The Baby Surprise

After an adorable toddler arrives on her boss’s doorstep, Clarice Gordon’s job offer transforms from full-time journalist to part-time nanny. Clarice agrees to care for Charles Thornberg’s little brother as long as she can continue writing. But soon Charles stirs emotions in Clarice that are far from professional…

Charles never dreamed he had a long-lost brother, but he’ll do everything to ensure the little one is loved. And Clarice amazes him with the warmth and care she shows the boy—so different from the career women he’s known. Charles doesn’t like surprises in his neatly ordered life, though thanks to this one, he may have stumbled upon the family he’s always wanted…

What was he thinking?

He was lonely, that was all. But he had family now. Jonathan was enough.

A whistle sounded in the distance. He looked down at his brother and smiled. “You hear that whistle, Skipper? That’s another steamer telling us to get out of her way, that she’s coming into the dock.”

“Boat!” Jonathan twisted around and pointed out on the lake.

“That’s it. That’s the steamer.” He looked out over the water, focused his attention on the other vessel.

Clarice turned to face them, smiled and straightened Jonathan’s stocking. He glanced down and met her gaze, and the oneness, the sharing of the moment he’d craved, happened.

“I think he could wiggle right out of his clothes.”

There was a proprietary tone, a touch of motherly pride in her soft words. She smiled, and the warmth in her eyes, the gentleness in the curve of her lips, sailed right by his common sense and lodged firmly in his heart.

Award-winning author DOROTHY CLARK lives in rural New York. Dorothy enjoys traveling with her husband throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Love Inspired Books. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.

His Precious Inheritance

Dorothy Clark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Trust in the Lord with all thine heart;

and lean not unto thine own understanding.

—Proverbs 3:5

To my husband and sons—you all continually demonstrate the gentleness and safety to be found in a man’s strength. Thank you for teaching me how to write real heroes.

And Sam. Once again, you’ve gone that “second mile” and hung in there with me through the deadline crunch. You’re a true cowboy hero—always galloping to a lady’s rescue. Thank you.

Commit thy works unto the Lord,

and thy thoughts shall be established.

Your Word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.

To God be the glory

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

August 1878 Chautauqua Lake, New York

“What is amusing you, Clarice?”

Clarice Gordon met her mother’s gaze in the mirror and her smile turned into a grin. “I was remembering the flabbergasted look on the milliner’s face when I refused to have any adornment put on my hat.” She settled the brown felt forward of the thick knot of hair at the back of her head and anchored it in place.

“Some brown-eyed Susans would add a touch of color. A cluster of them at the front would look pretty.”

A wistful note shadowed her mother’s voice. “No doubt. But I’m not interested in looking pretty, Mama.” She adjusted the three tabs of fabric that fell like a flat cravat from the base of her high stand-up collar, then tugged the hem of her bodice down to straighten the row of buttons that marched from beneath the tabs to her narrow waist. Plain and serviceable. Perfect. She smoothed her hands over the front of the long skirt and turned from the mirror. “I’m a career woman. I want the men I encounter in my endeavors to take me seriously, not to court me.” She left the rest unsaid.

“Not all men are like your father and brothers, Clarice.”

The resignation in her mother’s voice plucked at her heart. Yet the mention of her father and brothers chased any commiseration away. “I suppose not, Mama.” It was the best she could do by way of capitulation.

The hardness in her heart would not yield to any appeal for softening. One look at her bedridden mother assured that. It also affirmed her determination to never marry and put herself under the grinding thumb of a man.

She pulled on her half gloves and walked to the bed. “Lean forward and I’ll fluff your pillows before I leave.” She pulled them from behind her mother, pummeled and replaced them. “Let’s see, you have fresh water to drink... And Mrs. Duncan will come in throughout the day with meals and to help you with your private needs...”

“Stop fretting, Clarice. I’ll be fine. I’m not used to being fussed over.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But that’s the reason I brought you here to live with me, Mama. So I could take care of you.” She looked down at her mother’s work-worn hands resting against the quilt that covered her legs and tried for her sake to swallow back the bitterness. A wasted effort. The resentment she held against her father for working her mother into a frail, bedridden woman was a part of her. Her brothers were as bad with their selfish demands. But her father’s cruelty was the example they followed.

Her face drew taut, as it always did at the memories. Her father and brothers had treated her mother as their personal slave. And they’d tried to do the same to her.

God bless Miss Hartmore for rescuing her and making her education possible! If her teacher hadn’t whisked her away from her father’s tyrannical grasp, she would still be tending the garden and chickens and pigs and scrubbing piles of their filthy oil-coated work shirts and pants and socks with no hope of escape.

And for Miss Hartmore saving her mother all these years later. When she thought of her mother lying on the grass by a basket of wet laundry and unable to rise...and of her father declaring he had no use for a cripple and wanted no part of the burden of caring for one! His own wife, who had destroyed her health carrying out his demands.

She spun from the bed and walked through the archway to the desk in the small turret that formed the outside wall of her room, trembling from head to toe. She supposed she should be grateful for her father’s callous attitude, as he’d made no objection when Miss Hartmore took her mother into her home. That had made it easy for her to go and bring her mother back here to the boardinghouse where she could care for her. If only she could have done so sooner! But the train fares had taken all she’d been able to set aside for the purpose and a bit more. Her stomach churned. How was she to manage her mother’s care? How was she to pay for the increase in room and board?

She snatched her writing box off the desk and headed for the bedroom door, the short train of her skirt bouncing across the floor with her jerky stride.

“You need to let go of the anger, Clarice. You need to—”

“Please don’t talk to me of forgiveness, Mama!” She whipped around and stepped to the bed. “You’re lying there unable to walk because your husband and sons worked you to the point of crippling you. They are cold, cruel, heartless men. They don’t deserve forgiveness!”

“If they deserved it, they wouldn’t need it.” The hard calluses on her mother’s fingers and palms rasped against the soft skin of her hand. “It’s not for their sake you need to forgive them, Clarice. It’s for yours—and mine. I couldn’t bear it if the anger you hold inside ruins your life.”

“The way my father tried to?” She choked back a torrent of useless words. “The anger won’t hurt me, Mama. It has driven me to succeed, to become a teacher, like Miss Hartmore.” She took a calming breath and curved her lips into a smile. “And I truly enjoy writing articles for newsletters and magazines. I’m hoping that one of my articles will one day favorably impress the editor of a daily newspaper, and he will offer me a job as a journalist.” Her smile faded. “Though that’s not likely. It’s a man’s world—at present.”

“And you believe this suffrage movement you talk about will change that? Women have been trying to gain equal rights for years with little success.” Her mother shook her head. “Only God can change a man’s heart, Clarice.”

There was no point in trying to debate with her mother about God. “Well, perhaps He is using the suffragists to do so. Oh, I almost forgot...” She reached into her pocket, fingered the two coins she had left after paying the extra board for her mother then pulled out one of them. “Here, Mama, you may need something when I’m not here to go to the store. If so, I’m sure Mrs. Duncan will fetch it for you.” She leaned down and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I have to hurry or I’ll miss the steamer for Fair Point. I’ll be back tonight, Mama. Mrs. Duncan will look in on you.” She relaxed her knuckle-aching grip on her writing case and hurried out the door.

* * *

Charles Thornberg buttoned the starched collar and cuffs onto his fresh white shirt then opened the small drawer in the center of his chestnut wardrobe. Light glinted on the silver pocket watch with its attached fob and the pair of silver-framed carnelian cuff links that rested there. The silver initials set into the brownish-red stones of the links gleamed up at him. TJT. Thomas Jefferson Thornberg.

