Authors: Alice Duncan
Tom
poured her a glass of sherry and she took it, feeling a heady combination
of happiness and worry. She wasn’t worried about the success of the
evening. Mrs. Philpott had prepared a delightful dinner for the three
of them, and a variety of refreshments for the guests who would be arriving
shortly after dinner. The artists coming from the Pyrite Arms were primed
and ready; she’d visited the Arms this very morning to be sure. She
also knew herself to be an obsessively organized hostess. All was set
for the evening’s entertainment.
No;
she was worried about herself. She hadn’t tried to be anything but
a stuffy housekeeper for years; she wasn’t sure she could turn the
Housekeeper Claire into an attractive young woman without shattering
her or sending her slipping headlong into perdition. Achieving balance
was certainly proving to be a nerve-wracking proposition.
“Well,
you’re quite magnificent this evening, Miss Montague. The perfect
hostess. You do Partington Place—you do me—proud.”
“Thank
you very much, Mr. Partington.”
“You
certainly do, Miss Claire. Why, I don’t recall you ever looking so
lovely for one of these things.”
Daring
a mischievous grin, Claire murmured, “Mr. Partington suggested I add
some color to my life, and I took him at his word.”
Slanting
a peek at Tom, she found him staring at her as if enraptured, and she
glanced away again quickly. The look on his face frightened her; it
reminded of the looks on those long-gone-by men being cheated by her
father—when they’d gotten close enough for her to see. She pushed
her spectacles up on her nose; they hadn’t slipped, but they were
familiar and gave her a feeling of security. They also provided a barrier—admittedly
transparent—between herself and the world.
“I
never expected you to take my words so much to heart, Miss Montague.
But I’m very glad you did.”
At
least he didn’t sound like those other men. His voice was perfectly
respectful; not at all coarse or suggestive. She murmured, “Thank
you,” again.
“I
had Scruggs raid the wine cellar. He said Uncle Gordon was especially
fond of this sherry, so I hope it passes muster.” Tom lifted his glass.
“To the admirable Miss Montague, without whom neither Uncle Gordon
nor I could manage.”
“To
Miss Montague,” Jedediah repeated.
Claire
felt her cheeks burn hotter.
Tom’s
sherry almost got stuck in his throat. He hadn’t been so taken aback
since he’d heard about his uncle’s legacy. Claire took his breath
away. Jedediah had been right: she was stunning, even with those spectacles
perched on her nose. They didn’t detract from the overall impression
of attractiveness Claire exuded this evening; rather they added a unique
finish to a perfect picture.
Tom
didn’t understand it, nor could he have explained it. All he knew
was that Claire Montague appeared this evening to be the personification
of everything he’d worked so hard to attain in his life. She was the
embodiment of all that he’d ever struggled, fought and toiled for;
the diametrical opposite, in fact, of his frivolous, unpromising roots.
He
wanted to throw his head back and laugh and then throw his arms around
Claire and kiss her. This was it; he’d attained perfection, and it
was Partington Place and Claire Montague.
The
door opened and he had to leave off staring at his housekeeper.
“Dinner
is served,” Scruggs announced as though he were proclaiming the end
of the world.
“Thank
you, Scruggs.”
With
an imprudent leap up from his chair, which jarred his scarred leg, Tom
managed to offer Claire his arm a scant second before Jedediah could
perform the same service. “Miss Montague,” he said through gritted
teeth.
He
was almost grateful for his foolishness when she clutched his arm with
both hands and cried in alarm, “Good heavens, Mr. Partington, are
you all right?”
Her
gown was not low-cut, but when she held her arms just so, Tom could
detect a delicious hint of cleavage He gave her a reassuring smile.
“Fine, fine, Miss Montague. My leg acts up when the weather’s cold
or wet.”
“Goodness,
and it looks as if it’s going to start snowing any day now. I’m
so sorry, Mr. Partington. Is this from the wound you sustained at Gettysburg?”
Tom
decided having Claire’s bosom pressed against his arm was almost worth
having aggravated one of his old injuries. “Actually, that one’s
in the left leg and doesn’t bother me too much. This one was from
the arrow I took in ‘74 up in Wyoming.”
“My
goodness, Mr. Partington, what an incredibly adventurous life you’ve
lived.”
For
the first time, Tom forgot to be sorry that his uncle used to romanticize
his life to Claire. It felt pretty good to be idolized by her this evening.
“It’s
had its moments,” he said, patting her hand. He wanted to pat further,
but knew she’d object. “I appreciate your concern, Miss Montague.”
She
blinked at him, her chocolate-brown eyes wide and quite beautiful beneath
her sparkling lenses. “Anything I can do to make your life more comfortable
is my prime concern, Mr. Partington.”
As
her proximity and sweet cosseting had begun to awaken exceedingly improper
urges in Tom, he declined to suggest the most appealing way in which
she might consummate her prime concern. Instead, he saw her to her chair
as a gentleman should and seated himself at the head of the table.
They
dined on escalloped oysters, roast beef and, at Claire’s suggestion,
Yorkshire pudding made the way Mrs. Philpott’s mother used to make
it back home in England. Also at her suggestion, champagne was served
in honor of Tom’s first Artistic Evening in his new manor. Scruggs
poured the bubbling wine as though he were doling out poison.
Sipping
his champagne, Tom looked from his new friend, Jedediah Silver, to his
new housekeeper, Claire Montague, and wondered how she’d take to fulfilling
another role in his life.
#
# #
Tom
breathed a sigh of relief when the handsome, albeit grumpy-looking Sylvester
Addison-Addison passed under the archway and into the small ballroom
and Priscilla Pringle spotted him. She dropped his coat sleeve to which
she’d been clinging and darted away to greet Sylvester.
