His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance)

by Dorothy Clark

  “Mr. Thornberg’s housekeeper will feed him.”

  Mr. Thornberg had a housekeeper! Relief eased her concern for the toddler’s welfare. She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Warren. “Do you know where Mr. Thornberg lives?”

  The outer door opened and closed. Footsteps approached the office. “One block left. The stone house on the corner. Now get the boy out of here!” The clerk hissed the words, resumed his place behind the counter and faced the customer at the doorway. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

  She rose and leaned down to pick up the little boy. “This is a busy place. Let’s go to Mr. Thornberg’s house and get you something to eat.” The boy stiffened, but he did not burst into tears or fight her, for which she was grateful. She settled him in her arms, eyed the large leather valise and left it on the floor. The boy was enough for her to carry.

  * * *

  Clarice sat on the edge of the settee and removed the sleeping tot’s shoes. Her chest tightened at the sight of his small feet. He was so young. So helpless. And scared. Too scared to speak. Though he seemed an intelligent child, the best she’d been able to coax from him while he was eating his bread and jam was a nod or a shake of his head. Poor little fellow. What had he been through? She pulled in a breath at the thought of the way the man had simply left the boy at the newspaper office like some piece of luggage. She’d have told the man what she thought of his treating a child in such a heartless manner! No wonder the boy was afraid! How long had he been in that thoughtless man’s care?

  She covered the toddler with a throw from a nearby chair, tucked the soft woven wool close around his stocking-clad feet and rose. The letter in her pocket crackled as she straightened. She withdrew it and stared down at her employer’s name written in ornate flowing letters across the front. It was a woman’s handwriting. The child’s mother? The thoughts held at bay while she’d cared for the toddler crowded into her head.

  Was the boy Charles Thornberg’s son? He had the look of him with his curly dark hair and blue eyes. And what other possible reason could there be for a woman to send the boy to him accompanied by a letter and a valise full of his things? The woman obviously expected—

  No. She jerked her thoughts from the speculation. Charles Thornberg’s private life was none of her business. And neither was the boy. She would be done with him as soon as Mr. Thornberg came home. Hopefully that would be soon.

  Silence pressed in on her, broken only by the steady ticktock of the longcase clock in the corner. She frowned and walked to the fireplace, leaned the letter against a pewter candlestick on the mantel then looked around the large, well-furnished room, uneasy at being alone in the house. Mr. Warren had been wrong. There was no housekeeper. The house was empty when she arrived. She’d felt like a snoop hunting out the kitchen then poking through the cupboards to find something for the boy to eat.

  The clock gonged. She jumped, glanced over at the sleeping toddler. He hadn’t stirred. The poor little tot was exhausted. What was she to do? Her mother would be expecting her home shortly after the clock struck the hour. If Mr. Thornberg hadn’t come home by then, she would have to wake the boy, take him home with her and then bring him back after she had cared for her mother.

  The thought gave her pause. Who would care for the boy? What would happen to him? Would Mr. Thornberg keep him? She eyed the envelope, itching to open it and find out the answers, then sighed and turned away from the private missive. The boy was Mr. Thornberg’s concern, not hers.

  Where was he? The fire must be a bad one. She wrapped her arms about herself and listened to the clock ticking away the minutes. Mr. Warren would be closing the office and going home on the hour. There would be no one to tell— He was here!

  Footsteps pounded across the porch. The door opened, closed. Quick footsteps sounded in the hall, changed tempo. He was going upstairs. She ran for the doorway. “We’re in the sitting room, Mr. Thornberg!”

  He came to a dead halt, twisted about and stared down at her. “Miss Gordon! What are you doing— We’re?”

  “Yes. The boy and I. I didn’t want to take the liberty of going upstairs.”

  “Boy?” A frown creased his forehead. He descended the stairs into the lamp-lit hallway and scowled down at her. “What boy?”

  “The one who was left—” She stopped, stared at the black-rimmed holes that peppered his shirt then lifted her gaze. His face was covered with black smudges and there was a large blister on the side of his neck above his opened collar. “You’ve been fighting the fire.”

  “Yes. The dock went ablaze and everyone pitched in to fight the fire, lest it spread to the nearby buildings. What boy?”

  She drew her gaze from the angry blister and gathered her thoughts. “You haven’t been to the newspaper, then?”

  “No. I came directly home to wash and change into a clean shirt.” His scowl deepened. “What boy?”

  “The one who was delivered to you at the newspaper office.”

  “Delivered to me. A boy?”

  He looked astounded—which for some reason made her feel better about the whole strange situation. She nodded and plunged into an explanation. “Yes. A man came to the office with the boy and a large valise. He told Mr. Warren he’d been hired to deliver the boy to you and—”

  “What man? Who hired him? Why me?”

  His questions came at her in rapid succession. She shook her head. “I can’t answer your questions, Mr. Thornberg. The man simply left the boy, his valise and a letter directed to you with Mr. Warren and hurried off to catch a train. Mr. Warren bade me bring the boy here to your house, where your housekeeper could care for him. When I arrived, there was no one here, so I stayed with the boy. That’s all I know. Now, as you are here, I’ll be on my way.” She headed for the front door. “The letter is on the mantel. And the boy is asleep on your settee.”

