His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) (9 page)

She leaned down and opened the top door on the left to check the state of the ice. There was a large chunk, only slightly melted around the edges. A recent delivery, then. The smaller door below the ice compartment held several paper-wrapped parcels. Grease stains on one implied bacon. Did two-year-olds eat bacon? She stared at the package, then closed the door, depressed the handle to unlatch the compartment on the right and gave a tentative sniff. No spoiled food or stale odor. Mrs. Hotchkiss was a good housekeeper. The butter and milk she needed were on the top shelf beside a bowl of eggs.

The stovepipe crackled. She carried the items to the work table in the center of the room then stepped to the stove and adjusted the damper and draft to slow the burn. Footfalls sounded overhead. She glanced at the ceiling, lifted a small pan down from a rack then paused. An enamel coffeepot sat on the stove’s warming shelf. She stared at it a moment, then shrugged and carried the pan to the sink cupboard, pumped water into it and returned to the stove. Now to find some oats...

She lifted covers and peered into various-sized crocks clustered on the work table. Flour...sugar...oats... Ah. She filled the scoop, snatched a wood spoon from a bunch of utensils standing in a gray crock and stirred them into the water in the pan and set it over the fire. Another board above her head creaked. That must be how Mrs. Hotchkiss knew to start breakfast. She turned and stared at the refrigerator...

Chapter Six

C
harles braced himself for the sting of alcohol on his shaved face, splashed on the cologne and stared in the mirror. The blister on his neck was puffed, the flesh around it red and ugly. It would be impossible for him to wear a high starched collar and tie today. He grabbed his comb, ran it through his still-damp hair and scowled at the deepening waves. He needed a trim or his hair would start curling. But there was no time to go to the barber today. He had a newspaper to run. And a little brother to take care of.

A smile chased the scowl from his face. Time to check on Jonathan again.

He left his dressing room, strode to his wardrobe, pulled a shirt of soft blue cotton off the shelf and slipped it on then closed the wardrobe doors. It was not a good day for a man who prided himself on his professional appearance. He buttoned the shirt, left the collar open then shoved the shirttails into his pants and walked down the hallway to his brother’s bedroom.
Jonathan sure slept—

He froze, stared as his little brother padded out of the dressing room, his dark curls mussed, his shirt wrinkled and his socks sagging down around his ankles. He’d been waiting for the boy to wake up, but now that he had, panic struck. His heart thumped. What should he say? What should he do? He didn’t know how to take care of a
baby
!
Where was Miss Gordon?

“Me go potty. Me done now.”

There was something bordering on defiance in the soft child voice. And fear. He looked at the blue eyes gazing steadily at him, the little lips pressed together and the slightly jutted chin then glanced over at the bed. The blankets were hanging over the edge into a pile on the floor. So that was why he hadn’t heard him. His stomach flopped. What if he’d gotten hurt getting out of bed by himself? He drew breath to issue a warning then swallowed it back. Had Jonathan been scolded or punished for doing that? Was that why the defiance and fear were there? Anger burned away his sense of incompetence. He nodded and smiled. “Good man. Are you hungry?”

Jonathan stared at him a moment, then nodded. A black curl flopped forward onto his forehead. The blue eyes studied him, wary, frightened.

Lord, help me to show him it’s all right. That he’s safe with me.
He stifled his uneasiness, crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out the one clean outfit they had found in the valise. “Well, then, Skipper, let’s get you washed and brushed. And then we’ll go downstairs and find something to eat.”

“Me Jonathan.”

His lips slanted into a proud grin. His chest filled. The little guy had courage. “So you are.”

“What skipper?”

So he was curious and liked to learn. His pride swelled. “Do you remember the big ship you were on?” He moved forward and squatted on his heels to allay any fear that might be caused by his moving close.

Jonathan’s smooth brow furrowed. He looked straight at him and nodded. “It made my stomach hurted.”

He squelched a chuckle. “That happens sometimes. Anyway, the important man on the boat is called a skipper. And I think you’re important. And you have a sailor suit—” he held up the outfit in his hands “—so—”

“Me Skipper.”

“Yes.”

“Who you?”

The pressure in his chest swelled. “I’m Charles. I’m your brother.” He held his breath, looked at Jonathan’s frown and waited.

“What brover?”

Help me, Lord. Give me the words so he’ll understand.
“It means we’re a family.” There was no change in Jonathan’s expression. Clearly, that word meant nothing to him. Anger surged. He tamped it down, searched for the right words. “And being a
family
means I belong to you, and you belong to me.” That truth hit him hard. Saying it aloud made it...real. He cleared the lump from his throat. “And 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 blue eyes, so like his own, studied him. The furrows in Jonathan’s little forehead deepened.
Please, Lord. Help him understand.

