His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) (11 page)

“Clarice, you’re going to crack that jar if you’re not careful.”

“What? Oh. I guess I am being a little vigorous.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d get rid of that anger before you start scrubbing on my scalp.”

She stared at the smile on her mother’s face then put the jar down and picked up the washbowl. “I don’t know how you can smile about what he did to you, Mama. It makes me furious!”

“Would you rather I sit here all day with a scowl on my face?”

She laughed at her mother’s comic attempt at a fierce scowl and pushed thoughts of her father away. “That’s lovely, Mama. Here, hold the washbowl on your lap.”

“I only wish I could—” Her mother sighed, leaned forward and wrapped her arms around the large bowl.

“What, Mama?
Walk?
Move your legs?
” She draped a towel around her mother’s neck, brushed her long hair forward, picked up the jar and poured the baking soda water over her head, scrubbing gently with her other hand.

“No. I wish I could take away your anger before it ruins your life.”

She glanced at the towel covering her mother’s useless legs and blew out a breath. “The anger doesn’t harm me, Mama—it protects me. It reminds me never to marry and put myself under the grinding thumb of some
man
!”

Her mother gave another sigh, arched her neck and turned her head slightly. “Tell me about your day, Clarice. Was...Jonathan...difficult?”

“Not at all. He’s very well behaved. And eager to learn. No one seems to have bothered to teach him anything, which is a pity. But I suppose it’s understandable since he was moved from place to place—even country to country.”

“Poor little boy. He must have been terribly confused.”

“Yes.” She stopped scrubbing and picked up the vinegar water. “Here comes the rinse...” She emptied the jar over her mother’s clean hair, working it through the long strands as she poured. “I taught him his colors today.”
Him am red.
She smiled, put the jar down, picked up the pitcher of warm water and finished the rinse. “All right, Mama. You can dry your hair now.” She lifted the bowl of water off the bed and emptied it into a bucket.

“He’s a fortunate little boy to have you to care for him, Clarice.” The words came muffled by the towel.

“Only until Mr. Thornberg’s housekeeper comes back, Mama. I’ll be going back to work at the newspaper then.”
Would Mrs. Hotchkiss teach Jonathan things? Would she take him outside to play in the backyard?

“Yes, I know.” Her mother lowered the towel. Their gazes locked, communicated without words.

“Mr. Thornberg is kind to him, Mama. I think it will be all right.” The image of Jonathan asleep in Charles Thornberg’s arms swept into her head. She would never forget the expression on Charles’s face in that moment, though she had a hard time believing the tenderness, the love she had seen there was real.

“I thought he might be. He seems a kind, thoughtful man.”

“Yes.”
I haven’t had any family since I was five years old.
She drew a breath, poured clean hot water into the bowl and dropped in a wash cloth. That was likely the reason for Charles Thornberg’s attitude toward Jonathan. It was all new to him. Jonathan was like a new toy. How would he treat him when the newness wore off? When Jonathan got willful or irritable or ill?
Please don’t let him hurt Jonathan.

And just who was she talking to? The God who had let her father cripple her mother? She stiffened, pulled the dish with the soap on it to the edge of the bedside table where her mother could easily reach it and snatched up her own bag full of bathing needs and a towel. “I’ll leave you to bathe, Mama. Your clean shift is here on the bed. I’ll braid your hair when I come back from my bath.”

She grabbed her nightclothes and walked to the dressing room down the hall. Chances were good that she would be able to wash her hair and bathe at her leisure with the other tenants retired for the night. Would Charles think to bathe Jonathan? Would— No. No more questions about Jonathan. He was not her concern. And he was already too dear to her. She had to protect her heart.

She slid the bolt lock on the dressing room door in place, set the bag on the washstand and draped her nightclothes over a towel rail. She would be back at the newspaper where she belonged soon. And then there would be no more interruptions in her work.

She yanked the pins from her coiled hair. No more thoughts of Jonathan. She had her mother to care for and a career to build.

Chapter Eight

C
larice hitched Jonathan into a more secure position on her hip and scanned the produce on the cart, her childhood on the farm coming to the fore. “How often do you come around, Mr. Porter?”