  “Wait, Miss Gordon!”

  She turned back, looked up at him.

  He lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his neck, winced when his fingertips touched the blister above his collar. “If you would give me a minute to take this all in and collect my thoughts, please...”

  “Of course.”

  She followed him into the sitting room, watched him stride over to the settee and look down. He spun back to face her, shock written all over his features.

  “He’s a baby.”

  “A toddler of two or three years, I would guess.”

  “And someone brought him to the newspaper office and left him there for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unconscionable!” His face darkened. The muscle along his jaw twitched. “What kind of person would simply leave—” He sucked in a breath and strode to the mantel, snatched up the envelope, broke the seal and scanned the letter. His face tightened. “So, Mother, you’ve done it again.”

  Mother? No. His words had been choked, barely audible. She’d misunderstood.

  He crushed the letter in his hand and apprehension tingled along her nerves. She’d never seen such cold fury in a man’s eyes. Anger, yes—many, many times—but this... He moved toward the settee and she rushed forward to protect the child, stopped as her employer bent and scooped the boy into his arms.

  “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.”

  Discard him? What was in that letter? Charles Thornberg cleared his throat, and she lifted her gaze from the crushed letter to his face. Her breath caught at the fierce, protective look in his eyes.

  “I know nothing about caring for a young child, Miss Gordon. And I am a stranger to Jonathan. Will you please come with me while I put my little brother to bed? I don’t want him to be frightened should he awaken.”

  Chapter Four

  I’ll be home as soon as I can, Mama. Clarice dr
ew her gaze from the clock, sighed and hurried out of the sitting room after Charles Thornberg. But for the boy’s tender age, she would have refused her employer’s request for her help. Still, it would take only a few minutes to settle the exhausted child, and then she would be on her way. She had no desire to become involved in Mr. Thornberg’s private problems.

  She gripped the banister, lifted her skirt hems with her free hand and followed him up the stairs to a wide hallway. The dim light of dusk filtered through slatted shutters on windows at either end.

  “This way, Miss Gordon.” Her employer strode down the hallway on the right and stopped. “If you would open the door, please?”

  She moved in front of him, twisted the knob and pushed the door open. A bed loomed in the darkness against the far wall of a large, well-appointed bedroom. She hurried forward, her hems brushing against an Oriental rug, Charles Thornberg’s footfalls a dull thud behind her. The richness of soft wool caressed her fingers as she turned back the woven coverlet and blankets.

  Her curiosity grew as Charles laid his brother on the readied bed, straightened and stared down at him. He looked...stunned was the only description she could come up with.

  “He’s awfully small, isn’t he?”

  She was trying not to notice that. “It’s a large bed.”

  “Hmm.”

  Her employer didn’t sound comforted by her observation. He didn’t look it, either. He was frowning. She leaned forward and began undoing the buttons on the sleeping toddler’s outfit.

  “His suit coat is stained. Is that bits of food dried on it?”

  It was an outraged whisper. Not surprising considering Charles Thornberg’s own normally impeccable appearance. “At least he was fed.”

  His eyes flashed. Obviously, he took no comfort from that observation, either. “There is no reason for such neglect. I’m certain the man was well paid for his services!”

  Her own anger over the man’s treatment of the toddler surged at the hissed words. What had this boy been through? She took a breath to calm herself. Anger served no good purpose. “There’s no nightshirt to put on him, but he should be comfortable enough without his jacket and vest.” His hands are so little... She eased the boy’s unresisting arms out of the sleeves, slipped her hand beneath his small back and raised him enough to tug his garments free.

  “Is he all right? He’s not moving or anything. Should I go for the doctor?”

  She laid the boy back against the pillow and glanced across the bed. The muscle along Charles Thornberg’s jaw was twitching. “I think he’s fine. Children sleep very soundly, and he’s exhausted. He must have had an arduous journey on the train.”

  “And ship.” Charles Thornberg’s eyes darkened, his mouth and jaw tightened, and that small muscle jumped. The letter, still clutched in his hand, crackled as he shoved it in his pocket. “Who knows what my brother has endured these last few weeks. And before...”

  Ship? Weeks? She stole a glance at the bit of white paper peeking out of her employer’s suit-coat pocket. What was in that letter? She looked down, fumbled with the unfamiliar knot in the small tie, uncomfortable with Charles’s angry presence. “I’m afraid I’m more familiar with bows...”

  “I’ll do it.”

  His fingers brushed against hers, warm and strong but gentle in their touch, even in his anger. That odd sensation she’d experienced when he’d given her his suit coat during the rainstorm washed over her again. She was used to a hard grip or a quick slap from men’s hands.

  She drew back and studied his face while he undid the knot and removed the boy’s tie. That fierce, protective look had leaped to the fore. She took a deep breath to ease a sudden tightness in her chest and folded the boy’s clothes, determined to keep her emotions uninvolved. “Have you a towel?”

  “A towel?” He tossed the small tie on the boy’s folded clothes and gave her a quizzical look.

