Secret Hearts (3 page)

      
“Yes,
indeed, Mr. Partington. The late Mr. Partington was very kind to me.
He took me on—that is to say, he hired me—ten years ago, knowing
I hadn’t a particle of housekeeping experience. We became more in
the nature of father and daughter, I suppose, than employer and employee.”
She heaved a tiny sigh. “He was a kind man, and I miss him very much.
He used to absolutely delight in sharing your adventures with me.”

      
She
looked at him shyly, and Tom felt a tiny twitch of tenderness in his
heart.

      
“I
would carry the tales of your exciting adventures to the kitchen and
regale Mrs. Philpott and Scruggs with them. They were every bit as fascinated
by them as I was.”

      
Oh,
Lord. This was worse than Tom thought. On the other hand, he decided,
taking another look around, he guessed he could stand it. He settled
for a short, “I see,” and decided to drop the subject.

      
They
drank tea in silence for a few more minutes. Tom said, “Are you, Scruggs
and Mrs. Philpott the only . . . employees on the estate, Miss Montague?”
Unused to having dependents, Tom wasn’t entirely certain what to call
them.

      
“Good
heavens, no, Mr. Partington. Why, there are two housemaids, Sally and
Dolores—we call her Dolly—a chief gardener, Mr. Hodges, his two
helpers, Carlos and Rodrigo, and a host of people who work on the farm.
Mr. Silver can explain the workings of the farm to you, I suppose. I’m
afraid my expertise is limited to the house itself.” Peering demurely
into her teacup, she added somewhat bashfully, “And the garden.”

      
“I
see. Well, Miss Montague, if you’re through with your tea, perhaps
you wouldn’t mind taking me on a tour of my new home.”

      
Claire
put her cup and saucer down with a clank and popped up from her chair.
“Certainly, Mr. Partington. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

      
Good
grief. If that were true, she must lead an extraordinarily dull life.
But, no. It was probably an empty social cliché and not to be taken
seriously. Thinking he really should have studied civilization for a
few more days before he tried living in it, Tom followed Claire Montague
out of Uncle Gordon’s parlor.

      
No.
His
parlor. Tom sighed with satisfaction.

# # #

      
Claire
escaped from Tom Partington’s company as soon as she could. Not that
she didn’t find him utterly fascinating; he was all too fascinating
for her peace of mind, in fact. It’s just that being in the company
of the real Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee had inspired her to greater heights
of literary fancy than she ever could have imagined even two or three
hours ago.

      
With
a feeling bordering on ecstasy, she sat at her desk and unlocked her
special drawer. Pulling out the manuscript of her latest dime novel,
she bent industriously to her task, writing far into the night. Even
when she finally forced herself to climb into her bed and pull the quilt
up to her chin, she stared at her ceiling, too excited to sleep.

      
He
had come at last. And he was everything Claire had hoped he would be.
More. Polite, handsome, cultured, elegant: He was absolutely perfect.

# # #

      
Tom
pulled out every drawer and opened every cupboard in the library and
then in the pantry before he found a bottle containing distilled spirits.
He took it into the library with him and, after staring at the label
in bemusement for several seconds, poured himself a stiff one.

      
Lifting
his glass, he saluted his uncle’s portrait. “To you, Uncle Gordo,
damn your eyes.” After a big swallow and a shudder, he added, “Good
God. Why on earth did you ever start drinking cognac?”

      
His
tour of his new home had been unremarkable except that Tom felt like
pinching himself every now and then to make sure he was awake and this
wasn’t a dream spawned by years of back-breaking work and desperate
wishes.

      
He’d
also found himself enjoying the company of Miss Claire Montague. Oh,
it’s true she was starchy, reserved and majestic. Still, she seemed
remarkably efficient and she hadn’t appeared to be offended by his
occasional gaffes. Like when he’d called his “boudoir” the dressing
room. Or when he’d asked, when shown the wine cellar, if his uncle
hadn’t kept any regular booze around the place.

