Authors: Alice Duncan
The
horses, Tom assured Claire, were sluggish shadows of his favored Appaloosas,
but would be adequate for Claire to begin with.
“If
they’re slow and sleepy, so much the better,” Claire murmured uneasily,
looking down from her perch on the animal’s back. It seemed a very
long way to the ground.
Tom
chuckled, but assured her, “You’ll do fine, Claire. As long as you
understand that as soon as I get my ranch started, I’m going to get
you the prettiest, liveliest little mare you can imagine.”
“Really?”
she murmured with some concern, but he only laughed again.
He
waxed poetic about Appaloosas for several minutes, and soon Claire forgot
to be afraid and devoured his words like candy. She longed to help him
make his business succeed. And she knew she could be a help to him,
too. Why, Gordon Partington used to tell her all the time that her ability
with record-keeping and business accounts were all that kept him afloat.
Of course, he’d been exaggerating, but Claire did know she had a good
head for business.
As
she listened to Tom talk, she realized he was a solid businessman, too,
and her heart was happy. He was everything she’d ever wanted in a
gentleman, just as he’d said she was everything he’d ever wanted
in a lady. It still didn’t seem possible he could have meant those
words.
The
specter of
Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee
reared its handsome head and
drove her happiness away for a moment, but happiness has a buoyant quality,
and it soon bounced back. Somehow, some way, Claire would think of something.
“Something,” a vague word, didn’t lie quietly in the grave to
which Claire consigned it. Nevertheless, she covered it up and determined
to think about her problems later.
“I’m
sorry, Claire,” Tom said after a few minutes. “I didn’t mean to
bore you to death with my dreams.”
“Your
dreams aren’t boring at all, Tom. I think they’re wonderful. All
my life I yearned to be part of something permanent, to have something
of my own. I don’t blame you for dreaming about creating your own
business.”
She
felt uneasy when Tom’s gaze searched her face as if he craved answers
to questions she hoped he wouldn’t ask. She should have known better.
“What
is it, Claire? What is it about yourself you aren’t telling me? Are
you afraid I’ll disparage you if you tell me you’ve made mistakes
in your life? I won’t, you know. I’ve made plenty of my own.”
Claire
concentrated very hard on the knee she had hooked around her saddle’s
leaping tree. She had to tell him. She couldn’t tell him. She had
to. She couldn’t.
All
of a sudden her brain fastened on her childhood. Her childhood was sordid
and ugly, but, while her books were her fault, her childhood wasn’t.
She cleared her throat. “Actually, it’s my background,” she whispered
nervously. “I’m afraid my origins were—were not at all refined.”
He
chuckled, and she glanced at him quickly. “You can’t mean to tell
me you’re worried about having less-than-perfect origins, can you?
If you are, just take a long look at my background. The only thing refined
about me is my name, and that’s only elegant if you live in Tuscaloosa,
and then only historically. I’m afraid my parents managed to fritter
everything we ever had away.”
“No!”
She was shocked.
“Oh,
but yes. My mother and father are about the most ridiculous, flighty
human beings the world has ever known. I expect my uncle Gordon never
told you that part about my family, did he?”
“Good
heavens, no.”
“There.
See? We’re even.”
She
tore her gaze away from his dear face. “No. I don’t think we’re
even, Tom. My own background is—is even less refined than that, I’m
afraid. We were—we were terribly poor, and traveled from place to
place because we had no home. Our life was—was very uncomfortable.”
With
a funny little lopsided smile, Tom said, “Mine was uncomfortable,
too, Claire, trust me. Half the time my folks couldn’t even afford
firewood. Neither one of them would ever stoop to chopping it themselves,
of course.”
“My
land. I had no idea.”
“Of
course not. Uncle Gordon knew my mother in her silly girlhood; I don’t
think he realized she grew up to be an equally silly adult. My father
was even worse.”
“Oh,
dear.”
“But
our parents aren’t our fault, Claire. And if you think our childhoods
were uncomfortable, you should have been along during my years with
the railroad. You haven’t lived uncomfortably until you’ve camped
by a frozen stream without even a tree or a rock to break the wind whipping
down from the poles.”
Claire’s
grim mood began to lighten. She loved to hear about Tom’s breath-taking
adventures, and she couldn’t wait to shift the topic of conversation
away from herself.
“Good
heavens.” She shivered in spite of her warm serge riding habit.
Neither
of them spoke for a minute. Then Tom said with a chuckle, “That might
be an interesting plot for one of those
Tuscaloosa Tom
novels.
You know, the flat prairie, the frozen stream and the wind and all.”
Claire,
who had not thought about
Tuscaloosa Tom
for three or four blissful
minutes, frowned. Tom was right, though, and she found herself filing
the knowledge away, even though she didn’t plan to write another
Tuscaloosa Tom
novel after she’d fulfilled her contract. She said
with a fair show of lightness, “Too bad Clarence McTeague isn’t
with us.”
