His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) (5 page)

“I placed the direction manual on the machine’s use and care in the top right-hand drawer of your desk, along with paper for its use.”

There were directions! She gave an inward sigh of relief.

“Any other writing supplies you might need are on the shelves. I felt it best if you arrange your desk as you wish.”

“That is very considerate of you, Mr. Thornberg.” And not at all autocratic. She shoved aside her surprise. He must have a reason. No doubt all of those letters! “Thank you...for everything.”

“Not at all, Miss Gordon. I trust you will find all of the research material you need on the shelves. However, if you come upon a CLSC member’s question you cannot find the answer to, you are to come to me. If necessary, I will purchase the needed resource material.”

If necessary.
The stiffness shot back into her spine. He might as well say straight out that he was certain he would be able to supply the answer to any question she found it necessary to bring to him. Well, she would wear her legs down to stubs walking to the public library to find any answer she might need before she would walk the few feet to Mr. high-and-mighty-superior-male Thornberg’s desk!

“I shall leave you to your work now, Miss Gordon. I will be at my desk or in the composing room whe—should you need me.”

She watched him walk away, then sat in the chair and slid the typewriter shelf toward her. The metal was cold to her touch, but, oh, how the feel of those round white keys warmed her. She pulled out the direction manual, cast a surreptitious look at the surprisingly thoughtful Mr. Thornberg and began to read.

* * *

Charles glanced toward Miss Gordon’s desk, frowned and directed his gaze back down to the article he was editing. He scanned the words, looking for the spot where he’d been reading...
those who use science...spiritual existence...one truth can never contradict another...
Ah. There it was.
...accustom people to...
Now, what was she doing?

He scowled and put down his pen. The carriage on Miss Gordon’s typewriter was lifted and she leaned forward peering down into the works, the manual in her hand. Why didn’t she come to him with her questions? She had to have questions.

Her head lifted and their gazes met. His gut tightened. She gave him a tentative smile and went back to whatever she was doing with the typewriter, but the look in her eyes had said more clearly than words that she was uncomfortable with his attention. It was the same look she’d given him when she’d caught him looking at her aboard the
Griffith
. The woman made him feel like some
lecher
, and that would end right now! He sucked in air, shoved his chair back and rose. “Miss Gordon...” Her head lifted again and her unusual, expressive gray eyes fastened on him, uneasiness shadowing their depths.

“Yes, Mr. Thornberg?”

His remonstrance died unspoken. It was the woman’s first day and he was her boss. No doubt his presence made her uncomfortable. He should have thought of that. “I will be in the composing room, should you need my assistance.” He stepped toward the connecting door, paused at the pound of shoes against the stair treads.

Boyd Willard burst into the room headed for his desk, glanced his way and changed directions. “Hey, boss. I—” The reporter’s gaze shot to the back of the room and a roguish grin tilted his lips. “Who is this?”

Charles stepped forward, annoyed by the predatory look in Boyd’s eyes. He’d heard the reporter’s claims of his many conquests. “Miss Gordon is the
Journal
’s correspondence secretary.” He led the way to her desk. “Miss Gordon, this is Mr. Willard, the
Journal
’s reporter.”

Boyd Willard whipped off his hat, stepped close to her desk and smiled. “Correspondence secretary? I wouldn’t mind getting a letter from you, Miss Gordon.”

“That’s enough, Willard.”

The reporter stiffened, jerked his gaze to him.

“This is a workplace, and Miss Gordon is an employee. You will treat her with respect.” From the corner of his eye he saw Miss Gordon turn her head and look up at him. Those gray eyes held what...incredulity? Irritation surged. He gestured Boyd Willard to his desk with a flick of his hand, then strode back to his own. So much for leaving the room to make Miss Gordon more comfortable. He would stay at his desk until Willard left to rove about town in the search for stories...or whatever he did with his time.

He pulled the article he’d been editing toward him then glanced toward the back of the room. His gaze crashed against Miss Gordon’s and she quickly looked back down at the pages in her hand, but not before he’d seen the relief in her eyes and felt the power of her tenuous smile.

