His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) (18 page)

Her chest tightened at the thought of a stranger tending to Charles’s needs. He should have someone who—who
cared
about him. The thought took her breath. She shook her head. “I will take care of him.”

The doctor peered across the bed at her. “Are you certain?”

Was she?
She thought about Charles taking off his suit coat and wrapping it around her during the rainstorm...taking the basket from her on the stairs...pouring her coffee...holding her in his arms to comfort her... Yes. She was certain. But she couldn’t tell the doctor why. The perfect answer slipped into her head. She met the doctor’s gaze and nodded. “I would have to stay anyway to care for Jonathan.”

“Ah. I had forgotten about the boy. Of course, you must stay and care for him. The matter is settled. Do you wish me to convey the message to your mother? I shall go to conduct her exercises—”

“Mama...”
It was a choked whisper of guilt. How could she have forgotten her
mother
?

“Or...perhaps not.”

She looked at him, her head spinning, her heart aching. Charles and Jonathan and her mother... How could she choose?

Charles moaned and curled into a ball. Shivers shook his body.

She stared down at his flushed face, the perspiration on his forehead even with the cool cloth. He was in agony. His distress tore at her heart. She ached to comfort him, to ease his pain. “The matter is settled, Doctor. I’m staying.” She blinked her eyes, turned from his steady gaze. “Now... I’m going to get that spoon for Charles’s medicine. And water for him to drink.”

“And I, Miss Gordon, am going to give this matter some additional thought.”

She glanced back at him. He smiled, waved her on her way, then clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room, staring down at the floor.

* * *

Clarice ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, tears flowing down her cheeks. She wiped them away, grabbed a glass and set it on a tray on the work table, snatched a tablespoon from a drawer and stuck it in the glass. How was she to manage care for her mother? Mrs. Duncan would help, but where was she to find the money to pay her? And how would that help her mother’s loneliness, stuck alone in that room all night? Oh, what was she to
do
?

Lord Jesus, I need an answer. Please give me an answer.

She lifted down a pitcher from the shelf over the refrigerator, froze. The
refrigerator
! She pumped water into the pitcher, set it on the tray, then ran to the pantry, grabbed a large deep bowl and set it on the floor in front of the refrigerator. A few quick moves had the front board off and the drip tray half-full of melted ice water in her hands. She poured the ice melt into the bowl, replaced the drip tray and board, added the bowl to the tray and hurried for the stairs.

She would find a way to earn the money to pay Mrs. Duncan to care for her mother. But there was nothing she could do about leaving her mother alone. Still, the doctor would explain, and her mother would understand that she couldn’t leave Jonathan and Charles.

She caught her breath and carried the tray into Charles’s bedroom, set it on the table under the window and tossed a washcloth into the cold ice-melt water. There had to be a way to keep her mother from being lonely. Charles... Jonathan...her mother... How could she possibly help them all?
Lord, please show me the way—

“I have the answer to your dilemma, Miss Gordon.”

She snatched the spoon out of the glass, turned and looked at the doctor.

“Charles was to go and bring your mother here today. Correct?”

“Yes. But—”

His raised hand stopped her. “So I will go in his stead.” He smiled and nodded, picked up his bag. “It is the perfect solution. I will bring your mother to stay here and that will solve the problem. She is the perfect chaperone. You will be able to stay here and care for Charles and Jonathan without risk to your reputation, and I will come to check on Charles and help your mother with her exercises.”

“But...”

“Yes?”

She stared at him while his perfect solution crumbled into ashes at her feet. “I have no money to pay you.”

“And I have not mentioned a fee. Now, get that medicine into Charles while I go and bring your mother here.”

Chapter Fifteen

“P
apa...” Charles bolted upright, yanked his hand from beneath the covers and clenched it into a fist. “Papa...cuff...links...” He flopped back onto his pillow, shivering from the chills that chased up and down his spine, spread painful prickles over his skin.

“I don’t understand, Charles. Do you want your father’s cuff links? Tell me where to find them and I’ll bring them to you. Charles? Do you hear me, Charles?”

