His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance)

by Dorothy Clark

  Tears filmed her eyes. She blinked them away, squared her shoulders and opened the door. “I’m home, Mama. I’m sorry I’m so late but I had to finish composing the pages for tomorrow’s printing. I don’t want to be caught—” She stared, blinked, stared again. “Mama... Oh, Mama, you’re standing!”

  “That’s not all, Clarice. Watch...”

  Her heart leaped into her throat and lodged there as her mother walked slowly to the turret area, turned and walked back to her bed, her face a picture of joy.

  She rushed over and gave her mother a fierce hug. Tears poured down her cheeks. “When did this happen, Mama? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’ve been very busy, Clarice, and I wanted to be sure it would last. That I would truly walk again. And I know now that I will.” Her mother smiled and blinked tears from her eyes. “I’m getting stronger every day, Clarice. And Arthur—Dr. Reese—says I will soon be normal. Though he has ordered me not to lift anything.”

  Her mind raced, struggled to assimilate all that she was hearing and seeing—especially the blush on her mother’s cheeks. “Arthur, Mama?”

  Her mother’s chin lifted. “Dr. Reese is a widower, Clarice.”

  “Mama!” She sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at a woman she had never before seen. How had she not noticed the happy sparkle in her mother’s blue eyes or the soft curve to her lips? She looked younger...prettier. “You...you care for Dr. Reese, Mama?”

  “I do. And he cares for me, Clarice. We’re going to be married.” The blush rose into her mother’s cheeks again. “At our age, it’s foolish to wait when you know you’ve found something lovely and lasting.” Her mother’s smile settled in her heart, dissolved the anger that had resided there for so long. “And Arthur wants you to come and live with us.” Her mother placed her hand on hers. “He greatly admires the way you cared for Mr. Thornberg, Clarice.”

  The name stabbed deep into her heart. She rose and stepped to the dressing table, tossed her hat on it and began pulling the pins from her hair. “I—I don’t know what to say, Mama. I—” she gave a little laugh, shook her hair free “—I think I’m too astounded to think straight.”

  “Well, I have given you a bit of a surprise.”

  “A surprise?” She laughed and pulled open the wardrobe to get her nightclothes. “You have given me a plethora of surprises, Mama. But— Oh, Mama, are you certain?” Tears clogged her throat. “I couldn’t bear for you to be hurt again.”

  “Dr. Reese helps people, Clarice. He doesn’t hurt them.” Her mother took three careful steps, reached out and took hold of her hands. “And Mr. Thornberg is the same sort of fine gentleman. He doesn’t hurt people, either.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Mr. Thornberg, Mama.” She turned and picked up her soap and towel and started for the door. “My head hurts. I’m going to the dressing room to wash this ink off my fingers and then I’m going to bed.”

  Him gots dirty hands.

  The sound of Jonathan’s voice filled her memory. How would she ever get the toddler out of her heart?

  * * *

  Clarice hurried across the intersection and continued on toward the Journal building, her umbrella clutched tight in her hand. It wasn’t raining, but the massing of gray clouds and the cold mist that hung in the air did not bode well for a warm autumn day. She had come prepared for a storm.

  She rejected the memory that rode the coattail of the thought and quickened her pace. The chill in the air penetrated the fabric of her midnight-blue cotton, but she was loath to begin wearing her green wool dress too soon. Her wardrobe was so scant she had to stretch the seasons to make it do. And it would be warm enough inside.

  She turned onto the Journal’s sidewalk, lifted her gaze to read the legend on the building and jerked to a halt. Light streamed out of the second-floor windows of the editorial and composing rooms into the gray morning light. Someone had lit the chandeliers.

  He was back.

  Her heart reeled. She wanted to turn and walk away, but that wasn’t possible. She had to be available to answer any questions he might have as to what she had done in his absence. And she had a living to make and a career to build. Unfortunately, Charles Thornberg held the keys to those things. That he also held the key to her heart was something she would simply have to overcome.

  She stiffened her back and entered the building, walked through the entrance and climbed the stairs determined to hide her feelings behind a thoroughly professional persona. He thought she was a coldhearted career woman who did things only for monetary gain—so be it!

  The editorial room was empty. She took a breath and hurried to her desk, leaned her umbrella in the corner, removed her hat and tossed it in the bottom drawer. A quick flip of the latch opened the box that protected the typewriter. She pulled the sliding shelf forward and locked it in place, inserted a piece of paper, pulled her handwritten notes on her Chautauqua Experience article and began to type, the rapid click of the keys striking the paper on the roller filling the silence.

  She felt him coming before she heard his footsteps. She lost her place on her notes and her rhythm on the keys. She picked up the pile of papers, tapped them against the desk as if to even them in order to cover her faltering and began typing again. His shadow fell across her desk. Pain stabbed deep in her heart. She schooled her features into a pleasant politeness and looked up. “Good morning, Mr. Thornberg. I see you have fully recovered.”

  “Yes. Thanks to your care.”

  She lowered her hands out of sight on her lap and clenched them, forced a cool, detached tone into her voice. “I only did what Dr. Reese instructed.”

