Authors: Alice Duncan
In
truth, about the only skill Claire prided herself on, besides housekeeping,
was horticulture. The gardens at Partington Place were famous in the
small town of Pyrite Springs. Even people from as far away as Sacramento
sometimes visited the grounds during Partington Place’s Spring Open
House or on the fourth of July, when Gordon hosted an annual party for
the public. Claire wasn’t sure she dared hope Tom would continue some
of the traditions she’d come to cherish at Partington Place.
They
walked outside as soon as they’d finished breakfast, Tom graciously
allowing Claire to lead the way through the solarium, across the marbled
terrace, down the stairs, and into the small rose garden. Her heart
was thundering like cannon fire by this time. She prayed he’d like
what she’d done here.
The
small rose garden led, by way of a perfectly cunning rose arbor, to
more extensive gardens. Here Claire had overseen that various beds were
stocked year-round with annuals and perennials so that the grounds seldom
looked completely bare. Now, in the dead of winter, of course, the roses
no longer bloomed, and there were no gay blossoms or sweet fragrances
to caress the senses. The wisteria trellis seemed blank and cold to
her, and she frowned at it critically. Even without the roses and wisteria
blooming, however, green abounded and one could appreciate the beauty
of the grounds.
At
least Claire could. She hoped to heaven Mr. Tom Partington would be
able to share her enthusiasm. Peering at him from the corner of her
eye, she thought she detected an expression of approval, and contained
her sigh of relief with difficulty.
She
led him under the rose arbor’s arches, bare now except for canes which
would, in April and May, come alive with cascades of sweet-smelling
blossoms, and into the flower beds. She wished it were April and the
daphne in bloom so he could smell the enchanting hedge lining the flower
beds. It wasn’t April, though, and she held her breath and clamped
her hands together in front of her.
“The
gardeners have already planted ranunculus and anemone bulbs, and the
tulips, hyacinths and daffodils come up year after year. In early spring
they’ll begin to bloom, and it will be quite colorful out here, and
very fragrant.”
Looking
around, Tom’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. “This is wonderful, Miss
Montague. I’ll bet the place is spectacular when everything’s blooming.”
“Indeed,
it is, Mr. Partington,” Claire said in a rush. “Why I—I believe
the gardens of Partington Place are truly inspirational. At least, I
did my very best to make them so.” She ducked her head, embarrassed
at having said something so clearly bespeaking conceit in her own accomplishments.
Tom
didn’t seem to mind. His expression held respect—even deference—when
he turned to look at her. “You are truly a woman of many talents,
Miss Montague. My uncle was very, very fortunate to have found you.”
Claire
whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Partington.” It was difficult for her
to speak past the lump which had suddenly grown in her throat. How kind
he was, to say such a thing after her lapse this morning.
All
at once the solarium door opened and boots clicked on the marble. Claire
viewed Jedediah Silver with pleasure. A young man, Jedediah was inclined
to be overly serious. Yet he possessed a sense of fun that surfaced
every now and then. Claire had a feeling the young accountant had raised
himself up by dint of his own hard work from rather meager beginnings.
He never spoke of it and she never asked. She herself came from a background
she would prefer to forget, and she respected Mr. Silver’s reticence.
Grateful
for the accountant’s interruption, Claire hurried toward him with
her hands outstretched. “Mr. Silver! It’s so nice to see you again.
You haven’t visited Partington Place for much too long.”
His
smile for Claire was very warm. “Miss Montague, it’s a pleasure
to see you again, too.” He looked up, smiled at Tom, and held out
a hand. “I see Miss Montague has been giving you the grand tour, General
Partington.”
“I
prefer ‘Mister’ Partington,” Tom said gently. “And you, I assume,
are Mr. Silver.”
# # #
Later
that same day, Claire was yawning over the household account books in
the tidy office she’d made for herself in a small back parlor in Partington
Place when Dianthe St. Sauvre came to call. Hearing the soft click of
the door leading out to the yard being opened, Claire looked up and
smiled when she beheld her friend.
“Good
afternoon, Dianthe.”
Dianthe
didn’t so much walk as waft toward Claire. As she sank into a chair,
her flowing skirts settled around her like a soft cloud, and Claire
sighed. She was past envying Dianthe, she guessed, but it did seem somehow
unfair that such beauty as Dianthe possessed couldn’t have been shared
more equitably among God’s creatures instead of bestowed exclusively
upon this one exquisite woman.
What
used to depress Claire even more than her abundant beauty was that Dianthe
enjoyed genuine artistic genius. Unlike Claire herself who wrote hack
dime novels for so sordid a commodity as money, Dianthe created magnificent
romantic verses which she then interpreted in dance. Naturally, she
was poor as a church mouse, as befitted a True Artist.
Without
returning Claire’s greeting, Dianthe lifted her head and breathed,
“Did he arrive?”
Even
her voice was beautiful, Claire thought resignedly. There wasn’t a
man alive who wouldn’t be stirred to gallant deeds by Dianthe’s
voice.
“He
came last night.” Claire sat forward on her chair and leaned over
the desk. “And, oh, Dianthe, he’s everything I expected him to be.”
Dianthe’s
eyes grew round. She tossed her blond curls and whispered, “Oh, Claire,
truly? He’s truly the hero of—you know.”
The
very few of Claire’s friends who knew her dark secret were extremely
kind to her. None of them ever mentioned “Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee”
to her face; they honored her friendship too much.
“Yes.
He’s simply wonderful. You must meet him, Dianthe. You and he would
be—well, you’d be perfect together. I just know it.”