“Yes.
I’d like to have a chat with him, believe me.”
Tom’s
sour tone seemed to drive the sun from the sky in Claire’s world for
a moment or two.
Then
he sighed and said, “I meant what I said last night, Claire. I care
for you and would be the happiest man on earth if you’d agree to an
alliance with me.”
Claire
jerked the reins and her horse protested. Tom reached over to settle
it down again. She appreciated his concern.
But,
an “alliance?” That meant he wanted her to be his mistress, she
supposed. Well, he’d said as much last night.
“I
won’t press you, Claire. I—well, I know something’s troubling
you and I wish you’d confide in me. You must know I’d never, ever
hold anything in your past against you. What happened before we met
is all over with. You’ve overcome whatever it is and become the woman
I care about very much.”
“Thank
you, Tom,” Claire whispered shakily. A little sadly, she wondered
if she were simply not the sort of woman men married. Probably.
He
took a deep breath and then blurted out, as if he could read her mind,
“And I suppose I should offer you marriage, but I—I can’t do it.
The only marriages I’ve ever seen have been like prison sentences.
I can’t do it.”
His
honesty caught her completely off guard. Her heart flipped over and
she opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“I
know I’ve botched things up by being too hasty. I’m sorry, Claire.
You have some idea that I’m a grand Southern gentleman, but the truth
is I’ve been living like a heathen for fifteen years. I hardly remember
all the things my mother used to try to teach me about polite behavior.”
Looking
into his glorious face, Claire realized he meant what he was saying.
His frankness had shaken her, though, and oddly cheered her. She shook
her head. “You’re a wonderful gentleman, Tom. You have a natural
talent for the social graces, I guess, because you’re—you’re perfect.”
He
looked astounded at her assessment. “Good God. Do you really think
so? My mother would be thrilled to hear you say it.”
His
smiled one of his glorious smiles, and Claire’s breath snagged in
her chest. “Any mother would be thrilled to have you as a son.”
Tom
snorted. “I’ll have to tell you more about my family one of these
days, Claire. I know it’s disloyal to say so, but it’s true. I’ve
never met two more useless human beings than my parents.”
“I’m
sorry, Tom.”
Apparently
deciding the topic of parents was too glum a one for Christmas morning,
Tom continued, “And don’t forget that you can always talk to me,
Claire. You can tell me anything. There’s nothing you ever need fear
from me.”
His
expression was so sincere, his eyes so somber, and his affection so
evident, that Claire began to weaken. If he could overlook the wretchedness
of her past, perhaps he could forgive her for making a mistake and writing
those books. He seemed to understand human foibles better than most
people. Perhaps she could confess. Perhaps he would understand that
she’d written her books out of love and had no idea they would hurt
him.
“Um,
Tom, I think it’s very kind that you’re not holding my humble origins
against me.”
“Good
grief, Claire, a person can’t be held accountable for his or her origins.
Life’s hard enough already. If we were expected to be responsible
for our parents’ faults as well as our own, we’d all be in the soup.”
It
was an effort, but she maintained her smile. “So—so do you think
people should be forgiven for making mistakes?”
“Depends
on the mistake, I reckon.”
Pretending
to concentrate on guiding her horse around a dip in the grassy field,
Claire said, “Well, I mean if somebody did something in the misguided
belief that he was doing a good thing and it turned out that it actually
hurt the person it was intended to help, so you think that person could
be forgiven?”
“I’m
not sure I understand.”
“Well—well,
I mean, take Clarence McTeague, for example.”
“I’d
rather not, thank you.”
Somewhat
daunted, Claire cleared he throat and fumbled on. “Well, I mean, I’m
sure Mr. McTeague meant his books as a—as an homage to you, if you
know what I mean. I’m sure he didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sure
he had no idea you’d be inconvenienced or embarrassed by them.”
“You’re
sure of that, are you?”
“Well,
yes, I believe so.”
“You
were really fond of my uncle, weren’t you, Claire,” Tom said softly.
“I guess I can understand that, given your wandering childhood and
all.”
She
wished he didn’t think his uncle had written those books. It complicated
things so. “Why are you so certain the late Mr. Partington wrote the
books?”
With
a shrug, Tom asked, “Who else could have done it, Claire? Those books
included incidents nobody else could have known about, except my parents,
and I know they didn’t write them because they’d never expend so
much effort on anything. I can’t imagine them tackling something as
time-consuming and difficult as novel-writing.”
“I
see.” Oh, dear heaven. “Your uncle was a wonderful man, Tom. He’d
never have done anything to hurt you. He looked upon you as a hero.
