Authors: Alice Duncan
After
a while, he began to wonder if she’d ever stop crying. Gradually,
however, he began to make out strangled words struggling for air amid
the waterworks, and listened carefully.
“I
tried so hard,” he thought she said. “I tried and tried and tried,
but nothing I did could ever erase my miserable past. There’s no denying
it and there’s no running away from it. It’s found me out at last.”
Tom
squinted, thinking furiously. Her miserable past? What the hell was
she talking about? And what did it have to do with his wanting to kiss
her?
“I
knew I couldn’t do it. You simply can’t make a silk purse out of
a sow’s ear. I knew it! I knew it! Ohhhh!”
A
silk purse out of a sow’s ear? Was she comparing herself to a sow’s
ear? Was she comparing
him
to a sow’s ear? Cautiously, Tom
murmured, “Claire? Claire, what is it? Please tell me.”
She
shook her head violently and he clutched her more tightly, fearing she
might make a break for it. He wasn’t about to let her go until she
explained herself; he didn’t care if it took from now until New Year’s
Day.
“It’s
all my fault,” she moaned. “All my fault. If I hadn’t flaunted
myself, none of this would have happened.”
Flaunted
herself? Claire? Claire Montague? She of the prim brown gowns and rattlesnake
tresses? Tom frowned. This was getting ridiculous. Ever so lightly,
he shook her.
“Claire.
Claire, stop crying and listen to me. You must tell me what the matter
is. Now.” He used his brevet general voice, the one he’d used to
keep fifteen- and sixteen-year-old recruits in line when they were quaking
in their boots about to go into battle and possibly die.
That
voice had worked during the war and it worked now. Gradually, Claire’s
tears sniffled to a stop. She tried to step away from him, but he wouldn’t
let her, so she had to mop her eyes on his coat sleeve. Tom sighed,
but he didn’t mind.
“Now
will you tell me why you’re so upset, Claire darling? I can’t stand
seeing you so upset.”
She
nodded, so he dared release her. While she blew her nose on his handkerchief,
he guided her to the door that led to her office. He wanted to get out
of the cold. Also, he didn’t relish having an audience when he and
Claire spoke, and he had a feeling Dianthe and Jedediah were probably
still in the parlor, oblivious to their surroundings or the fact that
all the other guests had departed.
Very
tenderly, he led her to an armchair and bade her sit. He pulled up the
chair that usually resided in front of her desk. Sitting directly in
front of her so she couldn’t escape, he took up her hands.
Her
nose was pink and her eyes swollen and red-rimmed. Her face looked pale
except for a couple of hectic red splotches blooming on her cheeks.
She was really a mess, and he had to squash the urge to hold her tight
and soothe her in his arms. Later, he told himself. After he’d discovered
and dealt with the problem.
“Now,
Claire,” he said gently, “please tell me why you’re so upset.
Is it because I wanted to kiss you again?”
Apparently
not trusting herself to speak yet, Claire nodded. Then she shook her
head. Then she moaned softly and Tom stifled the urge to shake her until
she came out with it. Why were females all so perverse? When a fellow
had a problem, he’d either tell you what it was or shut up about it.
Why did females always have to dance around things so hard and so long?
Suppressing
the unkind thought, he said, “Yes and no? You’re going to have to
make up your mind, Claire, because I can’t read it for you, you know.
I think I deserve to know why you’re so upset. It hurts me to know
that you don’t want me to kiss you when I want to kiss you very badly.”
Her
head jerked up and she looked at him in honest horror. “I’m so sorry!”
Her voice sounded raw.
Tom
cursed himself as a blundering ass. “I didn’t mean it that way,
Claire. I’d never do anything to frighten you, at least not on purpose.
And I do want to kiss you, but not if it’s going to hurt you like
this.”
Shaking
her head miserably, Claire mumbled, “It’s all my fault. All my fault.”
His
eyes narrowing in thought, Tom tried to make sense of the few clear
snippets he’d heard Claire say in her distress. She’d said it was
all her fault several times. She’d said something about silk purses
and sow’s ears. Had she said something about a bad background? He
searched Claire’s bowed head for clues.
“Look
at me, Claire,” he commanded very softly, nudging her under the chin
with a bent finger.
After
a moment she complied, and he studied her face hard, trying to read
her emotions. He recognized distress; that was easy. He was sure he
read fear in her eyes, too. And was that shame? Was she ashamed of her
behavior? But she hadn’t done anything. Surely she couldn’t blame
herself for Tom kissing her. Could she? Leaning closer and examining
her face very, very carefully, Tom guessed maybe she could.
“Claire,
why do you think it’s your fault that I kissed you? For that matter,
what’s wrong with kissing? If a man and a woman care about each other,
kissing seems a logical thing for them to do. At least it does to me.”
“C-c-care
about each other?” Her big brown eyes held a world of wonder.
He
nodded. “I care about you, anyway. I don’t know what you think of
me. Maybe you hate my guts. That’s what it looks like from here.”
“Oh,
no, Mr. Partington. I could never hate you.”
In
spite of himself, Tom smiled. Claire’s confession had sounded so pathetic.
It thrilled him, though. Yes! he thought. Yes! He’d known she wasn’t
indifferent to him.
“I’m
relieved to hear it. Now, will you please tell me what you think is
your fault and why you consider my kisses so repulsive?” A dreadful
thought struck him and he felt his innards reel crazily. “Is there
somebody else, Claire? Do you love another man?”
“Good
grief, no!”
Tom’s
relief was so great, he had to shut his eyes for a minute. “Good,”
he whispered. “Good.”
