His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) (8 page)

“Me do it myself.”

There was determination in the toddler’s sleepy voice and in the set of his chin. He looked remarkably like Charles Thornberg. She nodded and lowered him to the floor, then paused, reluctant to leave him. He looked so small and helpless standing there in his shirt and socks. “I’ll be outside the door, if you need me.” She stepped back into the bedroom, leaving the door open a crack so she could hear if he called, grateful the night was warm so he wouldn’t get too chilled. There was a small scrape, the sort of sound a stool made when it was pushed along the floor. She curled her fingers tight into her palms, resisting the urge to open the door and go in to help him.

“Me done now.”

His soft voice grabbed at her heart. She opened the door and scooped him up into her arms. His head lolled against her shoulder. His warm breath puffed against her neck as soft as a feather. She moved toward the bed, fighting the impulse to cuddle him close, to turn her head and kiss his soft cheek. His body went lax.

She lowered him to the bed and tucked the covers close around him, then went back for the hand lamp. The house was so silent she could hear the ticking of a clock in another room. She started when it gonged, counted as it struck the hour. Eleven o’clock. How much longer would Charles Thornberg be?

The opening of the front door downstairs answered her question. She released a long sigh, smoothed back the strands of hair that had fallen free of her tightly constrained bun and hurried out into the hallway.

Light flared on the stairs. Heels struck against the oak treads. She stopped and waited, watched as a man’s shadow grew larger and spread up the wall.

“Miss Gordon!” Charles Thornberg stopped, glanced toward the bedroom door behind her. “Is something wrong? Is Jonathan ill or—”

“No. He’s fine. He woke a while ago and used the...necessary...then immediately fell back to sleep. He’s so tired I think he will sleep through until morning.” She took a step toward the stairs, stopped when he didn’t move. “It’s time for me to leave. I’ll wish you a good evening, Mr. Thornberg.”

“In a moment, Miss Gordon. I have a proposition to discuss with you.”

Not again!
She stiffened, determined to withstand whatever he proposed. She had her career to build. She could not afford to lay it aside and care for the boy, no matter how she sympathized with—

She drew in a breath, stared at Charles Thornberg standing at the top of the stairs with the boy’s valise gripped in his hand. For a moment she had forgotten the man was her employer. “Very well.”

She spun about and retraced her steps to the boy’s bedroom. Why waste her time and breath? No argument would change his mind. Men cared about
their
problems...no one else’s—unless they interfered with their comfort or wishes. She stepped to the wardrobe and opened the carved double doors then marched over to where Charles Thornberg stood looking down at his little brother. “Mr. Thornberg, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really must get home. If you will give me the valise, I’ll put your brother’s clothes away in the wardrobe.”

His gaze shifted, met hers. “I’ll hold the valise. It’s too heavy for you.”

She clenched her hands, fought to keep her exasperation out of her voice. “That’s not necessary. I was slopping hogs and cleaning the chicken coop on my father’s farm when I was five years old. I can manage the valise.” Silence. She held out her hand for the leather bag, recognized her error when his knuckles whitened on the grips.

“This is my home, not your father’s farm, Miss Gordon. I will hold the valise.”

His voice was quiet, firm. She glanced up and met his gaze. It was unfathomable and...unsettling. “As you wish.” She grabbed the lamp and walked back to the wardrobe, aware of him behind her, annoyed by her unease in his presence. She set the lamp on one of the shelves, jumped when he cleared his throat.

“I wanted to speak to you about this situation I find myself in, Miss Gordon. But first let me assure you I have arranged for your safe transportation home. There is a carriage and driver waiting outside.”

“A
carriage
.” She spun to face him, unable to hide her astonishment. “Whatever for? I’ve only to walk a few blocks.”

“Nonetheless, the hour is late and I promised your mother I would see you safely home. Obviously, I can’t escort you, so I made other arrangements.” His gaze narrowed on her. “Are you always so prickly when someone tries to take care of you?”

