His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) (6 page)

She laid the page down on the desk, tugged her chair close and placed the fingers of her left hand on the
A-S-D-F
keys on the paper, closed her eyes and repeated the names of the letters over and over, tapping the corresponding finger on the paper key. Her index finger she used for the
G
key, also. When she was satisfied she had them memorized, she moved to the right side of the key-board and did the same with her right hand. “
J-K-L
colon and semicolon. And also the
H
.”

“What are you doing, Clarice?”

“I’m learning to use the typewriter, Mama. See...” She rose and carried the manual to the bed, showed the key-board to her mother. “I put my fingers on the keys, thus...” She placed them as the manual advised. “And now to write—type—a word I just push down the right keys. Watch me do your name...
h
...” She pushed down her right index finger. “Oh, no, that’s wrong. I must push down this key that says Upper Case first.” She pushed the key on the left side of the bottom row above the space bar then pushed down with her right index finger again. “Capital
H
... Now I push the upper-case key down again to disengage it. And then I press the rest of the letters...” She peered down at the key-board and found them. “
e...l...e...n
. There! I have typed your name. If I were using the typewriter, your name would be printed on a piece of paper beneath the...the roller thing. See. Here it is.” She opened the manual to the picture of the typewriter with all of the parts named.

“You have to learn all of that just to write my name?” Her mother shook her head, laughed and lifted the pencil she held into the air. “I’ll use this, thank you.”

“Well, I am going to learn how to use this typewriter. And I am going to learn it without Mr. Thornberg’s help. And you can help me, Mama.” She carried the manual back to the desk. “When I have all of these keys memorized, and I have practiced enough that my fingers don’t trip all over each other trying to find them, I will sit over there by the bed and you can call out words for me to type. I will keep my eyes closed, and you can watch my fingers and tell me if I hit the right keys. I am going to type better and faster than anyone else at the
Journal
—including Mr. Thornberg. That will show him my value as an employee.”

She placed her fingers over the center row on the paper key-board and studied the top row on the left side.
Q-W-E-R-T.
Now, which fingers should she use...

* * *

The letters were blurring too much for her to practice any longer. Clarice blinked her eyes and glanced at her open locket watch she’d placed in the light cast by the oil lamp. One o’clock. She looked over at the bed and smiled. Her mother had set the writing box aside and succumbed to sleep close to two hours ago. And she was sleeping well. She hadn’t once moaned with pain.

Could the surcease of pain mean that her mother might walk again? Hope sprang to her heart. She would arrange for a doctor to come and see her mother as soon as she had the money. And that meant she had to stop practicing with the typewriter at work and concentrate on answering those letters. She wasn’t being paid to learn how to use the typewriter. And her mother’s care came first, even before her ambition to be a columnist for a real newspaper.

She closed the manual and slipped from her chair to take the writing box off the bed. Her mother’s Bible was open beside it, a verse marked with a small star in the margin. She averted her eyes. How could her mother still believe in God after all she had suffered? She picked up the writing box and placed it on the seat of the chair by the bed, where her mother could reach it, and glanced back at the Bible. The marked verse drew her eye.
For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.

Well, that was certainly true. She would never have let her mother be crippled!

Trust me.

The thought was so clear it might have been spoken. She spun about and hurried back to the turret area, turned down the wick to dim the lamp and shrugged out of her dressing gown. The night was warm, but shivers prickled her flesh. She slipped beneath the blanket on the window seat and pulled it up around her neck, seeking the comfort of its softness and warmth. All was dark outside the windows. There were no stars to look at—nothing.

The silence of the night settled around her. Her heart ached with a longing she didn’t understand and refused to acknowledge. She turned onto her other side and stared at the dim spot of light, the lowered wick glowing against the darkness.

Chapter Three

M
uted voices came from the office. Clarice paused, uncertain as to whether she should seek out Mr. Thornberg or go upstairs on her own. The door ahead beckoned. No Admittance. A smile curved her lips. That sign no longer applied to her. She had gone to the school and turned in her resignation. She stepped through the door and hurried to the stairs.

