His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) (19 page)

“Birdies...go bed...nest...” His eyes closed, his lashes lying against his rosy cheeks. He gave a soft sigh, rolled onto his side and fisted his hand beneath his chin.

“Sleep well, Jonathan. May the Lord whisper happy dreams in your ears tonight.” She tucked the covers close around him, touched his silky curls then rose and walked through the connecting dressing room into Charles’s bedroom.

“...lead...” He frowned, rolled his head against the pillow. “...set bold...”

The clock on the mantel chimed, the notes soft against the hush of the room.

Time for his medicine. She shook the bottle, filled the tablespoon and dumped it into the small glass she’d brought up for the purpose, repeated it a second time and swirled it around.
It’s bitter stuff.
She poured water into the larger glass, set it on the table within easy reach and perched on the edge of the bed.

“... Clarice...typewriter...”

He was thinking of
her
? Her breath caught. She lowered the glass of medicine to her lap, waited.

“...help...” He rolled his head, scowled. “...stubborn...obstinate...”

Well, really.
“Charles...Charles, wake up. It’s time for your medicine.” She leaned forward and gently shook his shoulder. “Charles...”

He opened his eyes, looked straight at her. “Clarice?” He blinked, looked at her again. “What—” Awareness flashed into his eyes. He swept a glance around the room, tried to sit up, bit off a moan and sank back down against his pillow. “How—” He cleared his throat, turned his head toward the table. “I’d like that water, please.”

She rose from the bed, held out the glass in her hand. “Medicine first.”

He curled his lip.

“I know—bitter stuff. Nonetheless...”

He tried to lift his head, winced and raised his hand to cover his eyes.

“Have you a headache?”

“A symphony of drums—none of them in rhythm.”

“Don’t try to lift yourself. Let me help you.” She slipped her free hand under his shoulders. Heat poured though his nightshirt, scorched her arm. He might be conscious, but he was not well. “Drink this.” She swirled the medicine in the glass and held it to his opened lips, poured it in his mouth. “Now the water.” She switched glasses, held the water to his mouth until it was gone, then withdrew her arm and let him sink back into his pillow. His face was taut, his eyes shut tight. The covers over his chest rose and fell with his quick, shallow breaths.

“I’m going to put a wet cloth on your head to help with the pain.” She squeezed out a washcloth, folded it and placed it on his forehead. “This won’t help much. The water is tepid from sitting out all day. I’ll go get some cold water and—”

“No.” He opened his eyes. “It’s late. You need to go. Close Jonathan’s bedroom door, leave the doors to the dressing room open then—” he drew a shallow breath “—close my door when you leave. That way he can’t get out of our bedrooms, and I will hear him if he needs me.”

“I’ll do no such thing! You’re in no condition—” She stopped, stared down at his long fingers wrapped around her wrist and marveled that she felt no fear.

“I’m in no shape to argue the point, Clarice.” He dragged in a breath, closed his eyes. His hand dropped to the bed. “Please do as I ask. I’ll not have your reputation compromised because of me.”

He was still thinking of her, protecting her, even in his illness.
She cleared the lump from her throat, forced out words. “There is no danger of that. Mama is here.”

He opened his eyes and fastened a disbelieving gaze on her. “How—”

“Dr. Reese brought her. It was his idea. Now stop talking and sleep. I’m going to get that cold water.” She blinked away tears, picked up the deep bowl and hurried into the dressing room before she lost control in front of him.

Chapter Sixteen

I
t didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t
personal
. It was just Charles being Charles. He was thoughtful of everyone.

Clarice lifted the cold cloth from her tired, burning eyes, slipped it back in the cold water and returned to curl up in the wingback chair in front of the stone fireplace. Telling herself the truth wasn’t helping. Nothing helped. No matter. It would soon be over. Mrs. Hotchkiss was supposed to return from her visit with her daughter today.