The voice lured him from the darkness. He opened his eyes, stared at Clarice’s face floating above him, struggled against the pull of oblivion. “Jonathan...”

“He’s down for his nap. You were talking about your father’s cuff links. Do you want them?”

He shook his head, winced. “Dreaming...”

“You need to drink some water, Charles. Dr. Reese says it’s important.”

Her face disappeared. He ignored his disappointment and took inventory. Heat radiated off his body—so a high fever. Chills...bad ones. Muscle pain. Headache. The attack was a severe one.

“Charles...”

He opened his eyes, forced them to focus. She was there again, hovering above him.

“If I help you, can you lift your head and drink some water?”

“Y-yes.”

Her arm slipped behind his shoulders. Chills exploded up his neck, down his back and into his arms at the contact. He mustered his strength, drew his elbows back to lean on them and lifted his head. She touched the glass to his dry lips. He drank the water, shivered as it slid down his throat.

“Do you want more?”

“L-later.”

“All right.” She withdrew her arm, set the glass back on the table under the window. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

He shoved himself back higher on the pillows, used the pain that streaked through his muscles to hold off the darkness that beckoned. “I n-need you to get out the p-paper.”

“What?” Shock spread across her face, widened her eyes.

“Listen...I haven’t st-strength to argue or re-repeat.” He made his gaze meet hers, held it there. “Tomorrow’s issue gets p-printed tonight. Editorial on d-desk. P-pages aren’t r-ready. You are o-only o-one who can d-do them.”

Her eyes clouded. She shook her head. “No, Charles. You’re too sick. I can’t leave you here alone.”

“I’ve g-gone through this b-before.” He poured all the persuasion he had into his voice. “I’ll be all r-right. I need you t-to do this. I’ll p-pay—”

She jerked back, caught her breath.

“Wh-what—”

“Nothing. I’ll do as you ask. I’ll have to take Jonathan with me, so I will leave as soon as he wakes from his nap.” She turned away.

“W-wait.” He reached for her hand, but she stepped back, and he hadn’t the strength to raise himself higher.

“Don’t waste your strength talking, Charles. Dr. Reese says you need your rest.”

The hurt in her voice was disguised by her cool tone, but he knew her now. He tried to think of what he had done to cause her hurt, but his mind wouldn’t work. Darkness slid over his thoughts, carried them away. He fought to grasp them, fought to hold on to consciousness...lost his grip and slipped into obscurity.

* * *

“Me no go! Me no go!”

Jonathan tugged his hand out of hers and ran, his chunky little legs pumping.

“Jonathan, wh— Wait! Come back!” Clarice dropped the bag she carried and ran, caught the fleeing toddler up in her arms.

“No! Me no go!” He twisted and turned, kicked his feet and pummeled her with his little fists. Ragged sobs shook him. “Me want brover! Me no go!”

“Jonathan, stop! Listen to me!” She tugged his small writhing body close against her, held him tight so he could not move. “I am
not
taking you away from brother.” Her eyes teared at his fear. What had happened that he no longer trusted her?
Lord, help me understand. Give me the words to reassure him.
“Brother is sick. He can’t do his work and I need to do it for him. See that big building...?” She turned so he could see without her releasing her confining grip.

He shoved his face against her shoulder, trembled and sobbed. “Me n-no go...”

She stared at the
Journal
building and understanding burst upon her, made her heart ache for the child in her arms. “Jonathan, that big building is where brother works. You know how he leaves every day to go to work? This is where he comes.” She took a breath, made her voice soft and calm the way she did when she was teaching him his colors or numbers. “Brother is sick, and so he asked me to come here to this building and do his work. When I am finished, I promise I will take you back to
your
house...back to brother, just like I did the last time.”

She blinked the tears from her eyes, kissed his cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore, Jonathan. Remember what brother promised you? He promised you he would take care of you always. That he would never let anyone take you away from him. Not ever. And he never will. Brother loves you. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

She’d run out of words. She held him and hoped he would feel her love for him.

