His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) (20 page)

Tears flowed; sobs pushed up her throat. She shoved the letters into the bag faster.

“The skylark, robin, nightingale...the goldfinch and canary.”

She lifted the bag into her arms, oblivious to its weight, and walked to the door.

“All through the pleasant summer days...we hear their voices ringing...”

Goodbye, Jonathan.

“And know when wintry days appear...that somewhere they are singing.”

She closed the door and stumbled for the stairs, blinded by her tears.

Chapter Seventeen

C
larice walked through the entrance hall, trudged up the stairs and headed for her room, thoroughly disgusted with herself. For the past two days she had stepped into Charles’s shoes and taken over the running of the paper, as the note he had sent requested. She should be elated. Instead, she was heartsick, wondering if his recovery was going well and if Jonathan was happy.

She refused to listen to the reports on his recovery her mother elicited from Dr. Reese during his daily visit.

...stubborn...obstinate...

Her heart lurched at Charles’s indictment. Well, maybe she was. But so was he, clinging to his wrongheaded opinions about all career women being as selfish and uncaring and greedy as his mother.

How could he think that of
her
after— No! No remembering. She had to protect her heart. She lifted her hands and removed her hat, once again devoid of decoration. She’d removed the flowers the day she’d come home from Charles’s house. And then she had gone to work on the CLSC letters. The work had helped her to get through the day. They were all answered now. All she had left to do was type the answers into a column for the
Assembly Herald
. She should have time to do that tomorrow—barring any unforeseen emergency reporting needs.

When would he be back? How would she endure the pain of seeing him again when he did return? She sighed and rubbed at the pain in her temples. The headaches had returned along with the skimmed-back coiffure she’d resumed for her work at the
Journal
. Boyd Willard would flirt with anything wearing a dress and she refused to encourage his obnoxious behavior. Or the attentions of any other man. There was only one man she wanted to find her attractive.

Tears filmed her eyes. She blinked them away, squared her shoulders and opened the door. “I’m home, Mama. I’m sorry I’m so late but I had to finish composing the pages for tomorrow’s printing. I don’t want to be caught—” She stared, blinked, stared again. “Mama... Oh, Mama, you’re
standing
!”

“That’s not all, Clarice. Watch...”

Her heart leaped into her throat and lodged there as her mother walked slowly to the turret area, turned and walked back to her bed, her face a picture of joy.

She rushed over and gave her mother a fierce hug. Tears poured down her cheeks. “When did this happen, Mama? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’ve been very busy, Clarice, and I wanted to be sure it would last. That I would truly walk again. And I know now that I will.” Her mother smiled and blinked tears from her eyes. “I’m getting stronger every day, Clarice. And Arthur—Dr. Reese—says I will soon be normal. Though he has ordered me not to lift anything.”

Her mind raced, struggled to assimilate all that she was hearing and seeing—especially the blush on her mother’s cheeks. “
Arthur
, Mama?”

Her mother’s chin lifted. “Dr. Reese is a widower, Clarice.”

“Mama!”
She sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at a woman she had never before seen. How had she not noticed the happy sparkle in her mother’s blue eyes or the soft curve to her lips? She looked younger...prettier. “You...you
care
for Dr. Reese, Mama?”

“I do. And he cares for me, Clarice. We’re going to be married.” The blush rose into her mother’s cheeks again. “At our age, it’s foolish to wait when you know you’ve found something lovely and lasting.” Her mother’s smile settled in her heart, dissolved the anger that had resided there for so long. “And Arthur wants you to come and live with us.” Her mother placed her hand on hers. “He greatly admires the way you cared for Mr. Thornberg, Clarice.”

The name stabbed deep into her heart. She rose and stepped to the dressing table, tossed her hat on it and began pulling the pins from her hair. “I—I don’t know what to say, Mama. I—” she gave a little laugh, shook her hair free “—I think I’m too astounded to think straight.”

“Well, I have given you a bit of a surprise.”

“
A
surprise?” She laughed and pulled open the wardrobe to get her nightclothes. “You have given me a plethora of surprises, Mama. But— Oh, Mama, are you certain?” Tears clogged her throat. “I couldn’t bear for you to be hurt again.”

