“Yes, Mr. Thornberg?”
His remonstrance died unspoken. It was the woman’s first day and he was her boss. No doubt his presence made her uncomfortable. He should have thought of that. “I will be in the composing room, should you need my assistance.” He stepped toward the connecting door, paused at the pound of shoes against the stair treads.
Boyd Willard burst into the room headed for his desk, glanced his way and changed directions. “Hey, boss. I—” The reporter’s gaze shot to the back of the room and a roguish grin tilted his lips. “Who is this?”
Charles stepped forward, annoyed by the predatory look in Boyd’s eyes. He’d heard the reporter’s claims of his many conquests. “Miss Gordon is the Journal’s correspondence secretary.” He led the way to her desk. “Miss Gordon, this is Mr. Willard, the Journal’s reporter.”
Boyd Willard whipped off his hat, stepped close to her desk and smiled. “Correspondence secretary? I wouldn’t mind getting a letter from you, Miss Gordon.”
“That’s enough, Willard.”
The reporter stiffened, jerked his gaze to him.
“This is a workplace, and Miss Gordon is an employee. You will treat her with respect.” From the corner of his eye he saw Miss Gordon turn her head and look up at him. Those gray eyes held what...incredulity? Irritation surged. He gestured Boyd Willard to his desk with a flick of his hand, then strode back to his own. So much for leaving the room to make Miss Gordon more comfortable. He would stay at his desk until Willard left to rove about town in the search for stories...or whatever he did with his time.
He pulled the article he’d been editing toward him then glanced toward the back of the room. His gaze crashed against Miss Gordon’s and she quickly looked back down at the pages in her hand, but not before he’d seen the relief in her eyes and felt the power of her tenuous smile.
* * *
“It’s the most marvelous thing you’ve ever seen, Mama!” Clarice lifted her supper tray from her lap and rose from her chair. “It really does print out words on paper. You push down the key with the letter you want printed on it, and this skinny metal rod they call a ‘type bar’ comes up and strikes the underneath of the cylinder, and there’s the letter on the paper!”
She put her tray on the table by the bed, glanced at her mother’s tray and frowned. “You need to eat more, Mama. You’re too thin. Would you like me to spread preserves on your biscuit for you?”
“I’ve had enough, Clarice. I don’t get very hungry being in bed all day long.”
“Half a biscuit, then. Mama, you told me last night that you need something to do with your days...” She slathered preserves on the top half of the biscuit.
“You’re not going to scold me again for mending Mrs. Duncan’s chemise, are you?”
“I wasn’t scolding, Mama. I just don’t want you to—” She glanced at her mother, spotted her smile, grinned and handed her the biscuit top. “Stop teasing. Or I’ll make you eat the other half of this biscuit.”
“That’s better. You fret about me too much, Clarice. I know it’s hard for you to see me this way, but—”
“I wasn’t fretting, Mama. I was about to ask if you would help me with some work.”
“Help you?” Her mother cast a suspicious glance up at her. “How?”
“By writing down some of your recipes for me.” She slipped her mother’s tray away so she had no place to put the biscuit. “And perhaps some of the ways you’ve found to save time or do a better job of cleaning or gardening.”
“Oh, Clarice...” Tears glistened in her mother’s eyes. “I am a burden to you. You’ve spent all day thinking about how to help me stay busy.”
“I did not. And don’t ever say that again, Mama!” She piled the supper trays and started for the door.
“Then tell me how my recipes and household tips can possibly help you.”
“I’m going to make them into fillers.”
“Fillers?”
“Yes.” She balanced the trays and opened the door. “They’re short items of general interest that Mr. Thornberg uses to take up blank space when he composes the pages for the newspaper. He’s running out of them, and I intend to keep him supplied. I’ll explain after I take these supper trays downstairs.” She stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed.
“Clarice, come back! You forgot this biscuit!”
No, Mama. You did. She grinned and hurried down the hall to the stairs.
* * *
Charles laid his book aside and stepped out onto the small balcony that overlooked the street. Captain Nemo and his adventures held no interest for him this evening. He rubbed the back of his neck, blew out a breath and stared into the distance. Miss Gordon had gotten into his head. There was no denying it. It was her smile. It was so soft and warm, the exact opposite of her prickly disposition. And rare. He found himself waiting for her to smile, like some schoolboy hoping to catch a favorable glance from his secret crush. He scowled, raked his fingers through his hair and rocked back on his heels. It was the surprise of her smiles, of course. And the way her eyes changed...
A breeze rose and cooled his face, the skin exposed by the unbuttoned neck of his shirt and his bare forearms protruding from his rolled-up sleeves. The flow of air carried the scent of rain. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to close the door. He liked sleeping with it open. It helped to cool the accumulated heat of the day.
He leaned back against the stone wall of the house and gazed up at the night sky. No stars. Rain clouds must be closing in. Her hair was as black as that sky. So were her eyelashes. And they were long. They looked like shadows against her fair skin as she sat reading the directions for operating the typewriter.