“Me be here?”

He nodded, curved his lips into a smile. “Every day. From now on. For always.”

There was a soft exhalation. Jonathan’s blue eyes shifted to the bed, came back to rest on him. His small right arm lifted and one pudgy little finger pointed at the bed. “It too big. Me fall.”

The breath trapped in his lungs released. It was going to be all right. Jonathan might not have understood the family concept, but he knew what staying in one place meant. The rest would come. He nodded, held back the smile tugging at his lips and treated the information with all seriousness. “I’ll take care of that today. Now, shall we get you washed and dressed and go get some breakfast?” He rose, waited, unsure of what to do if the little guy said no.

Jonathan nodded, reached up and grabbed hold of his hand.

The touch was like nothing he’d ever experienced. His heart swelled, pushed the air from his lungs. His throat constricted. It wasn’t the clutch of the little fingers or the smallness of the hand in his; it was the absolute trust. He blinked hard, scooped his little brother into his arms and carried him into the dressing room.

* * *

“Hmm, coffee. Smells good.”

“Mr. Thornberg!” Clarice gasped and whirled, pressed her hand to her chest. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Obviously.” His mouth slanted in a lopsided, teasing grin. “Be careful or you’ll stab yourself with that fork.”

He looked so different...
“Hardly.” She shifted her gaze to the toddler riding on her employer’s arm and her heart melted. His baby face was clean and shiny, his curls were combed, and he was dressed in the blue sailor suit. The socks that covered his chunky little legs to his dimpled knees left a little to be desired in cleanliness, but the buckled shoes she’d removed last night had a new gloss to them. Mr. Thornberg had been busy. No wonder she’d heard him moving around upstairs. “Good morning, Jonathan.”

“Me Skipper. Me ’portant.”

“Oh?”

“The outfit.” She looked up and her gaze clashed with the proud, albeit amused one of her employer. Her stomach quivered to life. “I explained about captains on ocean liners.”

“Oh.”

“You said that already.”

The words and the wry look that accompanied them brought the memory of the day he’d employed her to answer the CLSC letters sweeping into her head. She took refuge in thoughts of her work. Would he remember to bring home the letters for her to work on, as he’d promised? Was he even going to work? He didn’t look it. Not in that blue shirt. Without his starched white shirt and high stiff collar and tie, he looked relaxed...handsome. Heat stole across her cheekbones.

“Him my brover. Me be here.” Jonathan’s blue eyes studied her. “Who you?”

Brover.
Mr. Thornberg had done some explaining. She smiled, ignored the tug on her heart to step close and touch the toddler, to hold him again. It was better to stay uninvolved. She was here for only a few days. “I’m the lady who cooked your breakfast.”

She turned back and slid the sizzling bacon to the cooler part of the stove. “I have Jonathan’s porridge ready, Mr. Thornberg. If you would please take him into the dining room, I’ll bring it right in.”

She lifted the pan of cooked oats staying warm at the back of the stove, scooped them into the bowl she had waiting on the work table and added a pat of butter and a drizzle of the molasses she’d found in the pantry.

“I’d rather he eat here in the kitchen, where he won’t be alone.” A chair scraped along the floor.

“But I’ve—”

“Yes?” Charles sat Jonathan on a chair, turned from the small eating table against the wall and looked at her.

She’d made a mistake. Well, she’d know better tomorrow. “I’ve set a place for you in the dining room, as well.”

“For
me
?”

She nodded, wiped her palms down the skirt of the apron she’d found hanging on a peg by the stove. “You needn’t sound incredulous. It was a perfectly understandable mistake given the situation. We’ve not yet discussed my duties.”

His eyes took on that dark, clouded look she was beginning to recognize as a prelude to full-blown annoyance. “I told you last night you are to take care of Jonathan, not act as a maid or washerwoman.”

She splashed a bit of milk on the prepared oats. “And that is what I am doing. I thought, perhaps, Jonathan would like your company at his meals. But since that offends your stated wishes—”

“Me hungry.”

She snatched up the bowl and hurried to the table. “Here you are, Jonathan. Just let me get the pad I made for you to sit on from the dining room and then—”

“I’ll get it.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Charles had pivoted and headed for the dining room before she could speak. She lifted Jonathan into her arms. He leaned against her as if he belonged there. “It will only be a minute—”

Charles returned with the folded throw she had covered with a dish towel, placed it on the chair and fastened his gaze on her. “The pad is very clever.”

His gaze, his praise were disconcerting. “It’s necessary.” She settled Jonathan on the pad and handed him a spoon. “He’s too small to sit on a chair.”