“Dr. Reese helps people, Clarice. He doesn’t hurt them.” Her mother took three careful steps, reached out and took hold of her hands. “And Mr. Thornberg is the same sort of fine gentleman. He doesn’t hurt people, either.”

“I don’t want to talk about Mr. Thornberg, Mama.” She turned and picked up her soap and towel and started for the door. “My head hurts. I’m going to the dressing room to wash this ink off my fingers and then I’m going to bed.”

Him gots dirty hands.

The sound of Jonathan’s voice filled her memory. How would she ever get the toddler out of her heart?

* * *

Clarice hurried across the intersection and continued on toward the
Journal
building, her umbrella clutched tight in her hand. It wasn’t raining, but the massing of gray clouds and the cold mist that hung in the air did not bode well for a warm autumn day. She had come prepared for a storm.

She rejected the memory that rode the coattail of the thought and quickened her pace. The chill in the air penetrated the fabric of her midnight-blue cotton, but she was loath to begin wearing her green wool dress too soon. Her wardrobe was so scant she had to stretch the seasons to make it do. And it would be warm enough inside.

She turned onto the
Journal
’s sidewalk, lifted her gaze to read the legend on the building and jerked to a halt. Light streamed out of the second-floor windows of the editorial and composing rooms into the gray morning light. Someone had lit the chandeliers.

He was back.

Her heart reeled. She wanted to turn and walk away, but that wasn’t possible. She had to be available to answer any questions he might have as to what she had done in his absence. And she had a living to make and a career to build. Unfortunately, Charles Thornberg held the keys to those things. That he also held the key to her heart was something she would simply have to overcome.

She stiffened her back and entered the building, walked through the entrance and climbed the stairs determined to hide her feelings behind a thoroughly professional persona. He thought she was a coldhearted career woman who did things only for monetary gain—so be it!

The editorial room was empty. She took a breath and hurried to her desk, leaned her umbrella in the corner, removed her hat and tossed it in the bottom drawer. A quick flip of the latch opened the box that protected the typewriter. She pulled the sliding shelf forward and locked it in place, inserted a piece of paper, pulled her handwritten notes on her Chautauqua Experience article and began to type, the rapid click of the keys striking the paper on the roller filling the silence.

She felt him coming before she heard his footsteps. She lost her place on her notes and her rhythm on the keys. She picked up the pile of papers, tapped them against the desk as if to even them in order to cover her faltering and began typing again. His shadow fell across her desk. Pain stabbed deep in her heart. She schooled her features into a pleasant politeness and looked up. “Good morning, Mr. Thornberg. I see you have fully recovered.”

“Yes. Thanks to your care.”

She lowered her hands out of sight on her lap and clenched them, forced a cool, detached tone into her voice. “I only did what Dr. Reese instructed.”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “That’s not true, Clarice. Dr. Reese told me it was the ice that brought the fever down and—”

“Well, ice is cold.”
If he offered to pay her, she’d...
She pulled in a breath, placed her fingers back on the typewriter keys and looked up. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Good morning, chief.”

She sagged with relief when Boyd Willard entered the room. The reporter tossed his hat on his desk and strode down the length of the room, a smile on his face.

“It’s good to see you back, boss.” He dropped his gaze to rest on her. “Not that this little lady hasn’t done a good job running things in your absence. But there are other things women are better suited—”

“If you want to keep your job, I’d swallow the rest of that sentence, Willard.”

Charles sounded ominous. She looked up. The muscle along his jaw was twitching.

“Ah, I didn’t mean anything by that, chief. I was just—”

“I know what you were ‘just,’ Willard. And I wouldn’t make the mistake of bringing that subject up again. I do not consider a woman’s reputation a joking matter.”

“Yes, sir.” Willard shot her a look then turned his attention back to Charles. “I’ve heard rumors of a couple of the waterfront property owners giving bribes to some of the town officials so they would swing their votes their way at the next council meeting. It’s only a rumor, but I thought I might look into it—see if there’s any truth to it.”

Charles nodded, clapped his hand on Boyd’s shoulder and walked him toward the stairs. “A good idea. But I don’t want you to bring back word-of-mouth suppositions. If I’m going to print a piece on graft among the town officials, I want proof.”

