Authors: Alice Duncan
“Silver
tells me you’re going to breed horses. I think that’s a fine ambition,
sir. A fine ambition. I expect a horse ranch will bring a lot of trade
to the neighborhood.”
“Thank
you,” murmured Tom.
Mr.
Gilbert turned to Claire. “And just look at the changes you’ve inspired
already. Why, I declare, I’ve never seen our Miss Montague look so
splendid. I expect we owe this transformation to your influence, Mr.
Partington.”
Alphonse
Gilbert possessed a politician’s voice, booming and genial, and Tom
supposed there was really no good reason for him to want to punch him
in the nose. Nevertheless, when he saw the mortified look on Claire’s
face, it was all he could do to keep from grabbing Gilbert by his bow
tie and slapping him down like a bad poker hand.
Since
he was in the very civilized environs of his own small ballroom, he
had to content himself with blowing a cloud of cigar smoke in Mr. Gilbert’s
face and saying tightly, “Miss Montague always looks charming, Mr.
Gilbert. My uncle could not have managed without her, and neither can
I.”
Gilbert
managed to choke out, “Quite, quite. I’m sure that’s true.”
Tom
didn’t wait to chat further with the oafish mayor. He clamped a hand
on Claire’s elbow and steered her toward Sylvester Addison-Addison.
“Don’t mind him, Miss Montague. The man’s a blockhead.”
Claire
still seemed somewhat embarrassed. She murmured, “Maybe Sergei was
right after all.”
Tom
looked at her inquiringly, and she shook her head. “I’ll have to
explain later, Mr. Partington. Here, please let me introduce you to
Mrs. Gaylord.”
On
the way, they passed Sylvester, who turned to glower at them. Mrs. Pringle
clung to his arm like a leech, and Tom hoped to God she’d keep her
predatory eyes turned in that direction. Tom, who had been contemplating
finding an obliging widow not more than a day or two earlier,___« wanted
nothing to do with the pretty, fluttery, widowed Mrs. Pringle.
Sylvester
sneered, “I see you’ve been led to visit that tedious harpy, Thelma
Grimsby, Claire.”
Before
Tom could snatch his arm away from Claire and deal with Sylvester Addison-Addison
as he deserved to be dealt with, Claire said pleasantly, “Glorietta,
do turn around and meet the young Mr. Partington.”
She
ignored Sylvester entirely. He frowned harder, and Tom decided perhaps
Claire’s method of handling the sulky twit was superior to his. Old
Sylvester seemed quite peeved about being ignored.
“Oh!”
came a high-pitched squeal from a clump of people milling around Sylvester.
Then,
in front of Tom’s very eyes, an enormous orange marshmallow emerged
from the jumble. Forgetting all about Sylvester Addison-Addison, he
peered more closely and discovered the creature to be, in reality, a
person of the female gender, but amazingly fleshy and draped in a brilliant
orange fabric. ___—It might have been silk, and it hung from beneath
the woman’s several chins, washing over her plump flesh like orange
ocean waves and sluicing to the floor where it puddled at what he assumed
were her feet.
“Mrs.
Glorietta Gaylord, may I present Mr. Tom Partington. Mr. Partington,
as you may have assumed from this wonderful gathering, plans to continue
his uncle’s good works at the Pyrite Arms.” Claire beamed at Tom,
admiration shining from beneath her lenses.
Tom
managed to shut his mouth, which had fallen open at the bursting forth
of Mrs. Gaylord. He felt his eyes go round again when, from the voluminous
folds of orange, a chubby hand emerged. He took it and his eyes traveled
up the amazing garment to discover a face wreathed in a smile. The hair
surrounding the face was nearly as orange as the garment, and dyed-orange
feathers had been stabbed into its upswept curls. He mumbled, “How
do you do, Mrs. Gaylord?” and felt quite proud of himself.
