Authors: Alice Duncan
“Yes.
I do my poor best.” Dianthe lowered her lashes in a becoming manner.
“She’s
not a mere poet, Mr. Partington,” Claire said hurriedly. “Dianthe
writes brilliant odes to Nature and then creates evocative dances to
go with them.”
Tom
said, “Really,” in a lost-sounding voice.
“Oh,
yes.” Claire drew in a deep breath. This seemed as good a time as
any to beg the new master of Partington Place’s indulgence; better
than most, in fact. Might as well hit him with it while he was under
Dianthe’s spell.
“In
fact, the late Mr. Partington used to support the arts in several extremely
practical ways.”
“Did
he now?”
Claire
watched Tom watch Dianthe as she floated to her chair and drifted into
graceful repose once more.
“Yes,
indeed. He was a great supporter of the Pyrite Arms.”
“Beg
pardon?” Tom’s gaze, which had been stuck like glue on Dianthe,
lifted. He looked quizzically at Claire.
“The
Pyrite Arms. Several fine, fine artists live there. It is an hotel endowed
by the late Mr. Partington specifically to give talented individuals
a home. They are provided room and board at a modest cost, and are given
the freedom to devote their energies to art without the mundane world
stifling their creative sensibilities.”
Claire
and Dianthe shared a smile. Dianthe whispered, “Mr. Partington was
truly an enlightened benefactor.”
Blinking,
Tom murmured, “Was he now?”
Warming
to her subject, Claire said, “Oh, yes, sir. Why, Dianthe is only one
of five truly gifted artists who live and—and create—at the Pyrite
Arms.”
Tom
cleared his throat. “A truly noble enterprise, ladies.”
Dianthe
breathed, “Truly noble.”
“Yes,”
Claire continued. “And your uncle Gordon used to enjoy hosting Artistic
Evenings for residents of the Pyrite Arms, too, Mr. Partington.”
Claire
looked down at her blotter, worried lest her passion for the Pyrite
Arms enterprise give away her fervent interest. Yet if she could enlist
the support of Mr. Thomas G. Partington to his uncle’s pet project,
she would be so happy. Somehow it seemed to Claire that when she helped
the artists at the Pyrite Arms, she was making up in some way for “Tuscaloosa
Tom Pardee”. Using her paltry skills in making so much money in so
crass a manner embarrassed her. She tried at every opportunity to enlist
further support for the Pyrite Arms. Besides, keeping the Pyrite Arms
project alive would keep Gordon’s memory alive, as well. Claire sometimes
felt the Pyrite Arms would be her absolution.
Good
Lord. Tom had never seen a woman as lovely as the creature draped in
the chair across from his housekeeper. The contrast between the two
ladies was almost painful to observe, and Tom felt a tug of sympathy
for Claire. She was a good woman and was quite taking in her own subtle
way.
It
seemed almost a shame, however, that she should have become friends
with the ethereal Dianthe St. Sauvre, who must eclipse her in any setting.
Yet they obviously shared a strong friendship. That puzzled him in more
ways than one, as Claire seemed infinitely brighter than her more beautiful
friend. Dianthe reminded him in all too many ways of his own lovely
but empty-headed mother. He wondered what she and Claire found to chat
about.
“Well,
perhaps you will do us the honor of visiting again, Miss St. Sauvre.”
A
glance at Claire assured him he’d said exactly the right thing, and
he was irrationally pleased with himself. Although Tom had never had
much truck with poetry, preferring the bawdy verses warbled in the countless
seedy saloons he’d frequented in his impoverished days, he found himself
saying, “I’ll speak with Miss Montague about one of your—your
evening art things.”
“Artistic
Evenings,” Dianthe murmured. She gave Tom another dazzling smile.
“That
would be so wonderful of you, Mr. Partington.” Even though Claire
knew Dianthe’s beauty and not her own eloquence had nudged her employer
into making the offer, she was very grateful. After he witnessed for
himself the wonderful work the denizens of the Pyrite Arms created,
he would surely be swayed to further generosity.
Dianthe
left shortly after Tom’s arrival. It seemed to take Tom a few minutes
to recover. Claire thought dryly that he looked as though he’d been
sucker-punched. With an internal sigh, she guessed he had been. They
discussed the business of the estate for a half-hour or so before Mr.
Partington took himself off for another chat with Mr. Silver.
As
for Claire, her accounts settled, her work done, she went up to her
room, fetched her work in progress, toted it downstairs to her office,
and immersed herself in the further thrilling adventures of Tuscaloosa
Tom Pardee. She knew it was shameful to take such delight in the unedifying
pastime but guessed it was only to be expected, considering her origins.
# # #
Tom
couldn’t remember another time in his life when he’d eaten dinner
alone. Or in such luxury. Sitting at the head of his magnificent dining
table—capable of seating thirty with room to spare—he stared at
a vast, empty expanse of polished mahogany that seemed to go on forever.
His
uncle hadn’t had the place piped for gas, and the glistening wood
faded away into the shadows. An arrangement of dried flowers banked
by two candles leapt into view about the middle of the table and saved
it from looking utterly desolate, but even that one clump of flowers
seemed a mile away. The room was gloomy, lit as it was only by candles
set quite far apart. Tom felt ridiculously forsaken.
Hell,
he’d been around people his entire life. Scads of people. Hordes of
people. Even when he’d been scouting for the railroad in the vast
emptiness of the American frontier, there had been people around. In
fact, the fellows in the railroad camps had been like a big, bawdy family
to him. He’d never been alone like this.
Occasionally
Scruggs would bring in another dish or refill his wine glass—God,
what he wouldn’t give for a mug of beer—but the butler didn’t
speak to him. Rather, he slumped around the room like a condemned man.
