Authors: Alice Duncan
“Well,
now, Claire, I don’t know. That’s what I was trying to find out,
because you sure didn’t look happy when I saw you.”
“I
didn’t?” Claire said in a very small voice.
“No.
You didn’t. And I was sure he was walking away from you at the time.”
“Is—is
that why you went to town? To meet the—the portly gentleman you thought
had been with me?”
Was
Tom Partington actually saying that he’d tried to track her father
down for her sake? Because he was worried about her? Searching his face
for clues, Claire saw only the features she’d loved for so long; she
couldn’t read his mind, more’s the pity.
“I
don’t like to see you unhappy, Claire,” Tom said, his smile rueful.
“Thank
you, Mr. Partington.” Nobody had ever told Claire that he didn’t
like to see her unhappy. It was undoubtedly the kindest thing anyone
had ever said to her. She deemed the truth too pathetic to admit aloud,
so she said, rather unsteadily, “My I fix you a remedy I’ve heard
is good for your particular ailment?”
The
least she could do for this wonderful, wonderful man was mix him up
a dose of her father’s physic for when he’d overindulged. She hadn’t
thought she’d ever find anything she’d learned as a child useful,
but perhaps she’d been wrong.
“You
know a hangover tonic?” Tom sounded incredulous.
“A
housekeeper’s duties are many and varied, Mr. Partington,” she said
vaguely.
“It’s
hard for me to imagine my uncle Gordon getting himself into this predicament.”
“He
never did.” Tom looked at her curiously and Claire scrambled for purchase
along the slippery path of her many deceptions. “I, er . . . I learned
it during the course of another employment, you see.” It was the truth,
more or less, Claire told herself.
“You
worked for somebody less sober than my abstemious uncle, I presume.”
“Yes.”
And that was definitely the truth.
“Thank
you, Claire. I’d appreciate a dose of your cure.”
“All
right. Then it would be best if you were to lie down for an hour or
so with your eyes closed.”
He
sounded almost meek when he said, “All right.”
So
Tom drank Claire’s concoction. It tasted vile and he didn’t quite
dare ask what was in it. Then he allowed himself to lie down on his
bed with a cool damp cloth over his eyes, even though he’d wanted
to discuss horses and stables with Jedediah Silver.
When
he arose an hour later, however, his headache gone and his stomach no
longer rebellious, he mentally added one more feather to Claire’s
cap. The woman was incredible, and he wanted her more than he’d ever
wanted anything—even his horses.
Somehow
or other, he was going to discover what was troubling her and eliminate
it. Along the way, he was going to win her love.
# # #
The
two and a half weeks between the reemergence of Claude Montague into
his daughter’s life and Christmas passed quickly. Claire was terribly
busy, and being busy allowed her to submerge her problems under activity.
Besides, she loved the hustle and bustle attached to the season. As
the days passed and her father stayed away, the threat of exposure seemed
to fade. Claire supposed she was living in a fool’s paradise, but
she decided to enjoy the peace while she could and resume worrying about
her problems later.
It
didn’t take her more than a couple of days to get used to her new
hair style after her initial unsuccessful attempt to tame her curls.
She even admitted, to herself, that the soft “do” flattered her
more than those braided coils she’d had tacked to her head for ten
years. One morning, she actually found herself admiring the way the
sun brought out the red highlights in her hair and made it glisten.
Of
course when she realized she was primping, she stopped at once and lectured
herself for fifteen minutes about vanity, the wages of sin, and need
to be ever vigilant lest her bad blood show. Until Tom complimented
her on her appearance. Then she forgot all about vilifying herself and
wondered if Miss Thelma had her plaid skirt ready yet. She was ever
so pleased to discover that not only was the plaid skirt ready, but
her blue sateen evening gown and one of her blouses were also waiting
for her when she paid the modiste a visit.
That
evening when Dianthe came to dine at Partington Place, she, Tom, and
Jedediah were very kind in their praise of her new style in dress. Claire
felt pleased with herself and not at all as though she were a fallen
woman parading her wares. After all, her new plaid skirt and blouse
were extremely modest; in no way could even she—her severest critic—convict
herself of putting herself forward unbecomingly.
She
started to relax and enjoy feeling attractive for the first time in
her life.
For
years, Gordon Partington had held an open house at Partington Place
on Christmas Eve. The entire village of Pyrite Springs used to drop
by for eggnog and fruitcake. When asked if he cared to continue the
tradition, Tom agreed with a fair show of enthusiasm.
“Why
not?” he’d asked after a moment’s thought. “Why not act like
the landed gentry? I reckon that’s what I am, after all.”
Then
he’d laughed, his blue eyes twinkling gaily, and Claire had caught
her breath and wondered yet again how any one man could be so perfect.
So
she set to work getting the front hall and the parlor prepared, and
helped Mrs. Philpott bake gingersnaps, tiny pecan-studded meringues,
shortbread, and brandied cherry drops to augment the traditional holiday
fruitcakes which had been packed away in the basement months before
and were now awaiting the day.
Scruggs
directed the setting up of the Christmas tree and the stacking of firewood
with his usual glum efficiency. He also saw to the resurrection of several
bottles of Gordon Partington’s best wine and cognac. It wouldn’t
do for the mayor and the other leading citizens of Pyrite Springs to
be entertained with mere eggnog. Tom was glad to he wouldn’t have
to drink the rest of Uncle Gordon’s fancy stuff all by himself. He’d
already ordered some liquor more to his taste from San Francisco.