She breathed a sigh of relief that Charles had shifted his attention from her, lifted the carriage frame on the typewriter and peered at the words she had typed. The last lines, the ones she had typed after his appearance, were full of mistakes.

“If there is any, I’ll find it. I’ll start searching as soon as I get my piece on the new Presbyterian church written.” Boyd sat down at his desk and dragged a tablet and a pencil toward him.

“That piece can wait, Willard. Get started on the graft investigation.”

They would be alone.
She grabbed the end of the paper, rolled the cylinder toward her to remove it, then slipped in a new piece of paper, adjusted it, lowered the carriage into place and began typing again. If she was busy, perhaps—

“Miss Gordon...”

It had been too much to hope for. She took a firm grip on her emotions and looked up. “Yes, Mr. Thornberg?”

“I have a notice I wish you to write and have ready for tonight’s edition. I will give you the gist of it and let you put it into printable copy.”

He was all business. She had nothing to worry about. He was not going to pursue the conversation about her caring for him when he was ill. She released a sigh of relief and reached for her pad and pencil. “I’m ready.”

“The notice is to state that I have a position open for a nanny to a two-year-old toddler.”

Jonathan.
She gasped, looked up at him. “But Mrs. Hotchkiss...”

“Mrs. Hotchkiss does not watch children. In truth, she doesn’t particularly like them.” He gestured toward her pad.

She looked down, poised her pencil to write.
Who was watching Jonathan today? Was he unhappy or—

“The applicant must be experienced in caring for small children, and they must be available to begin work immediately. The wage will be generous. The hours of employment will be from eight in the morning until five at night six days a week. However, they must be able to stay beyond that time if I am delayed at my work. They may apply for the position here at the
Journal
building. Have you got all of that?”

How could he be so businesslike when this concerned Jonathan? She caught her breath, looked up at him. “The facts, yes. But—”

“Good. Then I shall expect you to have the copy for that notice ready by the time we go to print.” His gaze held hers. Her pulse skipped, raced. Perhaps— “I want to thank you for getting the paper out on time when I was ill. I commend you on your work on the layout. You did an excellent job.” She looked down, fought for composure. What did that matter if he— If Jonathan—

“And you’ve done an excellent job with the layout for tonight’s printing, but I’d like to speak with you about the second page, please. We will have to do some rearranging to fit the notice on the page. If you would come into the composing room...” He turned and walked away.

She stared after him—her vision blurred and her chest constricted. How could he be so matter-of-fact about a nanny for Jonathan?

He paused, glanced over his shoulder. “Miss Gordon...”

She blinked her eyes and rose to her feet, her hands clenched and her stomach knotted. “Yes, Mr. Thornberg, I’m coming.”

* * *

The day was endless. She couldn’t concentrate. He kept asking her questions about something that had happened at the paper during his absence the past few days, and all she wanted was to go to his home and take Jonathan into her arms. How could he expect her to think about the
newspaper
when he treated her like any other employee, and Jonathan was being watched by a woman who didn’t like children.

She stared at her notepad, poised her fingers on the typewriter keys, but the words wouldn’t come. How could he let some
stranger
take care of Jonathan? How could
she
?

The idea burst upon her. She pushed back from the typewriter and walked to his desk. “May I speak with you, Mr. Thornberg?”

He shook his head, struck a line through a sentence on the paper on his desk. “I haven’t time now, Miss Gordon. We’ll talk later.”

Dismissed. As if the time they had spent together had never happened. As if he’d never held her in his arms.
She took a deep breath and dug her fingernails into her palms to quell the sobs clawing at her throat. “Very well.” She spun away.

“Have you finished that notice, Miss Gordon?”

So polite and correct. How she longed to hear him call her Clarice. But that was over.
She squared her shoulders and turned back. “Not yet—that’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”

He kept reading, waved a hand through the air. “Just follow my instructions. I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. But you’ll have to hurry. I’ll need it shortly. When I’ve edited this piece, I’ll be ready to finish composing the pages.” He glanced up. “I do appreciate your staying to help me. It’s already past the supper hour and Mrs. Hotchkiss is— Well, she doesn’t like having to stay late.” He returned to his work.