Authors: Alice Duncan
Claire
made herself look at the picture. “Maybe smashing it isn’t such
a bad idea.” She giggled.
Dianthe
giggled, too. “Perhaps not. But wait until I finish my dance, if you
please.”
“I
wouldn’t dream of smashing it, really. But I do hope it won’t sit
in the parlor forever. It’s so very . . . tortured. I think I’d
prefer to have a series of Mrs. Gaylord’s marigolds. Marigolds are
at least cheerful.”
Glorietta
Gaylord, another Pyrite Arms artist, painted marigolds to the exclusion
of all else. And, if there was anything Claire needed at the moment,
it was cheer. She gave another heart-felt sigh.
“Is
something the matter, Claire?”
Glancing
at Dianthe, Claire detected concern in her vivid blue eyes, and was
touched. While she honored all of the artists Gordon’s funds supported
here at the Pyrite Arms, she had yet to discover among them much compassion
for their fellow sufferers on this vale of tears. Except for Dianthe,
whose beauty went through and through, and who genuinely valued Claire’s
friendship.
As
though the agitation of the last several hours had waited until Dianthe’s
worry pushed it over the edge, tears trickled from Claire’s eyes and
she pulled her handkerchief from her pocket. “Oh, Dianthe, he hates
them!” Hastily, she wiped at her leaky eyes and blew her nose, utterly
humiliated by her childish display.
Dianthe,
however, was suitably horrified by Claire’s news. Nor did she need
an explanation of what might have been considered a conversational non
sequitur. Pressing one hand to her bosom and putting the other on Claire’s
knee, she leaned forward and whispered, “Disaster!”
Claire
could do no more than nod unhappily as she tried to get her emotions
under control.
After
her one concise summarization of Claire’s problem, Dianthe sat back
against her cushions and tapped her lovely chin with an equally lovely
finger. “But not, I think, an impossible one.”
Sniffing
in a manner she knew Dianthe would never do, Claire said, “N-no?”
Dianthe
leveled her magnificent gaze upon her, and Claire took heart. If there
was anybody who possessed the secret to a man’s sensibilities, it
was Dianthe. Why, she had men dropping at her feet all the time. They
practically littered the drive. Dianthe would know how to tame Tom Partington’s
savage breast if anybody would.
“Not
at all, my dear. Let me put my mind to it. I’m sure I’ll think of
some way to reconcile him with your novels.” Dianthe’s exquisite
nose wrinkled a bit as she spoke the word
novel
, and Claire felt
a swell of gratitude.
“Thank
you, Dianthe. You can’t know how much I appreciate this. I know you’d
much rather be working on your expressive dance. Although,” she added
with another peek at the painting, “I can’t imagine what you’re
managing to dance about in Mr. Gilmore’s face as painted by Sergei.”
Dianthe
rose to her feet and swirled to the painting, draping a long, flowing
sleeve over a corner and making Mr. Gilmore appear to be leering horribly
at Claire from behind a yellow gauze curtain. “I’m creating an ‘Ode
to a Tortured Soul,’ using Mr. Gilmore as my inspiration.” She smiled,
and the contrast between her heavenly features and the grotesque painting
struck Claire as almost alarming.
“Oh.
Well, do you suppose your dance will be ready to be performed a couple
of Saturdays from now at Partington Place? That’s when Mr. Partington
wants to hold the first of his Artistic Evenings.”
Sighing,
Dianthe sank to her knees in front of the portrait and stared up at
it lovingly. “No, I don’t believe so. Besides, Freddy is working
on a musical accompaniment, and I’m sure it won’t be ready by then.”
“No,
I don’t suppose so,” Claire said thoughtfully. “Perhaps if he
were to learn to read music, his compositions would flow more smoothly.”
Dianthe
looked at her reproachfully. “You know Freddy doesn’t believe in
adhering to traditional musical forms, Claire. He’s afraid that learning
to read music conventionally will stifle his creativity.”