Charles lifted the cuff links out of the drawer and stared down at them resting on his hand—all that he had left of his father, thanks to his mother’s ambition and incompetence. She had lost everything else, including their house and furnishings, when she’d taken over the running of his father’s prosperous investment business on his death and driven it into bankruptcy. Of course, he was already living in the boarding school by then. She’d sent him away the day after they buried his father.

His fingers curled over the cuff links, pressed them against his palm. He’d been so frightened when the strange man came to take him away he’d snuck into his father’s dressing room and grabbed the cuff links to take with him. They were his father’s favorites, and holding them had made him feel better—braver. He’d clutched them in his hand for the entire two-day-long journey to the boarding school.

His face tightened. Five years old and left all alone in a strange new place with no one to ease his fears or comfort him over his father’s death, all because his mother wanted a career for which she was patently unsuited. As she had proven. He poked the studs through the small slits in his shirt cuffs, flipped crosswise the tiny bars to hold the treasured cuff links in place, then tucked his shirttails into his pants.

He hadn’t had a home from that day—until he’d bought the Jamestown Journal newspaper and this house last month. He still remembered the bust of Shakespeare he’d stared at while the dean of the boarding school had given him the news that his bankrupt mother had remarried and gone to live with her new husband in Europe, along with the assurance that his schooling had been paid for, as if that made his mother’s abandonment of him all right. He’d been unwanted, discarded to live in school dormitory rooms with pendulum clocks that ticked away the lonely years and then in rooms in boardinghouses wherever his work as a roving reporter took him. But he’d survived. Even prospered.

He swept a satisfied glance around his richly furnished bedroom then lifted a doubled strip of dark blue silk off a peg, wrapped it around his neck and secured it with a simple knot in the front. A smile touched his lips. That wandering life was over now.

In the end, he had inherited more than the cuff links. He’d had one more bit of communication from his mother—a letter she’d left with the dean to be given to him the day he finished school. It contained information about a trust fund his father had established for him that was to be his upon graduation. By making wise investments, he had turned the money from the trust into a small fortune. And in doing so, he’d discovered his father’s talent for making advantageous business decisions ran in his blood. That was the best inheritance of all.

He buttoned on his vest, took the watch from the drawer and tucked it into his vest pocket letting the fob dangle, then shrugged into his suit coat and glanced in the mirror. Uneven. He frowned at the short ends of the blue silk tie resting against his white shirt, adjusted the knot until the ends hung even, then folded the stiff collar down over the blue silk encircling his neck.

The pendulum clock hanging between the two windows on the far bedroom wall gave a soft gong to announce the half hour. He tucked his steamer ticket and money into the inside pocket of his suit coat, grabbed his top hat and gloves, closed the wardrobe’s double doors and hurried from the bedroom. He could hear Mrs. Hotchkiss working in the kitchen as he trotted down the stairs to the entrance hall and out the front door.

The balmy morning promised a lovely summer’s day. He settled his hat on his head, tugged on his gloves and left the porch, rehearsing the finer points of the business offer he hoped to make to the leaders of the Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly held at Fair Point every August as his long strides ate up the distance to the dock. The deal was a good one, beneficial to both parties. He should have no difficulty getting an agreement from the Chautauqua leaders if he could meet with them today.

He frowned and joined the line to board the steamer. He hated doing things on the spur of the moment, but he’d been too busy until now with ordering equipment and moving the newspaper to the new building to act on his plan.

Today was his last chance of obtaining a meeting with the Chautauqua leaders before the assembly began tomorrow. They would be too busy to see him for the two weeks after that, overseeing the Bible studies, teacher training classes, musical entertainments, recreational activities and lectures the assembly offered. His frown deepened. And then it would be too late for him to do the work needed for this month—

“Ticket, sir?”

“I have mine.” He pulled the ticket from his pocket, showed it to the collector and moved past those in line buying their tickets. Lake water flowed under the gangplank and lapped against the pilings of the dock. He boarded the Griffith and made his way forward through the crush of passengers milling about and talking, his reporter’s senses on alert to pick up any tidbits of conversation that might lead to a story. Excitement was running high. Clearly, people were eager to attend the Chautauqua Assembly.

The steamer’s whistle blew. The deck quivering beneath his feet lurched. He glanced down at the water and watched the gap between the ship and the dock widen. The hum of conversation swelled. He edged into an empty spot near one of the posts that supported the upper deck and looked over at the passengers occupying the benches on the open deck. A young woman, whose stylish gown matched the color of her blue eyes, smiled at him. He gave a polite nod in return and shifted his gaze to the crowded bench across from him.

Another young woman smiled, her bold glance clearly showing she was available for a little flirtation to while away the time aboard the steamer. His barely polite nod declined her invitation. He turned his head and stared down at the water, watched it foaming by and willed the steamer to put on more speed. He needed to have this meeting at Fair Point, then get back to Jamestown as soon as possible. He had a newspaper to get out.

He turned back to look at the passengers, the reporter in him seeking inspiration for a story. His gaze fell on a young woman perched on the end of the bench opposite him and a smile tugged at his mouth. She looked like a wren sitting among canaries and bluebirds and cardinals. His smile widened, the editor in him pleased by the apt description. The young woman was definitely plain as a wren, though her profile was more attractive than one as she stared out at the water. Her lack of color or adornment captured his attention. That and her posture. There was something alert about her, though she sat perfectly still—except for the tapping.

He lowered his gaze to the thin wood box resting on the young woman’s lap, focused on her tapering fingers, which extended from a pair of half gloves. Their soft tapping on the box belied her quiet posture. And if the slight ripple occurring rhythmically at the hem of her long skirt was any indication, she was tapping her toe, as well. What had her so impatient? Or was it worry that— The ripples stopped. He lifted his gaze.

The young woman was looking at him, a small frown line between her arched brown brows. Obviously, she had sensed his interest and was not pleased by it. She turned her head back to look out over the water before he could catch more than a quick glimpse of her face. But even in that short moment, her eyes arrested his attention. They were light colored...perhaps blue or gray, and decidedly cool in their expression. Quite off-putting. And insulting. Had she thought him some lothario?

He glanced down and frowned. His dark blue suit, starched white shirt and simple matching tie should tell her he was a man of business. What made her so standoffish? The other young women surrounding her were all of a “holiday” frame of mind, as was displayed by their comportment. Hmm... He studied the passengers, forming an article about the excitement that was in the air in his mind.

The steamer lurched and then slowed. They were approaching Fair Point. He moved away from the post and edged his way to the rail to catch a first look at the campgrounds that housed the Chautauqua Assembly, nodded in response to the cheerful waves of people in dozens of rowboats and canoes that dotted the water closer to shore.

The Griffith blew its whistle. A bell ashore rang out an answering welcome, the sound mingling with the pounding of hammers. The construction going on would account for the pile of sawed lumber on the lower deck. He’d have to look into that, perhaps work it into another article for his paper.

The boat lurched again, steamed slowly toward the end of a wide dock.

He shifted his gaze to the grassy shore teeming with people then lifted it to the wooded hillside. Paths, lined with shingled rooftops interspersed among the trees, crisscrossed the hill in every direction. Here and there immense roofs showed in open glades. People swarmed on the paths, appearing and disappearing at breaks in the overarching cover of the branches of the trees. It put him in mind of a beehive. He’d heard several thousands of people attended the annual Chautauqua Assembly each August, but he hadn’t really believed it until now.