Tom
brushed the wrinkle out of his sleeve and cocked a brow at Claire. “Good
Lord, I didn’t think I’d ever be happy to see that surly puppy.”
She
giggled, which warmed Tom’s heart. “It’s merely that Mrs. Pringle
admires you, Mr. Partington.”
“She
seemed bent on tormenting me.”
“Nonsense!
She finds you handsome and fascinating. Indeed, who can blame her? You
look very elegant this evening, which only adds intrigue to your magnificent
reputation.”
“You
can’t get out of it that easily, Miss Montague. The woman was plaguing
me, and I expect you to take better care of me than that for the rest
of the evening.”
The
flush in Claire’s cheeks deepened, and Tom felt a mad impulse to sweep
her into his arms and make off with her, and to hell with these silly
artists. Of course, he did no such thing.
This
whole scenario seemed right to him, though: he and Claire, greeting
visitors to his home, playing host and hostess to what passed for high
society in Pyrite Springs. Even the flirty Mrs. Pringle had added an
amusing interlude. He could imagine if he and Claire were, say, a married
couple, they’d laugh about Mrs. Pringle’s antics over breakfast
on the morrow.
What
was he thinking of? Good Lord. They’d laugh about it over breakfast
tomorrow anyway. They didn’t have to commit anything as foolish as
marriage in order to do that. Thank God.
People
were pouring into the room by this time. The small ballroom was only
small when compared to the large ballroom on the floor beneath. It was
actually a very large room, with a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows
leading out onto a pretty balcony where folks could stroll in warm weather.
The curtains were drawn over the windows tonight, and Tom didn’t expect
the balcony would see much use. Except, maybe, by him when the crush
of people got to him and he had to flee. The chilly weather didn’t
daunt him; he’d lived through blizzards on the prairie countless times.
“Oh,
there’s Dianthe!” Claire rushed over to her friend and clasped her
hands. Dianthe seemed equally pleased to see Claire. Her smile would
have made Michelangelo’s heart palpitate and his palms itch to paint
her.
___¯Watching
both ladies critically, Tom decided that, while it was true Dianthe
was the more classically beautiful of the two, Claire possessed more
natural animation. Probably because she possessed a bigger soul. And
a bigger brain.
Tom
sensed undercurrents to Claire; undercurrents he’d like to explore
one of these days, by hand. The only thing he’d sensed thus far in
Dianthe was physical beauty, which he granted she possessed in abundance.
He guessed she’d never had to strive for much of anything, however,
and the blandness of her life expressed itself in her personality. He
was looking forward to her poetic rendition this evening as an opportunity
either to confirm his opinion or berate himself as being far too critical.
Good
old Jed didn’t seem to care about Dianthe’s relative lack of intellect,
Tom noticed with a grin. He was already hovering over her like a good
angel. Well, that was fine with Tom. Jed could have her. After the struggles
he’d been through, the thought of being saddled with a mere ornament
made Tom’s teeth clench and his flesh crawl. His mother had been an
ornament, and Tom recalled with a shudder how much use she’d been
to anybody. Of course, his father hadn’t been much more than ornamental,
either.
Maybe
that’s what he should do for his parents, he thought suddenly, bring
them here. The notion held little appeal, but at least if they were
in his home he could keep an eye on them and make sure they didn’t
get into trouble. Of course, if he invited them they probably wouldn’t
come. It would take an act of God to pry them away from Tuscaloosa,
where they lived among the fallen grandeur of a lost civilization; trading
on the family name for the necessities of life.
“God,
what a pair,” Tom muttered, scowling into the milling throng filling
up his ballroom but seeing his parents in his mind’s eye.
“Is
anything the matter, Mr. Partington?”
Startled,
Tom turned to behold a nervously fidgeting Claire. She looked worried,
and Tom’s heart was stirred by her concern.
“I
beg your pardon, Miss Montague, I didn’t mean to appear disobliging.
I was thinking about Alabama.”
“Oh.”
Claire was obviously perplexed.
“I’m
afraid I don’t harbor too many fond memories of my childhood home,”
Tom said by way of explanation.
“You
don’t?”
“I
don’t.”
A
crease appeared between her eyes and she said seriously, “I don’t,
either, Mr. Partington, but I’ve always envied people who have pleasant
memories of their childhoods. Such memories sound almost golden to me.”
This
time it was Tom who was perplexed. Before he could question her, she
took his arm. “But do come along with me, Mr. Partington. Why, I do
believe everybody to whom I sent an invitation is here this evening.
Let me introduce you to the mayor, Mr. Gilbert. Mr. Gilbert is a supporter
of the Pyrite Arms. At least,” she amended darkly, “he was.”
“Did
something happen to make him lose interest?” Tom asked curiously as
he allowed Claire to lead him across the floor.
“Not
exactly. In fact, his interest is probably keener than ever. Unfortunately.”
She muttered, “It was Sergei, you see.”
“Sergei?”
“I’ll
explain later, Mr. Partington.” They had apparently reached their
destination, because Claire tapped a portly gentleman on the shoulder
and he turned around, revealing an apple-cheeked countenance framed
by gray-flecked muttonchops and a similarly embellished mustache.
“Mr.
Partington, please allow me to introduce you to one of Pyrite Springs’
leading citizens, Alphonse Gilbert. Mr. Gilbert is our esteemed mayor.”
“How-do,
young man. I was right pleased to hear you’d be taking over the running
of the Place here. Your uncle made a great contribution to our community,
and I expect you’ll continue his good work.” Mr. Gilbert smiled
broadly and gave Tom’s hand an almost too-hearty shake.
Reflecting
that politicians were the same the world over, Tom returned Mr. Gilbert’s
smile. “Thank you, sir. I’ve appreciated what I’ve seen so far
of your fair city.”