Secret Hearts (17 page)

      
Dianthe
he could admire from a distance. As long as she didn’t open her mouth,
she was quite lovely. And he was sure to find a willing widow or a scarlet
lady to take care of his more earthy needs once he knew his way around
Pyrite Springs. That should keep him from fretting about Claire’s
untapped depths.

      
Life,
in short, was grand. It was even grander after he and Jedediah had consulted
with Claire about his paddocks, stables, barns and pastures. With every
contact, his admiration for Claire grew.

# # #

      
“Miss
Montague, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you finally decided
to come in and let me have at this hair of yours.”

      
Claire
wasn’t sure she appreciated Miss Thelma’s choice of phrasing, happy
as she was to have brought pleasure into her life. She deemed a small
smile the most appropriate answer under the circumstances, since the
scissors Miss Thelma wielded were perilously close to her ear.

      
“You
have beautiful hair, Miss Montague. Simply beautiful. Why, Mrs. Humphrey
Albright would kill for hair like yours.”

      
As
she gazed into the looking class in front of her, Claire saw her own
eyes open wide even though she’d had to remove her spectacles. Mrs.
Humphrey Albright? Good heavens. Mrs. Humphrey Albright was one of Pyrite
Springs’s leading citizens.

      
She
allowed herself a brief, “Really?”

      
“My,
yes. I always have to supplement Mrs. Albright’s hair with false pieces,
you know. You didn’t really think all that hair was hers, did you?”

      
Miss
Thelma giggled, causing Claire to catch her breath in trepidation. Apparently
the hairdresser knew what she was doing, however, because Miss Thelma’s
hand never trembled and Claire’s skin remained unbroken.

      
“I
had no idea.”

      
“Oh,
my goodness, yes. But you! Why, I’ll be able to do a Roman knot with
this magnificent chestnut mane of yours with no trouble at all, and
we’ll have plenty left over for curls in front.”

      
“I
don’t wish to appear frivolous, now,” Claire cautioned for about
the fifteenth time since she’d set foot in Miss Thelma’s establishment
at one o’clock that afternoon.

      
“My
dear Miss Montague, I don’t believe you could look frivolous if you
tried.”

      
“No,”
Claire agreed after a moment, not altogether happily. “I suppose you’re
right.”

      
“But
you’ll look perfectly charming, my dear. Just you wait.”

      
Repressing
her impulse to ask what Miss Thelma expected her to do besides wait,
Claire again produced a smile.

      
“How
does the gown look, dear? Were the alterations done to your satisfaction?”

      
Claire’s
nervousness about having her hair cut for the first time in ten years
was overcome by her nervousness about appearing in her new evening gown
at Tom Partington’s Artistic Evening. It was the first gown of its
nature Claire had put on her body since she’d deserted her father’s
medicine show, and it frightened her.

      
There
was nothing intrinsically shocking about the dress; it was quite tasteful.
But it was so different from what she usually wore. A deep golden yellow
that went splendidly with Claire’s complexion and hair color, the
gown had short puff sleeves embellished with russet velvet ribbons.
The bodice sported a triangular insert of the same russet velvet, and
the skirt’s ruffled flounces were drawn back and tied with more of
the ribbon and adorned with silk roses.

      
“I
love the gown,” Claire said truthfully. “But it’s . . . it’s
so different from the kinds of things I usually wear.”

      
“It
certainly is.”

      
Claire
was almost certain Miss Thelma would love to enlarge upon the theme,
but was too tactful to do so.

      
“I
think it looks quite good, considering I’m rather tall and—and—”

      
“You’re
regally slim, dear,” Miss Thelma suggested tactfully.

      
“Er,
yes. And I’m sure it will look even better now that my hair will be
done in a more . . . more appropriate style. To the gown, I mean.”

      
“Of
course, dearie.”