      
He
guessed he had a lot about gracious living to get used to. He’d manage,
though. Sighing deeply, he sank into an armchair, still gazing at his
uncle’s portrait. His contented expression gave way to a frown after
another sip of the fine, aged cognac.

      
Tom
knew the old story, about how Gordon Partington had wooed the beautiful
belle, Melinda Grace Hartwell and how, on the eve of their engagement
party, Gordon’s dashing older brother, Grant, had swept Melinda off
her feet.

      
Tom
often thought marrying his father wasn’t the brightest thing his mother
had ever done. Of course, marrying his mother wasn’t the brightest
thing his father had ever done, either. But then, Tom was a practical
person, unlike either of his parents. God alone knew how he’d managed
to end up that way; must be a throwback to an earlier generation.

      
Barring
his love for Tom’s mother, Uncle Gordon had been practical, too, and
he’d done really well for himself. Tom’s gaze swept the room yet
again. The furnishings of this room alone were worth more than his parents’
entire household in Alabama; Tom would bet anything on it if he were
a betting man. Being the practical person he was, however, Tom didn’t
gamble.

      
It
was practicality that had seen him into the army even though he knew
the Confederacy was doomed. He’d had to get away from home, and the
army was the only way he could see to do it without breaking his parents’
hearts. They, being the fanciful, addle-pated fools they were, had thought
he was being noble.

      
Tom
rested his head on the back of the chair and stared moodily at the ceiling.
Noble! Lord. Well, he guessed his old uncle Gordo had thought he was
noble, too. Why on earth else would he have left him this magnificent
estate?

      
Now
Tom would have to figure out how to help his parents without giving
them money outright. If he simply handed them cash, they’d fritter
it away, sure as anything. With a heavy sigh, he decided he’d tackle
that problem later. Right now he planned to wallow in fine cognac and
newly acquired riches.

      
And
horses. Tom grinned as he contemplated Jedediah Silver’s visit on
the morrow. Silver would be able to tell him if his dream were doomed
or if Tom could at last indulge his fondest wish.

      
Good
old Uncle Gordo. Even if he had made Tom’s life miserable in some
respects, the old fellow had certainly done him a good turn by leaving
him his estate and his fortune. Perhaps unrequited love, the very thought
of which stirred Tom’s pragmatic soul to wry amusement, wasn’t such
an idiotic waste after all. It had benefited Tom Partington, for a pure
fact.

      
Tom
pulled out another slim cheroot, sipped his cognac, and wrinkled his
nose. The wretched stuff had probably cost a damned fortune. With a
grin, he decided he could get used to it.

Chapter 2
 

      
At
Tom’s request, Claire took breakfast with him at eight o’clock the
following morning. She was in the dining room, in fact, when Tom pushed
the door open. Claire looked up eagerly—and dropped her fork.

      
“You
shaved off your mustache!”

      
Tom
stopped dead in the doorway and blinked at her, obviously startled.
Claire was too shocked to be appalled by her shrill bellow.

      
How
could he have done such a dastardly thing? Why, Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee’s
mustache was dashing! It was gorgeous! It was what distinguished Tuscaloosa
Tom from a thousand other, inferior, frontier scouts! How in the name
of heaven could he have shaved it off? She suppressed an impulse to
surge from her chair and pummel him.

      
“I
beg your pardon?”

      
Tom’s
puzzled voice gradually penetrated Claire’s rage and astonishment,
and she realized she’d just shrieked at her employer. Immediately,
she felt her cheeks get hot, and she knew she’d turned beet-red. Good
heavens, what on earth was she thinking of? She sucked in a deep breath.
She hadn’t thought at all, was the problem.

      
With
the cheerless knowledge that her breeding had again blindsided her,
Claire tore her gaze away from her employer’s naked face and bowed
her head. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Partington. I don’t know what possessed
me to shout at you in that unseemly way. Please forgive me.”