“But—but
I’m not that sort of female, Mr. Partington. Truly I’m not.”
His
eyes snapped open. “You’re not what sort of female?”
She
sucked in a big breath. “I’m not a hussy. Honestly, I’m not. I
know I must have given that impression, but I’m truly not. I’ve
tried so terribly hard to be a lady. I—I’ve tried so hard.”
Her
last sentence wobbled badly at the end. Tom’s mouth fell open in astonishment.
“What?”
he barked, too startled for finesse.
Claire’s
fingers tightened around his handkerchief and she peered at them instead
of at him. She had to stop and blow her nose again. Tom continued to
stare at her.
“Mr.
Partington, I greatly fear my background is—is not very good. I’m
afraid there are things in my past that are too painful for me to speak
of, but please know that I’ve left all that behind me. For the past
ten years, I’ve striven to be a good person. I’ve tried so hard
to become a woman of strong moral fiber and character, to be chaste
and pure and good.
“And
now I know I’ve failed! They say one can never overcome one’s past,
and I guess they were right because you obviously think of me as a—as
a strumpet!”
Tom
couldn’t seem to shut his mouth. Nor could he speak.
Claire
lifted her head and watched him, big-eyed. She apparently drew the wrong
conclusion from his thunderstruck expression. “But I’m not a strumpet!
I’m not! At least, I don’t want to be! Oh, I’m so unhappy!”
Wrenching
her hands from underneath his, Claire turned in the chair, folded herself
into a knot around a cushion and began crying again.
For
several seconds, Tom couldn’t make himself do anything. He watched
Claire weep as her amazing words spun through his brain. Claire? A strumpet?
Claire? Good God. He shut his mouth with a snap and grabbed Claire by
the shoulders. She tried to wrench away again, but he was too strong
for her.
“Claire,
look at me. Look at me, Claire.”
She
tugged. He pulled. She tugged again. He pulled again. Eventually, she
gave up and slumped in the chair facing him, her head drooping as if
it was too heavy for her to lift. He nudged her chin up once more.
“Claire,
listen to me. I never, ever, ever thought of you as a strumpet. Not
by any stretch of the imagination.”
She
didn’t believe him; he could tell.
“I
have no idea why you think of yourself in such terms, but they’re
not true.”
She
still didn’t believe him. Tom sighed and shook his head. Then he decided
only the unvarnished truth would suffice, even though it seemed cruel
to him. Eyeing Claire, he thought maybe she wouldn’t think it cruel.
“When
I first met you, I swear I thought you were a prim, stuffy old maid
who’d never worn an improper gown or had an improper thought in her
life. I took one look at you and thought you were boring, lifeless,
and dull.”
Her
back straightened and her chin went up all by itself.
“Whatever
your background, you did such a good job of transforming yourself into
a prudish housekeeper that it never even crossed my mind to think of
you as anything else.”
Her
sweet lips parted slightly and Tom eyed them with longing. He wouldn’t
kiss her yet, though. Not until they’d cleared this whole thing up.
“Do
you believe me, Claire? I’m telling you the truth.”
“I
guess so.”
“Good.”
“But—but
you kissed me.”
“I
sure did. And I want to do it again, too.”
Her
brow wrinkled as she thought. “But—but why would you want to kiss
me if I was dull? If you thought me plain and proper and practical.”
“Because
you see, Claire, you couldn’t stop yourself from being you.” He
felt her stiffen in alarm and hurried on. “I don’t mean that you,
Claire Montague, are a trollop. I mean that you, Claire Montague, are
a delightful, accomplished, amusing young woman with a charming personality
and undeniable talents.”
“I
am?” She sounded utterly flabbergasted.
“You
are.”
After
a pause long enough to make Tom wonder if he should try kissing her
yet, Claire said, “You—you didn’t think I was easy?”
“
Easy
?”
With great effort, Tom stopped himself from guffawing. He definitely
did not want to hurt her feelings. “Claire, nobody in the entire world
would ever believe you were easy.”
She
stared at him hard for almost a full minute before she shook her head
and said, “But you kissed me.”
“Well,
of course I kissed you! I kissed you before and I want to kiss you again!”
She
looked at him reproachfully, as if he’d just confirmed everything
she’d already told him and he’d just tried to deny. Tom scrambled
to think of a way to explain what she obviously considered a paradox.
“Do
you think every woman who is ever kissed by a man is loose? Do you think
your friend Dianthe is loose?”
She
shook her head. “Certainly not.”
“Of
course you don’t, but Jed wants to kiss her. He may be doing it right
now, in fact. Do you think Mrs. Humphrey Albright is a strumpet?”
She
shook her head again.
“Well,
I distinctly saw Mr. Humphrey Albright kiss his wife under the mistletoe
this evening.”
“Oh,
well,” Claire said with a gesture, “that’s different. It’s Christmas.”
Tom
snorted. “You can be blamed good and sure he doesn’t wait a year
between kisses, Claire. Don’t you realize how foolish you’re being?
Men don’t only kiss harlots or fallen women. They kiss women they
care for. I care a lot about you, Claire Montague, and the desire to
kiss a woman one cares about can be mighty blasted strong! Can’t you
understand that?”
Her
mouth fell open and her eyes went as round as billiard balls.
Tom
jumped to his feet, so frustrated he wanted to punch something. He settled
for running his hands through his hair and pacing. “Damn it, I’m
not doing this right.”
Claire
stared at him. “You—you care for me? Me? You? Care for
me
?”
He
whirled around and glared at her. “Why do you find that so damned
hard to understand, Claire?”