Secret Hearts (44 page)

      
He
hugged her tightly. “That’s kind of you, Claire, but I was selfish.
It never even occurred to me that in making myself comfortable I might
have been wounding you.”

      
Acknowledging
the truth of Tom’s confession silently, Claire smiled. Rather than
rubbing his nose in his transgressions, she graciously—and honestly—murmured,
“You had no way of knowing, Tom. I didn’t tell you about my past
because I was ashamed of it.”

      
“You
have nothing to be ashamed of, darling.”

      
He
squeezed her again, and Claire sighed in ecstasy.

      
With
a chuckle, Tom said, “And someday, I’d be curious to hear some stories
about your life in the medicine show, too. After all, I’ve told you
about life on the prairie.”

      
“Never!”
Claire shuddered. “I’d love to hear about how you first discovered
Appaloosas, though.

      
So
Tom talked about horses on his wedding night, and gradually drifted
into stories about his youth. Claire listened avidly. She didn’t realize
how clever he was at drawing her out of her shell until she discovered
herself, safe in his embrace, actually telling him a tale from her own
childhood

      
In
spite of her recent resolve never to speak of her early life, as she
lay in the arms of her husband with the late winter sunshine beginning
to creep over the windowsill and splash onto the hotel carpet, episodes
she hadn’t spoken of for years began to spill from her lips. With
Tom chuckling in real amusement beside her, the stories didn’t sound
merely sordid. Thanks to the softening effects of time and love, even
Claire managed to find humor in some of them.

      
She
was giggling so hard, in fact, when she recounted the tale of Claude
Montague and the Widow Casey’s errant pillowslip that she nearly fell
out of bed.

      
Catching
her and pulling her back to his side, Tom said, “You mean to tell
me she actually paid him to give her back her own pillowcase?” He
had to wipe his eyes on the sheet because he was laughing so hard.

      
After
she caught her breath, Claire said, “Yes. And I felt sorry for the
poor woman because nobody in the world would ever believe that she and
my father had done anything indiscreet. Why, she must have weighed more
than two hundred pounds, Tom! In those days, she would have outweighed
him! And Father never favored plump women, you know.

      
“The
poor thing was quivering with trepidation, though, worried that her
neighbors might get the wrong idea. And all because the wind had blown
her laundry into our camp and my father was mad at her for having had
us driven out of town. My father is—was—such a convincing old sinner,
he could have corrupted the pope.”

      
“I
believe it,” murmured her husband.

      
“You
know,” she confided, “I used to hate it when he bribed people like
that. But Mrs. Casey was so mean to us, I didn’t mind that time, even
if I did feel a tiny bit sorry for her.”

      
“She
actually had you driven out of town?”

      
“Yes.
And she wouldn’t let her granddaughter play with me.” Claire winced
when a spurt of pain clutched her heart even after all these years.
To counteract it, she said lightly, “She was a nasty old biddy. She
and my father deserved each other.”

      
“Oh,
Claire. I promise I’ll make it all up to you.” Tom hugged her hard,
driving the pain right out of her and replacing it with love. “What
a life you’ve lived. What a life we’ve both lived, for that matter.”

      
“Yes
indeed, Tom. But yours has been elevating. Mine was only illegal half
the time. Not to mention uncomfortable.”

      
“Well,
you’ll never be uncomfortable again if I can help it, Claire,” Tom
vowed, punctuating his declaration with tiny kisses.

      
“I
love you, Tom.”

      
They
proceeded to show one another how very much they meant their words until,
sated, they fell into slumber.

Chapter 21
 

      
They
slept until shortly after noon. After dragging themselves out of bed
and consuming a hearty wedding breakfast, Tom rented a carriage to drive
them back to Pyrite Springs. Claire bade Mrs. Finchley a tearful farewell
and promised to send her a copy of
Tuscaloosa Tom and the River of
Raging Death
as soon as she got home.

      
“I’ll
see you at your reception, dear,” Mrs. Finchley sang out as the carriage
pulled away. She waved her hankie furiously.

      
“Oh,
Yes! And I’ll be sure you get a copy of the last book in the series,
too, when it’s published,” Claire called out of the carriage window.

      
Patting
her foolish tears away, she settled back into the carriage seat and
found Tom gazing at her, an uncertain expression on his face. She knew
why.

      
“There’s
only one more book left in my contract, Tom, and I plan to finish it.
I won’t break my contract.”

      
“No.
Of course not.” He sighed, though.

      
“It’s
the last
Tuscaloosa Tom
book I’ll ever write. I promise.”

      
He
grinned. “I know.”

      
Claire
wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she let it pass this time.
If he tried to prevent her from writing books in the future, however,
he’d get an earful. She might have agreed to marry him, but she’d
be boiled in oil if she’d give up her writing career. She’d learned
her worth, and would never forget it again.

      
The
rest of their trip back home was spent in deciding what to do about
their respective parental problems. They batted ideas back and forth,
ultimately settling upon a valid scheme for taking care of Tom’s mother
and father.

      
“I
truly believe that you can’t forsake them, Tom,” Claire told him.
“I know you’re worried—for good reason—about their being unable
to handle finances themselves, but if you were to hire a supervisor
whom you trust, I’m sure that will mitigate the problem.”

      
“I
suppose so.”

      
He
didn’t sound entirely satisfied. Claire understood. “You know, darling,
you simply can’t hold yourself responsible for their instability.
All you can do is set up an income for them. If they can’t manage,
even with somebody overseeing their needs, there’s not much you can
do about it.”

      
“I
know. It just drives me crazy to watch them fritter their resources
away.”