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “That’s not true, Clarice. Dr. Reese told me it was the ice that brought the fever down and—”

  “Well, ice is cold.” If he offered to pay her, she’d... She pulled in a breath, placed her fingers back on the typewriter keys and looked up. “Was there something you wanted?”

  “Good morning, chief.”

  She sagged with relief when Boyd Willard entered the room. The reporter tossed his hat on his desk and strode down the length of the room, a smile on his face.

  “It’s good to see you back, boss.” He dropped his gaze to rest on her. “Not that this little lady hasn’t done a good job running things in your absence. But there are other things women are better suited—”

  “If you want to keep your job, I’d swallow the rest of that sentence, Willard.”

  Charles sounded ominous. She looked up. The muscle along his jaw was twitching.

  “Ah, I didn’t mean anything by that, chief. I was just—”

  “I know what you were ‘just,’ Willard. And I wouldn’t make the mistake of bringing that subject up again. I do not consider a woman’s reputation a joking matter.”

  “Yes, sir.” Willard shot her a look then turned his attention back to Charles. “I’ve heard rumors of a couple of the waterfront property owners giving bribes to some of the town officials so they would swing their votes their way at the next council meeting. It’s only a rumor, but I thought I might look into it—see if there’s any truth to it.”

  Charles nodded, clapped his hand on Boyd’s shoulder and walked him toward the stairs. “A good idea. But I don’t want you to bring back word-of-mouth suppositions. If I’m going to print a piece on graft among the town officials, I want proof.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief that Charles had shifted his attention from her, lifted the carriage frame on the typewriter and peered at the words she had typed. The last lines, the ones she had typed after his appearance, were full of mistakes.

  “If there is any, I’ll find it. I’ll start searching as soon as I get my piece on the new Presbyterian church written.” Boyd sat down at his desk and dragged a tablet and a pencil toward him.

  “That piece can wait, Willar
d. Get started on the graft investigation.”

  They would be alone. She grabbed the end of the paper, rolled the cylinder toward her to remove it, then slipped in a new piece of paper, adjusted it, lowered the carriage into place and began typing again. If she was busy, perhaps—

  “Miss Gordon...”

  It had been too much to hope for. She took a firm grip on her emotions and looked up. “Yes, Mr. Thornberg?”

  “I have a notice I wish you to write and have ready for tonight’s edition. I will give you the gist of it and let you put it into printable copy.”

  He was all business. She had nothing to worry about. He was not going to pursue the conversation about her caring for him when he was ill. She released a sigh of relief and reached for her pad and pencil. “I’m ready.”

  “The notice is to state that I have a position open for a nanny to a two-year-old toddler.”

  Jonathan. She gasped, looked up at him. “But Mrs. Hotchkiss...”

  “Mrs. Hotchkiss does not watch children. In truth, she doesn’t particularly like them.” He gestured toward her pad.

  She looked down, poised her pencil to write. Who was watching Jonathan today? Was he unhappy or—

  “The applicant must be experienced in caring for small children, and they must be available to begin work immediately. The wage will be generous. The hours of employment will be from eight in the morning until five at night six days a week. However, they must be able to stay beyond that time if I am delayed at my work. They may apply for the position here at the Journal building. Have you got all of that?”

  How could he be so businesslike when this concerned Jonathan? She caught her breath, looked up at him. “The facts, yes. But—”

  “Good. Then I shall expect you to have the copy for that notice ready by the time we go to print.” His gaze held hers. Her pulse skipped, raced. Perhaps— “I want to thank you for getting the paper out on time when I was ill. I commend you on your work on the layout. You did an excellent job.” She looked down, fought for composure. What did that matter if he— If Jonathan—

  “And you’ve done an excellent job with the layout for tonight’s printing, but I’d like to speak with you about the second page, please. We will have to do some rearranging to fit the notice on the page. If you would come into the composing room...” He turned and walked away.

  She stared after him—her vision blurred and her chest constricted. How could he be so matter-of-fact about a nanny for Jonathan?

  He paused, glanced over his shoulder. “Miss Gordon...”

  She blinked her eyes and rose to her feet, her hands clenched and her stomach knotted. “Yes, Mr. Thornberg, I’m coming.”

  * * *

  The day was endless. She couldn’t concentrate. He kept asking her questions about something that had happened at the paper during his absence the past few days, and all she wanted was to go to his home and take Jonathan into her arms. How could he expect her to think about the newspaper when he treated her like any other employee, and Jonathan was being watched by a woman who didn’t like children.

  She stared at her notepad, poised her fingers on the typewriter keys, but the words wouldn’t come. How could he let some stranger take care of Jonathan? How could she?

  The idea burst upon her. She pushed back from the typewriter and walked to his desk. “May I speak with you, Mr. Thornberg?”

  He shook his head, struck a line through a sentence on the paper on his desk. “I haven’t time now, Miss Gordon. We’ll talk later.”

  Dismissed. As if the time they had spent together had never happened. As if he’d never held her in his arms. She took a deep breath and dug her fingernails into her palms to quell the sobs clawing at her throat. “Very well.” She spun away.