“Or to get out of that bed upstairs by himself. I intend to buy him a crib today.”

“Or you could get him a set of bed steps.” The suggestion was out before she thought better of making it. His raised eyebrows spurred her on. He’d asked for her help; she would give it. “He will soon outgrow a crib. And he is able to take care of his...personal needs himself. The steps would allow him to do so safely.” She sniffed the air and hurried back to the stove. The bacon was nicely crisp, not that it mattered. She slid the pan aside.

“That looks good.”

She froze, glanced over her shoulder. He was standing behind her, a cup in each hand.

“The coffee smells too good to resist.” He set the cups on the table, snagged the coffeepot and poured them full.

She stared, pressed her lips together but couldn’t hold the words back. “You’re giving Jonathan a cup of
coffee
?”

He chuckled and put the coffeepot down. “Even I know better than that.” His long fingers tapped a cup. “This one is yours.”

Her jaw dropped. She stared at the dark brew in the cup, grappling with the idea that he had poured it for her.

“Do you fry eggs? I like your idea, and I’ve decided to have breakfast with Jonathan.” His smile made it an apology.

She nodded, pulled the griddle back over the hot plate at the front of the stove, slid the bacon to one side and reached for the bowl of eggs she had waiting. “How many do you want?”

“Two. And one for Skipper.”

Could his tenderness with Jonathan be real?
She stared at Charles Thornberg trying to believe it was so.

“And fry some eggs for yourself, Miss Gordon.” His gaze swung back to her. She looked down at the bowl of eggs. “We’ll discuss what Jonathan needs while we eat.”

While we eat?
No. That was a family thing. She shook her head, broke three eggs into the hot bacon grease and set the rest aside. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

He frowned, swept a hand toward the windows over the sink cupboard at the end of the room. “It’s not yet fully light, Miss Gordon. And I lived in boardinghouses long enough to know you eat when the meals are scheduled and at no other time. You have not yet eaten.” He shoved the bowl of eggs back toward her. “Fry yourself an egg. And plan to eat all of your meals here with Jonathan. That will be part of your care of him. You know that, as a newspaperman, my hours are dictated by events. I may have to miss a few meals, and I don’t want him eating alone.”

The clock in the sitting room gonged. He’d be leaving for the newspaper soon, and she had to find out exactly what her care of Jonathan entailed before he left. She didn’t want any more mistakes like this one. She pushed aside her uneasiness, broke another egg into the grease and watched him carry the two steaming cups of coffee to the table.

* * *

“Him squirrel.” Jonathan pointed up at the mass of gray fur sitting in the tree with its bushy tail twitching.

“Yes.” Clarice picked up an acorn and tossed it at the branch the squirrel was on. “Hear him chatter?”

“What that?”

“Chatter is the way squirrels talk.”

“What him say?”

How eager he was to learn. She loved answering his innocent questions. “I think he is telling us he would like us to move along so he can come down and gather acorns to eat.” She bent, picked one up and showed it to him. “This is an acorn. Squirrels like them, but they’re not good for little boys, so you mustn’t eat them. They’ll make your tummy hurt.”

He thought that over a moment. “Me won’t.” He pointed again. “Bird.”

“Yes. A blue jay.” His little brow furrowed, and she hastened to explain. “That’s his own special name—because of his color. See, his feathers are blue like your sailor suit.”

“What he special name?”

She looked in the direction of Jonathan’s pointing finger. “That is a goldfinch. And that friendly little bird on the bush is a chickadee. You can sometimes coax them to say their own name. Listen...” She imitated the bird’s call: “Chick-a-dee-dee... Chick-a-dee-dee...”

The tiny black-and-white bird hopped along a twig of the bush, tipped its head and answered her.

“Him did it!”

She laughed at Jonathan’s delight and called again, but the bird flew off.

“Him go away.”

The disappointment on his face pierced her heart. “I think that was a mama chickadee and she is returning to her nest to feed her babies.”

“See nest?”

She smiled and, unable to resist, rumpled his curls. “The birds build their nests high up in the trees, and they are hard to find.”

He looked up at the branches over their head. “Me fall down. Birdies fall down?”

“No. The babies stay safe in the nest until they grow up and can fly.” She clamped her lips closed on a promise that he would be safe in Mr. Thornberg’s home until he was grown. She hoped it was so. But she didn’t know.

“What that?”

She glanced where Jonathan’s pudgy finger pointed. “That’s a stable. I don’t think Mr. Thornberg has a horse in the stable now, Jonathan. But, if he permits, it may be a nice place to play. Let’s go see.”