposal.”

      
“No
need for that. I’ll just tag along. Maybe I can make myself useful
by carrying things for you.”

      
“Thank
you,” Claire said, her voice stifled.

      
“I’m
afraid I won’t be able to stay for your Artistic Evening, Mr. Partington.”
Mr. Oliphant’s voice conveyed real sorrow. “I must leave today.”

      
“I’m
sorry to hear that, Mr. Oliphant. I was hoping to learn more about the
publishing business.”

      
Before
Oliphant could utilize the breath he was drawing for speech, Claire
broke in. “I’m sure Mr. Oliphant has hundreds of clients to visit,
Mr. Partington.”

      
Puzzled,
Tom looked at her. “I’m sure you’re right, Miss Montague.”

      
Now
he knew she was blushing. Her cheeks flamed a bright pink. He shook
his head and wondered why she seemed so fidgety. She hadn’t seemed
this nervous the first time they met, and he wouldn’t have blamed
her for being nervous then. By this time, she must know he wasn’t
that exacting an employer.

# # #

      
They
set out for Pyrite Springs shortly after the morning meal ended. The
late November morning air was crisp and clean and tickled Tom’s nostrils
pleasantly. A slate-blue sky hung above them, cloudless and cold. When
he looked to his right and left from his front porch, Tom could see
nothing but his own land, and his spirit rejoiced.

      
He’d
been scraping and saving for years so he could buy a piece of land somewhere.
Not for Tom the feckless, reckless, insecure life of his parents, hanging
on by their fingernails to the necessities of life, flinging opportunities
away like so much chaff because they didn’t fulfill their exacting
notions of what “proper” folks did.

      
All
that worthless pride had ever gained for them was poverty, as far as
Tom could tell. He knew they despaired of him and believed he’d forsaken
his gallant old southern roots for wages earned at the demeaning profession
of scouting for the railroad, but Tom couldn’t make himself care.

      
Not
for a minute. His entire adult life had been spent in making something
of himself so that he could make something for himself. He’d have
been happy with a little dirt farm in the Arizona Territory with room
for a horse or two. Never in his wildest imagination had he envisioned
this.

      
Thank
God for Uncle Gordo. And thank God for those silly books, too, if they’d
played any part in landing him this magnificent estate.

      
Light-hearted,
feeling better than he expected he had any right to feel, he crooked
his elbow and smiled at Claire. He thought it was charming when she
blushed and took his arm.

      
Mr.
Oliphant walked with them, since he had arrangements to make in town.
Tom wasn’t sorry when they parted ways at the telegraph office; he
wanted Claire to himself for a while.

      
“So,
please tell me more about these Artistic Evenings, Miss Montague. Are
they formal affairs?”

      
“I
don’t believe you would call them extremely formal, no.”

      
“I’m
relieved to hear it,” he said sincerely.

      
Her
spontaneous giggle enlivened an already pleasant morning. Tom smiled
at her.

      
She
smiled back, her dimple flashing. “Apparently you don’t enjoy the
pomp your uncle used to favor.”

      
“I’m
not fond of pomp, no.”

      
“Well,
here in Pyrite Springs, I suppose even our most elegant soirees would
fade when compared to the elaborate entertainments one finds on the
east coast.”

      
“I
wouldn’t know,” Tom murmured. He hoped she wouldn’t start harping
about his supposed sophistication again. He thought they’d covered
that topic quite thoroughly already. Maybe he should invite some of
his old scouting buddies for a visit. One gander at them would drive
any remaining misconceptions about his refinement out of these people’s
minds.

      
“The
ladies, of course, will wear formal gowns, but nothing elaborate,”
Claire continued, warming to her subject. She apparently set a good
deal of store by her artistic friends.

      
“Black
ties for the gentlemen?”

      
“Yes.”

      
Tom
guessed he could stand it. Besides, it would be interesting to see how
Claire took to formal attire. He’d be willing to bet she’d polish
up just fine. Glancing down, he noticed that her rattlesnakes seemed
to be supporting her sunbonnet this morning. He wondered if she’d
change her hairstyle for formal occasions and, feeling intrepid, decided
to ask.

      
“I’ve
been out of civilized society for a long time, Miss Montague, and I’m
not up-to-date on current modes. I notice you favor a hairstyle my Aunt
Minnie in Alabama used to wear. I’m surprised hairstyles haven’t
changed all that much in twenty years.”

      
When
Claire didn’t answer, he peered down again to find her looking perfectly
mortified. Immediately he regretted his bold question.

      
“I
beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I didn’t intend to embarrass you.
It was rude of me to ask such a personal question.” With a rueful
grin, he added, “I guess you’ll believe me now when I say I’m
not used to polite company.”

      
“Please
don’t apologize, Mr. Partington. I, ahem, don’t suppose my hairstyle
is particularly flattering, but I had believed it suited to my position.
A housekeeper isn’t generally expected to be a fashion plate.”

      
Was
it his imagination, or was there a hint of a snap to Claire’s answer?
If there was, he was delighted. About all she needed to be perfect was
a little fire. Risking her further wrath, he opined, “I suppose that’s
true, but I don’t think it would hurt your reputation any if you were
to adopt a little color every now and then. Or even a new hairstyle.”