“Yes,
I do know that, Dianthe, but I can’t help wondering sometimes whether
there aren’t reasons for such conventions as standardized musical
notes and so forth. I think of them sort of as musical . . . well, letters,
as it were, used to form words, which then can be used to create literature.
If you see what I mean.” She peered doubtfully at Dianthe, unsure
how her revolutionary ideas would be received.
Dianthe,
however, did not seem inclined to disparage them. Instead she sighed,
plumped down onto the sofa again in a much less graceful manner than
she had before and said, “You’re probably right, Claire. But you’ll
never convince Freddy. The way he does it is so slow!”
“Well,
he is talented,” Claire said in mitigation of their musical friend’s
odd compositional style. “Do you have another work prepared that you
can perform, Dianthe? I’m sure Mr. Partington is particularly interested
in your work.”
“I
think I shall do ‘In Praise of the Spotted Horse.’” Dianthe smiled
at Claire in a conspiratorial manner. “I took what you said about
his spotted horses to heart, my dear, and have written what I believe
is rather a wonderful poem. My dance in accompaniment is quite lively,
as well.”
Secretly
relieved when Dianthe admitted her “Tortured Soul” would not be
ready for presentation, Claire was lost in admiration when told about
her “Spotted Horse” work. “That will be wonderful, Dianthe. Mr.
Partington will be thrilled. I’m sure of it.”
“It
was nothing, really,” Dianthe said, flicking a purple paint fleck
fallen from Mr. Gilmore’s nose from her yellow chiffon. “And, Claire,
I shall give every attention to your problem. No challenge is insurmountable
when looked upon creatively.”
“I
suppose you’re right, Dianthe. Will you tell Freddy about the Artistic
Evening? And Sylvester, of course, and Glorietta. I’ll tell Sergei
on my way out.” Giving a thought to the morose Russian’s tormented
sensibilities, she added, “Although it wouldn’t hurt to mention
it to him again at supper tonight. You know how he is.”
“I
shall be happy to, Claire. Thank you so much for dropping by.”
Dianthe
led Claire to the door. Claire followed in Dianthe’s drifting yellow
wake, feeling very ordinary in her plain brown calico gown.
Her
eyes opened wide when she passed Sergei, lost now in the throes of creativity.
She saw slashes of red cutting across his formerly pristine canvas.
They reminded Claire of knife slits and she stopped dead, mesmerized.
With
a sudden downward slash, the evil man cut through a handful of Miss
Abigail Faithgood’s beautiful blond curls.
She screamed.
Tuscaloosa
Tom cried, “Villain!”
Well,
that was good, if she could figure out how Miss Faithgood’s hair had
come to be unbound in the first place. The paltry creature seemed to
be screaming a lot, as well. Perhaps Claire should work on that. Ah,
well. One thing at a time.
“Sergei.”
The
artist, concentrating intently on his canvas, did not respond. Claire
tried again, a little louder. “Sergei!”
He
heard her that time, and turned with a blood-curdling yell. Claire leapt
back, startled.
“My
goodness, I beg your pardon.”
Wild-eyed
for only a few seconds, Sergei calmed when he beheld Claire. “I beg
your pardon, Miss Montague. I was lost in thought.”
Peering
at the red-smeared canvas, Claire decided not to ask what his thoughts
had been. “The young Mr. Partington is hosting an Artistic Evening,
Sergei. He would be honored if you would attend.”
Drawing
himself up straight and striking a noble pose, Sergei declared, “I
shall paint him, Claire. I shall paint his soul’s deepest stirrings.”
Claire
patted his arm. “Perhaps you’d better wait until you’re through
with Mrs. Albright, Sergei.”
Frowning,
Sergei considered for a moment before allowing, “Perhaps.”
Claire
left the Pyrite Arms in a much sunnier mood than when she had arrived.