“What love?”

What I feel for you.
Her throat constricted. How did you explain love to a toddler? “Love is when you want to be with somebody forever and ever.” He stirred, lifted his head and looked at her.

“Me love brover.”

She smiled and nodded. He understood.

“Me love you.”

Her heart swelled. It took a minute to find her voice. “And I love you.” She kissed the tip of his nose, hugged him tight, then stood him on the sidewalk, picked up her bag and held out her hand. “Let’s go do brother’s work so we can go back home.”

* * *

Clarice read the report Boyd Willard had left on Charles’s desk, frowned and picked up a pen. Did the man not know how to use a dictionary? She struck a line through several of the words, made the spelling and misuse corrections and glanced at Jonathan on his stomach on the floor drawing wiggles and squiggles on a piece of paper. A smile curved her lips. “Jonathan, I’m going in the other room to finish brother’s work. Do you want to bring your pencil and paper and come with me?”

He nodded, scrambled to his feet, followed her into the composing room and flopped back down on the floor.

She scanned the tables. The pages on the far tables were finished—except for the editorial page. There was a blank area on the white paper. She carried his editorial to the last table, placed it in the blank spot, scanned the pages to make sure she wasn’t missing anything then walked back to the front tables. Most of the second page was also finished. There was one blank area blocked out for a picture. The white paper on the first table was blank, except for a wide piece of dark paper across the top that represented the
Journal
’s masthead. And a second strip of paper that bore the legend Lead Story. There was a stack of papers on the table.

Her stomach flopped. It looked like too many articles to fit on the available space. Was she supposed to pick and choose? Had Charles already decided which he wanted to use? How could she know? She stared at the pile, everything in her rebelling. How long would it take to do the work? She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be caring for Charles. Was he all right?
Lord Jesus, please watch over Charles. Please keep him safe. And please help me to do this job quickly and well so that I can go home and take care of him.

The prayer rose straight from her heart. And brought her face-to-face with the truth she’d been trying not to see. In spite of all her protestations and proclamations, she was falling in love with Charles Thornberg. She glanced at the windows in the editorial room, remembered the rain splatting against them and their walk home beneath his umbrella. It had started that day. She knew that now. She’d never known a man to be caring and protective until then. And now— Now she must face the fact that he was only being kind, that it was his nature and meant nothing special to him. He had little regard for a career woman.

Oh, how that thought hurt. She pushed beyond her personal feelings and set her thoughts on the job she had to do. At least she could earn his respect. She set Boyd Willard’s article aside and thumbed through the pile. Two of them had “LS?” scrawled on the top right corner. She scanned the stories, one a national political piece about the ongoing dispute between President Rutherford B. Hayes and the Congress over the Bland-Allison Act, the other a local piece about proposed improvements to the docking area on Chautauqua Lake. She nibbled at the corner of her lip, wondered which of the two Charles would choose. There were both advantages and disadvantages to using either piece. In the end, she decided the national piece had more relevance since it was about the American monetary system, which touched every citizen, not just the few who owned the property along the waterfront. She set it in place as the lead story. The waterfront piece held the second most important place. She chose the articles, lined them up on the white paper, tucked in fillers—smiling with pride when she found her mother’s offerings among them in the baskets—and wondered what came next.

“Come along, Jonathan.” She lifted him into her arms, took one last look at the composed pages and headed for the stairs. She needed some advice.

“Me go see brover?”

“In a little while. First I must talk to a man called Clicker.”

* * *

The house was silent.

“Me hungry. Me want biscuit.”

“I know, Jonathan. I’m sorry—it’s far past supper time.” She set her bag on the floor and settled him on her hip. “Let’s go see brother, and then I will fix you some biscuits and jam. Would you like that?”

“An’ milk?”

“And milk.” She forced a smile, stepped into the hallway and looked at the open bedroom doors, torn between whom to check on first, her mother or Charles. Of course, her mother would know her choice—and then she would guess. She made her feet turn right. “I have a surprise. Gramma is here.”