      
Claire
had tried her new dress on every evening since it was delivered. And
she’d stared at her reflection in the mirror and imagined herself
on Tom Partington’s arm, greeting guests to their very first Artistic
Evening together. Invariably, too, she’d lectured herself on the stupidity
of spinning daydreams, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

      
Tom
Partington really was the man of her dreams. And to discover that his
nature was every bit as sensible as her own had been frosting on the
cake, as it were. There didn’t seem to be a purposeless bone in the
man’s body, and Claire approved. She’d had her fill of worthless
charmers long since.

      
“You
know, Miss Montague, Mrs. Pringle tried on that same gown earlier in
the week.”

      
“She
did?” Priscilla Pringle, a wealthy widow, was as close to an object
of gossip as Pyrite Springs boasted. A supporter of the arts, she was
frivolous and charming and flirted outrageously with all the men in
town. She would also be coming to Partington Place this evening.

      
A
ghastly thought struck Claire. “She didn’t buy one like it, did
she?” That’s all she needed, was to have the merry widow show up
at the Artistic Evening in the identical gown Claire wore. Mrs. Pringle,
with her dashing red hair and coy manner, would make Claire look ridiculous
if they both wore the same ensemble.

      
“Good
heavens, no. It washed her out completely. Made her look like a sack
of onions.”

      
“Onions?”

      
“Oh,
you know. All sallow and pasty. No, that gown needed you, Miss Montague.
And I’m so happy you found one another.”

      
Miss
Thelma giggled again at her wit. Claire gave the jest the small smile
she felt it deserved. Then, taking her courage in both hands, she blurted
out, “Perhaps you can help me augment my wardrobe further, Miss Grimsby.
I’ve decided to—to add a little color to my life.” Exactly as
Tom Partington told her she should do. She wondered if she was being
a perfect fool.

      
No.
Nobody in this world was perfect. Except Dianthe St. Sauvre.

      
“Oh,
Miss Montague! I’m so happy to hear you say that. Why, I used to watch
you walk past my shop several times a week and just
long
to get
my hands on you.”

      
Miss
Thelma’s words did not make Claire’s heart sing. She did manage
to murmur another, “Really.”

      
“Oh,
yes! Why, we can fix you right up. We have a lovely selection of demure
gowns, skirts, and shirtwaists. Any of them would be suitable to your
profession without being dowdy. Why, Mrs. Humphrey Albright and I were
discussing you just the other day and we agreed that all you need is
a little fixing up to be very attractive. You’ll see.”

      
Even
without her spectacles, Claire could see Miss Thelma beaming at her
and returned her smile because she knew Miss Thelma’s heart was in
the right place, even if her foot seemed to be lodged rather securely
in her mouth. She asked tightly, “You were discussing me with Mrs.
Albright?”

      
“In
nothing but the highest terms, I assure you, Miss Montague. Mrs. Albright
agreed with me, too. We both think you’ll be one of the elegant ones.”

      
“One
of the elegant ones,” Claire repeated faintly.

      
“Mercy,
yes. You see, we think there are five types of females. Of course, there
are the vulgar ones, and we shouldn’t even speak of them.”

      
“Of
course not.”

      
“Then
there are the fairy princesses, like your friend Miss Dianthe St. Sauvre.”

      
“Do
you do Dianthe’s hair?” Claire had never even wondered before.

      
“Yes,
indeed. Then there are the flighty ones, like Mrs. Pringle.”

      
“I
see.”

      
“But
you and Mrs. Albright are elegant. Or will be when you fix yourself
up.”

      
Claire
didn’t appreciate all this talk about “fixing herself up,” as
though there was something wrong with her that needed improvement. Nor
was she altogether sure she liked being lumped together with the stout,
stately Mrs. Albright. She did, however, mutter a grudging, “Thank
you.”

      
“You’re
perfectly welcome, my dear.”

      
Miss
Thelma clipped and snipped in silence for a minute or two. At last Claire
asked, “What’s the fifth one?”