The thought drove her to her feet. It was time she stopped dreaming over things that would never be and turned her attention to the things that were. She didn’t even know how she’d come to feel like this. Or what it was she was “dreaming” for. It was only a nebulous
something
. A yearning that Charles had awakened in her when he had taken off his suit coat and wrapped it around her.

Oh, she wished it had never rained that day! Or that she had walked home by herself in the storm. The misery of being soaked by a cold rain would have been over as soon as she went in the house and changed out of her wet clothes.
This
ache went on and on, grew deeper and deeper. Well, it was going to stop!

She strode out of Charles’s bedroom, down the hallway and into the bedroom where her mother was sleeping. A quick twist raised the wick and spread the circle of lamplight over the table covered with her stacks of CLSC letters. She had promised herself she would never marry—would never subject herself to some man’s “rule” over her. She had planned to be a career woman, to make her own way in the world—to earn a living and provide for herself and her mother. She was doing that. True, it was a miserly living right now. But no man could take it away from her simply because she was a woman! And it would get better. She would be a journalist!

She plunked down on the chair, grabbed the top letter off the pile in front of her and prepared to go to work. It was a sure way to keep her mind focused on the things that mattered. If she held a steady pace, she could have these letters finished by morning. She wasn’t sleeping, anyway.

Dear Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle teacher:

I am having difficulty understanding the principle behind—

Charles’s clock.

She listened to the faint chiming hovering on the silence. Would it wake him? Was he all right? The question hovered in her mind, refused to be dislodged. She laid the letter on the table, dimmed the lamp and headed for his bedroom, chiding herself for her weakness.

The light filtering in from the hallway and from the dressing room was enough to enable her to see the pain on his face. His eyes were closed tight, his face taut and flushed, his lips pressed into a thin line. She shouldn’t have left him. She spoke softly to let him know she was there. “Charles, I’m going to change the cloth on your head. And I’m going to put a cold cloth on the back of your neck to try and bring down the fever.”

He drew breath, opened his mouth to speak.

She touched his shoulder. “Don’t try to talk unless you need something.”

The washcloths were in the bowl. She squeezed out one, folded it and replaced the warm, drying one on his forehead. His skin was hot and dry against her hands.

And get as much water in him as you can. That’s important. I don’t want him losing body fluids and getting dehydrated.

Fear clutched at her heart. Was he becoming dehydrated? Was that dangerous? She folded the towel and placed it on the bed, poured a glass of water to have ready, then twisted the excess water from another washcloth and folded it in half. “Charles, I’m ready to put the cold cloth behind your neck. But first, when I raise your head, I want you to drink some water.”

She slipped her arm beneath his shoulders, alarmed by the heat pouring from his body. “I’m going to lift your head off the pillow now.” His jaw tensed. “Here’s the water.” She held the glass to his lips until it was empty then dropped it on the bed, pulled the folded towel over his pillow, placed the cold cloth on top of it and lowered him down onto it. A shiver ran through him. Air hissed through his teeth.

Her stomach knotted. “I’m sorry—is that too much? Do you want me to remove it?”

“No. Better...”

“All right, then... Try to sleep. I’m going to stay here and keep changing these cloths. I’ll try not to disturb you.”

“You...soothing...”

She touched the cloth on his forehead—it was already warm. He was so hot even the ice melt from the refrigerator warmed after a few minutes. The refrigerator! She touched his shoulder, leaned over him. “Charles, I have an idea that may help your fever. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She lifted her hems and ran on tiptoe into the hallway and down the stairs, snatched the oil lamp from the entrance hall and carried it to the work table in the kitchen. She pulled open drawer after drawer in the cupboards, searched through them and finally found the ice pick she wanted.

Please let this work, Lord.
She pulled a big bowl off a shelf in the pantry, carried it to the refrigerator and opened the door to the ice compartment. The block of ice delivered that morning still had a rough edge on the bottom side. She slid it forward until it hung over the bowl and hacked at it with the ice pick.
Please, Lord. Please!
A small piece of ice hit the bowl with a clink. Another...another...

