His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance)

by Dorothy Clark

  His sharp gaze caught the first line before she hid it. How to Keep a Cookstove Shiny and Clean. That would make a good filler. He shrugged off the errant thought. “As I said, your daughter has agreed, though she is not at all happy with the arrangement.”

  A shadow darkened Mrs. Gordon’s blue eyes. “Clarice worries about me overmuch.”

  The guilt cut deeper. His fingers tightened on his hat brim. How could Clarice Gordon feel otherwise? In spite of her protestations to the opposite, Mrs. Gordon was helpless. His thoughts swirled, but he could find no other solution to his problem. He frowned, laid out the rest of what he’d come to say. “I’m afraid, if your daughter agrees, the situation may extend for a few days—until my housekeeper returns or I can think of another way to care for Jonathan.”

  “I understand.” Mrs. Gordon tipped her head and peered up at him, a look in her eyes he couldn’t decipher. “Clarice’s concern for me will override her head and her heart, Mr. Thornberg. You tell her I said the child comes first, and that I want her to care for him.”

  He dipped his head. “Thank you. You are a very kind and gracious woman, Mrs. Gordon.”

  “I’m simply a mother, Mr. Thornberg.”

  The door behind him opened and a short plump woman bustled into the room carrying a tray laden with food. “Here’s your supper, Helen. Nice and hot.”

  The interruption stopped him from having to answer her enigmatic reply. He stepped aside, made a polite bow. “I must hurry to the newspaper, Mrs. Gordon. Thank you again for your understanding. And thank you for your help, Mrs. Duncan.” He stepped out of the bedroom, reached to pull the door closed.

  “What a nice young man Clarice works for, Helen. And very handsome, too.”

  He paused, scowled at the innuendo in Mrs. Duncan’s words and tone. Had he done harm to Clarice Gordon’s reputation by coming here?

  “Mr. Thornberg is very nice, Dora. And most considerate. Not many employers would concern themselves with the crippled mother of an employee that must work beyond quitting time. Is that shepherd’s pie I smell?”

  A smile touched his lips. There was nothing to worry about. Mrs. Gordon had set the situation straight. And her tone said clearly she would not tolerate any gossip about her daughter and her daughter’s employer.

  He eased the door closed, hurried down the hall to the stairs, trotted down and rushed out the front door. The smell of wood smoke drifting on the evening breeze erased thought of everything but the fire and the story he had to write. He shoved through the gate at the end of the walkway and broke into a run.

  * * *

  Was that crying?

  Clarice held her breath and listened. The boy was crying. Sobbing, in an unnatural, quiet way she could barely hear. She turned from the window and hurried to the bed, stood in the dim light of the oil lamp and hoped the toddler would remember her and not be afraid. The lamplight glittered on the tears pooled in the boy’s eyes and running down his temples to dampen his hair. His lips were pressed tight and his little chin quivered with his effort to be quiet. Had he been told not to cry?

  Her eyes stung. She blinked hard and smiled reassurance. Charles Thornberg’s words tumbled from her mouth. “You’re all right, Jonathan. Your long journey is at an end. You’re home now.”

  He stared up at her, the blankets covering him rising and falling slightly with his uneven indrawn breaths.

  “I’m Miss Gordon and I’m here to take care of you. Do you need something? Are you hungry or—?”

  “Me g-go potty.”

  “Oh.” Now what? She had no dry clothes for him. And where would she find another sheet if one was needed? She pulled the covers back, glanced down and let out a sigh. The boy’s clothes were dry. She smiled and held out her arms. “I’ll take you. Let’s hurry...”

  He looked at her a long moment, then pushed himself to a sitting position and raised his arms. She lifted him and gathered him close. His little body was soft and warm, his hair silky against her cheek. Emotions she didn’t want to experience rushed through her. She snatched up the hand lamp and hurried to the dressing room.

  “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

  Charles 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.