Free Secret Hearts by Alice Duncan Page B

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