  “To place under him. He’s very young and very tired and I don’t know if he will wake should he need to...” Heat climbed into her cheeks at having to mention the indelicate subject. She lowered her gaze, made a vague gesture toward the boy. “A towel will protect the sheet and mattress.”

  “Oh.” It was a low, perplexed growl. “I never would have thought of that.” He shook his head, turned and headed for a door in the right-hand wall. “There are towels in the dressing room. I’ll be right back.”

  Discarded. The word slithered through her mind. She loosened the buttons and removed the toddler’s starched collar, placed it at the foot of the bed with his jacket, then, unable to stop herself, touched his soft dark curls. You have a home now. No one will ever discard you again. I give you my word on it.

  “Here you are.”

  She started, jerked her gaze and her hand from the boy.

  “Do you want me to lift Jonathan while you spread the towel?”

  “That would be helpful.” She took the towel, folded it into a pad and placed it on the bed. “I’m finished.” She watched Charles lower Jonathan back to the bed then pulled the covers up over him, leaned down and tucked the blanket edges beneath the mattress.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “He probably still sleeps in a crib. I don’t want him to roll out of the bed.”

  “Oh. Another thing I would not have thought of...” The mumbled words drifted across the bed as Charles bent and copied her actions on the opposite side.

  What if Jonathan woke? She straightened and looked down at the sleeping toddler. He would be so frightened waking in a strange room with a strange man to tend him. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away, smoothed her palms down the front of her skirt. “That’s all I know to do for him, Mr. Thornberg. I’ll be going now.”

  “Wait!”

  The hissed word stopped her in her tracks. “Mr. Thornberg, I must go.” She clenched her hands, tried to keep her exasperation from slipping into her quiet response. “My mother—”

  “I realize your mother needs your care, Miss Gordon. But I’m in an untenable situation here.” He came around the bed toward her, shoved his hand through his already mussed hair. “I can’t leave my brother alone, but I have to get to the Journal office. I have to write the story of the fire, finish composing the pages and—” His words ended on another frustrated hiss.

  “I understand your problem, Mr. Thornberg, but—” The composing page! Her stomach sank.

  “So here’s my solution.” He clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at her. “Surely there is someone at your boardinghouse willing to care for your mother for a fair recompense?”

  An easy solution for him. He had money! She did not. “Well, yes. Mrs. Duncan sometimes—”

  “Ah! Mrs. Duncan!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts, Miss Gordon. If you will stay with Jonathan, I will go straight to your boardinghouse, explain the situation to your mother and arrange for her care until you are able to go home. I will pay any expense involved, of course, and also pay you for your time.”

  The offer was generous but not fair. She glanced at the toddler, wanting to refuse and knowing she couldn’t. There were too many reasons why she should agree—to save her job not the least among them. Not that it would be fair of him to terminate her employment at the paper because of his personal problem. But when were men ever fair? “Very well, Mr. Thornberg, I’ll stay. But you must hurry to the boardinghouse. My mother has been expecting me for some time now.”

  “I’ll wash and change and then run all the way, Miss Gordon! Thank you!”

  She watched him pivot and run out the door, heard his rushing footsteps in the hallway and the opening and closing of a nearby door. Hopefully, he would keep his word and hurry. It was almost supper time and her mother needed care. Worry gnawed at her, but there was nothing more she could do. She let out a long si
gh and looked around for a lamp. It would be full dark soon, and she had no desire to sit in a strange house with no light.

  Sit. She made a slow turn, spotted a chair beside a dresser and carried it over close to the small one-drawer stand against the wall at the head of the bed. There was a lamp and a small wood chest on the stand. Would she find matches in the chest? She rubbed her hands down her skirt, reluctant to open someone else’s possession.

  A door opened, closed. Light flared in the hallway. She hurried toward the open door, stopped when Charles Thornberg appeared holding a hand oil lamp and two books.

  “I thought these might help you pass the time. Now I’m off to see to your mother’s care.”

  He handed her the lamp and books, pivoted and disappeared into the hallway. A moment later his footsteps were pounding down the stairs. A door slammed.

  I thought these might help you pass the time. She stared down at the lamp and books in her hand trying to make sense of Charles Thornberg’s thoughtfulness in light of the selfish cruelty she’d experienced of men. It was impossible. She took a breath, shook her head and hurried toward the bed.

  * * *

  “I apologize for the inconvenience I’m causing you, Mrs. Gordon, but there is simply no choice.” Charles lowered his gaze from the older woman sitting propped up in bed to the writing box resting on the quilt covering her legs. Guilt soured his empty stomach. “And that sounds completely selfish and heartless. I—” Mrs. Gordon’s lifted hand halted his words.

  “Not at all, Mr. Thornberg. A small child is helpless and needs constant attention. I may be crippled, but I’m not helpless.”

  The curve of the older woman’s lips brought an image of her daughter’s smile flashing into his head. Not that Clarice Gordon’s warm, sweet smile had been in evidence tonight.

  “Clarice bought me a bell so I can summon help should the need arise. And Mrs. Duncan will take good care of me.” Mrs. Gordon lowered her hand back down to cover the piece of paper she’d been writing on when he entered the room.