“Twice a week, miss. I’ll stop by again on Friday so’s things are fresh for the weekend.”

“I think Mrs. Hotchkiss will have returned by then.” She drew her gaze back to the farmer standing by the end of his cart. “I’m only here temporarily. Will it be all right if Mrs. Hotchkiss pays for my order when she returns?”

“No need to fret about paying, miss. Mr. Thornberg settles up the end of the month.”

“I see. Well, in that case...” She lifted an ear of corn, checked the silk and pressed lightly to feel the size of the kernels. “I’ll take a dozen of the corn...”

“Me have corn.” Jonathan bent from the hips, reaching down.

“Oh! Jonathan, be careful!” She pulled the toddler back and slipped her hand around his waist. “I have to cook the corn or it will make your tummy hurt. Now, you need to sit still so you don’t fall. All right?”

A chuckle rumbled from the farmer. He stepped close, an empty basket in his hands. “Looks like you’ve got a lively one there, miss.”

Jonathan stared at the farmer, pressed back against her and laid his head on her shoulder. Was he afraid of strangers? Her throat tightened. Why wouldn’t he be, after the way he had been moved around? She laid her cheek against his soft, silky curls and patted his small back, furious with his selfish, uncaring mother. “It’s all right, Jonathan. I’ve got you...”

“I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to frighten your boy.”

Her
boy? She stared at her hand patting Jonathan, heard her crooned words of comfort echoing in her head. It was exactly what she didn’t want. She took a breath, lifted her head and turned her attention back to selecting vegetables. “I’ll take two bunches of carrots...and a braid of onions...a dozen potatoes and a cabbage. Oh, and a rutabaga and six of those tomatoes.”

She eyed the basket the farmer filled as she spoke, thinking of dinners for the next few days. “That will be all.”

She led the way around to the back porch, tried her best not to feel proprietary as she opened the door to the kitchen. “You can leave the produce there on the table.”

“Yes, miss.” The farmer’s boots clumped against the floor. He plopped the basket on the table, pulled the vegetables out with his large, work-scarred hands.

“M-me no g-go.” Jonathan twisted and threw his little arms around her neck, burrowed his head against her shoulder and sobbed.

“Jonathan!” Understanding struck. He thought— Tears stung her eyes, clogged her throat. “Oh, no, Jonathan,
no
. No one is going to take you away. Shh...shh... Look, the man is going. He delivered our vegetables.” His arms tightened. She held his trembling little body tight against her, fighting back tears as she swayed back and forth, trying to reassure him by her touch that he was not going to be taken to yet more strangers in another strange home.

“Be back Friday, miss.” The farmer’s boots clumped against the floor. The door closed.

“Look, the man is gone, Jonathan.” He clung tighter, pushed his little face hard against her neck. She spun about, hurried down the short hall, across the entrance and stood in front of the window. “Look, Jonathan. Look
outside
. The man is driving his horse and cart away.”

His head rolled against her shoulder. She looked down, sighed with relief when one blue eye peeked out, blinked then closed. A quiet, ragged sob shook him and his small body relaxed in her arms. She laid her cheek against his soft curls and walked back to the kitchen. She had to put the vegetables away and start dinner or Mr. Thornb—no,
Charles
—would be home before it was ready.

“Do you want to play with your blocks, Jonathan?”

His head rolled side to side. He took a ragged breath. She glanced at the rocker in the corner, sat and settled him close in her arms. The rockers whispered against the floor. The ticktock of the clock in the sitting room floated on the silence. She hummed softly, looked down and straightened his stocking. His little shoes had been shined, the buckles gleaming. “One, two, buckle my shoe...” She murmured the words of the rhyme, tried to visualize Charles Thornberg polishing the toddler’s shoes but couldn’t imagine it.

“Me gots b-buckles.”

Her breath caught. She kept rocking. “Yes, you do—silver ones. Your brother polished them for you. He takes good care of you.”

“Brover do blocks.”

“Yes. He showed you how to build them so they wouldn’t fall down, didn’t he?”

He nodded, stirred in her arms, pushed back and looked up at her. “Him wobble.”

She smiled. “And so did you.”

“Me fall down.”

