Secret Hearts (20 page)

      
He
couldn’t figure out what any reasonable person could find entrancing
about the lovely Dianthe doing her dainty best to make horse-clomping
motions on-stage while reciting banal rhymes.

      
“The
spotted horse exalted/ On the plains where Indians roamed/ His majesty
undaunted/ Under ebon skies star-domed,” Dianthe recited, her whispery
voice almost drowned out by the flute’s piping. Then she whinnied
and Tom had to slam the figurative lid on his sense of humor or burst
out laughing. His eyes teared up with the effort.

      
And
yet, every time he glanced at Claire, he found her bright-eyed and gazing
with rapt attention at the stage. A peek at his guests revealed that
they seemed to be enjoying themselves, too. Deciding to ignore the rest
of the audience, he concentrated on Claire.

      
He
didn’t understand it. While he had to keep from sticking his fingers
in his ears to blot out the tuneless tattoo of flute notes battering
his eardrums, Claire seemed perfectly enthralled. Eventually, he found
himself more enchanted by Claire’s reaction to her friend’s poetry
than by the performance itself.

      
Appreciation
of loyalty was one of the few absolutes in Tom’s life. Truth, justice,
peace, security, wealth—he’d lived without those commodities countless
times, but without the loyalty of his fellows, in battle or on the frontier,
he’d have been dead a long time ago. He’d been loyal to his comrades,
too, no matter what he thought of them as individuals, and he honored
the attribute when he saw it. In this case, given the idiocy of Dianthe’s
poetry, he awarded Claire extra points for her own allegiance.

      
The
lights in the ballroom had been dimmed by judicious snuffing-out of
selected candles in the wall sconces. The faint light flickered against
Claire’s lenses as she leaned forward so she wouldn’t miss a single
word of her friend’s rendering. As Tom examined Claire’s features
critically, he decided their overall effect was intriguing rather than
beautiful. He recalled his first glimpse of her and wondered how he
could have thought her dull. First impressions often led one astray.

      
He’d
never have guessed, for example, that in the brief time he’d known
Claire, he’d start having fantasies about her. But he had. He was
having one right this minute, in fact.

      
She
must have sensed his scrutiny because after of one of Dianthe’s more
ridiculous verses, she turned her head, smiled at him and whispered,
“Are you enjoying your first Artistic Evening, Mr. Partington?”

      
“Er,
yes. Yes indeed.”

      
“Dianthe’s
poem is stirring, isn’t it?”

      
“It
certainly is.”

      
It
almost, in fact, stirred him to sleep when he decided he’d better
pay attention to the stage for a while. A burst of clapping jolted him
out of the first stages of slumber. He hoped he hadn’t been so gauche
as to snore.

      
Next
to perform was Sylvester Addison-Addison, who not only held a lily,
but also took great pains to inform his audience that he considered
them beneath him. At least that was the impression he left with Tom,
who shook his head in wonder. Sylvester read several phenomenally boring
pages from his opus, and this time Tom actually did fall sleep.

      
Claire
wondered if she would ever get used to the sight of Tom Partington.
She hoped so because if she had to endure these incredible pangs every
time she looked at him, she wasn’t sure how long she could last. Alert,
he was magnificent. In repose, he was perfect.

      
He
hadn’t seemed to find Dianthe’s ode banal, but had watched her performance
with evident pleasure. With a sigh, Claire told herself she’d expected
as much. Indeed, she was glad her spiteful wish hadn’t been fulfilled.

      
She
wasn’t surprised he’d fallen asleep during Sylvester’s chapter.
Sylvester’s prose, while uplifting, was geared to an audience that
hadn’t led the exciting life Tom Partington had lived. Sylvester also
had a mean streak, and Claire wondered why she’d never noticed it
before. She was frowning when he finally stopped droning on about those
wretched Greek ruins of his. The applause was polite rather than enthusiastic.

      
At
the first clap, she turned to Tom, who jolted awake in an instant. She
wanted to put her hand on his arm to calm him, but knew it wasn’t
her place to do such a thing. Instead she smiled.