      
Peering
at her gloved hands, Claire said gently, “If you give somebody something,
it belongs to that person. If he or she chooses to fritter it away,
I suppose that choice is his or hers to make.”

      
When
she glanced up, it was to find her husband staring at her as if she’d
just spouted an eleventh Commandment. After a moment, he said, “You’re
right. By God, you’re right.” Then he grinned. “You’re right,
Claire! They’re not my fault!”

      
She
shook her head and smiled. She loved him so much. And it was just like
him to take on the cares of the world—or even those of his parents—and
to consider himself at fault if the world—or his parents—decided
to go to the devil in spite of him.

      
“And
as for my own dear father,” Claire said, her smile fading, “I suggest
you do absolutely nothing. He deserves nothing.”

      
“I
don’t mind providing a small income for him, Claire. Truly I don’t.”

      
She
scowled. “Well, if I knew he’d use it for something besides gambling
and drinking, perhaps I wouldn’t mind. I don’t trust him, though.”

      
“Remember
what you just told me? About giving something away and it’s not being
yours any longer?”

      
Vexed
at having her philosophical words flung back at her, Claire muttered,
“
Touché
.”

      
“It
would make me feel better to know we’re at least giving both our parents
a chance. If they waste it, that’s their choice.”

      
Claire
actually glared at her beloved husband for a full minute until he chuckled,
she realized she was being inconsistent, and finally relented. “Oh,
all right, Tom. But I think you’re being much too kind to a beastly
old man.”

      
“Well
. . .” Tom hesitated, obviously unsure how his spirited spouse would
take what he wanted to say. Then he seemed consciously to fling caution
to the wind. “Actually, I found him to be an amusing old scoundrel
that night in the saloon. He’s got a million stories, and he’s quite
a raconteur. I know he treated you badly, and I don’t blame you for
not forgiving him for it, but some people aren’t cut out to be parents,
I reckon. It’s a shame your mother had to die so young.”

      
A
hot retort leapt to Claire’s lips, but it cooled before she could
scald Tom with it. He was right. Blast it, he was right.

      
Her
father was about the most entertaining man she’d ever met in her life.
In black moments given to deriding her talents as a dime novelist and
wishing she were able to pen great, boring literature of the type Sylvester
Addison-Addison wrote, she even owned—to herself—that she had inherited
her story-telling skill from Claude Montague.

      
She
didn’t like knowing it. Her innate honesty made her admit, rather
sourly, “Oh, all right.” She sat and sulked for another five minutes
before she sat up and said, “But he’d better not settle in Pyrite
Springs! I’ll die if he does that.”

      
Laughing,
Tom reached for her hand. “My dear, if that’s what will happen if
he moves to town, I’ll make sure he doesn’t. I don’t think he’s
very fond of Pyrite Springs, though. When we chatted that evening—what
I remember of it—I got the distinct impression he considered our little
town too small an arena for his large talents.”

      
Claire
said, “Humph.”

# # #

      
When
their rented carriage swept up the circular drive in front of Partington
Place, Tom’s favorite Appaloosa tied to the back, the entire household
staff was lined up to greet them. Mrs. Philpott was crying. It looked
to Claire as if she’d gone through two handkerchiefs already.

      
Dianthe
St. Sauvre, Jedediah Silver, Sylvester Addison-Addison, Priscilla Pringle,
and Claude Montague milled about in front of the tidy row of servants.
They were all studiously ignoring Scruggs, who glowered even more blackly
than usual at their overt levity.

      
Tom
jumped from the carriage and raced around to open Claire’s door. A
cheer went up from the assembly when he lifted her down and swirled
her around in his arms. Claire felt a thrill course through her when
he carried her over the threshold of the house she’d lived in for
ten years.

      
“Claire!
Claire!” Sylvester dashed into the house hot on Tom’s heels and
snagged Claire’s attention almost before Tom set her down in the tiled
entryway.

      
Laughing,
Claire said, “What is it, Sylvester?”

      
“Oh,
Claire! Your father has given me enough meat for six novels featuring
Adolphus, the wily Turk!”

      
Both
Tom and Claire rolled their eyes. Claude Montague preened.

# # #

      
The
marriage of Thomas Gordon Partington to Claire Elizabeth Montague was
celebrated at a grand ball at Partington Place in April of 1881. Claire
selected April because her daphne hedges would be just beginning to
flower, the wisteria would be glorious, the ranunculus and anemones
would be in bloom, and everybody invited to the party would be given
plenty of time in which to make arrangements to attend.

      
That
was just fine with Tom, who had a particular reason for desiring postponement
of the festivities. In fact as the date approached, he began to worry
that April might be too soon. Two weeks before the grand gala, however,
he received a telegram from the New Mexico Territory and breathed an
enormous sigh of relief. When the big day arrived, he was prepared.

      
Mrs.
Philpott and two girls from the village prepared a delicious banquet,
to which Tom and Claire invited their particular friends. Jedediah and
a blushing Dianthe announced their engagement and impending nuptials
during the main course. Priscilla Pringle waited until dessert before
announcing that she and Sylvester, who scowled at the centerpiece during
the entire meal, would also wed.

      
Tom
and Claire exchanged a happy glance and squeezed each other’s hands.
Then, just after coffee had been served and the party was about to depart
for the ballroom so that Tom and Claire could position themselves to
greet guests, the dining room door burst open. Surprised, everybody
turned toward the doorway to discern Scruggs, his eyes wild and a hand
clamped to his heart. He was panting heavily and pressed his back against
the door as if to keep it shut against an invasion of hostiles.

      
“Good
heavens, Scruggs!” Claire had never seen the phlegmatic butler look
so agitated. “Whatever is the matter?”