Authors: Alice Duncan
She’d
actually allowed him to believe that his uncle Gordon had written those
wretched books. She, who claimed to have loved Gordon like a father,
had allowed Tom to believe something ill of him.
“Damn!”
Tom felt more betrayed than he’d ever felt in his life.
Claire
was the author of those damnable books! It had been she who had ruined
his life! She was the one to whom he owed all that misery.
Resting
his elbows on the desk, Tom sank his head in his hands and ran his fingers
through his hair. Claire! The woman he cared for. The woman who claimed
to love him. Good God!
Agitation
bubbled in his breast like boiling water until it propelled him out
of Claire’s chair and sent him storming around the room. He kicked
the magazine stand viciously, splintering its frail legs and sending
a year’s worth of
McCall’s
slithering across the floor.
She’d
tricked him. Little Miss Holier-Than-Thou Claire Montague had tricked
him as if he were a green boy and she a practiced fraud! She’d written
those trashy books and undoubtedly made a damned fortune. Trading on
his name! Trading on his reputation and career! She’d used him as
shamelessly as if she were a randy cowboy and he a two-dollar whore
“
Damn,
damn, damn, damn, damn
!”
It
was unfortunate, Tom thought later, that Claire should have entered
her office at precisely that moment. A smile lit her face and she opened
her arms to embrace him, but stopped in her tracks when Tom whirled
around and skewered her with the blackest scowl he’d ever hurled at
anybody. Her hand flew to her breast and she gaped, her eyes huge under
her spectacles. Tom could plainly see fright war with bewilderment in
those expressive eyes. Then her glance flickered to her desk and she
paled.
Lost
to his wrath and in a voice dripping acid, Tom ground out, “Good afternoon,
Miss McTeague.”
Chapter 19
If
she’d yelled at him or been defiant, she might have pricked Tom’s
defenses and he might have given her a chance. If she’d told him roundly
that yes, she was the author of those books and she was damned proud
of them, he’d probably have raged, but he’d have given it up in
a moment or two. If she’d told him to go to hell or even demanded
to know what he’d been doing pawing through her things, she might
have thrown water on his anger.
When
she just stood there looking like a frightened rabbit, her expression
of patent contrition made him feel guilty. Him! Resentment flared in
his breast and his guilt only fed his ire.
“Yes,
my dear. I found you out, didn’t I? When did you plan to tell me,
Claire? Or did you? Maybe you thought you could keep your little secret
to yourself. Did you expect to feed off my name forever?”
“It—it’s
not like that, Tom,” she stammered. “Truly, it’s not.”
“No?”
He sneered. Tom couldn’t recall ever sneering before, but he created
a sneer on the spot and threw it at Claire. “What is it like, Claire?
Please tell me.”
“I—I
meant to tell you. I wanted to tell you. But you hated the books so
much.” Claire hung her head. “I was afraid.”
Tom’s
heart lurched. Claire’s words hurt him more than he’d thought possible.
She was afraid of him? “Because I’ve been so cruel to you, I suppose.
Naturally you’d be afraid to tell me something like this.” He swept
his hand over the scatter of papers on her desk and said with biting
sarcasm, “I’m such a cruel monster.”
“You’re
not a monster,” she murmured unhappily. “You’ve never been cruel
to me.”
“No?
For a second there, I wondered if I’d been beating you in my sleep
or something.”
She
shook her head and Tom saw tears gathering in her eyes. He wanted to
run to her and throw his arms around her; he wanted to comfort her and
tell her it was all right and that he forgave her.
But
her lack of candor had wounded him deeply, bitterly. He hated himself
for what he perceived as his weakness. He held himself back from her,
rigid, his sneer in place, wanting to injure her the way she’d injured
him. He felt stiff, unbending; like ice.
“I’m
sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Even
in his fury, Tom hated to see Claire wringing her hands and looking
so conscience-stricken. But, damn it, she should be conscience-stricken!
He’d taken her into his life and cared for her and told her all the
secrets of his heart and she’d betrayed him. He felt like an utter
fool. She’d lacerated his pride as surely as if she’d taken a machete
to it.
“How
did you expect to keep the truth from me, Claire? What did you plan
to tell me when another one of these abominations came out in print?
Did you think your nasty secret would stay hidden forever?”
“No,
I . . I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“You
just figured that after we became lovers, it would be easier to gull
me, is that it? You figured if you used your body to entice me, I wouldn’t
get mad at you for making an ass of me all those years?”
“No!”
She
looked appalled, and he roared, “No? Well, then, damn it, why didn’t
you tell me?”
It
seemed to Tom as if his roar did her in. Her face crumpled and she cried,
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Then she picked up her skirts and hared out
the door and up the stairs before he could draw breath to yell again.
For
a second, Tom was stunned by Claire’s retreat. After he gathered his
wits together, he chased out of the office after her, but he was in
time only to see her plaid skirt swirl around the upstairs banister.
He knew she’d be in her room before he could catch her.
Seething
with indignation, he stood at the foot of the stairs and glared at nothing
in particular, his hands clenched at his sides, his chest heaving in
outrage. The wicked, lying cheat. Damn her!
“A
wire just arrived, sir.”
Tom’s
heart almost stopped when Scruggs’ lugubrious voice broke into his
churning fury. He turned so fast, the old butler staggered backward.
Snatching the telegram out of Scruggs’ hand, Tom said, “Thank you.”
His jaw was set so tightly, it hurt to speak.