The editorial room was empty, but the chandelier over Mr. Thornberg’s desk glowed against the overcast morning. So did hers. And the one over the table with the burlap bag of letters on it. Consideration? Or a subtle message for her to start working on the letters? She fought back a spurt of irritation and strode to her desk. The man was her boss. He had every right to tell her what to do and when to do it. But it took away her chance to show him that she had initiative and was responsible and reliable. And he obviously thought her lacking in those virtues. He hadn’t lit Mr. Willard’s chandelier.

She unpinned her hat and tossed it into the bottom drawer, turned her back on the enticing sight of the wood box covering her typewriter and crossed to the table. The burlap bag was too heavy for her to easily lift. She dragged a pile of letters out of it, then rolled it to the side of the table and eased it to the floor.

An open letter rested on the table. She read it, catalogued the questions as a request for the definition and pronunciation of words, placed the letter at the top right corner of the table and opened another. A science-experiment question. That letter started a stack for science-related questions at the top center of the table. The next was added to the first pile, and the next started a stack for grammar queries. Questions having to do with mathematics, she placed at the extreme-left top corner.

She sailed through the pile, defining the topics and placing the opened letters in the corresponding stack, then grabbed more letters from the bag, tossed them into a big heap in the middle of the table and began again. The second letter from that heap was directed to Dr. Austin. She set it aside in a personal-correspondence pile and snatched up another.

“Well, what have we here?”

She jumped, jerked her gaze to the man standing at the top of the stairs. Her stomach knotted. “Good morning, Mr. Willard.”

“It is now.” The reporter grinned, tossed his hat on his desk and strode down the room toward her. He swept his gaze over the stacks of letters covering the table. “What’s all this?”

She held her uneasiness in check and answered in a calm, polite tone. “The CLSC letters I’m going to answer.”

“All of
those
?”

She noted his shocked expression and nodded. “And many more. This whole bag, in fact.” She indicated the bag leaning against the wall.

He let out a long, low whistle. “It looks like you’re going to need a lot of help to get all of those letters answered.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “I’d be happy to volunteer.”

She gave him a cool look to discourage his flirting and cast another look toward the stairs. They were all alone. A shiver slipped down her spine. “Thank you for your considerate offer, Mr. Willard. But I am managing fine by myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a great deal of work to do.” She scanned a letter, added it to the grammar stack and picked up another.

“Ah, don’t be like that, cu—”

“Is there something you needed from the reference shelf, Willard?”

Mr. Thornberg.
The tension left her spine and shoulders.

“Just saying good morning to Miss Gordon, boss.”

“We still need a lead story for tomorrow’s edition, Willard. Have you one?”

“Not yet.”

“The annual Chautauqua Assembly is important to the economy of this city, and I’ve heard rumors of a substantial amount of construction going on. Why don’t you go to Fair Point and see what you can find out?”

It was clearly an order, given in a tone that left no doubt of Mr. Thornberg’s opinion over the reporter’s waste of time. She looked up, stared at her boss’s taut face. The reporter wasn’t the only one Mr. Thornberg was displeased with. Surely, he didn’t think she had
invited
Mr. Willard’s attention? The knots in her stomach twisted tighter. She plunked the letter in her hand on top of the definition-of-words stack and grabbed another from the heap.

Boyd Willard walked away, the strike of his shoe heels against the wood floor loud in the silence. Mr. Thornberg took the reporter’s place across the table from her. She pressed her lips together to hold back the urge to explain. She’d done nothing wrong. She slapped the letter she held onto the mathematics pile and snatched up another.

“What are you doing, Miss Gordon? What are these different piles?”