* * *

“It’s the most marvelous thing you’ve ever seen, Mama!” Clarice lifted her supper tray from her lap and rose from her chair. “It really does print out words on paper. You push down the key with the letter you want printed on it, and this skinny metal rod they call a ‘type bar’ comes up and strikes the underneath of the cylinder, and there’s the letter on the paper!”

She put her tray on the table by the bed, glanced at her mother’s tray and frowned. “You need to eat more, Mama. You’re too thin. Would you like me to spread preserves on your biscuit for you?”

“I’ve had enough, Clarice. I don’t get very hungry being in bed all day long.”

“Half a biscuit, then. Mama, you told me last night that you need something to do with your days...” She slathered preserves on the top half of the biscuit.

“You’re not going to scold me again for mending Mrs. Duncan’s chemise, are you?”

“I wasn’t scolding, Mama. I just don’t want you to—” She glanced at her mother, spotted her smile, grinned and handed her the biscuit top. “Stop teasing. Or I’ll make you eat the other half of this biscuit.”

“That’s better. You fret about me too much, Clarice. I know it’s hard for you to see me this way, but—”

“I wasn’t fretting, Mama. I was about to ask if you would help me with some work.”

“
Help
you?” Her mother cast a suspicious glance up at her. “How?”

“By writing down some of your recipes for me.” She slipped her mother’s tray away so she had no place to put the biscuit. “And perhaps some of the ways you’ve found to save time or do a better job of cleaning or gardening.”

“Oh, Clarice...” Tears glistened in her mother’s eyes. “I
am
a burden to you. You’ve spent all day thinking about how to help me stay busy.”

“I did
not
. And don’t ever say that again, Mama!” She piled the supper trays and started for the door.

“Then tell me how my recipes and household tips can possibly help you.”

“I’m going to make them into fillers.”

“Fillers?”

“Yes.” She balanced the trays and opened the door. “They’re short items of general interest that Mr. Thornberg uses to take up blank space when he composes the pages for the newspaper. He’s running out of them, and I intend to keep him supplied. I’ll explain after I take these supper trays downstairs.” She stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed.

“Clarice, come back! You forgot this biscuit!”

No, Mama. You did.
She grinned and hurried down the hall to the stairs.

* * *

Charles laid his book aside and stepped out onto the small balcony that overlooked the street. Captain Nemo and his adventures held no interest for him this evening. He rubbed the back of his neck, blew out a breath and stared into the distance. Miss Gordon had gotten into his head. There was no denying it. It was her smile. It was so soft and warm, the exact opposite of her prickly disposition. And rare. He found himself waiting for her to smile, like some schoolboy hoping to catch a favorable glance from his secret crush. He scowled, raked his fingers through his hair and rocked back on his heels. It was the surprise of her smiles, of course. And the way her eyes changed...

A breeze rose and cooled his face, the skin exposed by the unbuttoned neck of his shirt and his bare forearms protruding from his rolled-up sleeves. The flow of air carried the scent of rain. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to close the door. He liked sleeping with it open. It helped to cool the accumulated heat of the day.

He leaned back against the stone wall of the house and gazed up at the night sky. No stars. Rain clouds must be closing in. Her hair was as black as that sky. So were her eyelashes. And they were long. They looked like shadows against her fair skin as she sat reading the directions for operating the typewriter.

He pushed away from the wall, stepped to the railing and shoved his hands in his pockets. Why hadn’t she come to him with her questions? She had to have had some. That section on changing the rubber bands and the one on adjusting the spacing dogs were quite technical. Not to mention the one on cleaning and oiling the machine.

Perhaps she hadn’t read that far yet. His lips skewed into a lopsided grin. He was quite certain the prickly Miss Gordon didn’t know the tiniest bit of the tip of her tongue showed at the corner of her lips when she was concentrating. It was most distracting. Every time he’d seen it, he’d wanted to go and help her.

And he wasn’t the only one who had noticed Miss Gordon’s winsome way. Willard had stolen glances at her all day long. One more reason it wasn’t good to have a woman in the workplace. Men lost their focus. He had. But that lapse of self-discipline on his part was understandable. Miss Gordon was a new employee. It was his responsibility to give her the help she needed—when she asked.