“Gamma!”

“Well, it’s about time you came home, young man. I’ve been waiting for you.” Her mother smiled and held out her arms.

“Remember to be careful of Gramma, Jonathan.” She lowered him to the bed, watched him snuggle up close to her mother.

“Me see Clicker. Him gots dirty hands.”

“He
does
?”

“An’ him gots a big ’chine!” Jonathan spread his arms as wide as they could reach.

“My, my...” Her mother glanced up, made a small nudging motion with her chin toward the door and turned her attention back to the toddler in her arms. “And what does this machine do?”

She mouthed, “Thank you,” and hurried back into the hall, her heart pounding.
Please let him be all right. Please, Lord, let Charles be all right.

He was on his side, shivering and muttering. She rushed to his bed, snatched the blankets up off the floor and spread them over him then tucked them close to his back and shoved them under the mattress at the foot of the bed so he could not pull them off. “I told you I should have stayed here with you. Only look at the mess you’ve made of things.”

“...mother...gone...” He flopped onto his back, yanked an arm free of the covers and waved it in the air. “...never come...never...”

She poured water into the glass, dodged beneath his flailing arm and held it to his lips. “Drink this, Char— Oh!” His wildly waving hand smacked against her shoulder, knocked her backward and sent the glass flying from her hand. Her heel caught in the hem of her skirt and she sat down hard on the floor, her heart pounding. Bile surged into her throat.
It was an accident. Only an accident.

“Clarice...”

“I’m fine, Mama! I dropped the glass and it smashed on the hearth.” She struggled to her feet, hurried to the dressing room and grabbed the glass off the washstand then walked back to his bedside and poured more water.

Charles lay still, muttering about a horse.

She pulled the covers back up over his arm, sat on the edge of the bed to hold them down with her weight and slipped her free arm behind his shoulder. “Charles, please drink this water.” She dribbled a little on his lips and he swallowed. She tipped the glass and he drank it all, quieted. Perhaps he would sleep peacefully now. She squeezed out a washcloth and put it on his forehead. A quick sweep with the hearth broom and use of the ash shovel got rid of the broken glass. There’s was nothing more she could do. She hurried toward the other end of the hall, her hems whispering against the rug.

“And what does a cow say?”

A smile curved her lips at her mother’s question. She quickened her steps, waited by the door.

“Cow say moo.”

“That’s right! Now, can you answer this? Bossy-cow, bossy-cow, where do you lie?”

“In the green meadow, under the sky.” She chanted the answer, stepped into the room and made a small curtsy.

Her mother laughed. Jonathan wiggled toward the edge of the bed and held up his arms.

“Me want biscuit.”

“And you shall have one.” She lifted him off the bed. “Thank you for entertaining Jonathan, Mama. I shall reward you with a lovely supper, as soon as I feed this hungry little bear.”

“Me not a bear. Me Jonathan!”

“Why, so you are. I guess I’ll just have to give Mr. Bear’s biscuit to you.”

“Don’t fuss, Clarice. You have your hands full.”

Yes, I do. If only it could stay this way.

* * *

“God bless brover an’ make him all better.”

“Amen.” Clarice’s heart swelled at Jonathan’s prayer. His little heart was so ready to give and accept love now. He was a different little boy since Charles had “inherited” him. What a blessing that was for them both. And for her, though for her it would soon be over. She mustn’t let herself forget that. She leaned down and kissed Jonathan’s soft, warm cheek. “Happy drea—”

“An’ C’rice.” He blinked his eyes and yawned.

“Thank you.” Her heart filled. So did her eyes. She blinked them clear.

“An’ Gamma.”

“Yes, and Gramma.” Oh, dear. She drew in a breath, blinked again.

“Her in bed.”

“Yes. She’s going to sleep here in
your
house tonight. You will see her in the morning. Perhaps if you ask her nicely, she will tell you a story about the birds and who gave them their songs.”