“I’m
very well, thank you, Mr. Partington,” she said cheerfully. “And,
please, don’t be shy about revealing your astonishment at my colorful
appearance. At the moment my entire life is an homage to the marigold.
I honor the magnificent marigold in dress as in art. In fact, I have
brought you one of my renderings this evening, as a welcoming gift.”
“How
nice of you, Glorietta!”
Claire
clapped her hands together and looked so pleased, Tom found himself
murmuring, “Er, yes. Thank you very much.” All that vibrant orange
was making him feel a trifle bilious. He hoped they wouldn’t have
to chat long with the ebullient Mrs. Gaylord or his oysters might rebel.
“I
gave it to Scruggs on my way in, dear,” Mrs. Gaylord said to Claire.
“I’m
sure he’s put it somewhere safe.”
“Maybe
we’d better go and check, Miss Montague,” Tom suggested, grabbing
her arm and yanking her away. “Nice to meet you,” he called over
his shoulder.
Claire’s
soft laugh made him look down at her. ___„ “Are you laughing at
me?”
“I
am sorry, Mr. Partington. Perhaps I should have warned you.”
“Maybe
so.”
“She’s
really a lovely woman. But she claims she wants to perfect the marigold
before she moves on to other flowers. I’ll actually be glad when she
gets to roses, because they come in more colors. Perhaps anemones would
give her even broader scope.”
“I
don’t think her scope needs to be any broader,” Tom muttered.
Claire
laughed and smacked his arm gently in reproof. “But she truly is a
fine artist. I’ll be curious to see the painting she brought you.”
“Will
it be orange?”
“I
expect so. Orange and perhaps yellow.”
“I
see. I suppose we can hang it in the downstairs washroom.”
“Oh,
there’s Sergei.” Claire said suddenly, pulling him along behind
her.
“The
one you don’t blame?”
She
shot him a teasing look. “Exactly.”
“Is
there anything I need to know about this one before we’re introduced?”
“Just
don’t get him started talking about souls.”
Souls.
Tom looked ___≈at Claire’s gleaming hair bouncing along before him
and mumbled, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
After
Claire’s introduction, Sergei ignored Tom’s out-thrust hand, clicked
his heels, and bowed from the waist, his arms held rigidly at his sides.
“Sergei,”
Claire whispered to Tom by way of explanation, “is Russian.”
“I
see,” said Tom, who wasn’t sure he did.
With
a sweeping look at Tom which encompassed his person from the top of
his head to the tips of his evening shoes, Sergei declared, “I shall
paint your soul.”
“You
shall?” After Claire’s brief warning about Sergei and souls, Tom
was surprised to have the subject thrust at him so abruptly. He wondered
how one went about painting somebody’s soul. Were souls as easy to
get at as, say, barn doors? “Er, how do you paint somebody’s soul,
Mr. Ivanov?”
Sergei
slapped his chest. “It is in here.”
Tom
looked at the hand spread over Sergei’s evening jacket. “It is?”
“Dah.
I look into the eyes and see ___‡the soul. I put the soul on canvas.”
“Perhaps
you’d better wait until you know Mr. Partington a little better before
you attempt to do his portrait, Sergei. Remember what happened with
Mr. Gilbert.”
“Bah!”
Sergei cried with evident contempt. “I paint the truth, and he cannot
bear it!”
Claire
patted his shoulder sympathetically. “At least I understand he’s
dropped charges.”
Sergei
muttered another “Bah!” and turned to stare morosely into the fireplace.
“Oh,
dear,” Claire whispered into Tom’s ear. “I think he’s going
to brood now. You know these Russians.”
Tom
grinned at her. He liked having her lips so close to his ear. “Well,
no, Miss Montague. Actually, I don’t.”
“Oh,
look!” cried Claire.
This
time she reached for Tom’s hand. He wasn’t sure if she knew she’d
done something so intimate, but he wasn’t about to point it out to
her.
Chuckling,
he asked, “And just what’s in store for me this time? Another mad
Russian?”
