His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance)

by Dorothy Clark

  “No need to fret about paying, miss. Mr. Thornberg settles up the end of the month.”

  “I see. Well, in that case...” She lifted an ear of corn, checked the silk and pressed lightly to feel the size of the kernels. “I’ll take a dozen of the corn...”

  “Me have corn.” Jonathan bent from the hips, reaching down.

  “Oh! Jonathan, be careful!” She pulled the toddler back and slipped her hand around his waist. “I have to cook the corn or it will make your tummy hurt. Now, you need to sit still so you don’t fall. All right?”

  A chuckle rumbled from the farmer. He stepped close, an empty basket in his hands. “Looks like you’ve got a lively one there, miss.”

  Jonathan stared at the farmer, pressed back against her and laid his head on her shoulder. Was he afraid of strangers? Her throat tightened. Why wouldn’t he be, after the way he had been moved around? She laid her cheek against his soft, silky curls and patted his small back, furious with his selfish, uncaring mother. “It’s all right, Jonathan. I’ve got you...”

  “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to frighten your boy.”

  Her boy? She stared at her hand patting Jonathan, heard her crooned words of comfort echoing in her head. It was exactly what she didn’t want. She took a breath, lifted her head and turned her attention back to selecting vegetables. “I’ll take two bunches of carrots...and a braid of onions...a dozen potatoes and a cabbage. Oh, and a rutabaga and six of those tomatoes.”

  She eyed the basket the farmer filled as she spoke, thinking of dinners for the next few days. “That will be all.”

  She led the way around to the back porch, tried her best not to feel proprietary as she opened the door to the kitchen. “You can leave the produce there on the table.”

  “Yes, miss.” The farmer’s boots clumped against the floor. He plopped the basket on the table, pulled the vegetables out with his large, work-scarred hands.

  “M-me no g-go.” Jonathan twisted and threw his little arms around her neck, burrowed his head against her shoulder and sobbed.

  “Jonathan!” Understanding struck. He thought— Tears stung her eyes, clogged her throat. “Oh, no, Jonathan, no. No one is going to take you away. Shh...shh... Look, the man is going. He delivered our vegetables.” His arms tightened. She held his trembling little body tight against her, fighting back tears as she swayed back and forth, trying to reassure him by her touch that he was not going to be taken to yet more strangers in another strange home.

  “Be back Friday, miss.” The farmer’s boots clumped against the floor. The door closed.

  “Look, the man is gone, Jonathan.” He clung tighter, pushed his little face hard against her neck. She spun about, hurried down the short hall, across the entrance and stood in front of the window. “Look, Jonathan. Look outside. The man is driving his horse and cart away.”

  His head rolled against her shoulder. She looked down, sighed with relief when one blue eye peeked out, blinked then closed. A quiet, ragged sob shook him and his small body relaxed in her arms. She laid her cheek against his soft curls and walked back to the kitchen. She had to put the vegetables away and start dinner or Mr. Thornb—no, Charles—would be home before it was ready.

  “Do you want to play with your blocks, Jonathan?”

  His head rolled side to side. He took a ragged breath. She glanced at the rocker in the corner, sat and settled him close in her arms. The rockers whispered against the floor. The ticktock of the clock in the sitting room floated on the silence. She hummed softly, looked down and straightened his stocking. His little shoes had been shined, the buckles gleaming. “One, two, buckle my shoe...” She murmured the words of the rhyme, tried to visualize Charles Thornberg polishing the toddler’s shoes but couldn’t imagine it.

  “Me gots b-buckles.”

  Her breath caught. She kept rocking. “Yes, you do—silver ones. Your brother polished them for you. He takes good care of you.”

  “Brover do blocks.”

  “Yes. He showed you how to build them so they wouldn’t fall down, didn’t he?”

  He nodded, stirred in her arms, pushed back and looked up at her. “Him wobble.”

  She smiled. “And so did you.”

  “Me fall down.”