She chopped at the ice until her fingers refused to grip the pick any longer then shoved the ice block back into place and closed and latched the door.
Please let it work... Please let it work...

The prayer accompanied the tap of her shoes on the stairs, the whisper of her hems on the rugs. Was he sleeping?

“...discarded...gone...”

His muttering twisted the knots in her stomach tighter. Her chest constricted.

“I’m back, Charles.” She set the bowl down, removed the cloth from his head and dipped it in the cold water. “Remember I told you I had an idea I hoped would help your fever? Well, it’s ice. I’ve got ice—” Her voice broke. She blinked tears from her eyes, squeezed out the cloth, scooped small bits of ice onto it, folded it in half and placed it on his pillow beside his neck.

“...got...favorite ones... Skipper...”

“I’m going to lift you now.” He was deadweight. She climbed onto the bed, braced herself with her knees and pulled him toward her, held him with one hand, slipped the washcloth holding the ice into place and lowered him onto it. A shiver shook him. She squeezed out another cloth, added ice, folded it and placed it on his forehead. The last cloth she filled with ice and put on his chest.

The blankets were a tangled mess. She straightened one over him and tossed the others off the end of his bed. It was all she could think of to do. She grabbed the bowl and ran to get more ice.

* * *

She was beginning to hate the steady ticktock of the clock. At least Charles had stopped mumbling and fallen asleep. The medicine had taken down his fever at last. Either the medicine or those three bowls of ice. How frantic she must have looked down on her hands and knees in front of the refrigerator hacking away at that ice block, and then running through the house like a demented person.

What if he had died? Was this why he had asked her to take care of Jonathan if something happened to him?
Was
he better? Or would the malaria return again? A trembling took her. She pushed to her feet and went to his bed, placed her hand against his cheek and listened to his even breathing. He was much cooler.

She sighed, returned to the wingback chair, curled up in the corner and closed her eyes.

* * *

Charles!

Clarice jerked upright and rushed to his bed, shook her head and blinked to clear her vision. It was empty. Her heart jolted. Fear exploded. She threw herself across the bed to look on the floor on the opposite side, dreading what she might find. Nothing. Her stomach rolled. Where—

A chuckle...faint, weak.

Her pulse stuttered, raced.
He was out of his head with fever again
. She shoved off the bed and whipped around toward the partially open dressing room door, thrust conventional niceties aside and shoved it open.

“Him gots dirty hands.”

Jonathan.

“That’s from the ink he uses to print the newspaper.”

Charles.

She burst through the door to Jonathan’s bedroom, stared. He was sitting in the chair in his dressing gown with Jonathan on his lap. “You’re
sick
! What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice trembled almost as much as her body. She marched toward them on shaky legs. “You need to be resting in bed not—” she stared at the small buckled shoes in his hand “—dressing Jonathan...”

“He’s hungry and I didn’t want him to wake you, so—”

“So you decided to
scare
me half to death instead! Do you
know what I
—” Tears gushed. She choked, spun toward the hallway door. “Fine.
Carry on!
”

“Clarice, wait...”

“I have to take care of my mother!”
She slammed the door, ran across the hall into the bedroom, slammed that door and leaned back against it, fighting for control.

“What was that uproar about?”

She shot a glance toward her mother. “He—” Her control fell apart. “Oh, Mama, he
frightened
me!” She rushed to the bed and threw herself into the safe haven of her mother’s arms.

“So you yelled at him.” Her mother drew her close, rubbed her back. “You’ve always gotten angry when you’re frightened, Clarice...”

“I thought—” She choked on the words. Shuddered.

“I know... I know...” Her mother crooned the words, stroked her hair. “You’ve grown to care a great deal for Mr. Thornberg, haven’t you, Clarice?”