Tom still hadn’t decided whether Scruggs’ attitude was fostered
of animosity towards Tom or if he was merely a naturally morose man.
He guessed Claire would be able to tell him. He also couldn’t figure
out how Scruggs could find his way around in the dark.
At
least the silly cook had stopped crying. Claire had introduced him to
Mrs. Philpott that morning, and it had taken a good forty-five minutes
to convince the woman Tom wasn’t going to cast her off like an old
shoe.
Gazing
moodily at all the gleaming wood stretched out in front of him, the
happy thought struck Tom that Dianthe St. Sauvre would add a stunning
note to his elegant dining room. He lifted his glass in a silent salute.
He’d never seen anything like her in his life. She was the most dazzling
female he’d ever encountered. Maybe he could invite her to dine with
him sometime. Then he frowned.
If
she came to dine here, he’d have to talk to her. Tom wasn’t at all
sure what to say to a poetess. Besides, there were societal strictures
against single gentlemen inviting single ladies for dinner, weren’t
there? He couldn’t recall if his mama had ever spoken to him on the
subject. If she had, it was so long ago the rules had slipped his mind.
Claire
would know. He’d ask her. Claire was such a comfortable woman, and
she seemed to know all about stuff like that.
Finally
Tom couldn’t stand the silence. Wondering if he were breaking a cardinal
rule of Partington Place, he asked his butler, “Did my uncle always
take his meals alone, Scruggs?”
It
seemed to take forever for his question to register and for Scruggs
to put the dish of potatoes he’d been holding on the sideboard and
turn around. Tom was on the verge of asking again, more loudly in case
the butler suffered from deafness, when Scruggs answered.
“No,
sir.”
“Did
he have friends in often?”
“No,
sir.”
Frowning,
Tom asked, “Well, who’d he eat with, then?”
“Miss
Montague always took her meals with the late Mr. Partington, Mr. Partington.”
He sounded absolutely hopeless.
Tom
digested Scruggs’ information. “Well, why isn’t she taking her
meal with me?”
“I
couldn’t say, sir.”
“Did
she eat alone tonight?”
Tom
felt a little miffed at the thought. He wondered if Claire was so heartbroken
by the death of his uncle that she couldn’t stand to see Tom taking
his place. She hadn’t seemed heartbroken, but what the hell did he
know—about women or heartbreak?
“No,
sir.”
Tom
looked at Scruggs expectantly, but the butler didn’t seem inclined
to volunteer information on this subject or any other. With an itch
of aggravation, he asked, “Well, where’d she eat then?”
“In
her office, sir.”
Poor
Claire. Tom wished he’d had the presence of mind to ask her to eat
with him. Not for the first time, he cursed the circumstances of his
life. They’d brought him honor and unwanted fame, but the nuances
of polite behavior seemed determined to elude him.
But
wait a minute. Scruggs had said she hadn’t dined alone.
“Did
you and Mrs. Philpott eat with her?”
“No,
sir.”
Rolling
his eyes, Tom barked, “Well, who the hell did she eat with then?”
Scruggs’
face seemed to lengthen with Tom’s show of incivility, and Tom was
annoyed with himself. “She dined with Mr. Addison-Addison, sir.”
“Who?”
“Mr.
Addison-Addison, sir. I believe,” Scruggs added, for the first time
answering an unasked question, “that the gentleman is an Author.”
Tom
took a gulp of wine. Damned stuff tasted like vinegar. So much for Claire
missing his uncle. “One of her artists, is he?”
“I
believe so, sir.”
Scruggs
stood by the sideboard, staring at Tom in resignation, as though he
expected the inquisition to continue. Tom felt a little guilty for having
snapped at the fellow. He just wasn’t used to having a butler, is
all.
He
said, “Thank you, Scruggs,” and was relieved when the man shuffled
off.
Well,
hell. So now what was he supposed to do? Tom looked around glumly. He
wasn’t in the habit of amusing himself. He was used to having friends
around to talk to, drink with, play cards with, go carousing with. This
being rich wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He wished he’d asked
Silver to dinner.
Pushing
himself away from the table, Tom moped to the parlor, poured himself
some of the port Scruggs had thoughtfully left for him there, and took
a slug. It tasted like fermented prune juice and he shuddered.
Finding
nothing of interest with which to occupy himself in the parlor, he took
his port and paid a visit to his library. There were books aplenty,
many of which Tom had not read, but he didn’t feel like reading tonight.
He wanted to talk to somebody. Hell, this was the evening of his first
full day in his new home, enjoying his new wealth, and he felt as though
the world had died and left him orphaned.
He
threw back the last of his port, grimaced, and wondered if he’d ever
get used to the trappings of a gentleman. Tomorrow he was going to lay
in a supply of booze, whether it was considered refined or not. He couldn’t
stand this cognac and port nonsense another day.
He
wished Claire was here. She was quite delightful to talk to.
After
circuiting the library twice, staring out the window at the black night
for ten minutes, sitting at his desk and thrumming his fingers on the
blotter for what seemed like an eternity, he gave up solitude and headed
for Claire’s office. He hoped his presence wouldn’t be unwelcome.
# # #
Claire
felt a defeated sense of resignation as she sat on the sofa in her parlor-office
and mended a torn pillowslip. It’s not that the mending hadn’t been
piling up shamefully. Actually, mending was the one job she’d neglected
during her tenure as housekeeper at Partington Place.
No.
The reason she felt unsettled this evening was that she longed to be
sitting here alone in her office as she had been all afternoon, writing.
Writing trash. Heaving a sigh, Claire decided her nature must truly
be that of an unworthy plebeian. After meeting Tom Partington, though,
she had an almost ungovernable urge to exalt his exploits on paper.
She couldn’t seem to help herself.