“It’s
for Miss Montague, sir,” Scruggs said, as if Tom might not be able
to read the envelope. “I was going to take it up to her.”
“I’ll
take care of it.”
Scruggs
didn’t speak for a minute. His eyes squinted up and he looked at Tom
as if he didn’t trust him to carry out the assignment. At last he
said, “Very good, sir,” turned, and dragged himself off.
Tom
glared after Scruggs until he was out of sight. Then he glared up the
staircase again and contemplated carrying this wire up to Claire. He
didn’t quite trust himself. He was afraid he’d shout at her again;
or worse, grab her and beg her to forgive him.
Believing
both of those alternatives to be less than ideal, he stuffed the wire
into his pocket and stalked off to his library.
# # #
“What
have I done? Oh, what have I done?”
Claire
allowed herself only a very brief while to lie disconsolately on her
bed and weep. She knew tears didn’t solve anything. Tears hadn’t
fixed anything when she was a child, and they wouldn’t fix anything
now. The only thing in her life that had ever been of benefit to Claire
Montague was action.
She
laughed bitterly, and wished she’d taken action weeks ago and told
Tom about those books. She hadn’t however, and now she was reaping
the fruits of her deception. There was no going back; she had to live
with what her lies had wrought.
Therefore,
after Claire had willed her tears to stop, she stood up and contemplated
her future. Her future did not lie here, at Partington Place, she realized
with a stab of pain.
At
least she had money. The last time she’d faced a new future alone,
all she’d had was an advertisement ripped from the
Sacramento Bee
and boundless determination.
Her
throat ached and heart felt as if somebody had scraped it with a rake.
But she knew it wasn’t broken. Hearts didn’t break; her own heart
had ached for years and years, yet Claire still lived. It surely would
have broken by this time if it such a thing were possible.
Dully,
she dug her old suitcase out from under her bed. Although she didn’t
have many possessions, she had much more than she’d arrived at Partington
Place with ten years ago. Resolutely, she decided to pack what she could
carry in the suitcase and stow the rest in a carpetbag. She would send
for the bag. She was sure Tom would not begrudge her the few treasures
she’d collected during her ten years here. He was a kind, good, noble
man. It wasn’t his fault she was a cheat and a vile deceiver.
Another
tear slid down her cheek and she snatched it away angrily. It didn’t
take long for Claire to pack enough clothes and toiletries to last her
a few days. Then she waited until she was sure Tom and Jedediah were
at supper and slipped downstairs and into her office. There she almost
broke down once more as she stuffed her latest work into its tidy folder
and tucked it under her arm.
She’d
write to Dianthe and Sylvester. She’d probably write to Tom, too,
once she was over the worst of her agony, and give him her new address.
Not that he’d ever have use for it. She’d pen an apology now, though.
She hadn’t been able to voice it this afternoon. She’d have to word
her letter so that it didn’t sound as though she were making excuses
for herself. There was no good excuse for not having trusted him enough
to confess it was she who had authored those books. Yet, she wanted
him to know that she had meant well when she wrote them. She didn’t
want him to think she’d consciously mocked him. How could she mock
the man she loved?
As
silently as a wraith, she slipped out of her office and into the crisp
evening. Because she had come to love them so much, Claire paid a last
visit to Tom’s horses. She almost cried again when she stroked Firefly’s
silky nose. She adored the pretty mare Tom had given her.
“Good-bye,”
she whispered. The horse whickered in response. “Good-bye, Firefly.
I love you. I’ll miss you. And oh, how I’ll miss Partington Place.”
Then,
before she could break down entirely, she hurried down the lane to Pyrite
Springs, carrying her suitcase, her folder snugged under her arm.
# # #
“She
wasn’t feeling well,” Tom said harshly in response to Jedediah’s
question. “I don’t think she’ll be joining us for supper.”
“Too
bad. I was hoping I could persuade her to visit the Pyrite Arms with
me after supper.”
Tom
strove for a smile. “Going to visit your lady love, Jed?”
“Yes,”
Jedediah said with a sigh. “I’ll go anyway, of course, but I know
Dianthe and Claire are the best of friends. I thought she might like
to go, too.”
“Yes.
She might.”
He
hadn’t given her a chance. He’d lit into her like a trout on a fly
and hadn’t let her say a word. He felt guilty as hell. Oh, he knew
she was at fault. She’d lied to him. She’d deceived him. She’d
kept a terrible secret from him.
Unfortunately
for Tom, his innate honesty had been knocking for admission ever since
he’d allowed his anger to run riot over Claire. It finally kicked
him in the shins and made him pay attention.
Was
her secret really so terrible? He knew she’d only kept the truth from
him because she knew he hated those damned books and feared his anger.
For good reason, as it turned out.
If
she’d told him in the first place, he might have been annoyed, but
he wouldn’t have felt betrayed.
But
he wouldn’t have allowed Claire to get close to him, either, if he’d
known, and then he’d have missed out on l-l-liking her. He’d have
missed out on the last several glorious weeks with her beside him.
But
those books! Those books were trash!
Trash,
were they?
Yes.
They’d made his life miserable.
Miserable?
Yes,
miserable.
Really.
Humph.
Tom scowled into his soup bowl. Well . . . All right. Maybe not miserable.
If he were to be absolutely honest, perhaps he’d sort of enjoyed the
notoriety.
A
little bit.
And
perhaps he
had
pretended a somewhat exaggerated umbrage when
newspaper reporters had sought him out. He might, possibly, have been
said to profit—indirectly, of course—from Claire’s hero-worship
when he’d been given plum assignments.