Authors: Alice Duncan
“Uncle
Gordo’d be dismayed, too,” he mumbled sourly, eliciting an, “I
beg your pardon?” from Jedediah.
“Oh,”
said Tom. “Nothing.”
After
clearing his throat once more, Jedediah ventured, “I’ve asked Dianthe
to marry me, Tom, and she’s agreed.”
“Congratulations,”
Tom said absently.
Jedediah
hesitated, as if waiting for Tom to say something more. When he didn’t,
he said, “Yes, well, Dianthe suggested that—well—if you wanted
to, we might have a double ceremony.”
“A
what?”
“A
double ceremony. You know, when two couples get married at the same
time.”
“I
didn’t know you could do that.”
“You
didn’t?”
Tom
took note of his friend’s look of surprise and grinned in spite of
his annoyance. “I’ve never been to a wedding, Jed. Folks didn’t
get married much out on the frontier. At least not the folks I knew.”
“Oh.
I guess maybe they didn’t.”
Both
men contemplated marriage for several silent moments. At last Tom said,
“When are you planning on this wedding of yours?”
“Dianthe
wants to wait until April and ask you and Claire if we can use the garden
at Partington Place. It’s really pretty when everything’s blooming.”
“That’s
what Claire says, too.”
Jedediah
licked his lips. He looked worried, as though he wasn’t sure he should
be speaking so plainly. Nevertheless, he forged ahead. “So, will you
think about it, Tom? I—I hate to think of Claire being ostracized
in the town of Pyrite Springs.”
“Ostracized!”
“Dianthe
said that Mrs. Humphrey Albright has been sniffing haughtily. I guess
that means trouble.”
“Damn.”
Tom
slapped his newspaper down on the table next to him and sprang to his
feet. “This is abominable!”
Jedediah
cleared his throat and seemed to brace himself. “Neither Dianthe nor
I believe the fault lies at Claire’s feet, Tom.”
Tom
went completely rigid for a second, infuriated by the accountant’s
blatant disapproval. Then he slumped when the truth smacked him upside
the head. “No. Of course it isn’t her fault. You’re right. I’m
the one who’s to blame in this situation.”
He
didn’t like knowing it, either. He’d hurt Claire, and for no better
reason than his own selfishness. His own bullheaded belief that because
his parents were fools, the institution of marriage was wrong. What
a damned coward he was!
Jedediah
made a stammered excuse and left Tom to stew in his bitterness. Stuffing
his hands into his pockets, Tom scuffed his toe on the parlor carpet
and brooded.
He
felt bad; his heart hurt. Knowing Claire was suffering the humiliation
of censure by her friends, the people she’d lived among for years,
because of him sent waves of guilt knifing through him. Head bowed,
he wandered out of the parlor and down the hall. It wasn’t until he
stopped in front of a closed door that he realized he’d headed directly
to Claire’s office. It was as if some instinct led him there; to her.
Everything he’d ever done in his life seemed to have directed him
straight to Claire.
Pushing
the door open, Tom peeked inside, hoping she’d have come back from
town and that he’d find her bent over her desk, diligently working
on accounts or menus or something. Everything she did in this room ultimately
benefited him; she was his angel. And he’d hurt her. In his selfishness,
foolishness, cowardice and, yes, blind lust, he had led her into a role
completely beneath her dignity and alien to her nature.
He
was ashamed of himself. He ran a finger over the polished surface of
her desk and looked at the result. Not a speck of dust sullied his fingertip;
Claire would never allow dust to accumulate in his house. He sat in
her chair and remembered the very first time he’d entered this room,
bearing a bottle of port and a big empty place in his life. She’d
filled up that empty place almost from the start with her sweetness
and goodness and practicality. Damn, he appreciated practicality.
He’d
been so blind. He should have known they couldn’t keep their liaison
a secret. No wonder Claire always seemed to be harboring some secret
guilt, some deep sadness she tried to keep from him. She loved him;
she even admitted it. Yet, he’d never so much as hinted at how deep
his affection for her ran. The very thought of life without Claire made
his insides knot up and throb.
He
shook his head, knowing he still hadn’t hit upon Claire’s secret.
It was almost as if she were trying to hide something from him; something
she felt made her less than a good person. That was ridiculous, of course.
Tom had never met a better person than Claire Montague.
Leaning
his forearms on the desk top, Tom picked up Claire’s pen and idly
flipped it between his fingers. A memory struck him, of this pen clattering
to her blotter as they’d chatted one day. The same day she’d shoved
those papers in her drawer and he’d teased her about being an embezzler.
The
pen clattered to the blotter again and Tom sat up straight. Good God!
She couldn’t truly be an embezzler, could she? Was that the reason
she seemed to be so sad and guilty all the time?
“No,
damn it,” popped out of his mouth of its own accord. He glanced at
the door to make sure it was closed. He didn’t relish being discovered
talking to himself.
Finding
the door firmly shut against the rest of his home, Tom resumed brooding.
The idea of Claire being an embezzler was absurd. She could never engage
in criminal activities; he knew she couldn’t. Her principles would
not allow her to do anything shady or devious.
But
what was it she trying to hide from him? What was making her nervous
and sad? Was it just that she felt guilty about their relationship?
Or was there something else? Something deeper? Something that had nothing
to do with him?
Love
notes? Had that idiotic puppy, Addison, been writing her love notes?
Anger erupted in him suddenly and had to shake his head to clear it.
No.
Addison was being firmly lured into the man-fishing creel of the pretty
widow, Priscilla Pringle. Besides, Addison was such a self-serving nitwit;
he wouldn’t write love notes to anybody unless it was to himself.
