Authors: Alice Duncan
It
would all be worth it, though, if Claire agreed to marry him. He opened
the door and helped her and Mrs. Finchley to alight. Neither lady seemed
especially pleased to accept his hand. He sighed and wondered how long
it would take him to thaw Claire out.
“Do
you need my support during your ordeal, dear?” Mrs. Finchley asked
Claire, thereby winning herself a frown from Tom. She ignored it and
him with exquisite disdain.
“I
believe I can handle it. Thank you, Mrs. Finchley.”
“I’ll
be taking tea in the coffee room if you need me.”
“Thank
you.”
Crushed
to his soul, Tom waited until Mrs. Finchley bustled into the coffee
room before he burst out, “Why the devil do you think you’ll need
protection from me, Claire? Don’t you know me better than that by
now?”
Claire
looked at him as if he were a particularly disgusting road deposit she’d
just found smeared on her boot. “Mrs. Finchley,” she said coldly,
“is my friend.”
Tom
wanted to holler at her and ask her what she thought he was, but he
held himself back. Refinement was what he needed here. Sadly, refinement
was something Tom hadn’t practiced much in his life.
Since
it was past midnight and the stagecoach office was thin of company,
he led her to a corner where a hard bench had been built against the
wall. It wasn’t an ideal trysting place, but Tom didn’t guess he’d
better risk asking her to share a hotel room with him yet. The other
stagecoach passengers who had witnessed their performance on the road
to Marysville peered at them curiously. Tom turned his back on them.
When
Claire settled herself on the bench, her back as straight as a poker,
her skirt folded precisely around her, and her lips pinched into two
straight, white lines, he sighed unhappily. He guessed he deserved her
displeasure; he hadn’t handled her well at all.
Meekly,
he said, “Claire, I know I hurt your feelings. All I can do now is
to beg you to forgive me. I had no business shouting at you, and no
business being mad at you for writing those books.”
Claire
inclined her head imperiously, as if she were a royal duchess granting
absolution to an errant knave. He knew he was taking a big chance, but
he dared reach for her hand and was pleased when she didn’t snatch
it back again immediately.
“I
love you, Claire. I know I’ve never told you so before, but that was
because I’ve always been afraid to admit to having such emotions.
I didn’t trust love. The only people I’d ever loved before treated
me like dirt and tried to suck me dry. I—I was afraid of being hurt,
you see.”
The
truth, when it hit the air, scared the living tar out of him. Entrusting
the secrets of his heart to another human being was a frightening proposition.
His parents, the first people to whom he’d extended his heart, had
not treated it gently. And here he’d just handed Claire his entire
being.
Breathless,
he waited to see what she’d do with his humble offering. As he waited,
he experienced torment because he realized she’d already offered him
her own heart, and he’d failed her; had thrown it back into her face,
as a matter of fact.
Claire,
however, perhaps because she was female and, therefore, more accustomed
to granting forgiveness than Tom, recognized the importance of his admission,
and it touched her. She had been inspired with the fire of self-worth
by Mrs. Finchley, however, and didn’t think it wise to let Tom off
too lightly.
“I
believe I understand,” she said carefully. “As somebody whose heart
and entire life’s work was recently pillaged unmercifully, I know
how much it can hurt.”
Tom
winced as if she’d struck him. “I’m sorry, Claire. I’ll never
do such a thing again.” He looked at her closely. “Claire, I didn’t
know your background. It never occurred to me that you might have been
trying to overcome problems in your own past. If I’d known, I might
have felt less betrayed.”
She
stiffened, and he hurried on, “I did feel betrayed, Claire. I had
taken you into my life, and when you didn’t trust me enough to tell
me about those books—and even let me continue believing my uncle had
written them—it was like a slap in the face when I learned the truth.
I know it was wrong of me to jump to conclusions, but if I’d known
Uncle Gordon didn’t write those books, I’d have felt more kindly
toward him.”
This
time Claire winced.
“I
didn’t know then about your father.”
Claire
dropped her gaze. “No, of course you didn’t, because I didn’t
tell you. I understand. I—I’m sorry, Tom.”
Thank
God! She was back to calling him Tom. His heart soared, although he
knew it was too soon to celebrate. “Can you tell me about it, Claire?”
he asked softly.
She
hesitated for a moment, then sighed deeply. “I take it you know by
now that I grew up in a medicine show. What you may not yet understand
is that my father is a gambler and a confidence man and a terrible,
cheating, awful, miserable, thieving scoundrel.”
She
paused and Tom squeezed her hand for encouragement. “It was bad enough
when I was little. In almost every town we passed through, the other
children laughed at me and made fun of me. When I grew up, it was even
worse because he made me dress up in lewd, hateful costumes and made
entice unsuspecting men into his trap.”
Tom’s
heart gave a sudden twist.
Claire’s
composure began to crumble. “He never even let me wear my spectacles!”
Tom
was stunned. He didn’t know what to say. Memories of Claire pleading
with him not to think of her as a strumpet washed over him, and he could
only be ashamed of himself for not offering her marriage in the first
place. Good God. His childhood problems were nothing compared to Claire’s.
And he’d undoubtedly done exactly the wrong thing in making her his
mistress.
“The
medicine show—cheating and conniving and running from the law—that
was the only life I ever knew as a child, and I hated it. When I was
seventeen, I ran away from my father and applied for a position at Partington
Place. Mr. Partington took me in, even though I didn’t know a thing
about housekeeping. He was so good to me, and he taught me how act like
a lady and be proper and gracious—and to have friends. I made friends
there for the first time in my life. I’ve tried so hard to live up
to his expectations of me. I’ve tried so hard!”