Deckhands leaped to the weathered boards of the dock and snubbed the ends of the mooring ropes around the protruding ends of thick pilings, while others dropped the gangplank in place.

He turned from the rail, caught a glimpse of a plain brown dress with a small nondescript bustle near the gangway and glanced back toward the benches. The wren had left her perch. He moved forward with the other passengers lining up to disembark.

At the head of the line, the young lady with the thin wood box stepped onto the gangplank. He watched her cross the narrow span then walk the length of the dock, the short train of her gown trailing along behind her. She waved a hand to whoever was in the window at the gatehouse at the end and then kept right on going through the open gate.

So she was known to the gatekeeper. That she was familiar with the Chautauqua grounds was evident in her purposeful movements as she turned and threaded her way through the people on the shore. Not that she didn’t look feminine. She did. Very.

He frowned at his preoccupation with a young woman he would likely never see again and stepped onto the gangplank. He was curious to know what was in that box the wren guarded so carefully, was all. He liked answers.

* * *

Clarice stood by the fence and eyed Dr. Austin’s cottage. She’d spoken with the leader of the assembly a few times, but she’d never disturbed him at his home. Still, timidity never gained information for an article. She pushed through the gate, lifted her hem with her free hand and started up the porch steps shadowed by a striped canvas awning.

The cottage’s door opened and closed. Footsteps sounded on the porch floor.

“Well, good morning!” The object of her quest smiled down at her from the top of the short flight of steps. “Miss Gordon, is it not?”

“Your memory serves you well, Dr. Austin.” She returned his smile and backed down the two steps she’d climbed.

“As your articles about the assembly do you.” Dr. Austin descended the steps and stopped in front of her. “You wished to see me, Miss Gordon?”

“I did, sir. But I see you are on your way out.” She swallowed back her disappointment and smiled. “With your permission, I will return another time.”

“Of course.” He pulled the gate open and bowed her through. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you this way, Miss Gordon, but I’ve been summoned to a meeting I must attend.” His brown eyes peered down at her. “Is this call about your annual article?”

“Yes, it is.” She held back the frown itching to form. She didn’t want to receive a no in answer to her idea because she didn’t have time to present it properly. It was imperative that he agree. What would she do if he refused? She thrust the worry from her. He would agree. She’d convince him...someway.

“Then perhaps you would do me the honor of walking with me to the Herald office. We can talk on the way.” He motioned her onto the path.

There was no choice. She couldn’t say she had to be elsewhere. She gripped her writing box and moved forward. He fell into step beside her and slanted a look down at her, the same sort of look she gave her students when they weren’t forthcoming. She accepted the cue. “Dr. Austin, I have had the good fortune to have had a Chautauqua Experience article printed in the Sunday School Journal each year since you began the Chautauqua Assembly.”

His nod set his beard whispering against his shirtfront. “And excellent articles they’ve been, Miss Gordon.”

Warmth spread through her at his compliment. “Thank you, sir. But it is the article I will write for this year’s Chautauqua edition of the Sunday School Journal I wish to discuss with you.” She took a breath and glanced up at him. “The Chautauqua Experience articles I have written thus far have been from the viewpoint of an attendee. I would like to write this year’s article from the viewpoint of the leaders, teachers, lecturers and entertainers who make the Chautauqua experience possible for the thousands of people who come here each August. To that end, I’ve come to request an interview with you.”

“I see. This way, Miss Gordon.”

Dr. Austin gestured toward an intersecting path, then lowered his head and stared at the ground as they walked. Her stomach tensed at the contemplative look on his face. She couldn’t write the article as she envisioned it unless he agreed. She could pick and choose among the teachers, but Dr. Austin had to be included. The readers would expect it. Would he agree to her idea for a new viewpoint?

The board-and-batten building with a painted sign that read Assembly Herald appeared ahead. She slowed her steps a bit to gain time. The tension in her stomach turned to knots. She had planned to write the article from the new perspective so she would be able to conduct interviews with the various teachers and entertainers over today and not have to return. She could not spend the next two weeks here at Chautauqua attending the classes and lectures to take notes for an article the way she had in the past. She had no money to pay Mrs. Duncan to care for her mother. With the increase in her weekly payment to Mrs. Smithfield for her mother, she barely had enough to pay for their room and board until the next school term began. And even then, her teacher’s wage would not cover—

“I believe we need to discuss this further, Miss Gordon.” Dr. Austin raised his head and glanced over at her. “Your articles have been very well received by our readers and I’m not certain changing them is a good idea. But I am willing to listen to your argument.” He glanced at the Assembly Herald building and frowned. “I’m uncertain how long this impromptu meeting will take, but if you could possibly wait until I’ve finished, we could continue our discussion.”

He hadn’t said no. She might still convince him. “I will wait, Dr. Austin.”

“Excellent. There is a bench over here.”

She followed him along the short stone path that ran parallel to the building, sat on a bench beside a door bearing a small sign that read Herald Office and rested her writing box on her lap. Her index finger searched out the small scratch in the smooth waxed surface and traced the indentation from end to end and back again in a tempo that matched the tapping of her foot. How would she care for her mother if he said no? She needed the money she would earn from the article to cover the increased room and board for September.

Her chest tightened, squeezed air from her lungs. She forced a breath and opened her box, pulled out paper and pencil and closed the lid. Worry would help nothing. And certainly prayer was of no avail. It was up to her to use her education and God-given talent— God-given? She thrust away that idea, narrowed her eyes and gazed around. Written words carried power. Much more than any argument she could present for the article would convey. She lowered her gaze to the blank piece of paper resting on the box and began to write the introduction she would use to convince Dr. Austin to agree.

The view from Dr. Austin’s office at the Assembly Herald building is, at once, spectacular and calming. Maple, elm and oak trees paint dappled shadows on the paths and grass, and between their bark-roughened trunks one can see the water of Chautauqua Lake rippling in the sunshine. A warm breeze rustles through the tree branches and the leaf shadows dance...

* * *

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Austin.” Charles rose and extended his hand to the courtly older gentleman. “I am an admirer of your writings.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Thornberg. And I’m quite certain you have not come to Chautauqua merely to compliment me. So why am I here? What is this meeting about?” Dr. Austin pinned him with a sharp look.

He smiled, stood by his chair and waited for the older man to take his seat. “I have submitted a business proposal to your partner, Dr. Austin. And Mr. Fuller graciously consented to summon you so that we might discuss it.”

“Mr. Thornberg has recently purchased the Jamestown Journal, John. He has come here with a business plan that he believes will be advantageous to us both. I think he is right.” William Fuller rose from the chair behind the cluttered desk and came to stand beside him. “So I will simply say, from a monetary perspective, that what he offers is, indeed, advantageous for us. And from that angle, I would recommend we accept the deal he brings. However, I know there are things about the Assembly Herald newsletter more important to you than profit. Therefore, I will leave you two to discuss those matters. A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Thornberg. I wish you well in your new endeavor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fuller.” Charles shook the man’s large work-scarred hand. “The pleasure was all mine, sir.”

“I’ll talk with you later to hear your decision, John.” William Fuller put on his top hat, tapped it into place and left the room.

“Well, it appears you have jumped one hurdle to your proposition, Mr. Thornberg. Let’s see if you can clear the next.” Dr. Austin stepped behind the desk, sat back in the chair William Fuller had vacated and folded his hands across his chest. “Have a seat and begin. And you can leave out the monetary details. That’s William’s decision. Mine is the content of the newsletter. What have you to say about that?”