And that was the crux of the matter. The woman had plagued his thoughts all day because she hadn’t asked for his help when he knew full well she needed it. Any woman would. Well, he’d not give her a thought tomorrow. He had a newspaper to run.

He banished Miss Gordon from his thoughts, pulled his hands from his pockets, went inside and picked up the book.

* * *

“It’s apparent from Mr. Thornberg’s thinly veiled contempt that he shares the prevailing viewpoint that men are superior and women have no business being in the workplace.”
But he is still thoughtful...
Clarice frowned at the dichotomy, swirled her dressing gown on over her nightdress and slammed the wardrobe doors so hard they didn’t squeak.

“But he hired you, Clarice.”

“Yes, because Dr. Austin asked me to write the monthly column right there in front of him.
And
because he needed someone to free him from having to respond to all of those letters.” She yanked the ties at the neck of her dressing gown so tight she almost choked herself. She coughed, slid her fingers beneath the twisted ribbon and loosened the bow. “But he does not think I can learn how to use the typing machine on my own. He thinks I will have to run to him with questions. He even gave me a few days!” She shot her mother a look. “
And
he said if I found one of the CLSC members’ questions too difficult to answer, I am to go to him. As if he—being a
man
—will, of course, know the answer my poor, inferior woman’s brain cannot supply.”

“Clarice...”

“Well, it’s true, Mama!” She marched to the desk in the turret, the sides of her dressing gown flying out behind her. “And I intend to prove Mr. Thornberg wrong. I am going to become
indispensable
to him. And I’m going to start by writing those fillers he needs—without being asked to do so.” She glanced over at the bed. “Will you help me write them, Mama?”

“Of course I will, Clarice. I think it’s an excellent idea. And it will give me something useful to do. But you can hardly blame an older man like Mr. Thornberg for being uncomfortable with having a woman in his employ. It simply wasn’t done until recent years.”

“He’s not that old, Mama.” She removed the ink, lest it leak onto Mrs. Smithfield’s quilt, then snatched her writing box off the desk and carried it to the bed. “Everything you need is in here. Pencils...paper...”

“How old
is
Mr. Thornberg?”

“I don’t know, Mama.” She thought about it, pictured him looking down at her. “Perhaps five or six years older than me.”

“That
young
?”

She nodded and placed the box on the covers over her mother’s extended legs.

“What does he look like?”

“A prosperous businessman.”

“Clarice...”

“What does it
matter
, Mama?”

Her mother shook her head, sighed. “It doesn’t
matter
.
I’d just like to be able to picture you at work while I’m sitting here. I get restless with nothing to do.”

She looked at her mother’s legs stretched out beneath the quilt and guilt smote her for her lack of understanding and compassion. “I’m sorry, Mama. Mr. Thornberg is tall and very neat in appearance. He has wavy brown hair, cut short, and—”

“Wavy?”

Now, why did that make her mother smile? “Yes, wavy...as if it would curl if it were longer. And dark, rather heavy eyebrows...and blue eyes. A strong chin and a—” his image flashed before her “—a charming smile. No. It’s more of a grin...sort of crooked and self-deprecating, you know, like a boy that has been caught at some mischief.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Charming...”

“Did I say that?”

“You did.” Her mother’s gaze narrowed on her. “You said Mr. Thornberg has a charming smile.”

She snorted, waved the description away. “I suppose it is—given the right circumstances.” She turned her attention back to the work. “Now...you can write on the box—be mindful of this scratch—then put the finished work inside it. But don’t do too much. I don’t want you to tire yourself.”

“Clarice, have you forgotten I fed and cared for a flock of chickens, cleaned their coop, slopped and mucked out pens for over a dozen hogs and took care of the garden and the house and—” her mother shook her head, picked up a pencil and smiled “—and made lots of preserves. I’ll start with your favorite.”

Rhubarb Jam

Select fresh red rhubarb in pieces one inch long, take sugar pound for pound. Cook together and let stand all night. In the morning pour off the syrup and boil it until it begins to thicken. Put in the rhubarb and heat...

She left her mother to her work, walked to the desk and opened the directions manual for the typewriter she’d brought home with her. Her mouth firmed as she read the words across the top of the length of the last page.
Diagram of Key-board of the No. 2 Remington Typewriter (Actual Size).