We all did. The
Tuscaloosa Tom
novels—whoever wrote them—were
written by somebody who meant to honor you, not cause you misery.”
With
a laugh, Tom said, “Yes, I know how much you like those books, Claire.
It’s one of the few topics about which I disagree with you.”
“But
if I’m right, don’t you think you’re being a little hard on poor
Mr. McTeague, whoever he is—was.”
Tom
snorted again. “From what I hear, he’s not poor at all.” A smile
broke across Tom’s face like the sun breaking through clouds. “Oh,
all right, Claire. I’m absolutely certain my uncle meant no harm when
he wrote those damned books. There. Are you happy now?”
Claire
digested his words for a few seconds. She wished she wasn’t so dreadfully
anxious. If her heart wasn’t thundering and her brain shrieking, she
was sure she’d be able to use her normally sound judgment to construct
an appropriate confession.
But
she was anxious and her brain was shrieking, and if her judgment proved
faulty, her whole future was in jeopardy. Yet she couldn’t go on deceiving
Tom; she knew that, too. Throwing caution to the wind, she took a deep
breath and opened her mouth to speak.
“Claire!
Mr. Partington! Merry Christmas!”
The
happy greeting surprised Claire into clamping her mouth shut. Daring
to turn slightly in her saddle, she beheld Priscilla Pringle galloping
toward them on a striking bay gelding, Sylvester Addison-Addison hard
at her heels.
“Looks
like we have company,” Tom murmured.
She
turned to find him smiling happily, and Claire thrust her own problems
aside. This was Christmas morning. She was riding next to the man she
loved and, what’s more, a man who claimed to care for her. She should
be happy.
Consigning
Clarence McTeague,
Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee
, and the poor deceased
Gordon Partington to a corner of her mind, Claire felt a swell of contentment.
She grinned when she realized the clever Widow Pringle had provided
Sylvester with a horse as black as soot, and mentally applauded her.
The horse flattered Sylvester’s darkly tortured poetic looks admirably.
Apparently
Tom recognized the widow’s tactics, too, because he said softly, “Looks
like Mrs. Pringle’s determined to woo the Author in a way he’ll
understand.”
Claire
giggled. “Now, now, Tom.”
Out
of the corner of his mouth, Tom said, “I just hope she’ll be happy
with the bargain when she’s got him snared. How’d you like to have
him brooding over his coffee across the table from you every morning
of your life?”
“That
won’t happen. Sylvester never partakes of breakfast. He consorts with
his muse until all hours and seldom rises before noon, you see.”
“Oh,
my God.”
Tom’s
expression was comically pained, and suddenly Claire felt bright and
gay. She giggled again and called out a cheery, “Merry Christmas,
Priscilla! Merry Christmas, Sylvester!”
Priscilla’s
trilling laugh ornamented the brisk morning air. Sylvester scowled,
and Claire was certain she heard him snarl a “Bah!”
Not
even Sylvester Addison-Addison could dampen her mood now, though. She
and Tom exchanged a speaking look. Tom gave her a wink, reached for
her hand and briefly squeezed it. Claire didn’t think she could get
much happier.
Sylvester
and Priscilla reined in their horses and the two couples exchanged greetings
and continued their ride as a foursome. Priscilla chattered away like
a magpie, Claire smiled and added a murmured comment here and there,
and Tom smiled graciously. Sylvester glowered at the scenery as if trying
to ignore company he considered beneath him.
“Such
a delightful party last night, Claire. Mr. Partington, I do believe
your Christmas Eve entertainment was the grandest we’ve ever seen
at Partington Place. I’m thrilled that you decided to continue the
tradition.”
“It
was all Claire’s idea, Mrs. Pringle.”
“Bah!”
said Sylvester.
“But
it could never have happened without you, Tom. You’re the one who
was the inspiration for the evening.” Claire smiled at Tom, who smiled
back.
“I’m
sure you’re right, Claire dear. Why, I told my darling Sylvester just
this morning that the late Mr. Partington would have been thrilled to
see how lovely the Place is these days.” Priscilla smiled gloriously
at Sylvester.
“Bah!”
said Sylvester.
Priscilla
laughed again, a gay, unrestrained laugh that amazed Claire, who would
have been intimidated by so many of Sylvester’s bahs. Not the jolly
widow, who seemed oblivious to her companion’s surliness.
“And
will you maintain the tradition of Partington Place’s spring open
house, as well, Mr. Partington?” Priscilla asked. “Claire has created
the loveliest gardens anywhere around.”
“A
spring open house sounds fine to me, Mrs. Pringle. Claire,” Tom announced
with a telling look for her, “can do anything. She’s absolutely
superb, you know.”
Claire
blushed hotly.
Mrs.
Pringle laughed with enjoyment.
