Authors: Alice Duncan
Still,
the chapter Sylvester Addison-Addison had come over to read was quite
. . . thrilling. In its own way. She glanced up from setting a stitch
to observe Sylvester poised as though balancing on the foredeck of a
ship in high water, holding his manuscript to the oil lamp, a fervent
expression on his handsome face. Light from the fireplace licked him
artistically and highlighted the elegant moodiness of his features.
Claire
smiled. Not only was Sylvester a true Author, but he—like Dianthe—possessed
the looks of an artist, as well. And the sensibilities. Why even in
the dead of winter, Sylvester had managed to find lilies. He’d brought
her some this very evening, and they now graced a vase on the table
next to her. Of course, they’d probably cost him a fortune, she thought,
eyeing the flowers with a pang, but a true artist measured cost in terms
other than vulgar coin.
Besides,
it wasn’t his money anyway; or not much of it, at any rate. Sylvester
did have to work part-time at the local mercantile—unlike Dianthe,
who received a modest competence from a dead relative—but he reaped
much more from the endowment of the Pyrite Arms than from his employment.
Not that Claire grudged him a penny, for Sylvester’s genius deserved
everything Gordon had to give.
She
sighed again and guessed she possessed the sensibilities of a hack dime
novelist. Frowning, she resumed sewing and tried to concentrate on Sylvester’s
stirring prose.
His
glorious voice gave life to his words, but Claire still couldn’t help
but wish those words were describing something possessed of more natural
animation than Grecian ruins. With a pang for her wretched lack of artistic
vision, she bent to her stitching.
The
knock on her door came as Sylvester had just launched into a detailed
description of the marble scrollwork on the tomb of his tragic hero’s
equally tragic father. He looked up, tossing his tousled locks impatiently.
“Who
in God’s name is that?”
Claire
put her mending down. “I’ll go see, Sylvester.” Her heart hoped
she knew who it was; her practical nature told her not to be silly.
This
time her heart won.
Chapter 3
“Mr.
Partington!”
Tom
felt very ill at ease. He’d brought the port decanter with him, thinking
to offer Claire and her guest a glass of wine, but now he wasn’t sure
how his gesture would be received. Claire’s exclamation of surprise
didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. She stood in the doorway
as though shocked, and Tom felt like an interloper. He had to remind
himself that he was master in this house.
Suddenly
leaping backwards, Claire yanked the door open. “Oh, my goodness,
Mr. Partington! I’m so sorry. Do, please, come in.”
With
a glance at the young man glowering at him from the fireplace, Tom murmured,
“If I’m not intruding.”
Another,
sharper, look revealed the fellow was holding a sheaf of papers in one
hand and a wilted flower in the other, pressed to his chest. Must be
some sort of new fad, Tom supposed. He’d been out of society for a
long time and had a lot to catch up on. But wilted flowers? He shook
his head.
“Heaven’s
no! How could you possibly be intruding? It’s a pleasure to see you
this evening.” Claire took another step back, almost stumbling over
a magazine basket in her haste.
“I
brought some port, if you’d like a glass.”
“Thank
you. How kind.” Claire stared at him for a minute, marveling again
at how perfect he was. Even without his mustache.
Then
she recalled there was another gentleman in the room. “Mr. Partington,
please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Sylvester Addison-Addison. Mr.
Addison-Addison was just reading me the latest chapter in his epic historical
novel,
The Solitary Journey of a Grecian Soul
.”
Claire’s
epic novelist was definitely not happy about having been interrupted.
Sylvester slammed his manuscript onto a table, threw his wilted lily
on top of it, and thrust a lock of hair back from his white brow. Nodding
curtly, he mumbled, “Partington.”
All
at once Tom felt a familiar tickle in his chest. It had been years since
he’d had to deal with surly boys, but he used to get a kick out of
it in the army. Setting the port decanter down on a side table, Tom
pasted a big smile on his face and walked towards Sylvester Addison-Addison
with his hand outstretched.
“Good
evening, Mr. Addison-Addison. A writer, are you?”
“I
am an author, yes.” Sylvester had been practicing his superior sneer,
Tom thought. He shook Tom’s hand, but obviously wasn’t pleased to
have to do so.
“Mind
if I sit down and join you for a while?”
Tom
smiled at Claire, who swallowed nervously. He was sorry to see that
she’d taken to wringing her hands, apparently a little worried about
her author’s manners. Tom could hardly blame her.
“Of
course not, Mr. Partington. Why, it would be a privilege to have you
sit with us.”
Tom
sat docilely. “Mr. Silver will be joining us for a few weeks, Miss
Montague. I trust that won’t inconvenience you?”
“Certainly
not, Mr. Partington.”
Claire
gave him a smile that relieved her features and made her seem younger
and prettier than she had until now. A dimple played at the corner of
her mouth and Tom approved.
“Why,
I’ll have Sally fix up the blue room upstairs tomorrow morning. Do
you know how long he plans to visit?”
“At
least until Christmas. He’s going to show me the ropes around the
estate.” He wished she’d do her hair another way. Those two braided
knots definitely did not flatter her. Tom, admittedly not an authority
when it came to females, thought she’d do well to pile her hair on
top of her head. If she were worried about maintaining a housekeeperish
appearance, that would do it, and much less severely.
Picking
up her mending with a shaking hand, Claire said, “Well, I’ll let
Mrs. Philpott know to expect an extra diner, then.”
“Speaking
of that, I understand you used to take your meals with my uncle, Miss
Montague.”
She
peeked at him over her pillowslip. “Why, yes, I did, Mr. Partington.
The late Mr. Partington, well, he—he was very kind to me and treated
me more as a member of his family than as an employee.”
