Authors: Alice Duncan
Determined
to put Claire at her ease, he turned the conversation back to greenery.
With a good deal of effort on his part, eventually Claire seemed to
relax. With a little more effort, she actually began to enjoy herself
in his company. He hadn’t completely lost his ability to charm, he
guessed. Thank God. For perhaps the first time in his adult life, Tom
mentally thanked his mother for her insistence that he learn the art
of inconsequential small talk.
Soon,
Claire was actually laughing at his silly jokes. Her cheeks grew pink
with exertion and the brisk winter air, and she looked extremely pretty.
Tom was enchanted. This was what he wanted out of life: A home, his
horses, traditions, and Claire.
They
ambled back to Partington Place together, dragging several large pine
boughs behind them. The urge to kiss Claire plagued Tom, and he tried
to mitigate it with more conversation.
“Miss
Montague, I want you to know how much I appreciate the way you take
care of me and my home. Decorating for Christmas is a wonderful idea.
You’re a real treasure, you know.”
“It’s
my pleasure to decorate the place, Mr. Partington. Partington Place
has been my own home for a good many years now, after all.”
She
smiled at him and Tom’s urge blossomed like bluebells on a summer’s
day. He dug his fingers into his bough and prayed for strength. If there
was one thing Claire didn’t need, it was for him to perpetrate another
clumsy attack on her person. He smiled, not daring to open his mouth
for fear of what might emerge.
The
scent of fresh-cut pine was strong in the clean air, and silence reigned
about them except for the crunch of their feet and the rustle of branches.
Tom looked up into a cloudless slate-blue sky beginning to pinken in
the west as the day crept along towards evening. He wished he could
think of something to say that would take his mind off of his base desires.
He was surprised when it was Claire who broke the silence.
“I
used to dream about Christmas, though,” she said, as though continuing
a conversation they’d been having for hours. “Even though we never
celebrated it.”
“You
did?”
“Yes.
I used to dream of going off into the woods and cutting pine boughs
and decorating a house prettily. Not a grand house like yours. Just
an ordinary house. But I’d have decorated it with ribbons and angels
and boughs. It would have smelled of pine and cinnamon and winter.”
Giving Tom a little sideways peek, she added shyly, “It was just a
silly childish dream, you know.”
“It
doesn’t sound silly to me.”
And
indeed it didn’t. In fact, it sounded downright normal to Tom, who’d
never thought to dream about having Christmas because he’d lived it.
Slanting Claire a glance, he saw her looking incredibly wistful and
totally desirable.
His
bough slipped out of his fingers and plunked to the dirt with a rustle.
Claire looked at him, surprised.
“Why,
Mr. Partington, what’s the matter?”
Tom
clenched his fingers into tight fists and fought a major battle with
himself. The desire to sweep Claire into his arms and tell her she’d
never miss Christmas again, that he’d make up for all the unhappy
Christmases of her youth, battled with common sense, which told him
Claire would be shocked by such a bold overture. If she fell into a
faint at his feet he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself.
Stiffly,
he stooped to reclaim his fallen bough. “Nothing’s the matter, Miss
Montague. I only dropped my branch.”
“Oh.”
And
after he’d visited Pyrite Springs and determined who or what the evil
man was who had disturbed Claire’s peace so greatly, Tom would slay
him. He knew that man was responsible for Claire’s unhappiness. Anybody
who caused his Claire distress deserved only one fate. It would be Tom’s
great pleasure to mete it out.
He,
Claire, and Jedediah dined in the breakfast room that evening. Tom wondered
if Scruggs, foiled in his attempt to keep them in the dark, decided
to serve in the breakfast room because he found no more joy in serving
dinner in the dining room. He might have decided the supposition unworthy
had not Scruggs’s demeanor been even more dismal than usual.
“He
looks like he just lost his dog,” Tom muttered as he watched Scruggs’s
rear end disappear behind the door.
Claire
smiled. “He doesn’t like to have his little kingdom disrupted. The
new lanterns in the dining room have knocked his senses all askew.”
With
a laugh of genuine amusement, Tom said, “Do you think that’s it?
I’ve heard of regimented lives, but old Scruggs takes the cake.”
“I
suppose he does at that.”
“You
and Dolly certainly did a bang-up job of the Christmas decorating,”
Tom continued, hoping to generate a lively dinner-table chat. “The
place looks wonderful. I really like the pine bough wreath with the
candle in the middle. It’s quite charming. Don’t you think so, Jed?”
But
Jedediah was staring off into space at the moment, a faraway expression
on his face, his fork dangling limply from his fingers. He obviously
hadn’t heard a word that had been spoken thus far at the table.
Chuckling,
Tom whispered to Claire, “Still under the intoxicating influence of
Miss St. Sauvre, I presume.”
He’d
expected Claire to share in his amusement. She didn’t. She jumped,
in fact, and stared at Jedediah, aghast. “Merciful heavens, I’m
afraid you may be right, Mr. Partington,” she whispered with what
sounded like anguish. “But I feel certain she doesn’t return his
infatuation. I’m just sure of it.”
“I
don’t know why not. They were with each other all last evening, after
that silly—er, that ode of hers was finished. I wouldn’t be at all
surprised if it was love that’s captivated our practical Jed.”
“It
can’t be! But—but if it has, I’m sure Dianthe doesn’t reciprocate.”
Tom
was a little worried about Claire’s obvious chagrin, but chalked it
up to whatever had upset her this morning. With a little shrug, he said,
“No? Well, that’s too bad for Jed, then. I must admit that, while
I don’t have too much use for Ms. St. Sauvre’s alleged poetry, she
does seem like a nice enough person. I’d never have pegged her for
a flirt.”