Dianthe
blushed becomingly, as she did everything. Claire couldn’t suppress
a wistful sigh. If only she’d been given a fraction of Dianthe’s
glorious femininity. Ah, well. As her father had told her more than
once, each person was given gifts suitable to his or her abilities.
It was probably the only sensible thing her father had ever said, in
fact, but that was another matter entirely. Claire guessed it was her
lot in life to be practical. She wished she’d been given a practical
soul to go along with her practical looks.
“Do
you really think so, Claire?”
“I
truly do, Dianthe. He’s every bit as handsome and noble as the newspaper
and magazine accounts depict him as being. Why, he even tried to disparage
his achievements when Mr. Silver came to call this morning.” She decided
not to mention his mustache.
Dianthe
pressed a hand to her bosom, a feature as gloriously lush as the rest
of her. “He’s modest as well as heroic? Oh, Claire!”
“Indeed
he is. Why, he insisted upon being called merely ‘Mr. Partington,’
as if his achievements in the war meant nothing at all to him. Also,
he claimed to know nothing about business or farming or running an estate,
and very humbly begged Mr. Silver’s guidance in those matters.”
“Truly?
My goodness.”
Dianthe
rose from her chair and Claire discovered she hadn’t entirely overcome
her deplorable tendency to envy her beautiful friend. Graceful as a
sylph, Dianthe circuited the room, fingering objects delicately, her
lovely face thoughtful.
“He
even offered Mr. Silver a generous bonus if he’d spend a few weeks
here and teach him ___«everything there is to know about the farm and
grounds. Apparently he has an idea about breeding horses, but doesn’t
want to embark on such an enterprise unless the estate is well able
to support it.” Claire approved such a pragmatic attitude.
“Horses,”
Dianthe breathed, endowing the word with all the mythic properties of
Pegasus. Claire wished she could make her voice do that.
“Indeed.
He seems to be interested in a particular breed. I believe it’s called
Ap-Ap-Appaloosas. At least, I think that was the name.”
Dianthe
stopped wafting. “Appaloosas?” Her flawless forehead wrinkled when
she spoke, as though she did not find the word aesthetically pleasing.
“Yes.
The breed was evidently developed somewhere in the Northwest. I understand
they’re spotted.”
“Spotted?”
Dianthe’s brows dipped over her crystal-blue eyes.
Sensing
her friend’s disapproval, Claire hastened to say, “I asked about
them this morning, Dianthe, and they’re not nearly as awful as they
sound.”
Still
frowning, Dianthe resumed her chair in front of Claire’s desk. “No?”
“No,
indeed. Why, in fact, I understand they possess a princely temperament
and their spots are primarily confined to their rear quarters. Although,”
she added conscientiously, “I don’t really know much about them.
I’m hoping Mr. Partington will permit me to learn along with him,
so that I may be of some help to him in his new enterprise.”
She
tried to keep her galloping heart from giving her words any special
emphasis. She knew her new employer could never find it in himself to
view her as anything other than a employee, but if he would allow it,
perhaps she could make herself useful. Long ago, Claire had given up
hope for anything more out of life.
“You’re
interested in horses?” Dianthe sounded faintly appalled.
Quelling
a spurt of indignation, Claire said rather tartly, “Horses are noble
beasts, Dianthe. I’m surprised at your attitude, quite frankly.”
Waving
a delicate hand in the air, Dianthe said, “Of course, Claire. But
horses with spots?” She shook her head, endowing the gesture with
an elegance it probably did not deserve.
As
it often did while Claire was writing, inspiration struck her now. She
carefully schooled her expression to betray only indifference. “I
believe the first persons to develop Appaloosas as a separate breed
were Indians, Dianthe.”
It
did not surprise Claire when Dianthe’s expression of distaste immediately
transformed into one of rapt interest—even awe.
“
Indians
?”
Again, she made this word sound mysterious, glorious, magical.
“I
believe so.” Claire smiled, pleased that she’d crossed that hurdle
so easily.
“Oh,
my.” Dianthe sank back in her chair, adopting a pose Claire had seen
captured on canvas by great artists. Her own little sigh was unintentional.
She
was surprised into an unladylike start when a brisk rap came at the
door. Dianthe, of course, expressed her alarm in a much more elegant
manner, merely lifting an eyebrow and sitting slightly forward. When
the door opened to reveal Mr. Thomas G. Partington, her lips parted
and her eyes grew round.
Claire
was not astonished when the Young General glanced at Dianthe, looked
away, swiveled his head back as if it had been wound by a spring, and
stared, going somewhat bug-eyed.
She
said calmly, “Mr. Partington, may I introduce you to my very good
friend, Dianthe St. Sauvre. Miss St. Sauvre is a poet whose works are
soon to be heralded world-wide.” She gave Dianthe a smile which Dianthe
returned warmly.
Rising
from her chair as Venus might have risen from the sea, Dianthe glided
toward Claire’s dumbfounded employer, her hand held out. Her heart
squeezed when she saw the man of her dreams swallow, draw himself up
straight, and give Dianthe a smile Claire would have died for had it
been directed at herself.
She’d
been right. They were absolutely perfect together.
“Mr.
Partington, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“The
pleasure is all mine, Miss St. Sauvre,” Tom said feelingly. “Believe
me.” He drew her limp hand to his lips, and Claire experienced a pang
of regret. There wasn’t a gentleman alive who would kiss her hand
that way; she knew it.
“Claire
has been telling me about your interest in horses, Mr. Partington.”
“Has
she now?”
Tom’s
smile for Claire was brief and friendly, not at all akin to the one
he’d bestowed upon Dianthe.
“Indeed,
it sounds like a fascinating venture,” Claire said, aware even as
she spoke that she’d lost his attention to Dianthe again.
“So
you’re a poet, Miss St. Sauvre?”