“I
think that’s a fine idea myself. I’d be delighted if you’d join
me for meals. I must admit to having been sadly lonely at dinner tonight.”
Tom
heard the angry rustle of manuscript pages at his back. Apparently,
The Author was getting peeved at being left out of the conversation.
He cast a negligent peek over his shoulder and took note of Addison-Addison’s
stormy expression. Ignoring him, Tom poured Claire a glass of port and
handed it to her.
“Thank
you, Mr. Partington.” She dropped her pillowslip and lunged for the
port. “And I should enjoy joining you for meals.”
Tom
was surprised to see a hint of pink stain Claire’s cheeks, as though
she were embarrassed.
The
papers rattled again, more loudly, and Tom swiveled to look at Sylvester.
“Want a glass of port, Addison?”
“It’s
Addison-Addison, Mr. Partington. There’s a hyphen in the middle.”
Nodding
wisely, Tom murmured, “Parents came from the same family, did they?
Works sometimes I understand, as long as they don’t breed idiots.”
He ignored Sylvester’s offended snort and poured a glass of port.
“Here you go.”
“Thank
you.” Sylvester’s voice was as stiff as his posture when he took
the proffered glass.
Claire
took a quick gulp of wine, choking slightly. “Mr. Addison-Addison
was just reading from his latest work, Mr. Partington. Would you care
to listen for a while?” Glancing at the ruffled artist standing next
to the fireplace, she added in a conciliatory voice, “I believe he’s
almost at the end of the chapter.”
“Perhaps
we should continue another time, Claire,” Sylvester said heavily.
“I can’t imagine Mr. Partington having much interest in great historical
literary works.”
With
a sweet smile, Tom said, “I haven’t read many, to tell you the truth.”
Sylvester
muttered, “What a surprise.”
Immediately
Claire spoke up, trying to cover the moment. “Well, you know, the
historical novel is a fine art form, Mr. Partington, and Mr. Addison-Addison
does it very well. You of all people should enjoy such novels, since
your own career is the stuff of legends.”
“What?”
The exclamation slipped out before Tom could stop it.
“It’s
inspired a series of dime novels, at any rate.” Sylvester’s sneer
faded into a sullen frown when Claire shot him a look.
“Ah,
yes, the dime novels.” Tom took a swig of port. He frowned, too.
“It’s
hardly surprising that Mr. Partington should have inspired such literary
works, Mr. Addison-Addison. After all, his career is renowned the world
over.”
“Literary
works!” Sylvester downed his port, too, then grimaced, as though he
hadn’t expected it to taste so bad.
A
little put out, Claire said, “Well, they may be mere popular fiction,
but they are not entirely without merit, I believe. But your career
truly has been thrilling, Mr. Partington. Brevet General at only twenty-two.
My goodness.” She gave him another shy smile.
Tom
had encountered that expression of hero-worship before. He’d never
much liked it, although he found it almost tolerable in Claire Montague.
“Everybody else was dead, Miss Montague, or I’d never have been
so honored. Believe me.”
He
felt a little bit as though he’d kicked a kitten when Claire’s eyes
opened wide, and she uttered a breathy, unhappy, “Oh!”
“I’m
going home,” Sylvester announced suddenly. Tapping his manuscript
into a tidy pile, he bowed to Claire and then to Tom, although he evidently
resented the necessity of the latter. “I shall return at a more convenient
time.”
“Don’t
go on my account.” Tom grinned in a friendly manner as he took another
sip of port.
“Oh,
dear. Well, if you feel you must. Do come back tomorrow, Sylvester.
Perhaps late morning before luncheon would be a good time.” Claire
offered him a nervous smile.
Carelessly
swiping a dark curl from his brow, Sylvester murmured, “If I have
risen by then. I feel the muse upon me this evening. Perhaps I shan’t
sleep.”
Tom
rolled his eyes.
Claire
said, “Of course. Well, do come again when you can. I really can’t
wait to hear the rest of your chapter.”
Another
sharp bow, and Sylvester was off into the night, his lily dangling from
a white hand, his papers fluttering. Claire watched him stride away
and wished she’d handled things better. Sylvester was such a sensitive
soul. Turning around, she smiled tentatively at Tom.
“He’ll
carry off his aspect of world-weary suffering a little better when he’s
got a few more years under his belt,” he said with a wink and a smile.
Momentarily
stunned by his candor, Claire was too startled to react. When she did,
it was with a giggle that took her by surprise. “He was quite silly,
wasn’t he? And so rude to you. I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Partington.
Artists are such sensitive people, you know.”
“It’s
not your place to apologize for a sulky child playing off his airs,
Miss Montague. Please, sit down. I’m sorry to have intruded. I hope
he wasn’t in the midst of a particularly moving passage.”
With
a sigh, Claire resumed her chair and her mending. “Actually, Mr. Addison-Addison
seems to dwell upon architectural description to the exclusion of almost
everything else. I can’t even recall the name of his hero.”
“Sounds
pretty dull to me.”
Claire’s
spectacles glittered, giving her the look of an immensely serious owl.
Tom was charmed.
“I
very much regret to say I find much of his work rather boring, Mr. Partington.”
She sounded sad.
“Why
do you regret saying that? Sounds like a sensible reaction to me.”
“I
fear it is only one symptom of an underlying weakness in my character.”
“Come
now, Miss Montague, I can’t imagine you possessing a weak character,”
Tom said bracingly. “Why, you seem a fine, honorable, sensible young
woman to me.”
“Thank
you, Mr. Partington.” Claire gave him a melancholy little smile. “What
I expect you mean is that I am such a poor drab thing, you’d expect
me to enjoy dull passages describing Greek architecture. Well, I wish
I did. Unfortunately, my taste in literature is not as—as refined
as I wish it was.”