The
piano tuner was called in from Marysville to make sure the grand piano
was in voice. Claire and Dianthe sang Christmas carols for one whole
day as they made paper and popcorn ornaments for the tree. Tom and Jedediah
found them in the parlor that afternoon, flushed and happy, with mounds
of paper garlands coiled at their feet, and a tubful of popcorn between
them. They’d asked to join in the fun, and Claire didn’t think she’d
ever been happier in her life than she was then.
After
supper they’d sung more carols, and Claire discovered another childhood
trick was useful in her present life. She could play the piano. Claude
Montague, of course, had never owned such an expensive instrument, but
she’d been made to learn in a variety of unsavory establishments.
Her father had found her musical ability useful in his various rackets.
That
evening, though, Claire was glad for her skill. She played from a Christmas
song book, and Tom turned the pages for her while Jedediah and Dianthe
decorated the tree. For once Claire didn’t bother to worry that the
accountant and the poetess seemed to be on remarkably friendly terms.
She smiled at Tom, he smiled at her, and she felt herself as close to
heaven as she would undoubtedly ever get.
Tom
kissed her again on Christmas Eve. A light snow had fallen earlier in
the day, but it didn’t keep the citizens of Pyrite Springs from attending
the annual open house at Partington Place.
“Wonderful
party, Mr. Partington,” Mr. Gilbert, the mayor, said, slapping Tom
on the shoulder in a show of hearty brotherhood.
After
he’d recovered from the staggering blow, Tom said, “Thank you, Mr.
Gilbert. I find I’m enjoying these traditions my uncle established.”
“Good
thing, tradition.” Mr. Gilbert puffed out his chest as though accepting
credit for the tradition of traditions.
Tom
didn’t figure he’d argue. He only smiled.
It
was just as well he’d armed himself with a smile because the next
person to walk into the parlor was Sylvester Addison-Addison, complete
with flowing red silk scarf draped around his literary neck, a bouquet
of white lilies tied up with a red ribbon—for Claire, he said—and
Mrs. Pringle firmly attached to his arm. If he hadn’t already been
smiling, Tom might well have gaped in astonishment. He was sure the
Author would never have stood for that.
“Good
evening, Mr. Partington,” Mrs. Pringle cooed, never releasing Sylvester
from her talons.
“Good
evening.” Tom nodded to them both. He received a frosty inclination
of the head from Sylvester and a spirited flutter of lashes from Mrs.
Pringle.
Mrs.
Gaylord had forsaken orange this evening in deference to the season.
She was swathed all in red when she waddled in with a brooding Sergei
and a happy Freddy March a few moments later.
Tom
sneaked a peak at Claire, who was pulling duty at the punchbowl and
looking absolutely ravishing in her sapphire-blue evening gown. She
gave him a glorious, conspiratorial smile, and he winked back and decided
his life was truly abundant and that Mrs. Gaylord’s red looked superb.
Dianthe
floated in on a cloud of white silk and lace. Almost immediately Jedediah
snatched her away to the Christmas tree. Later in the evening, Tom saw
the two of them disappear out the side door and return a good twenty
minutes later, Dianthe flushed and more ruffled than he’d ever seen
her, and Jedediah looking positively moonstruck. He grinned and blew
several smoke rings because he was happy.
The
disappearance of his accountant and Claire’s best friend gave him
ideas, too. He wondered if Claire would take more kindly to an overture
from him this evening than she had the night of the Artistic Evening.
He’d been showering her with respect and friendship these past few
weeks, and hadn’t tried to sneak a single kiss or one improper embrace.
He considered he’d been acting with incredible nobility since, although
he was a master at patience, sexual restraint wasn’t one of his more
solid virtues.
Looking
back on their brief encounter on the balcony, he decided his kiss that
night had been premature. Yes indeed. Entirely too impetuous. That was
the reason she’d been scared; he’d jumped the gun and attacked her
without notice. He should have buttered her up first. Fired a warning
salvo over her head, as it were.
He
was getting better at this society stuff. He now realized a lady required
time and preparation. He figured three or four weeks was probably long
enough, considering they lived together and, therefore, undoubtedly
knew each other better than most people did before they kissed. Or even
got married, for that matter.
Not
only that, but the very season required exuberance. A kiss was exuberant,
wasn’t it? It could be considered part of making Christmas truly merry.
What was all that mistletoe for, if not for kisses?
Tom
had never hesitated to kiss a female before; his hesitancy in this present
instance troubled him. He discovered himself staring at Claire from
across the room while she played Christmas carols at the piano.
She
had suspended her spectacles on a blue satin ribbon pinned to her bodice,
but had slipped them on now so she could read the music. She was surrounded
by a choir of Pyrite Springians, and he shook his head and told himself
not to be a fool. He’d never had trouble attracting women before.
Granted, Claire was a bit more straight-laced than most of the women
he’d dealt with in his life, she shouldn’t require this much thought.
Should she?
Perhaps
it was true the other women he’d kissed had been ladies of the evening;
still, women were basically all alike, weren’t they? Besides, his
mother had thrown him together with several belles the few times he’d
dared visit her home in Alabama, and they’d seemed to like him. He
frowned, recalling his mother’s concerted attempts to get him to marry
one of those feather-brained twits.
“Tom!”
Tom
nearly dropped his cheroot in surprise when Jedediah slapped him on
the back.
“‘Evening,
Jed. Having a good time?”
“I’m
having a wonderful time,” Jedediah said, reverting to dreaminess for
a second. He snapped right out of it. “But what’s going on here?
You looked unhappy.”
“Did
I? I’m not unhappy at all, Jed. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember
the last time I had such a good time.”
Jedediah
looked at him closely. “Are you sure? I distinctly saw you shudder.”