Claire’s
owlish expression charmed him. She blinked rapidly several times and
seemed to be at a loss for what to say. At last she avowed seriously,
“I’m certain Dianthe would never flirt with a gentleman, Mr. Partington.”
“I’m
sure you’re right, Claire.”
Apparently
his smile was a little too warm for Claire because after blinking another
couple of times, she turned red and dropped her gaze. A big sigh from
Jedediah caught Tom’s attention and he smiled at his love-struck accountant.
“What
do you plan to do with your evening, Claire? I have to go to town for
a while, and it doesn’t look as though Jed here’s going to be much
company for anybody.”
“I’m
not certain, Mr. Partington. Perhaps I shall read for a while.”
“Sounds
peaceful.”
Claire
thought about Tom’s assessment of her planned evening’s entertainment
as she crept off to her office and sank into her chair. Peaceful! She
would never know another moment’s peace as long as she lived; she
knew it. Her delight in Christmas had faded between the time she and
Dolly had finished decorating and dinner, and Claire had been given
plenty of time to revive her worries. They plagued her now as she stared
out her window and hoped for lightning to strike her.
So
fervently was she praying for a bolt from heaven that when a knock came
at her outside door, it jolted her out of her chair. Her father! It
must be her father, back with more demands! Claire flung open the door
to reveal Dianthe and Sylvester, and her sigh of relief was so hearty
she was surprised it didn’t blow them both over backwards.
“Oh,
I’m so glad it’s you!” She felt not quite so desolate knowing
her friends were on her side.
“‘Evening,
Claire.” Sylvester sauntered past her, bearing a lily and several
sheets of foolscap. He looked happier than Claire had seen him in months.
Dianthe
drifted into the room as if borne on a fairy cloud.
“Claire,
you must let me read you the first few pages of my latest book,
The
Wily Turk, Adolphus
. I’ve modeled him entirely after your father,
and I think it’s the best work I’ve ever done. After you left this
afternoon, all I did was write!”
“My
goodness,” Claire said weakly. She wondered how his customers had
fared if he’d done nothing but write. It was a wonder Mr. Gilbert
hadn’t gone out of business before now, with Sylvester manning his
mercantile.
“I
still don’t think Adolphus is a Turkish name, Sylvester,” Dianthe
murmured.
“Nonsense!
Who cares anyway? It’s my work, and if I say his name is Adolphus,
who can say me nay?” He whirled around to confront Claire, who was
closing the door. “What do you think, Claire? It’s an author’s
privilege to name his characters, isn’t it?”
“I
suppose so.” She’d named hers, and look at all the trouble it had
caused.
“Well,
I still don’t think it sounds very Turkish.” Dianthe looked a trifle
miffed.
Sylvester
waved his lily languidly as he took up his customary pose next to the
fireplace. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a work of art.”
Claire
wished she could be so sanguine about her own work. She sat with a sigh,
glad at least to have company to take her mind off her troubles.
As
if reading her mind, Dianthe leaned forward and placed her hand over
Claire’s. “We decided to visit you this evening to give you courage,
Claire, dear. You were so upset this morning.”
“Yes.
Although why that should be I have no idea. Just think of all the raw
material you have to work with—from your own family! Why, I should
think any novelist worth his salt could write stories forever on your
father alone.”
Sylvester’s
handsome features spoke of disdain. Disdain, however, was so common
an expression on his face that Claire did not take exception. Not that
it would have made any difference. She wished she possessed Sylvester’s
talent for ignoring anything but his art. Her own problems squatted
in her heart like evil, sharp-clawed ghouls.
Yet
she was awfully happy to have these kind friends visit her. “Thank
you very much, both of you. I feel extremely fortunate to know I can
rely on you for support.”
Sylvester
lifted a brow, but Dianthe smiled sweetly, and Claire felt better.
Before
Sylvester could begin to read from his latest manuscript, Dianthe, looking
faintly embarrassed, asked, “Is Mr. Silver still staying with Mr.
Partington, Claire?”
Claire’s
brief bubble of security burst instantly. Did Dianthe return Mr. Silver’s
obvious affection? This could prove to be a catastrophe for poor Tom
Partington. On the other hand, how could she stand in the way of true
love if that’s what this turned out to be? She decided to proceed
very cautiously.
Ignoring
Sylvester’s pointed glare, she murmured, “I believe he plans to
stay through Christmas, Dianthe.”
Lowering
her eyes, Dianthe murmured, “He’s a most appealing gentleman, isn’t
he, Claire?”
“Mr.
Silver?”
“Yes.”
“Well,
yes, I suppose he is. Of course, he doesn’t hold a candle to Mr. Partington
in manners or address or countenance.” As soon as she’d spoken,
Claire frowned and wondered if she’d uttered the truth. Actually,
Mr. Silver was quite handsome, had perfect manners, and was polite to
a fault.
With
a breathy giggle, Dianthe said, “But you have Mr. Partington all sewed
up, Claire.”
Claire
felt her eyes open wide. This was the second time today Dianthe had
said something of this nature. Claire couldn’t imagine what maggot
could have gotten into Dianthe’s head. “That’s absurd, Dianthe,”
she said tartly. Then she wished she hadn’t spoken so harshly since
Dianthe was trying to help her.
With
a huge sigh, Claire went to fetch her mending basket and settled into
her chair. “Let’s listen to Sylvester’s new book. Shall we, Dianthe?”
“All
right, dear.”
Before
Sylvester could do more than draw in a deep, dramatic breath, a knock
at Claire’s hallway door was answered to reveal Jedediah Silver, who
had come to keep Claire company for the evening. Claire welcomed him
into her office with resignation. Well, why shouldn’t her plan to
attach Dianthe to Tom Partington fail, too? After all, everything else
in her life had already gone wrong.