His
heart hurting for the girl Claire had been and the woman she’d become,
Tom said feelingly, “Believe me, Claire. In a million years, I wouldn’t
have guessed your background. Nobody would. I even asked Jedediah Silver,
and he didn’t know. He said you just showed up at Partington Place
one day and he never did know anything about you except that you were
very genteel and took better care of the Place and my uncle Gordon than
anybody else ever could have done.”
“Truly?
He really said that?”
Tom
could plainly see how Claire valued Jedediah’s opinion. “Yes, Claire.
He really said that. And he was right.” Taking a deep breath and a
daring chance, he said, “Will you marry me, Claire? Will you marry
me and make me the happiest man in the world?”
Claire
hesitated for so long, Tom’s heart began to shrivel in his chest.
He was sure she was going to refuse him, even though he knew she loved
him. Used to love him. Until he’d gotten mad at her.
He
was on the verge of begging—and continuing to do so until he wore
down her defenses—when her tiny, “Yes,” kissed his ears.
“Yes?”
He sucked in a ragged breath.
After
a much shorter pause, Claire said more firmly, “Yes.”
Relief
crashed through Tom with monumental force. She’d said yes!
“You
mean it, Claire?” he whispered.
She
peered at him so searchingly, it was difficult for him to hold her gaze,
but he did it and was proud.
“Yes.”
Fearing
to take anything for granted at this point, he asked carefully, “Then,
may I kiss you, Claire?”
She
ducked her head shyly and whispered another tiny, decorous, “Yes.”
When
Tom swept her into his arms and crushed his lips to hers, both of them
were startled by the tremendous cheer that sailed out from the door
of the coffee room. Embarrassed, with Claire blushing furiously in his
arms, Tom turned to discover everybody who had ridden in the Wells Fargo
stagecoach with Claire, including Mrs. Finchley, applauding. Several
beaver hats flew into the air, Mrs. Finchley waved her handkerchief,
and the bearded gentleman stomped his feet in approval.
The
cherub-faced minister was the first to approach them. He strode toward
Tom and Claire with his hands outstretched.
“May
I offer you my heartiest felicitations as well as my services, sir and
madam? I am an ordained minister of the Southern Methodist-Episcopal
persuasion, and I would be more than happy to perform the nuptial ceremony,
should you desire to take care of the matter immediately.”
Tom
and Claire exchanged a glance. Tom cocked his brow. Claire smiled. Then
they both stood, hands entwined.
“We’d
be happy if you were to perform the rites, Mister—Mister—” Tom
felt foolish when he realized they didn’t even know the man’s name.
“Montenegro,
sir. My name is Cyrus Montenegro.”
The
bride and groom laughed until tears ran down their cheeks.
# # #
By
three o’clock that morning, Claire had become Mrs. Thomas Gordon Partington.
She had no bridal bouquet, no veil, no wedding gown, no bridesmaids,
no three-tiered cake. What she had was a jovial minister, a supportive
group of near-strangers who stood witness, a man she loved almost beyond
endurance, and a happiness in her soul so great she was afraid she’d
burst with it.
Tom
had behaved like a perfect dithering bridegroom, too. He’d spread
money around like salt, fumbled his lines, blushed scarlet, and even
wept at one point. Claire thought his conduct was so sweet she could
hardly stand it. Then he’d invited all their impromptu wedding guests
to a celebration of their nuptials at Partington Place and took all
of their names and addresses so they could be sent invitations when
the event was organized.
After
that, he booked them a suite at the Marysville Golden Fortune Hotel
and sent two telegrams, one to Partington Place. The other, he told
Claire, was a secret.
She
batted her eyelashes in mock dismay. “But, Tom, how do I know you’re
not sending a wire to another woman?”
“You’ll
just have to trust me, Claire,” he told her with a wink as he yanked
off his vest and opened his arms wide. “Come here.”
With
her cheeks warming and her heart full, Claire went to him.
“I
love you, Claire,” Tom said when he wrapped her in his arms. “I
love you and I won’t let you leave me again.”
“I’ll
never leave you, Tom.”
“I
was so scared, Claire.”
She
knew he was telling her the truth, because she heard his voice catch
and felt his heart thunder in his chest. She thought about apologizing,
but decided an apology would be poor strategy.
She,
who had never thought about strategy in her entire life, had learned
something very important today. She didn’t have to stand for anybody
treating her poorly, not even the man she loved above all others. It
was a valuable lesson, and one she planned to keep at the forefront
of her mind at all times.
When
Tom kissed her, however, she decided there were occasions when her newly
perceived lesson could be relegated to the background. She kissed him
back with all the enthusiasm in her heart.
There
was something incredibly sweet about making love to her husband, Claire
discovered that night. She felt a freedom to express herself in passion
that she hadn’t felt when she’d believed herself to be participating
in something immoral. When Tom drove her to rapture, she surrendered
to her climax with wild abandon, sending Tom over the edge in an instant.
For
a long time, they lay in each other’s arms, neither speaking. After
a while, Tom admitted, “It’s never been so good, Claire.”
“Mmmmm.”
Another
several silent minutes ticked by before he said softly, “I’m sorry
I didn’t ask you to marry me weeks ago, Claire. It wasn’t very noble
of me to ask you to share my bed and not my name.”
She
snuggled up against him, glorying in the feel and scent of him and their
recent love-making. “I understand how you felt about marriage, Tom.
If I’d grown up as you did, with your mother and father, I’d probably
have felt the same way.”