She glanced up. There was a slight frown line between Mr. Thornberg’s straight dark brows and a glint of curiosity in his brown eyes. The discomfort in her stomach eased a bit. “I am sorting the letters into different classifications. These—” she indicated the first stack on her right “—have questions about words...their pronunciation or definition. And these—” she moved her hand to the next pile “—have queries about science. And then there are grammar and mathematics stacks. And those—” she gestured toward the smallest stack at the edge of the table “—are the ones directed to Dr. Austin or specific teachers at the Chautauqua Assembly.

“When I’m finished sorting, I will answer one stack of letters at a time. As they will all deal with the same subject, I won’t have to keep switching reference material
if
I don’t know the answers.” She couldn’t stop herself from putting a slight emphasis on the word
if
. He didn’t seem to notice. He picked up and scanned letters from each stack, his head nodding slowly.

“This is an excellent idea, Miss Gordon.” He put the letter he held back on its stack and smiled. “Your work is most efficient.”

The smile took her aback. Her lips curved in response. “Thank you, Mr. Thornberg.”

“Yes. Well...” He coughed, cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to your work. Don’t hesitate to ask for my help—though you seem to have things well in hand.” He dipped his head and walked back into the composing room.

She tamped down her pleasure at his compliment of her work and returned to her task.

* * *

“I appreciate your zealous approach to your work, Miss Gordon, but it’s time for your afternoon meal break.”

Clarice jumped, looked from the letter in her hand to Mr. Thornberg standing on the other side of the table and blinked to adjust her vision. “Thank you, sir. I didn’t realize—” The splatter of rain against the windows burst upon her consciousness. “It’s raining!”

“Yes, for over an hour now.”

“Oh, dear.” She breathed the words, placed the letter on the science pile and stared at the water coursing down the windows.

“Is there a problem, Miss Gordon?”

“What? Oh. No. Well...” She moved to her desk, opened the bottom drawer, pulled out her hat and gave a rueful little laugh. “I suppose under the circumstances
this
qualifies as a problem.” She lifted the small felt hat to her head, snatched the pin from where she’d tossed it on her desk and jammed it into place. Her imagination was already making her shiver as she started for the stairs.

“You’re going out in this rain with no waterproof or umbrella?”

His tone was one of utter disbelief. He obviously thought her either insane or foolish in the extreme. She stopped and turned to face him. “There are times when we are left with no choice in matters, Mr. Thornberg. For me, this is one of those times. My mother is bedridden and depends upon me for her needs. When I came to work this morning, I did not know it would rain today and thus did not wear my waterproof. Nor did I make other arrangements for my mother’s care.” She gave an eloquent little shrug of her shoulders. “Thus...no choice.” She started again for the stairs.

“Wait!”

The command in his voice raised her hackles. She’d had enough of that from her father and brothers. But this was her boss. She made her feet stop walking, tensed when he strode up beside her.

“Come with me, Miss Gordon. I’ve an umbrella in the office.”

* * *

The rain beat on the umbrella, hit the walkway with such force it splashed almost as high as her knees. The hem of her long skirt was sodden, the short train so heavy it felt as if she were dragging one of the large baskets of wet laundry from her childhood behind her. The wind gusted, blew the rain straight at them. She shivered, thankful Mr. Thornberg held the umbrella. She was having difficulty enough making progress against the wind.

“Stop!” He leaned down to put his mouth near her ear. “Hold the umbrella.”

She didn’t question his command. It was his umbrella. She took it into her two hands and raised her arms to hold it high enough to clear his head, tried to keep it from shaking from her shivering. “What are you d-doing?” She gaped as he shrugged out of his suit coat.
Now who was insane?

“What I should have done before. You’re shivering. Lower your arms.” He draped his jacket around her shoulders, held it there with one hand, took the umbrella into his other and straightened.

The warmth from his body clinging to the suit coat seeped into her. She stared up at him too astounded to speak, let alone protest.

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

“But you—”

“No argument, Miss Gordon.”

She nodded, grabbed the edges of his jacket, twisted her hands to the inside and held it close against her. A gust of wind swept down the street and she staggered backward. His hand slipped to her lower back, steadied her against the force of the wind as they moved forward.