He pushed away from the wall, stepped to the railing and shoved his hands in his pockets. Why hadn’t she come to him with her questions? She had to have had some. That section on changing the rubber bands and the one on adjusting the spacing dogs were quite technical. Not to mention the one on cleaning and oiling the machine.
Perhaps she hadn’t read that far yet. His lips skewed into a lopsided grin. He was quite certain the prickly Miss Gordon didn’t know the tiniest bit of the tip of her tongue showed at the corner of her lips when she was concentrating. It was most distracting. Every time he’d seen it, he’d wanted to go and help her.
And he wasn’t the only one who had noticed Miss Gordon’s winsome way. Willard had stolen glances at her all day long. One more reason it wasn’t good to have a woman in the workplace. Men lost their focus. He had. But that lapse of self-discipline on his part was understandable. Miss Gordon was a new employee. It was his responsibility to give her the help she needed—when she asked.
And that was the crux of the matter. The woman had plagued his thoughts all day because she hadn’t asked for his help when he knew full well she needed it. Any woman would. Well, he’d not give her a thought tomorrow. He had a newspaper to run.
He banished Miss Gordon from his thoughts, pulled his hands from his pockets, went inside and picked up the book.
* * *
“It’s apparent from Mr. Thornberg’s thinly veiled contempt that he shares the prevailing viewpoint that men are superior and women have no business being in the workplace.” But he is still thoughtful... Clarice frowned at the dichotomy, swirled her dressing gown on over her nightdress and slammed the wardrobe doors so hard they didn’t squeak.
“But he hired you, Clarice.”
“Yes, because Dr. Austin asked me to write the monthly column right there in front of him. And because he needed someone to free him from having to respond to all of those letters.” She yanked the ties at the neck of her dressing gown so tight she almost choked herself. She coughed, slid her fingers beneath the twisted ribbon and loosened the bow. “But he does not think I can learn how to use the typing machine on my own. He thinks I will have
to run to him with questions. He even gave me a few days!” She shot her mother a look. “And he said if I found one of the CLSC members’ questions too difficult to answer, I am to go to him. As if he—being a man—will, of course, know the answer my poor, inferior woman’s brain cannot supply.”
“Clarice...”
“Well, it’s true, Mama!” She marched to the desk in the turret, the sides of her dressing gown flying out behind her. “And I intend to prove Mr. Thornberg wrong. I am going to become indispensable to him. And I’m going to start by writing those fillers he needs—without being asked to do so.” She glanced over at the bed. “Will you help me write them, Mama?”
“Of course I will, Clarice. I think it’s an excellent idea. And it will give me something useful to do. But you can hardly blame an older man like Mr. Thornberg for being uncomfortable with having a woman in his employ. It simply wasn’t done until recent years.”
“He’s not that old, Mama.” She removed the ink, lest it leak onto Mrs. Smithfield’s quilt, then snatched her writing box off the desk and carried it to the bed. “Everything you need is in here. Pencils...paper...”
“How old is Mr. Thornberg?”
“I don’t know, Mama.” She thought about it, pictured him looking down at her. “Perhaps five or six years older than me.”
“That young?”
She nodded and placed the box on the covers over her mother’s extended legs.
“What does he look like?”
“A prosperous businessman.”
“Clarice...”
“What does it matter, Mama?”
Her mother shook her head, sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I’d just like to be able to picture you at work while I’m sitting here. I get restless with nothing to do.”
She looked at her mother’s legs stretched out beneath the quilt and guilt smote her for her lack of understanding and compassion. “I’m sorry, Mama. Mr. Thornberg is tall and very neat in appearance. He has wavy brown hair, cut short, and—”
“Wavy?”
Now, why did that make her mother smile? “Yes, wavy...as if it would curl if it were longer. And dark, rather heavy eyebrows...and blue eyes. A strong chin and a—” his image flashed before her “—a charming smile. No. It’s more of a grin...sort of crooked and self-deprecating, you know, like a boy that has been caught at some mischief.”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Charming...”
“Did I say that?”
“You did.” Her mother’s gaze narrowed on her. “You said Mr. Thornberg has a charming smile.”
She snorted, waved the description away. “I suppose it is—given the right circumstances.” She turned her attention back to the work. “Now...you can write on the box—be mindful of this scratch—then put the finished work inside it. But don’t do too much. I don’t want you to tire yourself.”
“Clarice, have you forgotten I fed and cared for a flock of chickens, cleaned their coop, slopped and mucked out pens for over a dozen hogs and took care of the garden and the house and—” her mother shook her head, picked up a pencil and smiled “—and made lots of preserves. I’ll start with your favorite.”
Rhubarb Jam
Select fresh red rhubarb in pieces one inch long, take sugar pound for pound. Cook together and let stand all night. In the morning pour off the syrup and boil it until it begins to thicken. Put in the rhubarb and heat...
She left her mother to her work, walked to the desk and opened the directions manual for the typewriter she’d brought home with her. Her mouth firmed as she read the words across the top of the length of the last page. Diagram of Key-board of the No. 2 Remington Typewriter (Actual Size).
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
Muted 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.
His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) Page 5