“And he tickled you.” The clock in the sitting room gonged. She stopped rocking. “Do you hear that, Jonathan? That is the clock telling me your brother will soon be here to eat dinner with you.” Inspiration struck. “Do you want to help me fix dinner?”

He studied her for a minute then nodded.

“Good! But first we have to take care of those vegetables.” She carried him to the work table, slid a crock to the middle and sat him down beside it. “Help me put these potatoes in here, please. We’ll play a counting game as we put them in the crock.” She handed him a potato. “Put it away, please.”

He grabbed it with both of his pudgy hands and dropped it the crock.

“That’s one. Can you say ‘one’?”

“Him one.”

She smiled and handed him another. “Two...”

He dropped it in the crock—“Two”—and reached for the next one.

“Three...”

* * *

The door was open. Charles stopped, rapped his knuckles against the door frame.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Charles Thornberg, Mrs. Gordon. May I come in?”

“Yes, of course.”

He stepped into the bedroom, looked toward the bed and met Mrs. Gordon’s worried gaze.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Thornberg? Is Clarice—”

He shook his head. “Clarice is fine, Mrs. Gordon. I stopped by to see how you are doing. If there is anything you need. And to bring you these.” He moved to the bedside, held out a bouquet of straw flowers.

“
Flowers!
Oh, my...” She blinked, blinked again, took the bouquet into her hands. “How thoughtful of you, Mr. Thornberg. Autumn is my favorite time of the year, and I so miss—” She stopped, inhaled a quick little breath. “Thank you. The flowers are lovely. You’re most kind.”

“I think it’s more guilt than kindness, if the truth be known.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I have stolen your daughter from you, and my conscience keeps reminding me of it.”

“Then you must tell your conscience to hush. Your motive was pure.” A frown creased her forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you refreshments, Mr. Thornberg, but won’t you sit down? And if you would be so kind as to fetch me that small pitcher off the dressing table? How is your little brother getting on?”

“Well, I think. I don’t know enough about little children to truly say, but he seems happy. He’s very smart. And inquisitive. He asks a lot of questions.”

Her smile faded. Her face drew taut. “I hope you don’t mind that. He has a lot to learn.”

What had brought about that change in demeanor? Clarice did the same thing. “I don’t mind at all. I enjoy answering him. When I can, that is.” He smiled and handed her the pitcher then moved to the chair on the other side of the bed. He glanced at the open writing case on the bedside table and froze, his gaze locked on the titles of the top papers on piles of various sizes.
To Mend Cracks in Stovepipes... How to Clean Mica... How to Keep the Lamp Chimneys Clean... Secret to Salt Rising Bread...

“Oh, dear.”

He glanced at Clarice’s mother. She looked...guilty.

“I forgot that case was open.”

He frowned, looked back at the piles of papers. “Those look like the fillers I use at the newspaper.”

“I don’t suppose you could pretend you didn’t see them?”

He grinned at her wry tone and fastened a suspicious gaze on her. “And why would I do that?”

Her thin shoulders lifted in a small, eloquent shrug.

“Mrs. Gordon...”

She sighed, met his gaze. “I don’t know if Clarice really wants to give them to you—or if she was only trying to give me something to do so I would feel...
useful
again.” She looked down, rearranged one of the flowers she had placed in the pitcher. “It does help.”

The last quiet words ripped at his heart. He sank onto the chair and leaned toward her, encouraging her to talk. “How did this come about?”

She gave him a sidelong look. “Does that mean you’re not going to simply forget you saw those papers?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I thought not.” She breathed another sigh, then rested back against the pillows propped against the headboard. “Clarice’s first day at the newspaper—when you showed her around—you showed her how you put the pages together. She said you used these things called ‘fillers’ and that you were running low on them. She said she was going to make you some, and she asked me if I would help her.”

“And so you’ve been making fillers for me.”

She nodded then looked down at the flowers. “Unless Clarice was only trying to give me something to do with my days.”

There was an uncomplaining acceptance of her condition in the soft words. His heart hurt for her. “May I look at what you’ve written?”

She looked up her lips curved in a resigned little smile. “You might as well. They’re no secret now.”

He rose and thumbed through the piles. “These are really good. I can certainly use these, Mrs. Gordon.”