“Certainly
not. It’s Freddy. And he’s brought his flute. That must mean he’s
managed to compose an accompaniment to Dianthe’s poem.”
“Really.”
Tom guessed he was pleased, although he couldn’t imagine what kind
of music would go with a poem called “In Praise of the Spotted Horse.”
Particularly on a flute. He could understand a drum, maybe.
“Freddy!”
Claire called.
When
a tall, angular, red-headed man turned around to smile at Claire, an
action that lifted his drooping mustache considerably, Tom decided it
was foolish of him to be surprised. All of her artist friends were odd
to varying degrees; he guessed Freddy March might just as well look
like a hunting hound in a plaid coat as an orange marshmallow. Still,
it was rather disconcerting to be looking at a fellow who might have
passed as a younger version of Tom’s father riding to hounds. He summoned
up a smile and shook Freddy’s hand politely.
“Oh,
Freddy, I’m so eager to hear what you’ve composed for Dianthe’s
poem.”
“I
hope you’ll be pleased, Claire. It took me forever.”
As
soon as the first word left Freddy’s mouth, all resemblance to his
father fled from Tom’s mind. Whereas Tom’s father spoke in a silky
Southern purr, Freddy March twanged. Tom wondered that he hadn’t chosen
to play the banjo.
He
didn’t have time to ponder the vagaries of human nature, however,
because Mrs. Gaylord, who had been elected by some process beyond Tom’s
ken as the mistress of ceremonies, whistled from the staging area erected
in the front of the ballroom. He clapped his hands over his ears, and
noticed others doing the same. Shoot. He hadn’t heard a whistle like
that since he was a boy. He was impressed.
After
her whistle had silenced the room, Mrs. Gaylord spoke. “Friends, as
you know, we are gathered here today at the invitation of Mr. Thomas
Partington, new owner of Partington Place.”
Cheers
and applause burst forth. Surprised, Tom waved and smiled and hoped
he wasn’t expected to perform.
After
the clapping died down, Mrs. Gaylord continued. “We five artists at
the Pyrite Arms have long been in debt to the late Mr. Gordon Partington.
Even though sweet Gordon has endowed the Arms in perpetuity through
a magnanimous gift in his will, I was perfectly thrilled when Miss Montague
told me the young Mr. Partington would be continuing his uncle’s patronage
of the Arms.
More
cheers. More smiles. Another wave. He’d had no idea being rich could
be such a pain. When he looked at Claire, however, and found her positively
glowing at him, he decided acting the gent for this pack of fools was
a small price to pay.
“Since
Sergei and I alone among the residents of the Arms are not performance
artists, I wanted to take this opportunity to present Mr. Partington
with a gift.” Mrs. Gaylord turned—a process that sent Tom back into
his boyhood when he and his cousin George used to inspect pumpkins before
carving autumnal jack-o’-lanterns—and called, “All right, Scruggs.
You can bring it in now.”
It
took all of Tom’s control to keep from shouting with laughter when
Scruggs, looking as miserable as a man had any right to look, slumped
out onto the stage, bearing an enormous painting.
“Good
Lord, it is orange.”
“Marigolds
are orange, Mr. Partington, when they aren’t yellow,” Claire murmured
apologetically.
“I
suppose. Well, the downstairs washroom’s too small, I reckon.” He
peeked at her and grinned. “I’ll let you find a suitable place for
the thing.”
With
a distinct twinkle, she whispered, “There’s always the bare spot
over the dining room fireplace.”
“Please,”
Tom said with a shudder, “consider our digestion, Miss Montague.”
“Very
well.”
She
giggled again, and Tom’s heart went all mushy. Damn, he liked Claire
Montague.
_
Chapter
10
Halfway
through Dianthe St. Sauvre’s rendition of “In Praise of the Spotted
Horse,” complete with flute accompaniment by Freddy March, Tom still
liked Claire Montague. He had, however, begun to harbor serious doubts
about her sanity.