“I—I suppose.” She straightened, wiped the tears from her cheeks and made an effort at obfuscation. “He’s been kind to you, and—” She stopped, squared her shoulders.
She
didn’t even believe what she was saying—and judging from the look on her face, neither did her mother. She took a breath, tucked back a strand of hair that had come loose and lifted her chin. “And none of it matters, because Mr. Thornberg has little regard for a career woman.”

“You’re wrong, Clarice.”

“No, Mother, I’m not.”
I need you to do this. I’ll pay...
“He—he thinks I’m greedy and selfish like his mother.” She swallowed the hurt and headed for the dressing room connected to the bedroom. “Now, let’s get you prepared for the day, and then I’ll—”

“Go apologize for shouting at him?”

“No. I’ll go and fix breakfast.”
For one last time.
“Jonathan is hungry.”

The knock shot through her like a bolt of lightning. She whirled, stared at the door.

“Talk to him, Clarice.”

She stiffened her spine and moved to stand facing the closed door. “Yes? What is it?”

“I need to talk to you, Clarice...”

How many times had those words led her to do what she knew would end in pain for her? “I’m busy.” She held her breath, hoped.

“My strength is going. I can’t take care of Jonathan.”

So it wasn’t about...
She released the breath, blinked the tears from her eyes. “Take him to your room. I’ll come for him as soon as I get my mother settled.”

She smelled the coffee and bacon as soon as she opened the door. Her chest tightened; her stomach sank.
It was over.
She stepped to Charles’s closed bedroom door, rapped lightly and entered. He was in bed with Jonathan beside him. She steeled her emotions, avoided looking directly at Charles. This was going to be hard enough.

“Good morning, Jonathan. Are you ready to have your breakfast?”

He scrambled to his feet, held up his arms. “Me hungry. Me want biscuit!”

She scooped him up, her heart breaking at the feel of him in her arms.

“Clarice—”

“Mrs. Hotchkiss has returned.” She glanced down, met Charles’s gaze and jerked hers away then burst into speech so he wouldn’t have time to talk. “She will be startled to see Jonathan and me, I’m sure. I’ll tend to him downstairs and send her up with your breakfast so you can explain everything to her.” She turned away, unable to face him any longer without breaking down. “I’ll bring Jonathan up so you can explain to him as soon as she returns to the kitchen.”

She took a breath, glanced back over her shoulder. “Please tell him that I can no longer come to care for him, because I have to take care of my mother. I don’t want him to think I have
discarded
him.” She couldn’t hide the bitterness of the words.

“Clarice, wait!”

Not this time.
She closed the door, stiffened her spine and carried Jonathan downstairs.

* * *

“Dr. Reese is with Charles, Mama. He will be in to do your exercises and bring you home when he finishes examining him.”

“Jonathan—” Clarice smiled down at the toddler in her arms “—you are going to stay here with...with Gramma until the doctor is through with brother. I have to pack up my work and take it home.” Her chest and throat tightened, shut off her air. She forced her lungs to work, forced out the words she needed to say. “Do you remember how I told you brother and I work in the big building?”

“An’ Clicker.”

She managed a smile. “Yes, and Clicker, too. Well, I have to go back to work now that Mrs. Hotchkiss is going to take care of you.”

“Me go too.”

Jonathan’s lower lip turned down, quivered. Her heart splintered into a thousand aching pieces. “But there’s no toys to play with in the big building. And there’s no backyard where you can run around and chase birdies. And brother will be here. He needs you to be with him. Remember, you’re
family
. He belongs to you, and you belong to him. He wants to take care of you.” She was going to break down! She cast a pleading look at her mother.

“Jonathan, come sit with me while I tell you a story.” Her mother smiled and held out her arms.

She kissed Jonathan’s cheeks and lowered him to the bed, hurried to the table and began shoving the CLSC letters into the bag, heedless of the piles they were in.

“Who taught the birds their pretty songs...whose notes so sweetly vary?”