The blowing rain formed large wet blotches on his shirt.
He must be icy cold.
She looked down at his suit coat enfolding her in its dry warmth and a band of tightness squeezed her throat and chest. She stared down at the splashing rain and fought back the unexplainable urge to cry.

Main Street was deserted in the storm. The unimpeded wind whipped her skirts into a frenzy. His arm tightened. She could feel its strength angling down her back to where his hand supported her as they crossed to the walkway at East Second Street and continued down the block. She fought the tightness in her chest for breath and watched the houses they passed, slowed her steps then unlatched a gate bearing a sign that read Smithfield Boardinghouse. “This is where I live.”

He escorted her up the stone walk to the deep porch. Large rhododendron bushes growing in front of the railing blocked the wind and rain. She stepped behind their protection and slipped off his suit coat, shivering in the cold, damp air. “Thank you for seeing me home in the storm, Mr. Thornberg. I’m sorry you have gotten soaked and cold. I would ask you in to get warm, but—” She could manage no more. The constriction of her throat choked off her words. She looked down at his suit coat in her hands.

“But boardinghouses do not lend themselves to such amenities. I quite understand, Miss Gordon. I’m no stranger to boardinghouses. I lived in my share when I was a roving reporter.” He took his suit coat from her, shrugged to settle it on his shoulders and picked up his umbrella. “Please do not try to return to work in this storm. My regards to your mother. I hope her health improves soon. Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.” He dipped his head, trotted down the steps and hurried out through the gate.

She wrapped her arms about herself and stared after him until he disappeared into the rain, waiting for that strange urge to cry to go away so she could go inside.

* * *

Charles scooped the last spoonful of soup from his bowl, picked up his coffee and walked into his study. The clink of dishes and clatter of flatware followed him as Mrs. Hotchkiss cleared the dining room. He scowled and closed the door, unreasonably irritated by the normal sounds of his daily life.

It had been a mistake. One he couldn’t avoid—he could hardly have let Miss Gordon walk home in the storm with no protection whatsoever—but a mistake nonetheless. He had hated leaving her standing there on the porch when she looked so defenseless and—

Thunderation!
How was he to get the picture of her out of his head! And why, in the name of all that was
sane
, should it make him feel lonely? The new house he’d found such comfort in suddenly felt like an empty tomb.

He slammed his cup down on the mantel and wished there were a fire on the hearth so he had a log he could kick. He hadn’t felt so—so
alone
since his mother had shipped him off to boarding school when he was five years old.

He shook his head, jammed his hands into his pockets and stared out at the rain. He’d thought he was over all those old, worthless emotions. There was nothing more useless than self-pity.

He frowned, buttoned the coat of the suit he’d changed into and headed for the entrance hall. Getting out a newspaper couldn’t wait for good weather.

She was caring for a bedridden mother. No wonder Miss Gordon was prickly. That was a heavy load for a young woman to shoulder. The shadow of it had been in her eyes when she’d looked up at him. And surprise. No, something more than surprise...shock had filled them when he’d put his suit coat around her. As if no one had ever taken care of her.

Something twisted deep in his gut. He pulled on his mackintosh and hat, grabbed the wet umbrella from its stand and stepped out onto the porch. Taking Miss Gordon home had been a mistake...one that, in spite of his better sense, he would willingly make again.

* * *

The radiant warmth of the late-afternoon sun chased the damp chill from the editorial room. Clarice leaned the umbrella she had brought with her in the corner by her desk and removed her wrap.

“I didn’t expect you to return today, Miss Gordon.”

She spun about. Charles Thornberg stood in the doorway to the composing room a sheet of paper in his hand. She took a breath to calm her racing pulse. “There is still almost two hours until quitting time and the storm has passed.”

He nodded, glanced toward the umbrella. “I see you don’t intend to be caught unprepared by a rainstorm again.”