  “Have you finished that notice, Miss Gordon?”

  So polite and correct. How she longed to hear him call her Clarice. But that was over. She squared her shoulders and turned back. “Not yet—that’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”

  He kept reading, waved a hand through the air. “Just follow my instructions. I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. But you’ll have to hurry. I’ll need it shortly. When I’ve edited this piece, I’ll be ready to finish composing the pages.” He glanced up. “I do appreciate your staying to help me. It’s already past the supper hour and Mrs. Hotchkiss is— Well, she doesn’t like having to stay late.” He returned to his work.

  She gritted her teeth and walked back to her desk. A few strokes of her pen scratched out the notes she’d written. She shoved her pen and pad in the drawer, fed a clean piece of paper into the typewriter and began typing. When she finished, she set the paper aside and pulled the article forward that she’d been working on when he interrupted her that morning.

  * * *

  The click of her typing filled the room. Charles stole a glance at Clarice sitting prim and proper at her desk with her fingers flying over the typewriter keys, and his stomach knotted. Had he misjudged her? Was she actually typing out the notice?

  He took a breath, ran his fingers through his hair and shoved away from his desk. The click of her typing followed him into the composing room. He affixed the article he had edited to the second page, glanced toward the clock then thumbed through the fillers in the basket. The one Clarice’s mother had written about cleaning mica was the right size. He stuck it in place, rolled the paper, snapped a rubber band around both ends to secure it and wedged it under his arm.

  It was only a moment’s work to snuff the chandeliers. He grabbed the other pages he’d rolled earlier and walked back into the editorial room. She was still typing as if the work was all that mattered to her. A heaviness settled over him. He’d thought that having to write that notice would awaken a desire in her for them all to become a family. How could he have been so wrong? “It’s time to take these pages to Clicker, Miss Gordon. Bring the notice you’ve written and come with me.”

  “Very well.”

  He watched her snatch a paper off her desk, then reach up and snuff her chandelier. He snuffed the others. Darkness crept in. How would he explain Clarice’s abandonment to Jonathan? He kept asking for her.

  Her skirt hems whispered an accompaniment to his footsteps as they walked down the stairs. He shoved open the door to the printing room, stepped back to let her precede him. “Here are the pages, Clicker.”

  “’Bout time.” The printer took the pages in his ink-stained hands, carried them to a long table and began to unroll them.

  “Give him the notice, Miss Gordon.”

  She nodded, stepped forward.

  “On second thought, I’ll give it to him.” He held out his hand.

  She looked down at it, lifted her chin and placed the paper in her hand on his upraised palm.

  He glanced down. Who taught the birds their pretty songs...whose notes so sweetly vary?

  He looked up, met her defiant gaze.

  “Well, are you gonna give me that notice or not?”

  He shook his head and stuck the paper in his pocket. “I believe I’ll keep this for another time, Clicker. Print page two as is.”

  Her eyes glistened with tears. He took hold of her arm and ushered her out of the building, paused beneath a street lamp and stepped back from her, held himself from taking her in his arms. He had to be sure. “Would you like to tell me why you typed that poem?”

  She tilted her head up and met his gaze full on. His heart jolted at her beauty. His pulse thudded. “Because you wouldn’t listen to me.” She drew a breath, rushed into speech. “I have a proposition for you.”

  His gaze captured hers. “Which is?”

  “I will take the position as Jonathan’s nanny.”

  It wasn’t good enough...not by half. Not now. He looked off into the distance, shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”r />
  “I believe it is.” She shivered, rubbed her arms.

  “You’re cold.” He took off his suit jacket, wrapped it around her and held it close beneath her chin. She looked down, drew a shaky breath. His pulse quickened at her tremble.

  “Jonathan already knows and trusts me, and I love him.” Her voice was a soft whisper. She looked up. The lamplight glowed on her beautiful face, gleamed on the tears in her eyes. “The only thing I ask is that you continue to let me answer the CLSC letters at home. And, of course, I will be available should you ever need my help at the newspaper.”

  He cleared his throat. “You would make yourself available to help me?”

  “Of course. I lo—” She clamped her lips together. Pink bloomed across her cheekbones. She looked down, gripped the edges of his coat. “Of course I would.”

  His heart lurched. He was sure now. How could he ever have doubted her? “Your offer is a very tempting one. There’s only one problem.” He stepped closer.

  “Wh-what?”

  “The position is no longer open.” He cleared the gruffness from his voice, tugged on the jacket lapels and pulled her close. “I think Jonathan needs something more permanent than a nanny.” He released the lapels, slipped his hands up and cupped her face.

  “Y-you do?” The words were barely a whisper.

  He nodded, tipped her face up and bent his head. His lips hovered over hers, touched their warm softness. “I think the only solution is for you to marry me.” He brushed his lips over hers again, tasted of their sweetness, the saltiness of her tears. His heart pounded. “I love you, Clarice.”

  She drew a ragged breath, looked into his eyes. “I love you, Charles.”

  Time stopped. He slid his arms inside his coat and wrapped them around her, drew her against him. “Will you be my wife?”