  “And he tickled you.” The clock in the sitting room gonged. She stopped rocking. “Do you hear that, Jonathan? That is the clock telling me your brother will soon be here to eat dinner with you.” Inspiration struck. “Do you want to help me fix dinner?”

  He studied her for a minute then nodded.

  “Good! But first we have to take care of those vegetables.” She carried him to the work table, slid a crock to the middle and sat him down beside it. “Help me put these potatoes in here, please. We’ll play a counting game as we put them in the crock.” She handed him a potato. “Put it away, please.”

  He grabbed it with both of his pudgy hands and dropped it the crock.

  “That’s one. Can you say ‘one’?”

  “Him one.”

  She smiled and handed him another. “Two...”

  He dropped it in the crock—“Two”—and reached for the next one.

  “Three...”

  * * *

  The door was open. Charles stopped, rapped his knuckles against the door frame.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Charles Thornberg, Mrs. Gordon. May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He stepped into the bedroom, looked toward the bed and met Mrs. Gordon’s worried gaze.

  “Is there something wrong, Mr. Thornberg? Is Clarice—”

  He shook his head. “Clarice is fine, Mrs. Gordon. I stopped by to see how you are doing. If there is anything you need. And to bring you these.” He moved to the bedside, held out a bouquet of straw flowers.

  “Flowers! Oh, my...” She blinked, blinked again, took the bouquet into her hands. “How thoughtful of you, Mr. Thornberg. Autumn is my favorite time of the year, and I so miss—” She stopped, inhaled a quick little breath. “Thank you. The flowers are lovely. You’re most kind.”

  “I think it’s more guilt than kindness, if the truth be known.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I have stolen your daughter from you, and my conscience keeps reminding me of it.”

  “Then you must tell your conscience to hush. Your motive was pure.” A frown creased her forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you refreshments, Mr. Thornberg, but won’t you sit down? And if you would be so kind as to fetch me that small pitcher off the dressing table? How is your little brother getting on?”

  “Well, I think. I don’t know enough about little children to truly say, but he seems happy. He’s very smart. And inquisitive. He asks a lot of questions.”

  Her smile faded. Her face drew taut. “I hope you don’t mind that. He has a lot to learn.”

  What had brought about that change in demeanor? Clarice did the same thing. “I don’t mind at all. I enjoy answering him. When I can, that is.” He smiled and handed her the pitcher then moved to the chair on the other side of the bed. He glanced at the open writing case on the bedside table and froze, his gaze locked on the titles of the top papers on piles of various sizes. To Mend Cracks in Stovepipes... How to Clean Mica... How to Keep the Lamp Chimneys Clean... Secret to Salt Rising Bread...

  “Oh, dear.”

  He glanced at Clarice’s mother. She looked...guilty.

  “I forgot that case was open.”

  He frowned, looked back at the piles of papers. “Those look like the fillers I use at the newspaper.”

  “I don’t suppose you could pretend you didn’t see them?”

  He grinned at her wry tone and fastened a suspicious gaze on her. “And why would I do that?”

  Her thin shoulders lifted in a small, eloquent shrug.


  “Mrs. Gordon...”

  She sighed, met his gaze. “I don’t know if Clarice really wants to give them to you—or if she was only trying to give me something to do so I would feel...useful again.” She looked down, rearranged one of the flowers she had placed in the pitcher. “It does help.”

  The last quiet words ripped at his heart. He sank onto the chair and leaned toward her, encouraging her to talk. “How did this come about?”

  She gave him a sidelong look. “Does that mean you’re not going to simply forget you saw those papers?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I thought not.” She breathed another sigh, then rested back against the pillows propped against the headboard. “Clarice’s first day at the newspaper—when you showed her around—you showed her how you put the pages together. She said you used these things called ‘fillers’ and that you were running low on them. She said she was going to make you some, and she asked me if I would help her.”

  “And so you’ve been making fillers for me.”

