Free Secret Hearts by Alice Duncan Page A

want to dance around
in front of that thing is beyond me. Worse than wild Indians these artists
are.” Mrs. Elliott hurried off.
           Another
hearty sigh saw Claire into the parlor. She stopped, mesmerized, at
the scene that greeted her eyes. There, on an easel in front of the
fireplace, in a place of honor, resided Sergei Ivanov’s portrait of
Alphonse Gilbert, mayor of Pyrite Springs and proprietor of the Pyrite
Springs Mercantile and Furniture Emporium.
           Although
she admired Sergei as an artist of rare ability, Claire couldn’t help
but wince as she gazed at the countenance on that canvas. Sergei, who
claimed to paint the souls of his subjects, had evidently discerned
sins in the jovial Mr. Gilmore’s soul that Claire couldn’t even
imagine.
           Before
the portrait, prostrate amid a buttery froth of chiffon, lay Dianthe
St. Sauvre. When the door clicked shut, Dianthe’s head lifted, and
Claire found herself being scrutinized by two glorious blue eyes in
a beautiful face set into a head topped with tumbling blond curls.
           “Hello,
Claire. What brings you here?”
           All
at once Claire wondered why Miss Abigail Faithgood’s tresses should
be flowing if she were hiding out behind a rock in the wilderness. Such
a circumstance didn’t seem right somehow, but she decided to put her
mind to the matter later.
           Dianthe
rose from the floor and fluttered onto the sofa. Claire couldn’t contain
a tiny—virtually nonexistent—stab of envy.
           “I
spoke with Mr. Partington last evening, Dianthe, and he told me he is
definitely interested in continuing the tradition of Artistic Evenings.”
           “How
wonderful!”
           Claire
sat in a wing chair, trying very hard to keep her gaze from straying
to the ghastly painting by the fireplace. She couldn’t stop herself
from saying, “I can’t imagine why Sergei always seems to see one’s
soul as black. Do you understand it, Dianthe?”
           “He’s
a Russian, Claire.”
           “Do
you think that accounts for it?”
           “Of
course. You know how somber and dank the Russian spirit is.”
           “I
hadn’t actually thought about it, to tell you the truth.”
           “Oh,
yes, my dear. Positively centuries of oppression lurk behind Sergei’s
wounds.”
           “His
wounds!” Claire sat up, distressed that one of her artists could have
been hurt without her having been told about it.
           “His
spiritual wounds, Claire darling,” Dianthe murmured, sinking back
against a pile of pillows on the sofa.
           “Oh.
Of course.” Claire shot another nervous glance at Mr. Gilmore’s
portrait brought forth a sincere. “What a terrible shame.”
           “Mr.
Gilmore thought so, too.”
           “I
know. Has he had second thoughts about pressing charges? Perhaps I should
speak with him again.”
           “Well,
since Sergei gave him back his money, he isn’t as angry, but I’m
afraid he’s threatening legal action should Sergei ever show the portrait.
At least he didn’t smash it, as he wanted to do.”
           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,