Secret Hearts

SECRET HEARTS

By Alice Duncan
 

(I wanted to
call this book DIME NOVEL, but was thwarted by the powers that be, as
usual. Not only
that
, but because of the cover art, I had to
shave off the hero’s mustache! That’s how much control we authors
have over our work. Well, I assume Stephen King, et al., are allowed
some control, but the rest of us are pretty much dirt.)
 
 
 

Chapter 1
 

      
Bullets
whined through the still morning air, striking with alarming accuracy
the boulder behind which Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee hunkered.
War whoops and vicious curses rent the air.
The woman cowering next to Tom wept piteously.

      
“We
know you’re there Tuscaloosa Tom!” a whiskey-voiced malefactor exclaimed.

      
“Ah,
but goodness and right are on my side,” Tom declared stoutly.
“You, villains, are the devil’s spawn!”
He punctuated his declaration with a volley from his trusty firearm.

      
“Oh,
Tom!” the woman sobbed.

      
“Fear
nothing,” the heroic man assured her.
“I will rescue you!”

      
“I
know you cannot fail me,” Miss Abigail Faithgood choked out, flinching
at each new auditory assault upon her senses.
Oh, my, she was frightened! Yet she knew—she knew—Tom would not
fail her. He had never failed in his life.

      
Suddenly,
with a bloodcurdling howl, an Indian brave leapt from the boulder above
them to confront Tom, the feathers in his headdress bristling, his war
paint vivid in the noonday sun. Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed.

      
Without
flinching, Tom . . . Tom . . .
 

      
“Tom
what?” Chewing on the end of her pen and patting at the hair coiled
over her left ear, Claire Montague stared at the paper on her desk.
“Botheration. And how can it be a clear morning if it’s noon?”

      
“Miss
Montague?”

      
Claire
jerked in alarm, and the pen dropped from her fingers to clatter on
the blotter. She hadn’t heard the door open. Well, why should she?
She herself had oiled those hinges faithfully every single Monday of
her life for ten years now.

      
“Good
heavens, Scruggs, you frightened me to death.”

      
The
butler’s lugubrious expression lengthened. “I beg your pardon, Miss
Montague. But he’s here.” Scruggs sounded as though he were reporting
the arrival of Doom. “His carriage just drew up outside.”

      
Claire’s
hand flew to her throat. She didn’t need to ask who he was. Her palpitating
heart thundered so violently that for a second she feared for her consciousness.
She pulled herself together. This reaction was absurd; she knew it.

      
“Thank
you, Scruggs. I shall descend immediately.”

      
“Very
good, ma’am. Mrs. Philpott is preparing refreshments.” Scruggs’
face, which Claire often thought more nearly resembled that of a morose
moose than anything else, disappeared.

      
Mrs.
Philpott was the cook, and Claire suspected she was at this moment weeping
into her teakettle. With a big sigh, she rose from her desk, slipped
her work in progress into its special drawer, and locked it away with
the key she kept on a chain around her neck.

      
Composing
herself with some effort—after all, it wasn’t every day one met
the man of one’s dreams, the man who haunted one’s every daylight
hour and filled one’s nights with alluring fantasies—Claire stood
up straight and tall; entirely too tall, in fact. For at least the thousandth
time, she regretted her unladylike inches. Oh, well. There was nothing
she could do about them. Patting her severe hairstyle once more to make
sure no intemperate strands poked out, she adopted her best housekeeperish
expression.

      
Then,
gulping an enormous breath for courage, she walked out of her room and
prepared to greet the new master of Partington Place.

# # #

      
Tom
Partington wished it wasn’t so blasted dark. He’d love to get a
glimpse of his new home. But it had been twilight when his rented coach
barreled him through Marysville. The night was black as pitch now and
raining fit to kill besides. A couple of his many old wounds had begun
to ache earlier and now throbbed in earnest. Tom was used to pain, though.
Besides, nothing could subdue the excitement bubbling within him tonight.

      
Oh,
he knew life was what one made of it. And he certainly didn’t expect
to be handed anything else on a silver platter any time soon. Once was
plenty; more than life generally offered a fellow, in Tom’s experience.

      
Excitement
gripped him, though. There was something about this place that made
one dare to dream: an atmosphere of unrefined excitement. Confidence
bubbled in the air. This land wasn’t so much raw as it was undaunted.
The clinging vine of civilization had yet to choke the life out of California,
and the climate fairly vibrated with energy.

      
Tom
felt a liveliness here—had felt it as soon as his ship docked in San
Francisco. The atmosphere wasn’t like that of the cities back home:
stifled, stuffy, lifeless. There was something in the wind here that
felt like a promise, if not of hope fulfilled, then at least of hope
eagerly pursued. It was a promise that assured him that if he couldn’t
achieve his dream, he could damned well chase it for all he was worth.
Tom had never felt so optimistic in his life.

      
Staring
into the impenetrable night, he couldn’t keep the smile from his face.
It had been there ever since he’d learned the terms of his uncle Gordon’s
will. Tom still couldn’t quite believe the old buzzard had left his
entire fortune to him.

      
When
the carriage slowed, he couldn’t even wait for the horses to come
to a full stop before he pushed the door open and jumped out. His bad
leg gave a tremendous throb when he landed on the graveled walkway,
but Tom didn’t care. He took the steps to the grand double doors of
his new house—house, hell! It was a damned mansion!—two at a time,
and yanked the bell pull with an exuberance he hadn’t felt in years.

      
Several
minutes passed and Tom was on the verge of tugging on the pull again,
when the door creaked open. A man who looked as though he’d walked
straight out of an Edgar Allan Poe story peered at him. Tom figured
him for the butler.

