Authors: Alice Duncan
Since
he wasn’t sure what to say, Tom only murmured, “I see.”
“Now,
mind you, I’m not saying Mr. Addison-Addison isn’t a brilliant writer.
Indeed, he’s one of the most prolific authors in the Pyrite Arms,
and his prose is—is—well, his prose is truly edifying.”
Tom
managed another, “I see.”
“I
fear my mind is not of such an elevated nature that I can listen to
very much of it without yawning.”
Since
she appeared genuinely grieved about what seemed to him a logical reaction
to the pompous young Addison-Addison’s mind-numbing drivel, Tom didn’t
so much as crack a smile although he really wanted to. He opted for
a mild, “No?”
She
shook her head. “No. I much prefer Dianthe’s interpretive verses.
Or even—or even dime novels.”
Her
last confession was rendered in such a dismal tone, Tom had to take
a quick gulp of port to keep from laughing out loud. The resultant choking
fit effected a change in the topic of conversation.
After
Claire finished patting him on the back and his eyes quit watering,
he said, “Thank you, Miss Montague.”
“Of
course, Mr. Partington.” She was quite flushed when she sat down again.
“Er,
anyway, what I came in here for—or, not the only reason, of course,
but—” Oh, Lord. Tom hated having to be polite. He wasn’t used
to it. Funny. For the first several years of his life, his mama had
drilled him on gentlemanly behavior until he’d behaved like a little
gentleman with every waking breath. His manners sure hadn’t improved
in the past fifteen or twenty years.
“Yes?”
Claire asked helpfully, blinking at him from beneath her lenses.
“Er,
well, I wondered about what you said this afternoon.”
She
cocked her head, giving her the look of a curious barn owl.
“I
mean”—Tom struggled on—“about asking people to dinner.”
“Oh.”
Claire’s head turned and she seemed to be observing her stitching
very carefully. “You mean, you would like to invite Dianthe St. Sauvre
to dine with you?”
“Well,
actually, didn’t you mention ‘arty evenings’ or something like
that?” Tom downed the last of his port and poured another glass, deciding
as he did so that he didn’t even want to get used to the vile stuff.
“Oh!”
Claire brightened immediately, her eyes going round and reminding Tom
of big brown marbles. “I had no idea you’d really be interested
in continuing the tradition of Artistic Evenings, Mr. Partington. I’m
thrilled to hear you say so. Absolutely thrilled!”
Tom
felt like a fraud—not for the first time—but was glad anyway since
he’d made Claire’s downcast countenance lift. “Yes, I do think
that would be a good plan, Miss Montague. I don’t know anybody in
this area, and I suppose it would be a nice way to meet people.”
Actually,
he wasn’t sure how many artists of Sylvester Addison-Addison’s stamp
he could stomach in one evening, but he expected the ravishing Dianthe
St. Sauvre’s face and Claire Montague’s conversation would keep
him from smashing the insolent puppy’s pretty nose flat.
“I’m
sure of it, too, Mr. Partington. And through them, you’ll meet many
like-minded people in Pyrite Springs. And even Sacramento. Why, we often
have visitors from as far away as San Francisco.”
“We
do?”
Claire
blushed rosily, giving her a youthful appearance Tom was astonished
to see. Why, she looked quite attractive when she blushed—quite attractive
indeed. He simply had to get her to do something about her hair.
“I
mean—I mean the people at the Pyrite Arms do, you see. I guess I’ve
taken to thinking of myself as one of them.” She let her head droop
and was obviously embarrassed. “Of course, that’s silly of me, as
I have absolutely no turn for the artistic.”
Out
of the blue, Tom murmured, “You possess the soul of an artist, Miss
Montague.” He didn’t know what came over him to make him say such
a stupid thing, but there it was.
She
looked at him as though he’d just bestowed sainthood upon her. “Thank
you, Mr. Partington.”
It
was Tom’s turn to blink. “Well . . . you’re welcome, Miss Montague.”
Claire
seemed much happier now. “That was a perfectly lovely thing to say.
And I do believe you’re right. Even though I’m not able to express
myself in words of an edifying, exalted nature, my soul is stirred by
the works of great artists.”
“Is
it?”
“Oh,
yes. Yes, indeed.”
Although
he thought she seemed a little fanatical on the subject, Tom said, “Well,
there. You see? It shows. Your soul’s stirrings, and all.” He felt
like an idiot.
She
said, “Thank you,” in as fervent a voice as he’d ever heard, and
he guessed he’d said the right thing. He felt oddly as though he’d
passed some sort of test.
“Er,
so when do you suppose we could have one of these evening things, Miss
Montague?” A troubling thought hit him. “Is this the sort of thing
Mrs. Philpott was afraid of?” Lord, he didn’t want the cook to start
bawling again.
“No,
indeed. Mrs. Philpott was quite used to the late Mr. Partington’s
Artistic Evenings, Mr. Partington. Why, if we invite the entire population
of the Pyrite Arms, that would only be five extra people. She wouldn’t
mind that. It was a big gathering she was worried about.”
“I
see.” Tom was glad to have that puzzle cleared up. He wondered what
constituted a big gathering, if five extra people were nothing at all.
“And
if you wanted to invite some of the other citizens of Pyrite Springs,
which the late Mr. Partington often did, then we could hire a couple
of the girls in town to help.”
“That
sounds like a good idea,” said Tom, who guessed it was.
“When
would you like to have the first evening, Mr. Partington? I’m sure
all the denizens of the Pyrite Arms are dying to meet you.”
He
grinned. “Especially after Addison-Addison tells ‘em all what a
Philistine I am.”
“I’m
sure he wouldn’t say such a thing.”