Tom
invited Priscilla and Sylvester to join him, Claire, and Jedediah for
supper that evening. Dianthe joined them, too, effectively bringing
Jedediah back into the realm of the living. Claire and Dianthe prepared
the meal, using leftovers from their Christmas-Eve repast which had
been stored in Partington Place’s specially fitted icebox.
The
happy party sang Christmas carols far into the night. A light snow began
to fall soon after supper, but nobody inside Partington Place cared.
A fire blazed merrily in the huge fireplace, and Claire noticed with
pleasure the significant looks passing between Dianthe and Jedediah.
Now
that she knew Tom did not fancy Dianthe, she allowed herself to be happy
for the couple. She also noticed Mrs. Pringle and Sylvester holding
hands, although the widow looked more cheerful about it than the Author
did.
As
for herself, she was certain the way Tom kept smiling at her could have
kept her warm if the weather had been ten times as cold.
Chapter 17
Tunes
swirled in Claire’s head and she forgot her usual reserve so far as
to dance around the tiled foyer of Partington Place after the last guest
left. Jedediah was seeing Dianthe home, and Claire decided that tonight
had been as close to perfect as a night could get. She felt free and
happy and knew she was in love with a man who cared for her. If life
wasn’t perfect, if Tom couldn’t ever really love her, if there were
unresolved issues lurking in dark corners that might resurface to ruin
her happiness later, at least she would have tonight.
Laughing,
Tom swept her into his arms and danced with her. “Are you happy, sweetheart?”
“I
don’t think I’ve ever had such a wonderful Christmas!”
“Me,
neither.”
“Thank
you so much.”
“For
what?”
“For
what? Why, for everything!”
Tom
stopped waltzing but didn’t remove his arms. He held Claire loosely
around the waist and gazed down into her eyes. Looking back at him,
Claire was glad she’d removed her spectacles. Without them to clarify
her world, Tom’s face was a delicious blur. If she’s been able to
see him clearly, she was sure she’d become nervous. As it was, her
heart speeded up inexplicably.
“You
needn’t thank me for anything, Claire. You’re the one who does the
work that makes these occasions special. You’re the one who plans
and prepares everything. All I add is money, and as glad as I am to
have it, you’ve taught me in a very few weeks how little good money
is without talent and goodwill behind it.”
“What
a sweet thing to say. Thank you, Tom.”
“Thank
you, Claire.”
His
face was becoming clearer. Claire blinked when she realized the phenomenon
was caused by his leaning closer to her. Her speeding heart executed
an alarming athletic maneuver, and a crazy hope stirred within her.
Mercy,
was he going to kiss her again? If he was, she swore she wouldn’t
run away this time. No matter what came of it, she wouldn’t run away.
Tonight, as they said, would be the night. He knew the worst—well,
almost the worst—of her already; she had nothing to fear. And the
thought of being loved by him, the way a man loved a ___ˆwoman, almost
made her knees buckle with longing.
Tonight
the embraces between a man and a woman did not seem lewd to Claire.
Tom’s embraces were nothing like those she’d witnessed in her childhood
because they were motivated by affection. What transpired between a
man and a woman was only sordid if it was undertaken in a spirit of
animal passion. The snide, cynical, lustful passions of a man like her
father bore no resemblance to the sweet desire Tom stirred in Claire.
So
she watched his face come closer with great anticipation. When he murmured,
“I want you so much, Claire. I want you so damned much,” her heart
soared. She met his lips with hers and sighed in rapture.
Tom
vowed to himself he wouldn’t let her get away tonight. Tonight he
was going to claim his woman, and make her his beyond the shadow of
any doubt. She was his, and he planned to prove it to her in no uncertain
terms. She met his embrace so eagerly that he wondered if she had the
same idea. He sure as hell hoped so.
Very
gently, taking infinite care, he softened his lips and kissed her sweetly,
praying with every heartbeat that she wouldn’t resist. She didn’t
seem to be resisting. In fact, his eyes popped open when, after her
initial sigh of surrender, she flung her arms around him and pressed
her body against his.
“Claire?”
“I
do love you, Tom!”
Her
words were music to his ears, and he renewed his kiss with more vigor.
He planned to take all the time she needed, though. He told himself
to go as slowly as necessary so as not to spook her. He wasn’t sure
he could endure another disappointment.
He
felt her fingers slide into his hair and her foot rub his calf and almost
lost control of himself. She certainly didn’t seem to be feeling shy
any longer.
His
hands began to roam her silky skin as far up her arms as he could reach.
He wished civilized females didn’t feel compelled to wear so many
damned clothes. This evening Claire had dressed in a simple woolen frock.
The dress material was soft and supple, but there were so many barriers
underneath it, some of which relied on whalebone to keep their shape,
that Tom couldn’t feel the softness of her sleek, elegant body. Slowly,
slowly, he explored in spite of the barriers