“My proposition as to content is this, Dr. Austin.” He sat in the chair facing the desk and leaned forward. “I will accept and edit any articles or columns you wish included in the Assembly Herald. I will lay out the newsletter with the regular columns on their designated pages, provide all ‘filler’ material, write an editorial if you wish and handle any correspondence that is not meant for a specifically named contributor. I will pass forward all such letters.” He sat back, encouraged by the slow nodding of Dr. Austin’s head. “All this plus the printing of the newsletter will be done at a cost less than you now expend. But the true value to you, sir, will be the time you will save for your other duties and callings.”

Dr. Austin’s gaze fastened on his. “You are a shrewd negotiator, Mr. Thornberg. You have pointed out all of the benefits to us here at the assembly. However, you have neglected to tell me what advantage this deal holds for you.”

“A monetary one, sir. The Jamestown Journal is failing. The income earned from editing and printing your monthly newsletter will help to keep my newspaper afloat while I work to implement the changes I have planned and turn it into a profitable concern.”

“I see. I like your honesty, Mr. Thornberg.” Dr. Austin leaned forward, a smile peeking out from his beard. “If I understand you correctly, all of my present editorial duties will fall to you...including handling the correspondence.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“And I still have the final say over the content of our newsletter—the columns, articles and such?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we have a deal, Mr. Thornberg. Unless you choose to back away.”

He puzzled over the odd statement, could find no reason for it. “And why would I do that, sir? I’m the one who came to you with the offer.”

“Look at the top of my desk, Mr. Thornberg, and tell me what you see.”

He eyed the piles of letters spilling into one another, then glanced at the sudden twinkle in the Chautauqua leader’s eyes. “I suppose it’s too much to hope you are a very poor correspondent, sir?”

The older man let out a hoot. “You suppose right, Mr. Thornberg. These are this month’s letters from the far-spread members of our nationwide Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle. And all of the questions they contain have to be answered in the monthly column in the newsletter. A few of the letters will be directed to specific teachers and those must be answered individually. So have we a deal, Mr. Thornberg?”

“We have, Dr. Austin.” Though I wish I had known about those letters and the time they will swallow preparing your monthly newsletter before I made my offer. He rose, met the Chautauqua leader’s hand over top of the letters littering the desk and shook it.

“There’s one other thing, Mr. Thornberg—as long as you are here, I shall introduce you to the author of a new column I intend to include in the monthly newsletter.”

“I shall be most pleased to meet him, Dr. Austin.”

“Her, Mr. Thornberg.”

Her? He jerked his gaze from the piles of letters and stared at Dr. Austin as he came around the desk, scowled after him as he walked toward the door. A woman?

“Would you please come in, Miss Gordon? I’ve someone here you need to meet.”

He wiped the frown from his face and took a step toward the door.

“Of course, Dr. Austin.”

A slender woman garbed in a plain brown dress and carrying a thin wood box appeared in the sunlit doorway. The wren! He jerked to a halt. She was the columnist? He wiped the astonishment from his face as she stepped into the room and glanced his way.

Dr. Austin closed the door and turned to face them. “Mr. Thornberg, may I present Miss Gordon. Miss Gordon, Mr. Thornberg.”

“Miss Gordon.” He dipped his head in polite acknowledgment.

“Mr. Thornberg.”

You. She didn’t speak the word, but it was clear from the cool look she gave him that she recognized him as the man she’d caught staring at her on the steamer. He clamped his jaw to keep from launching into an explanation.

“Well, this is a fortuitous meeting for all of us. Please be seated, Miss Gordon.”

He moved to hold a chair for her as Dr. Austin strode behind his desk. She gave him a curt nod to acknowledge the politeness and sat, holding the box on her lap. He moved to sit in the other chair, eyed the polished wood and wondered at the contents.

“This morning has been full of pleasant surprises for me.” Dr. Austin smiled at them and took his chair. “I hope it proves the same for both of you.”

Charles swept his gaze from Dr. Austin to the piles of letters to Miss Gordon. He would not term these surprises pleasant. Startling would be a more apt description.

“Miss Gordon, I have given some thought to your idea for your next article for the Chautauqua edition of the Sunday School Journal.”

He lifted his gaze to her plain felt hat, forced down the irritation percolating inside him then focused his attention back on Dr. Austin.

“I like the idea for your piece and will include it in the Chautauqua submission for the Sunday School Journal.”

“Thank you, Dr. Austin.”

Her voice sounded soft, a tiny bit husky and...relieved? He glanced her way.

“I also think the idea wonderfully suited for a monthly column in the Assembly Herald.”

What? He jerked his gaze back to Dr. Austin but bit back the protest that sprang to his lips. The man had final say over the contents of the Chautauqua newsletter.

“You could feature one or two of the teachers or lecturers or entertainers here at Chautauqua each month, which will spur interest and excitement for next August. Should you agree, the stipend for the column will be the same as that you receive for your Journal articles. Would you care to take on the responsibility of the monthly column? I know you are a teacher and will have a large draw on your time come September.”

The wren was a teacher? He cast a sideways glance at her and glanced again. The woman’s face had transformed astonishingly, with an undeniable sweetness to her smile—a snare for the unwary.

“That will not be a problem, sir. I will be happy to write a monthly column for the Assembly Herald. To what address shall I submit it?”

“You will submit it to Mr. Thornberg. He will now be performing the editing and publication duties of the Assembly Herald.”

The smile faded. She opened the box, took out a piece of paper and a pencil and turned her head and looked at him. Gray eyes. Cool gray eyes. Miss Gordon was no more pleased with the situation than he. Good.

“The address where you wish me to submit the column, Mr. Thornberg?”

He refrained from giving a mock shiver at the cold tone of her voice. “That would be my newspaper office. The Jamestown Journal on West Second Street in Jamestown, New York.”

She put the paper and pencil back in the box, met his questioning gaze with another cool look. “I’ve no need to write the direction. I’m familiar with the area and with your new Journal building. I live at Mrs. Smithfield’s boardinghouse on East Second Street.”

“How very convenient.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

“Well, I must leave. There is an opening lecture I must give.” Dr. Austin tucked his watch back in his vest pocket, leaned down, then straightened and placed a large burlap bag on the piles of letters. “Take the letters with you, Mr. Thornberg. You’ll need time to read and answer them. And you’ll have to make arrangements to get the others that will continue to come in. I’ll see that they are placed in a sack for you.” He rose and made a courtly bow. “Good day, Miss Gordon. I shall look forward to reading your new monthly Chautauqua Experience column in the newsletter.”

Her new column...submitted to him. And all those letters with more to come! Charles cast a jaundiced eye at the piles, rose and picked up the bag. Miss Gordon clasped her box and stood. Well, that was one good thing. His curiosity had been answered. The box held writing supplies.

Sunlight slanted across the floor when Dr. Austin opened the door, disappeared when he closed it.

“Don’t forget these.” Miss Gordon put her box on the chair, stooped and picked up some letters that had slipped to the floor at the opposite end of the desk. “Why, these are all marked CLSC. That’s the reading program...” Her voice trailed off. She rose and looked at the piles of letters, her eyes widened. “Oh, my.” Her gaze lifted, met his. “Do you have to— I mean, are you going to—”

“Answer them in the Herald?” He opened the bag, grabbed a handful of the letters and shoved them into it. “Every one of them.”

“Oh, my.”