  She nodded then looked down at the flowers. “Unless Clarice was only trying to give me something to do with my days.”

  There was an uncomplaining acceptance of her condition in the soft words. His heart hurt for her. “May I look at what you’ve written?”

  She looked up her lips curved in a resigned little smile. “You might as well. They’re no secret now.”

  He rose and thumbed through the piles. “These are really good. I can certainly use these, Mrs. Gordon.”

  Her eyes widened. She stared up at him, took a breath. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “Well, I never...”

  He grinned down at her. “I will pay you, of course.”

  “For writing down how to keep a chimney lamp clean?”

  He chuckled and turned back to the writing case, pleased at the unexpected turn his visit had taken. “Let me count how many fillers you have here, Mrs. Gordon. And then we’ll discuss a fair recompense for your work.”

  She shook her head. “I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Thornberg. But you didn’t ask me to do the fillers. Clarice said she would do them as part of her job. They’re included in what you already pay her.”

  “But I—” Her chin jutted. He’d seen that particular little gesture before. Clarice Gordon was very like her mother in her mannerisms. “Very well, Mrs. Thornberg. I’ll just take these with me. And I would appreciate it if you would make me more.” He stuffed the papers into his pockets and then looked down at her. “But I want it clearly understood that I am now commissioning you to write fillers for me, and you will be paid for your work. Is that understood?”

  “It is.”

  That had been a little too easy. “And agreed?” He held out his hand.

  “And agreed.”

  She smiled and slipped her small hand in his. It was rough and calloused—work worn. Mrs. Gordon had not been crippled for long. He tucked the information away and smiled. “Good. I am not accustomed to losing at negotiations.”

  “I’d think not.” She laughed, a light musical ripple that made him wonder if her daughter’s laughter would be the same.

  “I have to be going, Mrs. Gordon. Would you like me to set the flowers on the nightstand for you?”

  “No, thank you, anyway, but...I want to hold them.” She smiled up at him. “Thank you again for bringing me the flowers. It’s—” She shook her head, took a little breath. “Please come again, Mr. Thornberg. I like knowing the people in my daughter’s life. It’s...been a while. And please, leave the door open when you leave. It makes the room seem less...confining.”

  * * *

  Charles finished the last of his cold sliced beef then spooned up the last bit of his soup. “This tomato soup is delicious, Clarice. And judging from the look of his face, Jonathan shares my opinion.”

  “Thank you. But I’m afraid you can’t judge Jonathan’s likes or dislikes by his appearance.” She smiled and rose, using the protective towel to wash off the soup smeared around the boy’s mouth. “It’s a matter of skill, not approval, isn’t it, Jonathan?”

  His breath caught. There was something different... She’d been gentle before, but now... She looked up and caught him studying her, straightened and laid the towel beside Jonathan’s dish.

  “I’m afraid I hadn’t time enough to make dessert.”

  All warmth was gone. The cool career woman had returned. He tossed his napkin on the table and rose.

  She stepped back.

  He looked at her suddenly taut face and held back a frown. Did she think he would dismiss her from the newspaper because she didn’t cater to him? “I’ve told you you’re not here to cook for me, Clarice. Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate the excellent meals.” He lifted Jonathan from his high chair. “Nap time, Skipper.”

  “Me play blocks.”

  “When you wake up.” He settled Jonathan in his arms and followed Clarice up the stairs, irritated by her preoccupation with her career. It was none of his business, but— He jerked his thoughts from that direction and carried Jonathan to his bed. “If I get home early enough, we’ll go for a walk, Skipper. Would—”

  “Me no go! Me no go!”

  Jonathan twisted his body and threw himself out of his arms onto the bed before he could restrain him. He watched in astonishment as the toddler scrambled to the other side, wrapped his arms about Clarice and buried his face in her skirt, gasping out ragged, heart-wrenching sobs.