Still,
and although it seemed illogical, Tom suddenly had a very strong hunch
that those papers, whatever they were, had some bearing on Claire’s
discontent. Anything that kept Claire from pure happiness was a blot
on his life, too, and he resented it.
Shooting
another glance at the closed door, Tom compressed his lips and then
did something he’d never done before in his entire life. He snooped.
The
drawer opened smoothly and without any betraying squeaks or scrapes.
Of course, he’d expect nothing less of a drawer entrusted to Claire
Montague’s care. Although he felt sort of sheepish about it—not
at all the hero Claire had called him so often—after another glance
at the door, Tom settled in to pry.
Everything
was very tidy. He’d anticipated that it would be. After all, the drawer
belonged to Claire. A pair of scissors rested neatly next to two pencils
and a pen in a wooden tray. A bottle of ink, a piece of blotting paper,
a rubber eraser, and a list of household items Tom suspected was a shopping
list were laid precisely out next to the miscellany tray.
How
like his Claire to keep such close tabs on things, Tom thought with
a smile. God, he valued her; he’d never been in an establishment that
ran more smoothly than did his estate. A sponge sat in a little dish
ready to be filled with water to moisten postage stamps. A small envelope
revealed the stamps, as well. At the very bottom of the shallow drawer
lay a brown folder tied with string. Carefully, Tom removed the folder
and untied the bow.
When
he pulled out a sheaf of papers from the folder and glanced over them,
their import escaped him at first. Claire’s fine hand covered the
sheets in tidy rows. He noted with interest that her handwriting sloped
neither up nor down, but trotted across the pages in firm, straight
lines. He smiled. She was absolutely amazing. He didn’t know another
single soul in the universe, besides himself, whose regularity of mind
allowed for such perfectly even rows.
But
what was this? There were pages and pages here, all covered with Claire’s
beautiful cursive, unembellished with curlicues or fancy scrollwork.
Her efficiency reflected itself in her handwriting, as it did in everything
she did. Peering more closely, Tom began to read.
After
a minute or two, his eyebrows lowered. His smile faded. His forehead
wrinkled. His eyes narrowed. A pounding started in his head. His heart
began to thud heavily. He finished the first page, set it carefully
down on the blotter and began reading the second.
Suddenly
he dropped the entire folder onto the desk and sat up straight.
“Good
God!”
This
was one of those damned
Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee
novels! Right here.
In Claire’s desk. In her very hand.
What
did this mean?
His
frown left him and his brow wrinkled harder as he concentrated. After
a few moments of ponderous thought, his worry eased.
“Of
course,” he said, and nodded.
His
uncle Gordon used to dictate his books to her. That’s what this was.
This was the book his uncle had been writing when he died. Of course.
Tom actually laughed, but the noise sounded too loud in the silence
of the room and he stopped immediately and swallowed.
He
bent to the pages again. Why was the unfinished manuscript still in
Claire’s desk? Surely she wasn’t planning on having it published,
was she? Wouldn’t she have told him? She and he had a perfectly open
relationship, didn’t they? She wouldn’t have kept it from him, would
she?
A
dreadful thought began creeping around the edges of Tom’s mind. It
was so ghastly a notion that he didn’t want to allow it in, so he
only glanced at it sideways for a while as he concentrated on the story
unfolding on the sheets of foolscap in front of him. The idea kept wanting
to sidle past his guard and attack him, but he wouldn’t let it.
“Jedediah
couldn’t find any trace of Uncle Gordo’s records of his book sale
profits.”
Tom
jerked up and looked around, wondering who had spoken. He realized with
a start that it had been he who’d mouthed the significant words and
frowned again. Once more, he bent to read the pages.
“No
wonder she was so scared.”
Again
his own voice startled him into looking around the room. This time,
however, he knew who had spoken. He also had a fairly shrewd notion
about what these papers suggested.
Allowing
the manuscript to drift from his fingers, Tom stared straight ahead
and thought hard.
He
said, “Claire?” experimentally, hoping his reaction to her precious
name would make him realize the total absurdity of what he’d just
realized. He wanted inspiration to blind him with a truth completely
contradicting the evidence. This afternoon, inspiration was not Tom’s
friend.
“Hellfire,”
he muttered unhappily.
Claire
Montague. Clarence McTeague. Good God, why hadn’t he made the connection
before? She’d even defended the idiotic novels on several occasions
when he’d disparaged them.
Damn.
No wonder she’d looked so disconcerted when he explained his lack
of heroism. He must have burst her bubble with a vengeance.
“Poor
Claire.”
Wait
a minute. Why was he thinking “Poor Claire”?
He
was the one
who had suffered from these blasted books! It was he, Tom Partington,
who’d been made the object of Claire’s girlish romantic fantasies!
It had been he whose entire life had been made a living hell by her
misplaced hero-worship! He was the one who’d been teased beyond endurance
by his fellow scouts.
She’d
made him a damned laughing stock.
Tom
sat back and stewed in righteous indignation for several minutes, his
anger getting hotter the longer he thought about Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee.
Actually,
it wasn’t the books themselves that angered him. It was the fact that
Claire hadn’t trusted him enough to confess her authorship. Her keeping
mum about the books seemed somehow vile to him—a treacherous sin of
omission. She’d hoodwinked him! She’d out-and-out deceived him.
She’d kept a big, fat secret from him.
And
it wasn’t just any secret, either. It was a secret that had haunted
him, waking and sleeping, for the last five years of his life.