He slanted a look down at her. “You said that already.”

Her chin lifted. “It bears repeating.” She dropped the letters she held in the open bag, turned to the desk and snatched up those that had slid to the brink and were about to fall.

He studied her neat, no-nonsense appearance. She was a teacher. And a writer. Perhaps... He blew out a breath, examined the idea, decided he had no real choice. “Miss Gordon, could I interest you in a position answering correspondence at the Journal?”

Her left brow lifted. “Do you mean these Assembly Herald letters?”

“Yes.”

She tossed the ones she held into the bag and reached for more.

Obviously, she was waiting to hear his offer before she expressed any interest. It galled him to yield to the tactic, but he had no choice. “I’d be willing to pay you—” he glanced at the high tottering piles “—two cents for each letter answered.” That was too much. He should have said a penny. No. He couldn’t risk her turning him down. He couldn’t handle this amount of correspondence and run the paper, too. It was worth the money to free his time. He sweetened the deal. “And you would be permitted to use the typewriter for writing your own articles in your off time.”

She drew in an audible breath, straightened and looked at him. “A typewriter?”

Ah. He had her now. “Yes, the new Remington Standard model two.” He smiled, appealed further to the writer in her. “They say once you grow proficient at using the machine, you can type eighty or more words a minute.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I take it you have not reached such a proficiency—hence the offer?”

She was laughing at him! Brazen woman! He drew breath to rescind his offer. “Miss Gordon, I—” She dropped two overflowing handfuls of letters into the bag he held, gathered up more, dropped them on top of the others and gathered more. He watched her efficient movements, frowned and swallowed his words. “The typewriters and their desks have only just arrived. The machines are not yet uncrated.”

“I see.” More envelopes fluttered into the bag—more and more. Her plain brown hat bobbed with her curt nod. “I accept the position offered, Mr. Thornberg.” She pushed the envelopes down to make room, gathered up the remaining letters, stuffed them on top of the others, leaned across the cleared desk and checked the floor on the other side. “Two more.” She stepped around the desk, retrieved the letters from the floor and stuck them in the bag then looked up at him. “When do you wish me to start?”

Her gray eyes had blue flecks in them...

“Mr. Thornberg...”

“What? Oh!” He scowled down at the bag, drew the edges together, tossed it over his shoulder and moved toward the door. “Tomorrow morning at eight will be fine.”

She nodded, picked up her writing box and sailed out the door he opened for her.

He watched her hurrying up the path toward the hill, then turned and headed for the dock to wait for the Griffith, wondering if he’d just made a mistake. Miss Gordon seemed a little too independent of spirit for his comfort.

Chapter Two

Clarice closed the door, hurried across the lamp-lit entrance hall and held herself from running up the stairs. Mr. Paul retired early, and he was grouchy enough to complain to Mrs. Smithfield if he was disturbed. The excitement she’d been suppressing ever since her morning meeting with Dr. Austin bubbled and churned with undeniable force, driving her upward. Her skirt hems whispered an accompaniment to the soft tap of her feet against the carpet runner as she rushed to the end of the upstairs hallway, opened and closed her door then leaned back against it hugging her writing box and grinning.

“Mama, I’m a journalist— Well, I’m not really a journalist for a real newspaper. But I’m now a columnist for the monthly Chautauqua Assembly Herald newsletter!” She spread her arms and whirled into the room, the writing box dangling from one hand.

“Clarice, how wonderful! I know how much you—” The words choked off on a sob.

She stopped twirling, dropped her box on the bed and grasped her mother’s hands, gave a little tug to pull them away from her face. “What is it, Mama? What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Is it the pain in your back?”

“N-no. It’s only—I can’t remember the l-last time I saw you h-happy.”

“Oh, Mama, don’t cry. I finally have you here with me and that makes me happy. And now I have an exciting new job.”

“As a c-columnist?”

“Yes!”

Her mother tugged her hands free and wiped her cheeks and eyes. “You didn’t tell me you were going to apply for a new position when you left this morning.”

“I didn’t. That is what is so amazing. It all happened quite by accident.”

“Oh?”

She knew that tone. “It wasn’t God, Mama. It was just...circumstances.” She kissed her mother’s moist cheek, whirled to the mirror over the dressing table and removed her hat. “Still, I have had the most astonishing day. It all started when I went to see Dr. Austin about an interview and—” She peered into the mirror, dropped her hat on the table and turned. “What is that in your lap?”

“It’s a chemise.” Her mother’s chin lifted a tad. “I’m mending the torn lace on it for Mrs. Duncan.”

“Mama, no! You don’t have to work anymore.” She rushed to the bed and reached for the undergarment. Her mother grabbed hold of her hands.

“I know you want to take care of me, Clarice. But I also know Mrs. Smithfield has raised your room and board since I’ve come.”

“How did you— Mrs. Duncan!” She went as stiff as a board. “How did she find out? She had no right to snoop into my business, the old—old busybody! I didn’t want you to know. It’s my—” The squeeze of her mother’s hands stopped her.

“I asked Mrs. Duncan to find out for me, Clarice. I may not be very wise in city ways, but I know people won’t let you live for free. And I don’t want to be a—”

“Don’t you say that word, Mama!” Tears stung her eyes. “I want to take care of you. It gives me pleasure. It’s what I’ve been working toward ever since I left the farm and you had to do all of the cooking and cleaning and hoeing and raking and the scrubbing of those huge piles of oily work clothes for Father and Don and Jim and Carl by yourself, until—” Her voice broke. She drew a long shaky breath.

“You have to stop thinking about that, Clarice. It’s over.”

“You can’t walk, Mama. It will never be over.” The bitterness soured her voice.

“Yes, Clarice, one day it will. I don’t know if it will be here on earth or in Heaven, but one day I will walk again. Meantime, I need something to do with my days and I’ve always enjoyed sewing and mending—as long as it isn’t oil-stained work clothes. And I’m quite a hand at it, if I do say so as shouldn’t. And I’d like to think I’m earning my way a little.” Her mother slanted a look up at her and wrinkled her nose. “Surely, you can understand that, Miss Independent.”

The name pulled a smile from her, just as her mother knew it would. “I suppose so. But you don’t need to earn your way, Mama. I can take care of you. That’s what I was about to tell you.” The excitement crept back, colored her voice.

“And I want to hear.” Her mother released her hand and patted the bed.

She pushed her box out of the way and perched on the edge. “Dr. Austin—he’s one of the leaders of the Chautauqua Assembly—has asked me to write a monthly column for the Assembly Herald. And I will be paid the same as for the annual Chautauqua Experience article I write for the Sunday School Journal. I’m a professional columnist, Mama!” She jumped to her feet, too excited to remain sitting. “And it all happened because I had to— Because I decided to change the way I write my Sunday School Journal article.”

She lifted the box that held her notes on the interviews she had conducted all day and carried it over to the desk in the turret area. “You see, I needed to interview Dr. Austin, and so I had to explain how I wanted to change the article. But he had a meeting to attend, and I waited outside to interview him...” She lifted the lid of the long box window seat, pulled out a sheet and blanket, spread them over the pad and tucked the edges beneath. “When he called me in, he introduced me to the new owner of the Jamestown Journal—that’s a biweekly newspaper here in town.” She tossed a pillow down at one end of her makeshift bed and walked out of the turret to the wardrobe. “Mr. Thornberg is going to edit and print the Assembly Herald from now on, and so I am to submit my articles to him.”

“Here in town? Or must you still take the steamer to Fair Point?”