I wouldn’t know. No other man has ever done so.
She swallowed the retort that sprang readily to her lips and formed a more judicious reply. “Forgive me, Mr. Thornberg—my response was inappropriate. I’m grateful for your thoughtfulness.” She reached to undo the buckled straps on the valise he had balanced on his extended forearms to avoid his gaze. She knew how to react to a slap or a curse, but his kindness left her at a loss.

“My housekeeper left today for a weeklong visit with her daughter. That’s the reason the house was empty when you brought Jonathan here.”

Ah, the real, self-serving reason for his “kindness.”
Her uncertainty fled. She was on familiar ground again. “How unfortunate.” She snatched a small dark blue sailor suit from the clothes stuffed in the boy’s valise, examined it in the light of the lamp, smoothed and folded it then placed it on a shelf.

“I’m glad you grasp my predicament.”

A lot better than you grasp mine!
She grabbed a small brown suit from the bag, frowned at the stains on it and dropped it on the floor to begin a wash pile. There was no doubt that she’d be looking after the boy. It would likely cost her her job to say no. And she certainly couldn’t afford that. At least his baby clothes weren’t stained with crude oil, as her father’s and brothers’ work clothes had been.

“I know it’s an imposition, but, as is apparent, I’ve no idea of how to care for a baby.”

He’s a toddler. He walks and talks and feeds himself.
She grasped the underthings in the bag. They had all been worn. She tossed them onto the wash pile, frowned and rooted deeper in the bag, pulled out a nightshirt and three pair of socks...all dirty.

“I have a newspaper to run. You know the work that involves.”

Yes, she did. And it was unfair of him to use her knowledge of the workings of the newspaper to undermine her resolve. She threw down the socks and braced herself for what was coming.

“I’ve no choice but to ask that you please come tomorrow morning to care for Jonathan, Miss Gordon. I will pay you for your time, of course.”

And what of my career? How can I advance that if I’m not working at the newspaper?
“Very well.” She clamped her jaw against the agreement she was forced to utter, pulled a coat and matching hat from the bag and hung them in the right side of the wardrobe then straightened the small sleeves.

“These boots and this tie are all that are left in the valise.”

He sounded angry. She stole a glance at him. He scowled, shoved the boots on a shelf in the almost-empty wardrobe, then scooped up the pile of clothes on the floor and jammed them back in the valise, muttering beneath his breath. “If they didn’t keep him clean, what else did they neglect to do for him?”

They?
Only one man had brought Jonathan to the newspaper office. She closed the wardrobe and carried the hand lamp back to the table by the bed. The soft light fell on the sleeping toddler, made smudges of the dark lashes resting on cheeks pink with warmth, shadowed the sweet slightly open lips of the small mouth above the little round chin burrowed into the blankets covering him.

“You said he woke earlier. Was he frightened?”

The whisper brought the memory of Jonathan’s quiet sobs flowing into her head. “At first.”

“What did you do to alleviate his fright?”

She drew her gaze from the toddler, moved to the end of the bed where Charles Thornberg stood. “I stood in the light so he could see me and told him I was here to take care of him. I think he remembered that I brought him here and gave him bread and jam. I believe that reassured him.”

He nodded, stuffed the clothes she had taken off Jonathan into the valise and motioned her toward the door. “I think you are right, Miss Gordon. I think your care will help Jonathan to feel safe here. And by the time Mrs. Hotchkiss returns—”

She halted, turned. “Mrs. Hotchkiss?”

“My housekeeper.”

She stiffened, took a breath to control a rush of frustration. “Mr. Thornberg, I agreed to come and care for your brother tomorrow. But then I must return to my work at the newspaper. That is my livelihood. And, as you know, I must take care of my mother. I am sorry, but you will have to find someone else to care for Jonathan.” Something crackled. She glanced down, stared at the letter he pulled from his pocket.