      
Blinking,
he murmured, “Did he finally shut up?”

      
She
couldn’t help chuckling. “Indeed he did, Mr. Partington.”

      
“Thank
God.”

      
The
audience had begun to rise, and Tom and Claire did likewise. Scruggs,
Mrs. Philpott and a boy from the village had begun spreading refreshments
on a long table against the wall. Tom offered his arm to Claire and
led her over to the champagne.

      
He
handed her a glass and lifted his own. “To you, Miss Montague.”

      
“Heavens,
no, Mr. Partington. The toast must be to you. After all, if it weren’t
for you, this evening’s entertainment could never have taken place.”

      
With
a crooked grin that nearly made Claire’s knees buckle, Tom said, “Oh,
no you don’t. You’re not going to pin this one on me.”

      
“You
mean you didn’t enjoy it?”

      
“Don’t
look so scandalized, Miss Montague. I told you I wasn’t used to polite
company. You enjoyed it, and that’s what matters. Drink up. Anything
that gives you pleasure is a pleasure to me.”

      
“Those
are very pretty words, Mr. Partington, but I was so hoping you would
take an interest . . . Oh, Mr. Partington, did you hate it?” Claire
felt a foolish urge to cry.

      
His
expression was sweet when he said, “Of course I didn’t hate it,
Miss Montague. I enjoyed the evening very much. In fact, I’m still
enjoying it. Now drink your champagne, my dear.”

      
“Thank
you.”

      
Still
feeling shaky, Claire sipped her wine. She wanted to question Tom further,
to determine if he was merely humoring her or if he truly cared about
the arts. She thought she’d die if she discovered he had agreed to
this entertainment for no better reason than to amuse his housekeeper.

      
As
the idea that he might have done such a thing for her began to settle
in her heart, however, she almost choked on her champagne. Good heavens!
Could it be true?

      
All
at once, Claire realized how foolish she was being. Of course, he hadn’t
put on the Artistic Evening for her. He’d done it for Dianthe. Beautiful
Dianthe. Brilliant Dianthe. Ethereal, lovely Dianthe. Of course. Silly
Claire.

      
There
was no time to repine, however, because the refreshment table had been
discovered and seemed to draw Tom’s guests like a magnet. Or like
maggots, as her father might have said.

      
She
frowned, wishing she could stop remembering her crafty father’s crude
sayings. She wished she could stop thinking about her father. She’d
had no reason to think about him until she’d begun to lie to Tom Partington.
Maybe her unhappy suspicion that bad blood ran in the family was true.

      
Tangled
web
, sang in Claire’s brain to the ugly tune Freddy had played
on his flute, and she felt unhappy for a moment. A voice intruded into
her despair.

      
“I’m
sorry about what I said, Claire.”

      
She
turned to discover Sylvester Addison-Addison standing at her elbow.
Priscilla Pringle’s talons were firmly attached to his arm and his
lily had begun to droop.

      
Since
she wasn’t sure she should believe what her ears had just heard, she
stammered, “I—I beg your pardon?”

      
“About
your hair. I didn’t mean to sound churlish. It actually looks very
nice. I like the curls in front and the twist in back. It’s quite
elegant.”

      
If
Claire hadn’t been so stunned by Sylvester’s apology—the first
she’d ever heard him utter—she might have taken note of the word
“elegant.” It had been used to describe her quite often recently.
As it was, she mentally filed it away and planned to take it out to
examine more closely later. Right now, she allowed her mouth to drop
open in awe.

      
“Thank
you so much, Sylvester. How nice of you. I don’t believe you’ve
ever begged pardon of anyone for being churlish before. I feel honored.”

      
Sylvester’s
face crumpled into petulance at once. “Well, by God, I—ow!”

      
Startled
by his cry of pain, Claire’s eyes opened wide when she saw Mrs. Pringle’s
fingers loosen on his coat sleeve. Her nails were long, and they must
have pinched terribly.

      
“I
mean,” said Sylvester after dragging in a deep breath, “I do like
your new hairstyle, Claire. It suits you admirably.”