“Here in town.” She gave a tug at the double doors, winced. “I hate opening this wardrobe. That squeak gives me shivers.” She took her nightclothes off a hook on the inside of the door and stepped back into the small alcove formed between the wardrobe and the wall. “And there were all of these letters from CLSC members piled on the desk. Hundreds of them, which Mr. Thornberg now has to answer.” A smile tugged at her. She stuck her head out beyond the wardrobe and grinned at her mother. “He looked so nonplussed I’m certain he didn’t know about them. Anyway, he asked me if I would accept a position at his newspaper answering the correspondence for two cents a letter...”

“Two cents! And there are hundreds of letters?”

Her mother’s eyes widened.

“Maybe a thousand or more.”

“Mercy me...”

She laughed at her mother’s awed whisper. “I said yes, of course.” How fortuitous it all was! Only this morning she had been so worried about how she was to pay the increased room and board. Now she would have money enough and to spare. She would be able to get a doctor to care for her mother.

Tears welled. So did the temptation to pray—to beg God to make her mother well. She blinked the tears away, looped her modest bustle and cotton petticoat over a hook along with her skirt and bodice, not allowing herself to even think that her mother might walk again. She had learned the futility of prayer as a child begging to be freed from her father’s tyranny. Eleven years—

“How will you have time to answer all of those letters when you begin teaching?”

She shoved away the bitter memories. “I’m going to resign my position. I will earn more answering those letters every month than I would earn as a teacher. And more yet by writing my monthly column. And doing so will further my career.”

Oh, how wonderful that sounded! She snatched up her wrapper, put it on and crossed to the dressing table to pull the pins from her hair. Soft, dull clinks accompanied their drop into a small pewter dish. “And he has a typewriter I will use!”

“A ‘typewriter’?” Her mother’s questioning gaze fastened on hers in the mirror. “What is a typewriter?”

“It’s a machine that prints letters on a piece of paper when you depress a round button. I saw a picture of one once in an advertisement. Mr. Thornberg says that when a person becomes proficient in its use, they can write—type—up to eighty words a minute.” She stared into the distance trying to imagine it, then ran her hands through her hair and set the long silky tresses rippling free. “And that is another bles—benefit. I am to be at the newspaper tomorrow morning at eight to begin my work.” She ran her brush through her hair, looked at her mother and smiled. “The Journal building is close by, and unless Mr. Thornberg objects, I will be able to come home and see you at dinnertime. And I will be here with you for supper and every evening.”

She slipped a length of ribbon between her neck and her hair, tied it and stepped over to the bed. “Lean forward and I will rub your back, Mama.” She pulled the pillows out of her way, handed them to her mother, then massaged the muscles along her spine, frowning at the bony protrusions. Her mother was much too thin from all that hard work. Her face tightened. She thrust aside the infuriating memories. Her mother would never have to do such heavy lifting again. If only she could walk. But at least she was no longer in constant pain.

“That feels good, Clarice. It takes away the ache. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Mama.” She lifted her hands and massaged her mother’s bony shoulders and thin neck, wished it were her father beneath her hands. She would pummel him until he ached and be glad for doing it. She took a breath, reached for the pillows and punched them instead. “I’m sorry I had to leave you alone so soon after bringing you here, Mama. How was your day with Mrs. Duncan? Did she help with your personal needs all right? Did she bring you your meals?”

“Everything worked out fine, Clarice. Mrs. Duncan and I chatted like old friends. I enjoyed her company. I—”

She glanced at her mother’s tightly pressed lips, tucked the pillows in place and finished the sentence for her. “You never had visitors on the farm. Father scared them all away, except for Miss Hartmore.”

“Yes. God bless Miss Hartmore for her courage in rescuing you.”

It was a prayer. She said it, too, every time she thought of her old teacher. The difference was her mother believed God heard and answered prayer—for her it was an expression of gratitude.

“And you, Mama.”

“And me.” Her mother shivered and smoothed the wrinkles from the quilt covering her legs. “What sort of man is Mr. Thornberg?”

The question caught her off guard. “I don’t know, Mama. I only spoke with him for a few minutes.” She thought about his handsome, strong-featured face. There was nothing soft about Mr. Thornberg, but he seemed eminently fair...even generous. Of course, he hadn’t any choice. “He’s strong, with decisive ways.”

Her mother grabbed her arm. “Don’t anger him, Clarice. If he does not want you to come home for dinner, I will be fine with Mrs. Duncan.”

Her chest tightened. “You don’t have to be afraid for me, Mama. Mr. Thornberg is a bit autocratic—as men are. But he’s no despot. And I’m certainly in no physical danger.” An image of Mr. Thornberg towering over her as she stuffed letters into the bag he held flashed into her head. He was a big man—like her father. Odd that she hadn’t been frightened. Likely she’d been too focused on his job offer. She hid her shiver and smiled reassurance. “He’s a businessman with socially acceptable manners. He would never hit a woman. It would ruin his reputation.”

Her mother nodded and rested back against the fluffed pillows, but the remnant of past fear shadowed her blue eyes. “Just be careful, and do as Mr. Thornberg says, Clarice. I can’t protect you anymore.”

She turned her mind from all the times her mother had stepped in and taken a blow meant for her from her father’s hand, swallowed hard and pushed words out of her constricted throat. “There’s no need, Mama. You and I are here together, and I will take care of us both. No man will ever hurt either of us again. I promise you. Not ever.”

* * *

Charles tightened the screw in the wobbly table leg, tossed the screwdriver down and rose to shove the end of the table against the wall. “Ugh!” He ducked, rubbed the top of his head and shot a look upward. The three-lamp chandelier overhead was swinging. There were six of the traps for the tall and unwary hanging evenly spaced in two rows that ran the length of the room. One chandelier for each of the desks for the six reporters he hoped to need someday. So far he had one reporter—two counting himself—and a correspondence secretary acquired quite by accident. Well, accidental necessity. The deal he had made to edit and print the Assembly Herald newsletter was not quite as good as he had expected it to be, thanks to those letters. But he would still profit by it.

He tugged the chain to lift the weights and lower the light closer to the work surface, then glanced across the width of the room to the new black walnut typewriter desk sitting at a right angle to the outside wall. Miss Gordon would be out of the way there at the back of the editorial room. And the desk was handy to the shelves on the back wall that held reference books and supplies, and also to this table he had brought in to give her a place to sort those letters. She was going to need it.

He lifted the overstuffed burlap bag from where it leaned against the inside wall to the tabletop. Letters spilled out of the mouth of the bag onto the waxed wood when he let go. Curiosity reared. He picked up an envelope, broke the seal and scanned the contents.

Dear Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle teacher,

I have been doing my studying and reading and have come across these words I don’t understand or know how to properly say. There is no library near me where I can look them up in a dictionary. Would you help me, please? The words are phenomena and pantheists.

Also, please, how do you say these names correctly? Leucippus and Democritus.

Thank you for helping me.

Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle member Martha Hewitt, Burgessville, Iowa

He laid the letter on the table, lifted his hand and rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck. How would Miss Gordon ever manage to answer all of these letters in a column? It would take an entire page or more. He shook his head, strode to the door that opened into the composing room and continued on to the long, deep table that held the uncrated typewriters.

Miss Gordon had tried to hide her excitement at his mention that she would use a typewriter, but her eyes had betrayed her. Their gray color had warmed and those blue flecks had glowed with anticipation. And then she had challenged him.