“I am not unsympathetic to your concern for your mother, Miss Gordon. But she assured me she will be fine with Mrs. Duncan caring for her. And Jonathan is so young and—” he frowned, stared down at the letter “—and he has suffered the care of strangers long enough.” He thrust the letter at her. “Read this, Miss Gordon, and then give me your answer. I’ll go tell the carriage driver you will be out shortly.”

She watched him start down the stairs then stepped close to the wall sconce and unfolded the letter.

Dear Charles,

The boy that has been delivered to you is your half brother. His name is Jonathan David Thornberg. He was born in Paris, France, the 18th day of December, 1875.

The child is the result of an illicit liaison, hence the name Thornberg. His father is a married man of social prominence and, of course, wants no part of the boy or any scandal. Nor do I. My elderly husband threatened upon our marriage that if he were ever to learn of any indiscretion on my part, he would immediately procure a writ of divorcement and throw me into the street with no provision. He has the power to do so, and should the boy’s existence be discovered, my life of luxury and ease will cease. I birthed the boy during an extended vacation in Paris I told my husband was for the purpose of buying new gowns, and I have been boarding him with various strangers until he reached sufficient age to survive the trip to you in America. That time has now come and when he is gone from Europe, I will be safe.

I am enclosing a bank draft of an amount sufficient to pay for the boy’s living in a boarding school until he graduates. I realize you owe me no filial allegiance, but you are the only person in America with sufficient interest in this information not becoming known to keep it secret. And once you enroll the boy in a boarding school, he will be of no further bother to either of us.

I do not wish to affix my name to this document so will simply sign as,

Your mother

Discarded.
She knew what Charles Thornberg meant now. Clarice stared at the letter, Jonathan’s sweet, innocent face imposed against it. Her hands trembled with the desire to rip it to shreds so that he would never know his mother had thought of him not as a child to love but as an inconvenience to be hidden and gotten rid of at the earliest opportunity for her own selfish gain. Not even her father was that coldhearted.

She grasped the banister and started down the stairs, the letter crunched in her hand. Her shoes tapped against the treads. Her short train bounced from step to step. She strode to the front door, handed Charles Thornberg the letter and took a breath to control the tightness in her throat. “I will care for Jonathan until Mrs. Hotchkiss returns, Mr. Thornberg. In return, I ask that you will permit me to work on the CLSC letters at home.”

“That is not necessary, Miss Gordon. I will compensate you for—”

She shook her head, raised her chin. “I have a job, Mr. Thornberg. I intend to do it.”

He studied her for a long moment, then dipped his head and reached to open the door. “I will bring the letters home for you tomorrow at dinnertime.”

“Then I shall be here early in the morning.” She snatched up the valise sitting on the floor beside the door.

“What are you doing?”

She tightened her grip and looked up at him. “I’m taking Jonathan’s clothes home to launder. Wasn’t that your intent?” His eyes clouded. Well, too bad. She was too angry to play polite games.

“It was not!” He gripped the valise, stared down at her.

The touch of his hand against hers sent warmth flowing through her. She jerked her hands from the handles and took a step back, her heart pounding.

“I placed the valise here so I would not forget to take Jonathan’s things to the laundry tomorrow.” He threw the bag to the floor and pulled open the door. “You, Miss Gordon, are to care for my brother, not act as a maid or washerwoman! Is that clear?”

Not in her experience. But then nothing about Charles Thornberg fit with her experience. Unnerved, wanting only to flee his presence, to escape the confusion that overwhelmed her when he looked at her, she nodded, rushed by him and hurried to the carriage that sat waiting at the edge of the road.

Chapter Five

C
harles stared into the darkness, tense, straining against the silence. Miss Gordon thought Jonathan was so tired he would sleep through until morning, but what if he didn’t? What if he fell out of that big bed? He was so little he could break an arm or leg or something. It could happen. And he might not hear anything. He was a sound sleeper.

He surged from his bed, shrugged into his dressing gown and strode down the hallway to Jonathan’s bedroom in his slippers, the robe flopping around his legs.