      
To
spare him further pain, Claire said simply, “Thank you, Sylvester.
Your reading tonight was . . . flawless.” She expected that might
be true.

      
“Wasn’t
he wonderful?” Mrs. Pringle asked. She fluttered her lashes at Sylvester,
who gave her a smile that made Claire’s eyes open wide again.

      
“Yes.
Yes, he was wonderful,” she murmured.

      
“And
he’s quite right, you know, Claire. You should wear your hair like
that all the time. It looks simply wonderful. And that gown becomes
you much better than it did me. Why, you look quite pretty this evening.”

      
“Thank
you, Priscilla.”

      
“Come
along, Sylvester. You promised me a crab patty.”

      
“Yes,
Mrs. Pringle.”

      
“Priscilla,”
Claire heard her say coyly. “You know I keep telling you to call me
Priscilla, Sylvester darling.”

      
When
Mrs. Pringle whacked Sylvester’s arm playfully with her fan, Claire
was shocked. My goodness. Could the flirty widow be setting her sights
on Sylvester Addison-Addison? If she was, it might be just as well for
the citizens of Pyrite Springs. If Sylvester married a rich woman, he
wouldn’t have to work anymore and Mr. Gilbert might hire a civil clerk
to work in his mercantile establishment.

      
“Claire!”

      
She
swirled around to encounter Dianthe, wafting toward her on Jedediah
Silver’s arm, her white-and-black-speckled dress fluttering around
her like a butterfly’s wings. Dianthe had her arms outstretched, and
Claire clasped Dianthe’s hands in hers, her earlier uncharitable thoughts
engulfed by genuine affection for her friend.

      
“Your
ode was wonderful, Dianthe and your dance utterly charming.”

      
“Wasn’t
she magnificent?”

      
Claire
wasn’t sure she approved of the look of devotion in Jedediah’s eyes.
Nevertheless, she said, “Indeed, she was. Why, the poem was so—so—so
appropriate.”

      
Jedediah
subsided into silent worship and Dianthe blushed. Now Claire was sure
she didn’t approve. If Tom Partington was in love with Dianthe, it
would never do for Dianthe to take a liking to Jedediah Silver. As envious
as Claire was of Tom’s possible regard for Dianthe, she would never
wish him to suffer from unrequited love. As Claire herself did.

      
“Well,
Claire dear,” Dianthe said, her face alight with gaiety, “I suppose
we must be off. It is an artist’s duty to mingle with her patrons,
you know.”

      
“Of
course, Dianthe. Have a good time.”

      
“Thank
you. And thank you for planning this, Claire. I know it was your doing.”

      
“It
was nothing, really.”

      
Dianthe
gave her a sisterly kiss on the cheek, and Claire lifted her hand in
farewell as Dianthe and Jedediah drifted away. She wondered if she should
have tried to pry him away from Dianthe. With a sigh, she decided Tom
Partington, who was so very clever at everything, must be much more
adept at love games than plain dull Claire Montague. He’d just have
to wrest Dianthe away from Jedediah himself this evening if he wanted
her.

      
The
party was quite jolly. Everybody seemed to be having a splendid time,
laughing and chatting. Claire was both relieved and pleased. Even if
Tom had held the Artistic Evening merely to humor Dianthe, it was a
wonderful way to introduce himself to his new neighbors. She watched
him smile and converse with Mrs. Humphrey Albright and her husband,
Mr. Humphrey Albright, two of Pyrite Springs’s wealthiest citizens,
and knew a moment of complete satisfaction. He seemed to have a natural
talent for friendly intercourse.

      
Well,
of course. Why wouldn’t he? He’d met and chatted with all classes
of people in his career. Claire well remembered Gordon reading her the
newspaper article describing a Russian archduke’s hunting trip, guided
by Tom, into the vast American plains. He’d even been in the party
that went along with the president on his first visit west. He’d certainly
had a lot of practice hobnobbing with people of high social standing.
Why, Tom was a blue-blooded southern aristocrat himself, by birth.