Her eyes widened. She stared up at him, took a breath. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Well, I never...”

He grinned down at her. “I will pay you, of course.”

“For writing down how to keep a chimney lamp clean?”

He chuckled and turned back to the writing case, pleased at the unexpected turn his visit had taken. “Let me count how many fillers you have here, Mrs. Gordon. And then we’ll discuss a fair recompense for your work.”

She shook her head. “I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Thornberg. But you didn’t ask me to do the fillers. Clarice said she would do them as part of her job. They’re included in what you already pay her.”

“But I—” Her chin jutted. He’d seen that particular little gesture before. Clarice Gordon was very like her mother in her mannerisms. “Very well, Mrs. Thornberg. I’ll just take these with me. And I would appreciate it if you would make me more.” He stuffed the papers into his pockets and then looked down at her. “But I want it clearly understood that I am now commissioning you to write fillers for me, and you
will
be paid for your work. Is that understood?”

“It is.”

That had been a little too easy. “And agreed?” He held out his hand.

“And agreed.”

She smiled and slipped her small hand in his. It was rough and calloused—work worn. Mrs. Gordon had not been crippled for long. He tucked the information away and smiled. “Good. I am not accustomed to losing at negotiations.”

“I’d think not.” She laughed, a light musical ripple that made him wonder if her daughter’s laughter would be the same.

“I have to be going, Mrs. Gordon. Would you like me to set the flowers on the nightstand for you?”

“No, thank you, anyway, but...I want to hold them.” She smiled up at him. “Thank you again for bringing me the flowers. It’s—” She shook her head, took a little breath. “Please come again, Mr. Thornberg. I like knowing the people in my daughter’s life. It’s...been a while. And please, leave the door open when you leave. It makes the room seem less...confining.”

* * *

Charles finished the last of his cold sliced beef then spooned up the last bit of his soup. “This tomato soup is delicious, Clarice. And judging from the look of his face, Jonathan shares my opinion.”

“Thank you. But I’m afraid you can’t judge Jonathan’s likes or dislikes by his appearance.” She smiled and rose, using the protective towel to wash off the soup smeared around the boy’s mouth. “It’s a matter of skill, not approval, isn’t it, Jonathan?”

His breath caught. There was something different... She’d been gentle before, but now... She looked up and caught him studying her, straightened and laid the towel beside Jonathan’s dish.

“I’m afraid I hadn’t time enough to make dessert.”

All warmth was gone. The cool career woman had returned. He tossed his napkin on the table and rose.

She stepped back.

He looked at her suddenly taut face and held back a frown. Did she think he would dismiss her from the newspaper because she didn’t cater to him? “I’ve told you you’re not here to cook for me, Clarice. Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate the excellent meals.” He lifted Jonathan from his high chair. “Nap time, Skipper.”

“Me play blocks.”

“When you wake up.” He settled Jonathan in his arms and followed Clarice up the stairs, irritated by her preoccupation with her career. It was none of his business, but— He jerked his thoughts from that direction and carried Jonathan to his bed. “If I get home early enough, we’ll go for a walk, Skipper. Would—”

“Me no go! Me no
go
!”

Jonathan twisted his body and threw himself out of his arms onto the bed before he could restrain him. He watched in astonishment as the toddler scrambled to the other side, wrapped his arms about Clarice and buried his face in her skirt, gasping out ragged, heart-wrenching sobs.

“What—”

“Hush, Jonathan, hush. It’s all right. You’re not going anywhere... Shh...shh...” His throat tightened as Clarice lifted Jonathan into her arms and swayed side to side, holding his head tucked beneath her bowed head, murmuring...soothing... She lifted her head and looked over at him. Anger burned in the depth of her eyes. “Mr. Porter came this morning, and for some reason, Jonathan thought he was here to take him away. I tried to—”

“Take him
away
? I don’t—”
I have been boarding him with various strangers...
Pain stabbed into his heart. The poor little guy, being carried off from place to place by people he didn’t know. His face went taut; he clenched his hands. He strode around the bed, stopped at Clarice’s side, his throat so constricted he could barely force out words. “Jonathan, look at me. Who am I?”