Silence. He blew out a breath and walked to the bed. The boy was sound asleep, one small arm raised to curve above his head. He stared down at him, an odd sensation filling his chest.
He
slept like that. He studied the dark curls and the small almost straight-across brows, the mouth with a suggestion of a dimple on the right side, and the small pugnacious chin. It was like looking at a miniature of himself. His chest swelled, trapped air in his lungs. Jonathan was his
brother
. The truth of it settled into his heart. After twenty-one years of being alone, he had a family.

I realize you owe me no filial allegiance, but you are the only person in America with sufficient interest in this information not becoming known to keep it secret.

Secret? His mouth quirked. His mother had discarded Jonathan just as she had discarded him all those years ago. And in so doing, she had, inadvertently, given him the best gift he could ever receive. Place his brother in a boarding school? Never! He had lived that life. He would never subject Jonathan to that loneliness, that need to belong somewhere, to someone. He huffed out a breath, ran his hand over the back of his neck, winced when he accidentally touched the blister. Jonathan would stay right here, with him. But he had to manage that in a way that would keep Jonathan from being hurt by their mother’s abandonment.

He lifted the chair from where Clarice Gordon had placed it beside the stand, set it close to the bed, sat and closed his eyes to work out a story. He didn’t lie, so it would take some finesse. At least he had Jonathan’s immediate needs taken care of—for a week. Not that Clarice Gordon was happy about that. Well, neither was he; he certainly wouldn’t choose a career woman to care for his young brother. Jonathan needed someone warm and loving and caring after the unfeeling way he’d been treated—not a coolly efficient suffragist.

Clarice Gordon’s face floated before him, her eyes challenging, her small rounded chin lifted. It was a major battle to try and do something for the woman! He frowned and opened his eyes, stared into the darkness wondering what made her so independent and prickly. Though she wasn’t like that when she spoke of her mother. Her face softened and her voice warmed when that happened. But even so, there was an anger that burned in the depths of her eyes.

He placed his elbows on the chair arms, slid forward on the seat until he could rest his head against the chair back, then laced his fingers over his stomach. She had very telling eyes. And beautiful. Startlingly so. Gray with blue flecks. And long, thick lashes as black as her hair. Her eyes were the first thing he’d noticed—once he’d gotten a good look at her face. Before that it was the plain, unadorned way she dressed, as if she wanted not to be noticed, and the thin wood box she carried. She’d clutched that box as if her life depended on it. And, of course, as it turned out, her livelihood did.

His lips twitched, lifted into a wry grin. She’d been plenty prickly that day. And frosty. Whoo! She could have frozen a pond with the looks she’d sent his way. But she was too smart to let her feelings, whatever they were at the time, influence her judgment when he offered her a job. And the way she’d stayed silent and merely kept shoving those letters into the bag he held until he laid out his offer... He smothered a chuckle and shook his head. He might not approve of career women, but he had to admit Clarice Gordon was intelligent, efficient and clever. None of which would help Jonathan. He needed the love and warmth of a caring heart.

He lifted his hand and scrubbed at the stubble forming on his chin, drew his thoughts back to the present. He needed a cover story...

* * *

Clarice tiptoed up the stairs, turned toward her room and caught her breath. A sliver of light showed beneath the door. Guilt settled like a rock in her heart. She ran on tiptoe, her skirt train bouncing along the hall runner, slipped into the bedroom and hurried toward her mother’s bed. “What’s wrong, Mama? Are you in pain? I’m sorry I wasn’t here to massage your back to help you sleep. I’ll do it—”

“Hush, Clarice. You’ll wake Mr. Grumpy down the hall. I’m fine.” Her mother waved a hand toward the windows in the turret. “There’s no moonlight to speak of, and I was a little worried about you walking home, is all.”

The clamp around her heart eased. “I didn’t walk, Mama. Mr. Thornberg sent me home in a carriage.”