      
Humiliation
still burned her cheeks. Claire wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d
fired her on the spot. She was, therefore, doubly amazed when she heard
his throaty chuckle. Although she feared what she might see, she dared
lift her head a fraction and looked at him.

      
He’d
recovered from his shock at her indiscreet shout, and was grinning broadly
as he headed to the sideboard and began heaping his plate with food.
“Sorry to startle you, Miss Montague. Didn’t know anyone would miss
it.”

      
Didn’t
know anyone would miss it? Good heavens, Claire loved that mustache.
She’d written about it endlessly. Depending on the circumstances her
hero faced, that dashing mustache of his bristled or drooped or lifted
or dripped or sparkled with ice crystals in winter. Claire swallowed
hard. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Partington. How foolish you must think
me.” She tried to laugh, but a laugh wouldn’t come. He’d shaved
off his mustache. Claire could hardly stand it.

# # #

      
As
breakfast progressed, however, Claire, who kept shooting surreptitious
peeks at Tom’s face, decided her world might not be over yet. In truth,
his mouth, which was a work of art in itself, actually looked quite
good without the frame of its famous mustache. In fact, Claire discovered
herself staring in a most unbecoming manner at his lips. She frowned
and tore her gaze away. There was her low breeding again, exhibiting
itself in an indelicate way just when she least expected it.

      
Well,
she’d overcome her background before, and she could continue to do
so. Claire told herself to stop being foolish and concentrate on efficiency.
Efficiency is what Mr. Partington expected of her, and efficiency she
would give him.

      
“Mr.
Silver will be arriving at ten, Mr. Partington.” She took a bite of
ham, although she really was too nervous to be hungry. Merely being
in the same room with this man, this ideal of her heart, made her stomach
flutter.

      
His
spectacular blue eyes sparkled at her from across the table. His mustache,
Claire thought with a pang, would have drooped just enough to give him
the air of an antebellum Southern gentleman getting ready to ride to
hounds. Somewhat grudgingly, she decided he carried the air off rather
well even without the mustache. Also, his broad shoulders filled the
master’s chair much more fully than had his uncle’s. Claire decided
maybe she didn’t miss his mustache too much after all. She tried not
to stare.

      
The
breakfast room was much more intimate a chamber than the dining room.
It had the capacity to seat only twelve people easily. This morning,
with her senses completely overwrought, Claire would have felt more
comfortable with twenty feet of mahogany between herself and her new
employer, especially since she’d already managed to make a complete
fool of herself before the day had barely begun.

      
“I’m
looking forward to meeting him, Miss Montague. I have all sorts of questions
to ask.”

      
“I’m
sure you will find him very forthcoming, Mr. Partington. The late Mr.
Partington said he’d found a treasure in Jedediah Silver.”

      
“I’m
certain he said the same of his housekeeper,” Tom offered gallantly,
making Claire blush like a schoolgirl.

      
She
sputtered something incomprehensible and felt like an idiot. What a
noble soul he was, to say such a thing after her behavior only minutes
earlier! Claire guessed she could survive without his mustache so much
after all.

      
He
continued, “After breakfast, perhaps you’d do me the kindness of
showing me the estate grounds. I know you don’t have much to do with
the farm, but you mentioned gardens. I’ve always wanted a garden.”

      
Tom
took a sip of coffee. Gordon Partington had imported his coffee from
Jamaica, and it was generally considered excellent. Tom seemed to like
it, for which Claire was glad.

      
It
surprised her to detect the note of unalloyed excitement in her new
employer’s demeanor. She’d have expected such a well-traveled, heroic
man of the world to be used to grand estates and elegant appointments.

      
Nevertheless,
she met his smile with one of her own that she hoped didn’t declare
too openly the adoration she felt for him. “I’d be happy to, Mr.
Partington. Your uncle allowed me quite a free hand in the gardens.
I hope you will approve.”