      
Silence
reigned for several seconds before Tom broke it with a broad smile and
said, “Hello, there. I’m Tom Partington.”

      
The
ghoulish man took a step backwards and pulled the door open. “Please
come inside, sir.”

      
So
Tom did. In spite of the butler’s gloomy demeanor, Tom’s sunny mood
prevailed. “Thanks. It’s cold as the dickens out there.”

      
Claire
stopped at the top of the wide staircase, the voice at the front door
having momentarily stunned her. It couldn’t have been more perfect
if she’d selected it herself. Deep and resonant, a rich, pure Alabama
drawl, it touched Claire in places she’d never dared hope would be
touched.

      
She
devoutly prayed the face, frame and character that went with the voice
would not disappoint. After all, she’d often been told photographs
did not tell one the entire story. Claire had invariably laughed and
said she provided her own stories, but tonight was different. She wanted
former Brevet General Thomas Gordon Partington to live up to her expectations
more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life, barring a genteel
background and great literary talent. She already knew those two commodities
had been denied her.

      
Drawing
in one more deep breath and exhaling it slowly, Claire put her hand
on the polished banister and began her descent.

      
“Miss
Montague will be with you in a moment, General Partington,” the butler
said drearily. “She will see you to your room.”

      
“Mister
Partington will do quite well,” Tom said, trying to keep the acid
out of his voice. He looked around the foyer of his new home and nearly
laughed out loud when he saw the fancy Oriental carpet and all the polished
wood and marble. Great God, this was fantastic! He’s scraped and slaved
and saved for fifteen years now, hoping he’d one day be able to afford
even a small place to call his own and now, in a few magnanimous strokes
of his late uncle’s pen, he’d been handed all this!

      
“Very
good, sir.”

      
Tom
thought the fellow sounded as though he were agreeing to commit murder.
“And what is your name, my good man?”

      
“Scruggs,
sir.”

      
Just
Scruggs? Oh well, who was Tom to argue? Anyway, it didn’t matter.
“Just Scruggs” was his butler now. His very own butler. Hah!

      
“Right,
Scruggs. Well, will you please take my coat and hat somewhere? They’re
dripping onto the carpet.” And what a carpet it was! Tom knew absolutely
nothing about carpets, but he’d seldom stood on anything this thick.
And it was his! His, his, his! With difficulty, he checked an exultant
laugh.

      
“Very
good, sir.”

      
Shaking
his head, Tom watched as Scruggs bore his coat and hat away as though
each item weighed a thousand pounds. Good grief, what kind of people
had Uncle Gordon employed here, anyway?

      
On
the other hand, what the hell did he care? After all, he was rich as
Croesus now, thanks to Uncle Gordo. And, as Tom had been dirt poor all
his life in spite of the Fine Old Family Name, the change delighted
him. Not even that death’s-head butler could blight his happiness.

      
He
heard the stairway creak. Looking up quickly, he discerned a tall, elegant,
albeit severe-looking, female making her way down the staircase.

      
Aha,
the housekeeper. Tom had heard about her. According to the letters Uncle
Gordon had written to Tom’s mother, people in the town of Pyrite Springs
had at first been quite scandalized about the relationship between old
Uncle Gordo and his housekeeper, Miss Montague. They’d soon gotten
over it.

      
Peering
at the woman descending the staircase toward him, Tom had a hard time
crediting the rumors. Unless his uncle’s taste had improved since
Gordon’s fallen in love with Tom’s mother, this woman seemed entirely
too majestic a female to have been the focus of salacious gossip linking
the two of them. Maybe the citizens of Pyrite Springs possessed lively
imaginations.

      
This
creature certainly did not appear to be the stuff of romantic tales.
Granted, her features were fine, her nose small and straight, and her
mouth quite prettily shaped. Still, she appeared quellingly rigid. Also,
across her face spectacles glittered in the lamplight, and she wore
her hair in a dreadful style, braided and coiled into two tight little
knots above her ears. Her hair reminded Tom of a pair of rattlesnakes
about to strike, although that thought was undoubtedly the product of
too many years on the frontier.

      
Nevertheless,
he had been reared to be polite to ladies, no matter how regal their
manners and no matter how far his life had divided him from his gracious
youth. He walked to the foot of the stairs and smiled.

      
“Miss
Montague?”

      
“Yes,”
Claire breathed. “I am she.”

      
Good
heavens, the man was perfection. His limp, though barely perceptible,
hinted of gallant deeds and suffering. His blond hair was just a bit
too long for fashion but perfect for him, and it glimmered like gold
in the candlelight. That famous mustache of his outlined lips too beautiful
for words; although God and the whole country knew Claire had used enough
of them in her many feeble attempts to do them justice. His eyes were
blue as cornflowers. In this dim light, she could barely perceive their
color, but their size, depth, and luminosity were spectacular. And his
smile. Claire swallowed. His smile could melt a heart of ice.

      
Southern
gentleman, fearless soldier, brave frontiersman. Brevet General Thomas
G. Partington was the living personification of Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee.
Claire very nearly fainted. Taking several careful, deep breaths, she
spared herself the indignity of tumbling down the staircase and landing
insensate at his feet, but managed to negotiate the few last steps with
a modicum of dignity.

      
Her
hand shook when she extended it to accept his and he helped her into
the foyer. Good heavens.

      
Dianthe
,
she thought suddenly—a little sadly.
I must introduce him to Dianthe.
They were made for each other
.

      
“You
are Claire Montague? My uncle’s housekeeper?”

      
“Yes.
Yes, I am the housekeeper,” Claire replied breathlessly.

      
“Good.
I’m very pleased to meet you. Mister—er—Scruggs told me you’d
show me around my new home.”