“A
carriage
!” Her mother’s brows shot skyward. “Why?”

She moved to the dressing table and sank onto the bench, chiding herself for her foolishness. She had to get over this nagging fear that when she left, she would find her mother’s condition worse when she returned. She leaned down to unlace her shoes and hide her face. Her mother had good eyes and sharp intuition. “He said he promised you he would see me home safe.”

“Well, yes. He did say that. But I never thought...”

“And as he couldn’t escort me, he arranged for the carriage.”

“Gracious me...”

Her mother sounded as astonished as she had been—still was. She looked up and forced a grin. “He doesn’t know after years of chasing chickens and runaway pigs on the farm, I can likely outrun any man or beast that would intend me harm.” She wiggled her toes, rose and began undoing the buttons on her gown to keep from thinking about how she had felt riding home in that carriage.

“I’ve been waiting to hear about that little boy.” Her mother squinted at her through the dim light. “You’re going to take care of him, aren’t you? Poor little mite, being left at the newspaper office for Mr. Thornberg like that. He was right shocked, I’ll tell you. I could see it in his eyes. I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking how a body doesn’t know they have a brother.”

“It’s because Jonathan was born in Paris, France, Mama.” She swirled her dressing gown on over her nightdress and braced herself against the screech when she closed the wardrobe.

“That little boy has come all the way across the
ocean
?”

“Yes. And he’s not yet three years old.” She crossed to her mother’s bed table and raised the wick on the lamp. She could afford a bit of extra oil now.

“What happened to his mother and father?”

His father is a married man of social prominence and, of course, wants no part of the boy or any scandal. Nor do I.

Anger drew her face taut.

“Clarice...”

“Jonathan is the ‘result’ of an illicit tryst between two married people, Mama. And neither of them want him. His mother has been hiding him from her wealthy husband. She sent him to Mr. Thornberg here in America to protect her marriage.”

Air hissed through her mother’s teeth. “Well, I never! I, who never wanted to let you go, had to send you away to protect you. And this woman throws her child away for her own comfort and ease! She has no heart. She should be—” Her mother gripped her arm, the strength of years of hard work in her hand. “Clarice, did you agree to take care of that little boy?”

“Yes, I did, Mama. Until Mr. Thornberg’s housekeeper returns.” She frowned and sat on the edge of the bed as the worries came flooding back. “But it’s not like working at the newspaper. I don’t know how long I will be gone each day. I may not be home in time to rub your back at night or—”

“That doesn’t matter, Clarice. That little boy needs love.”

“I know, Mama. I’ll manage.”
And likely lose my heart to him in the process.
She sighed, rose and reached for the pillows. “Lean forward, and I’ll rub your back now. It’s past time for us to be asleep.” Tears stung her eyes. Anger lent strength to her fingers kneading the spare flesh over her mother’s protruding hip bones.

“My, my...”

“What is it, Mama?” She massaged along the bony spine, then raised her hands to knead the muscles across her mother’s thin shoulders.

“I was just thinking about Mr. Thornberg hiring that carriage to bring you home.”

She stiffened, refused to recall that odd feeling she’d experienced when he’d
looked
at her. She’d been unable to shake her reaction during the ride.

“He’s a nice young man. Honorable, too, keeping his word like that.”

He had his own selfish reason, Mama. Men always do.
She worked her way back down her mother’s spine then smoothed her nightgown. “There. Let me fluff your pillows and you can go to sleep.”

“He will make some woman a good husband.”

If there was such a thing.
“Have a good night, Mama. I’ll see you in the morning.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and lowered the wick on the lamp, turned then paused when her mother took hold of her hand.

“Clarice, please don’t let your father and brothers sour you on marriage. Please don’t rob yourself of the joy of children of your own because of the way your father treated us. There are good men who love their wives and children and treat them well.”

“I know. But I prefer to be a career woman and take care of myself and you, Mama.” She ignored her mother’s sigh, walked through the archway to the wide window seat in the turret and made up her bed. The rumbling of her stomach reminded her she had missed supper.