He picked up one of the three typewriters and headed for her desk. How enthused and confident would Miss Gordon be when she saw the complex machine? Not to mention the thirteen-page brochure of directions on how to use and care for it. He would most likely have to help her in the beginning. Women weren’t meant to work with machines. It wasn’t their forte. They were best suited for caring for a home and a family. At least, most of them. His face went taut. He shoved away thoughts of his mother.

He settled the typewriter on the pullout shelf, tested it a couple of times to make certain it remained stable. Odd that Miss Gordon was yet unmarried. She wasn’t unattractive. It was her plain manner of dress and that cool, standoffish attitude she manifested that made one think so. Still, when she smiled...

He shook his head to rid himself of the image, strode back to the composing room, picked up another of the new typewriters and carried it to Boyd Willard’s desk in the front corner facing the stairwell. The reporter pounded up and down those stairs chasing after stories all day long and his comings and goings were less of a distraction with his desk in the front corner.

Boyd wasn’t too keen on learning to use a typewriter, but he’d given him no choice. He wanted a modern, efficient newspaper and employees who would fit in with his plans. If Boyd continued to balk, he’d fire him and hire someone willing to learn modern ways.

One more. He carried the last typewriter to his desk, looked around and smiled. The new machines gave the editorial room a modern, businesslike look. He distributed the manuals that had come with the machines to the other desks, plopped down in his desk chair and opened his. He might as well get a head start so he’d have the answers when Miss Gordon came to him looking for help.

He scanned the information about setting the machines in place and skipped down the page. Machines are packed and shipped, properly adjusted and ready for use. Good to know. Placing the Paper. Ah, this was the information he needed.

He grabbed a piece of paper off the pile sitting on his desk and read the instructions. Lay the paper upon the paper shelf (F) with the edge close down between the cylinder and the feed roll...

* * *

Clarice turned onto the stone walkway and glanced again at the impressive building. The morning sun shone on the brick, warmed the gray stone that framed the doors and windows and formed the legend Jamestown Journal above the second-story windows. She worked here! Her dream come true. Almost. The word calmed her rush of nerves. It was true Mr. Thornberg had hired her, but her work was for the Assembly Herald, not for the Journal. Still, she would be working here at the newspaper building every day. The chance for her to prove herself as a journalist would come.

She took a deep breath, lifted the hem of her skirt and climbed the two steps to the large stoop. A long window in the wide paneled door reflected her image, the small white dots on the bodice of her midnight-blue day dress twinkling like stars in a night sky as she moved forward. She stole a quick glance to be sure every strand of hair was swept into the thick coil on the back of her head, then opened the door and stepped into a large entrance hall. There was a strange scent in the air—faintly metallic, rather...stale, though not like food. She sniffed, then sniffed again but couldn’t identify it. She turned toward the open door on her left marked Office and stepped inside. The odd scent grew stronger.

A portly man with a bald spot and bushy gray eyebrows above eyes with squint lines at their corners turned from the counter he was leaning on and peered at her. She glanced at his ink-stained fingers and the black blotches smearing his leather apron. Printer’s ink. That’s what that smell was.

“May I help you, miss?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m looking for Mr. Thorn—”

“Here’s the copy for that advertisement, Clicker.” Charles Thornberg came striding out of what she took to be an inner office, glanced her way and stopped short. He handed the paper in his hand to the portly man. “Mr. Gustafson wants twenty posters. He’ll send someone to pick them up this afternoon.”

The printer nodded and hurried out the door beside her.

Her nose twitched as he passed by. It was the ink.

“You are prompt, Miss Gordon.”

There was an underlying note in Charles Thornberg’s voice that suggested he was surprised by the fact. Because she was a woman? What other reason would he have? She gave him a cool look. “It is my belief that tardiness shows a flagrant disregard for another’s time. It has no place in the business world, Mr. Thornberg.”

His left brow rose. “An admirable point of view, Miss Gordon.” He came around the desk, gestured toward the door. “If you will come with me, I will show you to your desk so you are not delayed in your work.”

Was he gibing her for having an opinion? She swallowed the desire to ask him if he would have addressed a man thus, lifted her chin and preceded him out of the door then waited for his direction.

“This way, please.”

She followed him down the entrance room, through a door with a No Admittance sign and into a wide hallway. The odor of printer ink, much stronger in the smaller space, mingled with another somewhat rancid chemical smell.

“That is the...er...‘necessary.’” Mr. Thornberg waved a hand toward a door opposite the one through which they had entered, then turned to the right and motioned to a door in the end wall. “Those chemicals you smell are from the photography room. It’s located inside the printing room—Clicker’s domain, which one enters at his peril.”

His lips slanted in a wry grin that was utterly charming and impossible to withstand. She tried, but her traitorous lips curved in response.

He pivoted and strode toward the room then stopped at the base of a wide stairwell on his right. “We’ll go upstairs.” He moved to the far edge and waited.

A muted clicking came from the printing room. She shot a sidelong look toward the door, wishing he would take her in there to see how the printing was done. Perhaps if she were a man, he would have. Was that why he had warned her away? Because she was a woman? Her father had no such problem in assigning her man’s work on the farm. Her face tightened. She took hold of the railing, lifted her hems with her left hand and started to climb, the whisper of the short train of her long skirt against the polished wood accompanied by the taunting clicking sound. Mr. Thornberg fell into step beside her. Her stomach tensed at his closeness. She forced herself to maintain a dignified pace instead of bolting ahead to put space between them.

“The stairway divides at the landing. The steps on the right go to the composing room. We’ll take the left side that goes to the editorial room.”

She nodded, crossed the landing to the left side and began to climb the second flight of stairs. Sunlight poured in a window on their right, making the polished oak treads glow. She stepped off the stairs onto the oak floor, turned toward the room and stared. “It’s—it’s huge.”

“I built for the future. This town will grow and I expect to need the space for more reporters when the paper increases in circulation.”

More reporters. Her heart skipped. Oh, God, please, let me be— She squelched the spontaneous prayer. Even after years of knowing it was simply a waste of time, the urge to pray rose from her heart during unguarded moments. She glanced at the morning sunlight pouring in the four large windows in the long side wall. “It’s wonderfully bright in here.”

“Yes. I wanted to capture all the natural light I could. There’s little enough on stormy, rainy days or in the winter when it turns dark early. But I had chandeliers hung over each desk to take care of that problem—or for when there’s an emergency of some sort and we have to work nights to get the story written and printed.”

“That sounds challenging.” She glanced up at the chandeliers hanging by loops of chain from the ceiling and took a step to the side. Not all men were cruel like her father and brothers, but being alone with one still unnerved her. It was a situation she tried to avoid. “It seems you’ve thought of everything.”

“I’ve tried. But I’m sure there will come some point in the future when I’ll discover something else was needed.”

She stole a surprised glance at him through her lowered lashes. Where was the supercilious male attitude that had been so apparent?

He moved forward, gestured to the right, then to the left. “That is Boyd Willard’s desk—he’s my reporter. This is mine.”

His? Didn’t he have an office?

“This area is empty at the moment.” His lips slanted in another of those charming grins. “It will hold the desks for those reporters of the future.”

“I’m sure it will, Mr. Thornberg.” She wasn’t sure why she uttered the reassuring words, or even if she meant them for him or for herself. It just seemed that somehow her dream of one day being a journalist blended with his dream of one day having a thriving newspaper. His patronizing attitude toward women in the workplace was a little daunting as far as her dream went, but biting her tongue when a retort sprang to her lips and working hard should change that. Her writing ability would speak for itself.