Claire
looked horrified, and Tom wondered if a sense of humor lurked somewhere
beneath her starchy exterior. He thought he’d seen glimpses of one
from time to time, but wasn’t sure. “I was only joking, Miss Montague.”
“Oh.
Of course.” She smiled uncertainly.
“Well,
let’s see. Silver’s coming tomorrow. I don’t suppose that would
matter. He’s undoubtedly met some of your artist friends before.”
“Yes,
indeed. I’m sure he’d be very happy to join us. He’s often expressed
an interest in the Arms.”
“Has
he now? Well, then, how about in two or three weeks? Would that be enough
time to fix things up?”
“Oh,
Mr. Partington, that would be simply lovely! I’ll run over to the
Pyrite Arms tomorrow and tell them all we have a special treat coming.”
“All
right. Sounds fine with me. Er, where do you hold these little shindigs,
anyway? I mean, did Uncle Gordo—Gordon—have a little theater tucked
away somewhere in this pile that I haven’t found yet?”
“No,
I’m afraid not, although we had discussed building one. The entertainments
are generally held in the small ballroom.”
“I
see.” Tom cast about, trying to locate the small ballroom in the warren
of rooms cluttering the map in his brain. He thought he’d succeeded,
but wasn’t altogether sure. This house was so damned big. And it was
his. A thrill of satisfaction made him sigh deeply and smile.
Suddenly
Claire put a hand on his arm. “Mr. Partington, I can’t begin to
express to you the honor you’ll be showing the fine young artists
at the Pyrite Arms. I was afraid the master of Partington Place’s
patronage would end with the late Mr. Partington’s death. Although
I know it’s not an object with you, I must tell you how very happy
you’ve made me.”
To
Tom’s utter horror, he saw tears sparkle in Claire’s eyes. Fortunately
for him, Claire was too proper to shed them. Blinking furiously, she
returned to her nearly forgotten pillowslip. “I’m sure you must
think me quite demented, Mr. Partington.”
“No,
no, not at all, Miss Montague. I’m happy to do it.”
“Thank
you.” She gave him such a glowing look that Tom couldn’t stand it.
Searching blindly for something to say, he blurted out, “So you like
dime novels, do you?”
Claire
looked up from her mending, stunned. Dime novels? Good heavens. Her
heart began beating against her ribcage like a military drum.
“I—uh—well,
yes, I do enjoy reading a good potboiler every now and then.” Her
laugh, she realized with distaste, sounded like that of a fatuous adolescent.
She cleared her throat. “Do you care for them?” Then she held her
breath. If he admitted to relishing having been made a hero through
her books, how would she acknowledge her authorship without fainting?
Sipping
his port, Tom cocked a brow. “Well, now, Miss Montague, I’m not
entirely sure.”
“No?”
Claire dared a smile. How she wanted him to know it was she who’d
written those books. It was she who’d made him the idol of America.
“I
have to admit to being somewhat . . . embarrassed by the ‘Tom Pardee’
novels.”
Claire’s
hammering heart did a crazy swoop, and her mouth went dry. She dropped
her pillowslip like a hot rock, grabbed for her port and took an enormous
gulp.
Embarrassed
? Oh, no. “I—I’m sure they were meant
as—well, as a paean to your brave deeds, Mr. Partington,” she said
when she could.
“Hmmmm.
Maybe.”
Oh,
dear. He looked very much as though he were brooding, and Claire, who
had never encountered a broody gentleman, wasn’t sure what to say.
She decided upon, “But, well, you must admit your career has more
than lent itself to—to acclaim, sir.”
“Do
you think that’s what those books are, Miss Montague?”
“I’m
absolutely sure of it, Mr. Partington,” she declared, because she
was.
“Hmmmm.”
“Certainly
they are. I mean,” Claire rushed on, worried about so many hmmmms,
“just think about your heroic action at Gettysburg, sir.”
“I’d
rather not.”
“But
you were so noble, so gallant. Leading that charge, saving General Lee’s
life was—was magnificent. Simply magnificent.”
Tom
peered at her over the rim of his glass. “I don’t suppose you’d
believe me if I told you it was a mistake? That I was really trying
to get the men to retreat and that the air was so full of smoke I steered
my horse in the wrong direction?”
Claire
gave a tinny laugh. “Of course not, sir.”
Returning
his moody stare to his port, Tom muttered, “No, I didn’t think so.
Nobody else did, either.”
“And
you can’t tell me that stealing into enemy territory to rescue Colonel
Fosdick was a mistake, sir.”
“No,
I meant to do that, all right. That bast—er, the colonel owed me too
much money to let the damned Yankees kill him.”
Claire
looked at him hard, but didn’t detect a hint of teasing in his expression.
He appeared, in fact, rather annoyed. Nevertheless, she forged on. “And
then, after the war, when you became a scout for the railroad, why,
your accomplishments are legendary.”
“My
accomplishments, Miss Montague, were minimal. It was the circumstances
that were extraordinary.”
“I
don’t believe that for a minute, sir.”
With
a frown, Tom said, “Well, I wish people would believe me. It would
make my life much less difficult.”
“Difficult?”
“Yes.
Those books. They’ve made my life hell.”
Good
heavens. This was a new slant on her novels. One she’d never considered.
“I—I don’t know what you mean, sir. How have they made your life
difficult?”
“I
suppose if the author hadn’t written that note in the first book telling
the world that Pardee was modeled after me, nobody would have made the
connection. But do you have any idea what it’s like to be among a
group of men, all trying to do the same job, and have one of them break
out a
Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee
novel and read it around the campfire
at night? There were nights I wanted to crawl away and hide.”
“You
mean they mocked you?”