  “What—”

  “Hush, Jonathan, hush. It’s all right. You’re not going anywhere... Shh...shh...” His throat tightened as Clarice lifted Jonathan into her arms and swayed side to side, holding his head tucked beneath her bowed head, murmuring...soothing... She lifted her head and looked over at him. Anger burned in the depth of her eyes. “Mr. Porter came this morning, and for some reason, Jonathan thought he was here to take him away. I tried to—”

  “Take him away? I don’t—” I have been boarding him with various strangers... Pain stabbed into his heart. The poor little guy, being carried off from place to place by people he didn’t know. His face went taut; he clenched his hands. He strode around the bed, stopped at Clarice’s side, his throat so constricted he could barely force out words. “Jonathan, look at me. Who am I?”

  Jonathan rolled his head to the side, peered at him from beneath his black curls. “B-brover.”

  “That’s right.” He fought to stay calm, to hold the anger from his voice. “And do you remember what that means? It means we are family. That I belong to you, and you belong to me.” He pulled in a breath, unclenched his hands and braced them on his knees, bending down until his face was level with his brother’s. “And do you remember that I told you that since I’m the biggest and I have this house, you are going to stay here with me always, and I’m going to take care of you?”

  The sobs quieted. Jonathan’s blue eyes studied him. Help me, Jesus. Give me the right words so he can understand. “That was a promise, Jonathan. Do you know what a promise is? It means I have to do what I said. I’m going to take care of you always, Jonathan. I’m your brother. I will never let anyone take you away from me.”

  “Brover.”

  “Yes.” He held out his arms, swallowed hard when Jonathan reached for him. He pulled him close, cleared his throat, walked to the wardrobe and opened the doors. “See those clothes, Jonathan? Those are your clothes.” He slapped his hand against the wood. “This is your wardrobe.” He strode to the dresser and slapped his hand down on the top. “This is your dresser.”

  Jonathan leaned out and slapped his small hand on the wood. “Him me dresser.”

  “That’s right!” He carried him to the window, squatted and slapped his hand on the red chest. “This is your toy chest. These are your toys!”

  Jona
than’s little hand slapped the red wood. “Him me toys!”

  He nodded, rose and pointed out the window. “And that is your yard to play in.”

  “Him me yard.” Jonathan pressed his nose against the window, turned back. “Me tree?”

  “Yes, it’s your tree.” He turned, swept his hand through the air in an all-encompassing gesture. “This is your room! This is your place.” He stepped to the bed, slapped a corner post. “And this is your bed.”

  Jonathan slapped the post. “Him me bed!” He twisted around and slapped his little hand against his shoulder. “You me brover!”

  He laughed, blinked and hugged him tight. “I sure am, Skipper. I’m your brother, and you will be right here with me always. No one is ever going to take you away from me. Do you understand, Skipper? You are safe here. This is your home, and I won’t let anyone take you away.”

  “Me be here?”

  He cleared the lump from his throat. “Yes. You will be here with me for always.” He sank down on the bed, leaned back against the pillow, stretched out his legs and flipped the folded-back covers over them both. Jonathan wiggled himself comfortable against his chest, sighed and closed his eyes.

  He heard a whisper of sound, looked up and saw a swish of blue hems disappear around the door frame. Clarice...

  The idea came out of nowhere. He closed his eyes, smiled and let it develop until it formed into a plan.

  Chapter Nine

  The floor overhead creaked. Clarice strained against the silence and faint footfalls on the stairs met her ears. He was coming. The footsteps grew louder. She stiffened, snatched up another of the washed dishes from the wood drainboard. She wasn’t ready to see Charles Thornberg. She was too shaken. Too...confused.

  “Jonathan is sound asleep.”

  She nodded, grabbed another bowl to dry to keep her back to him. Let him leave now. Please let him leave.

  “I want to talk to you, Clarice. Will you join me for a cup of coffee?”

  His deep voice was quiet, pleasant, but he might as well have snarled an order. He was her employer. Did he think she would dare to say no? China clinked. The coffeepot scraped against the stove plate.