      
“Beg
pardon, dearie?”

      
“What’s
the fifth type of female you and Mrs. Albright classified?”

      
“Oh.”
Claire saw a faint tint stain the cheeks of the amorphous blob that
was Miss Thelma’s reflection in the looking glass. “Well, we—ah—we—oh,
dear, I don’t seem to remember right now.”

      
“Yes
you do.”

      
“I
do?” Miss Thelma’s twitter seemed forced.

      
“The
fifth type was unfashionable, wasn’t it, Miss Grimsby? Or, perhaps,
dreary. And I suppose I fit nicely into that category, don’t I?”

      
“Well—”

      
“That’s
all right, Miss Grimsby. I’m not angry.” Or not very angry, anyway.
Claire supposed Miss Thelma’s assessment was no more than she deserved
for having striven so hard to conceal her venal roots. Perhaps she needn’t
have tried so hard.

      
This
evening should tell the story. This evening, she would see once and
for all if her new persona, carefully crafted over the past ten years,
could withstand a little gilding without shattering completely.

      
Claire
could scarcely recall a time in her life when she’d been so anxious.

Chapter 9
 

      
The
stain on Claire’s cheeks owed nothing to the rouge pot. Her blush
attached itself to her all by itself as soon as she entered the parlor
before dinner and Tom, seeing her, dropped his cheroot onto the Persian
carpet. Jedediah Silver stared, too.

      
“My
God.”

      
The
duet of awed masculine voices checked Claire at the door. Clutching
the doorknob in a death grip, she looked anxiously from man to man,
trying to read the significance of their expressions.

      
Actually,
she didn’t much care what Jedediah’s expression signified.

      
Tom’s
mouth shut with a clack and he swept his cigar off the floor before
the rug could catch fire. Thrusting the cheroot into an ashtray, he
almost tripped over the velvet ottoman in his haste to reach Claire’s
side. He snatched her hand away from the doorknob and said breathlessly,
“Miss Montague, you look wonderful this evening. You look—you look
elegant. Grand. Superb.”

      
Cheeks
afire, Claire murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Partington.” Silently, she
gave Miss Thelma her due. Miss Thelma had said Claire was one of the
elegant ones; Claire guessed she was right. Thank God.

      
After
a moment, during which he looked as though he’d been turned to stone,
Jedediah rushed up to her, too. He grabbed her other hand and pressed
it. “Miss Montague, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in formal
attire before. You’re stunning this evening. Absolutely stunning.”

      
Elegant.
Superb. Stunning. Claire guessed she could stand such descriptions.
When Jedediah released her hand, she forced herself not to scramble
for the overstuffed armchair and cover herself with the Chinese cushion
resting there, but to walk in an august manner to the chair and sit
gracefully. Of course, it helped that Tom held her elbow the whole way.
She was glad she’d remembered to air out her long gloves; they’d
smelled dreadfully of camphor when she’d unpacked them earlier in
the week.

      
Tom
sounded hoarse when he croaked, “Your hair, Miss Montague. I believe
you’ve had your hair done in a different style.”

      
Peeking
up at him, Claire thought he looked a little dazzled. “Do you recognize
it as one your Aunt Minnie used to favor, Mr. Partington?”

      
He
shook his head and didn’t smile. “Aunt Minnie never looked like
this. Not once.”

      
Recalling
her days with her knavish father, Claire smiled coyly. “And is that
a good thing?”

      
This
time Tom nodded. “Yes. Yes indeed, Miss Montague. It’s a very good
thing.”

      
It
was Jedediah’s turn to shake his head. “You look perfectly ravishing,
Miss Montague.”

      
Ravishing.
Ravishing was good. Claire liked ravishing, too. Resuscitating all the
tips her father had taught her in a childhood she’d done her best
to forget, Claire smiled first at Tom and then at Jedediah. “My goodness,
gentlemen, I can’t recall ever having received so many lovely compliments.”