This is my home, not your father’s farm, Miss Gordon. I will hold the valise.
Charles Thornberg’s words pressed through her resistance, as insistent as the man himself. She slipped beneath the blankets, turned onto her side and stared out into the darkness, refusing to remember the way he had looked at her...the unsettled feeling his presence caused her.

I placed the valise here so I would not forget to take Jonathan’s things to the laundry tomorrow. You, Miss Gordon, are to care for my brother, not act as a maid or washerwoman! Is that clear?
Her stomach rumbled again. She pressed her hand against it, puzzled over his words. His attitude was so different from her father’s. But did he truly mean what he said? She had to feed Jonathan. And that meant she had to cook and clean the kitchen. Who was to do the shopping for supplies? Clearly, she had to discuss her duties with Mr. Thornberg tomorrow morning.

She closed her eyes to make a mental list of questions she needed answered, but Jonathan’s sweet face formed in her head. Would he sleep all night? What would Charles Thornberg do if the toddler woke? The soft, ragged sobs that had torn at her heart pierced her memory. It was unnatural for a child to be so quiet when he cried. Had he been punished for disturbing someone’s sleep? With how many strangers, in how many countries, had he been boarded? Small wonder he was afraid.

It’s all right, Jonathan, everything is all right. You have a home now. No one will ever discard you again. I give you my word on it.

The image of Charles Thornberg holding his brother, looking fierce and protective as he spoke those words, shaped itself against the dark window. Her concern that Jonathan would wake and be afraid eased. There was no reason for it to—nothing in her life suggested that a man would be careful or tender with a child—but against all she knew, she believed Charles Thornberg would keep that promise. It didn’t make sense—but neither did his providing the carriage for her. Or walking her home beneath his umbrella in the rainstorm. Or wrapping his suit coat around her. None of it made sense.

She yawned and pulled the blanket close around her. Her eyelashes fluttered down. He was bigger than her father or brothers, but his touch had been gentle.

The jacket is much too large for you. Hold it tight or the wind will whip it away.

She’d felt so...different wrapped in his coat... She’d felt...warm...outside and inside...and somehow...safe. It made...no sense...at all... How could a...coat...make you...safe...

* * *

The oil lamp on the table in the corner cast a golden glow into the entrance hall. Clarice closed the front door and paused, listened. Silence. Had she come too early? She eyed the stairs, gnawed at the corner of her lip. She couldn’t go up there. What if Charles Thornberg was still abed? Or came walking into Jonathan’s room in his nightclothes!

That thought drove her down the short hallway to the kitchen she’d explored briefly yesterday when she’d been trying to find something to feed Jonathan. She moved into the room and looked around. The set-back cupboard held dishes and flatware on its shelves. Most likely there were serving dishes hidden in the cupboards on the bottom.

The gray light of dawn filtered through the small panes of the window in the top of the back door. She peered out, looked beyond a deep porch to a sizable yard with a stable at the back. If the stable was empty, as she suspected it was, it could be an interesting and fun place for Jonathan to play. But that would come after he had settled in and learned to know them. No, after he learned to know Mr. Thornberg.
She
would be back working at the newspaper by then.

The floor overhead squeaked. She glanced up. That had to be Charles Thornberg moving around. Jonathan was too small to make a floorboard squeak. Was the toddler awake? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t go up there. Another squeak added to the tension across her shoulders. She turned her attention to the stove.

The fire was out. A quick search won her paper and kindling from one end of the wood box and matches from a shelf above it. She shook down the cold ashes, opened the dampers in the chimney and fire door and laid the fire. The match flared and the paper she’d crumpled caught afire on her second try. A minute later the kindling burst into tiny flames. She chose a few of the smallest pieces of wood, added them to the fire, careful not to smother the flames, then walked to the refrigerator that sat against the opposite wall. A large bowl sitting on top held apples. Sheep’s nose, by the look of them.