Just knowing Dianthe was working on her problem made her feel better.
A
visit to the lending library, also heavily supported by an endowment
from Gordon Partington, provided Claire with a book about horses. She
looked in the table of contents for a chapter on Appaloosas, but as
the book was an older edition, she was unsuccessful in finding information
about them. When she asked Mr. Johnson, the City Librarian, she was
informed that he’d never heard of the breed, but that the book in
her hand would give her lots of information on horse ranching.
“You
may check it out for as long as you need it, Miss Montague, although
most patrons are only allowed to keep our books for two weeks. You,
of course, needn’t worry about that.”
Mr.
Johnson smiled at her warmly, and Claire felt a pang of regret that
she couldn’t feel more than tepid friendship for him. He obviously
admired her. It was just her fate, she decided, to be attracted to a
man who could only see her in the light of a competent housekeeper rather
than to this kind, albeit somewhat stuffy, librarian.
Still,
being Tom Partington’s housekeeper was not a task to be sneered at.
Perhaps one day Mr. Partington would consider her his friend, and that
was a good deal better than nothing.
Besides,
it was an absolutely spectacular day, and Claire decided it would be
foolish to spend it moping. Winter clouds galloped across a sapphire-blue
sky like white horses. Mountains rose majestically in the distance,
green, brown and magnificent, a miracle of nature.
She
strode toward home feeling quite happy, in fact. Inhaling a lungful
of crisp Sierra air, she viewed the prospect of Partington Place with
real pleasure. It was a lovely house, set in park-like grounds. The
farm spread out behind it: acres upon acres of fields, fallow now in
the clutches of winter, but bearing rich crops in season. And soon,
perhaps, beautiful spotted horses would grace at least one of those
fields. Claire hoped Mr. Partington could achieve his dream here.
Partington
Place was the grandest house in Pyrite Springs, and it had been built
with gold Gordon Partington had mined out of the rich California lodes.
Claire frowned, wondering if the pursuit of wealth was as much of a
sin as the artists at the Pyrite Arms wanted her to believe. Certainly
Gordon had never caviled about how he’d made his fortune.
“Gold
has its place in the world, Claire, as much as art does,” he used
to tell her. “It’s one of the most useful commodities a person can
have, and it can do a world of good if used judiciously.”
And
he was right. Why, if Claire had not made lots of money with her books,
she’d never be able to support her garden or the arts as she did now.
A sudden pang made her remember how much she had loved Gordon Partington.
They had shared so many similar viewpoints, so many ideas and aspirations.
Gordon had liked her books. He’d even told her they had literary merit,
when she’d seen them only as a means to an end.
Happy
memories of Gordon accompanied Claire down the lane. One recollection
led to another and another and eventually to her work in progress. The
first thing she had to do was solve the problem of Miss Abigail Faithgood’s
unbound hair. She could tackle her inclination to shriek at the least
provocation later.
“Perhaps
she lost her pins while riding on the back of Tom’s horse,” she
mused aloud.
“Who
was riding on Tom’s horse?”
The
deep voice startled her, and Claire whirled around to behold her hero,
in the flesh, astride a big black horse. She wondered if she would ever
become inured to his masculine beauty, and had a sinking feeling the
answer was no. A frontiersman through and through, there wasn’t a
single thing about him that didn’t proclaim his maleness, even without
his mustache. Why, he put Jedediah Silver, a handsome man in his own
right and riding next to him, in the shade.
“Mr.
Partington.” She felt her face heat and knew she was blushing.
He
dismounted and led his horse, with which Claire was familiar, up to
her. She patted the horse’s nose in order to do something with hands
that felt suddenly clumsy. “Good morning, Ebony.” The horse snorted.
“How
are you this morning, Miss Montague?” Tom asked pleasantly. “I missed
you at breakfast.”
Claire
looked at him quickly. “Oh! I’m sorry. I ate early and then went
to town for a while.”