“Yes. Well... Through this doorway is the composing room.” He motioned her ahead of him.

She stepped into the adjoining room, swept her gaze over three of the largest tables she had ever seen. On the opposite wall, between the windows, three hangers with serrated-edged cutters held wide, thick rolls of white paper. Supplies too numerous to take in and give name to filled floor-to-ceiling shelves that framed two windows on the back wall. She longed to go and peek in the boxes and small wood crates, to open the stoppered bottles and jars and find out what treasures they held. “This is where you design and lay out the pages the way you wish them to appear in the newspaper?” She moved forward to the center table and ran her hand over the smooth surface, imagining the process.

“Yes.”

A small box filled with pieces of paper with writing on them sat at the end of the table. “What are these?”

“Fillers.”

She looked up at him.

“They hold snippets of information, usually historical in nature—recipes, gardening hints, that sort of thing.” He stepped to her side, reached into the basket and pulled out a few of the pieces. “As you can see, they are different widths and lengths.” He glanced at her, then looked down at the papers he’d spread on the table. “Stories or articles or advertisements don’t always fill a column or allotted block, and you don’t want empty space on a newspaper page, so you choose one of these of the right length that will match the width of the column and use it to ‘fill’ that area.”

“I see.” She stared down at the filler pieces, touched the one touting “Indian Pudding.” Her pulse quickened. “Who writes these?”

“There was an ample supply of them when I bought the paper, but they’re running low. I’ve only enough for a few weeks left. I’ll see about making more soon.” He swept the pieces together and tossed them back in the box. “I’ll show you to your desk.”

Her desk. Her stomach flopped. She pressed her hand against it and followed him back into the editorial room.

“I put this table here for your use. I presumed you will need a place to sort through all of those letters.”

She followed the sweep of Mr. Thornberg’s hand and eyed the burlap bag with letters spilling out of it lying on its side on the table. “That was very thoughtful. Thank you.”

He nodded and moved on, stopped.

Sunlight pouring in the last of four windows in the outside wall shone on the polished wood of a low hooped-back chair with a red pad and a beautiful desk with six drawers. But it was the box on top that made her pulse race. Did it contain a typewriter?

“I placed your desk here close to the shelves of our research materials on the back wall, where it would be handy for you.”

Another thoughtful gesture. She tugged her gaze from the box and looked at the shelves, stared in amazement at the treasure trove of rich leather-backed books.

“There is a dictionary and thesaurus, of course, along with other research books. Volumes of literature and poetry...books on history and the sciences...legal books...a Bible and concordance, of course...maps... There are also office and writing supplies. And now typewriter supplies, as well. You’ll not need them to start, however.”

Her heart sank. She promptly took herself to task for her attitude. So she wouldn’t have a typewriter of her own. She had a job as a columnist, and she would work here in the editorial room of a newspaper, and she was free to use one of the other typewriters when—

“The machines come adjusted and ready for use.”

Her heart all but stopped when he reached down and grasped the front of the box. He opened the hinged front sections out to the side like double doors and a typewriter sat there, sunlight gleaming on the metal, shining on the round white keys and warming the narrow wood bar at the bottom front. Her breath caught. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Her fingers tingled to touch it.

“The shelf the machine sits on pulls out and locks in place when you wish to type—like this.” He slid the shelf forward. “When you are finished with your work, you unlock the shelf and push it back, thus...” He demonstrated, then straightened and stepped back. “I believe that is all I need show you, Miss Gordon.” His gaze fastened on hers. “I think it best if you learn how to use and care for the machine on your own. I will, of course, be ready to answer any questions you may have or give you any help you require. You may feel free to interrupt my work at any time—while you are learning about the typewriter. I trust it will not take more than a few days.”

His tone said he expected there would be quite a few interruptions. She stiffened and lowered her gaze back to the typewriter. If a man could learn to use it, so could she!

“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).

She laid the page down on the desk, tugged her chair close and placed the fingers of her left hand on the A-S-D-F keys on the paper, closed her eyes and repeated the names of the letters over and over, tapping the corresponding finger on the paper key. Her index finger she used for the G key, also. When she was satisfied she had them memorized, she moved to the right side of the key-board and did the same with her right hand. “J-K-L colon and semicolon. And also the H.”

“What are you doing, Clarice?”

“I’m learning to use the typewriter, Mama. See...” She rose and carried the manual to the bed, showed the key-board to her mother. “I put my fingers on the keys, thus...” She placed them as the manual advised. “And now to write—type—a word I just push down the right keys. Watch me do your name...h...” She pushed down her right index finger. “Oh, no, that’s wrong. I must push down this key that says Upper Case first.” She pushed the key on the left side of the bottom row above the space bar then pushed down with her right index finger again. “Capital H... Now I push the upper-case key down again to disengage it. And then I press the rest of the letters...” She peered down at the key-board and found them. “e...l...e...n. There! I have typed your name. If I were using the typewriter, your name would be printed on a piece of paper beneath the...the roller thing. See. Here it is.” She opened the manual to the picture of the typewriter with all of the parts named.

“You have to learn all of that just to write my name?” Her mother shook her head, laughed and lifted the pencil she held into the air. “I’ll use this, thank you.”

“Well, I am going to learn how to use this typewriter. And I am going to learn it without Mr. Thornberg’s help. And you can help me, Mama.” She carried the manual back to the desk. “When I have all of these keys memorized, and I have practiced enough that my fingers don’t trip all over each other trying to find them, I will sit over there by the bed and you can call out words for me to type. I will keep my eyes closed, and you can watch my fingers and tell me if I hit the right keys. I am going to type better and faster than anyone else at the Journal—including Mr. Thornberg. That will show him my value as an employee.”

She placed her fingers over the center row on the paper key-board and studied the top row on the left side. Q-W-E-R-T. Now, which fingers should she use...

* * *

The letters were blurring too much for her to practice any longer. Clarice blinked her eyes and glanced at her open locket watch she’d placed in the light cast by the oil lamp. One o’clock. She looked over at the bed and smiled. Her mother had set the writing box aside and succumbed to sleep close to two hours ago. And she was sleeping well. She hadn’t once moaned with pain.

Could the surcease of pain mean that her mother might walk again? Hope sprang to her heart. She would arrange for a doctor to come and see her mother as soon as she had the money. And that meant she had to stop practicing with the typewriter at work and concentrate on answering those letters. She wasn’t being paid to learn how to use the typewriter. And her mother’s care came first, even before her ambition to be a columnist for a real newspaper.

She closed the manual and slipped from her chair to take the writing box off the bed. Her mother’s Bible was open beside it, a verse marked with a small star in the margin. She averted her eyes. How could her mother still believe in God after all she had suffered? She picked up the writing box and placed it on the seat of the chair by the bed, where her mother could reach it, and glanced back at the Bible. The marked verse drew her eye. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.

Well, that was certainly true. She would never have let her mother be crippled!

Trust me.

The thought was so clear it might have been spoken. She spun about and hurried back to the turret area, turned down the wick to dim the lamp and shrugged out of her dressing gown. The night was warm, but shivers prickled her flesh. She slipped beneath the blanket on the window seat and pulled it up around her neck, seeking the comfort of its softness and warmth. All was dark outside the windows. There were no stars to look at—nothing.

The silence of the night settled around her. Her heart ached with a longing she didn’t understand and refused to acknowledge. She turned onto her other side and stared at the dim spot of light, the lowered wick glowing against the darkness.

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