I realize you owe me no filial allegiance, but you are the only person in America with sufficient interest in this information not becoming known to keep it secret.
Secret? His mouth quirked. His mother had discarded Jonathan just as she had discarded him all those years ago. And in so doing, she had, inadvertently, given him the best gift he could ever receive. Place his brother in a boarding school? Never! He had lived that life. He would never subject Jonathan to that loneliness, that need to belong somewhere, to someone. He huffed out a breath, ran his hand over the back of his neck, winced when he accidentally touched the blister. Jonathan would stay right here, with him. But he had to manage that in a way that would keep Jonathan from being hurt by their mother’s abandonment.
He lifted the chair from where Clarice Gordon had placed it beside the stand, set it close to the bed, sat and closed his eyes to work out a story. He didn’t lie, so it would take some finesse. At least he had Jonathan’s immediate needs taken care of—for a week. Not that Clarice Gordon was happy about that. Well, neither was he; he certainly wouldn’t choose a career woman to care for his young brother. Jonathan needed someone warm and loving and caring after the unfeeling way he’d been treated—not a coolly efficient suffragist.
Clarice Gordon’s face floated before him, her eyes challenging, her small rounded chin lifted. It was a major battle to try and do something for the woman! He frowned and opened his eyes, stared into the darkness wondering what made her so independent and prickly. Though she wasn’t like that when she spoke of her mother. Her face softened and her voice warmed when that happened. But even so, there was an anger that burned in the depths of her eyes.
He placed his elbows on the chair arms, slid forward on the seat until he could rest his head against the chair back, then laced his fingers over his stomach. She had very telling eyes. And beautiful. Startlingly so. Gray with blue flecks. And long, thick lashes as black as her hair. Her eyes were the first thing he’d noticed—once he’d gotten a good look at her face. Before that it was the plain, unadorned way she dressed, as if she wanted not to be noticed, and the thin wood box she carried. She’d clutched that box as if her life depended on it. And, of course, as it turned out, her livelihood did.
His lips twitched, lifted into a wry grin. She’d been plenty prickly that day. And frosty. Whoo! She could have frozen a pond with the looks she’d sent his way. But she was too smart to let her feelings, whatever they were at the time, influence her judgment when he offered her a job. And the way she’d stayed silent and merely kept shoving those letters into the bag he held until he laid out his offer... He smothered a chuckle and shook his head. He might not approve of career women, but he had to admit Clarice Gordon was intelligent, efficient and clever. None of which would help Jonathan. He needed the love and warmth of a caring heart.
He lifted his hand and scrubbed at the stubble forming on his chin, drew his thoughts back to the present. He needed a cover story...
* * *
Clarice tiptoed up the stairs, turned toward her room and caught her breath. A sliver of light showed beneath the door. Guilt settled like a rock in her heart. She ran on tiptoe, her skirt train bouncing along the hall runner, slipped into the bedroom and hurried toward her mother’s bed. “What’s wrong, Mama? Are you in pain? I’m sorry I wasn’t here to massage your back to help you sleep. I’ll do it—”
“Hush, Clarice. You’ll wake Mr. Grumpy down the hall. I’m fine.” Her mother waved a hand toward the windows in the turret. “There’s no moonlight to speak of, and I was a little worried about you walking home, is all.”
The clamp around her heart eased. “I didn’t walk, Mama. Mr. Thornberg sent me home in a carriage.”
“A carriage!” Her mother’s brows shot skyward. “Why?”
She moved to the dressing table and sank onto the bench, chiding herself for her foolishness. She had to get over this nagging fear that when she left, she would find her mother’s condition worse when she returned. She leaned down to unlace her shoes and hide her face. Her mother had good eyes and sharp intuition. “He said he promised you he would see me home safe.”
“Well, yes. He did say that. But I never thought...”
“And as he couldn’t escort me, he arranged for the carriage.”
“Gracious me...”
Her mother sounded as astonished as she had been—still was. She looked up and forced a grin. “He doesn’t know after years of chasing chickens and runaway pigs on the farm, I can likely outrun any man or beast that would intend me harm.” She wiggled her toes, rose and began undoing the buttons on her gown to keep from thinking about how she had felt riding home in that carriage.
“I’ve been waiting to hear about that little boy.” Her mother squinted at her through the dim light. “You’re going to take care of him, aren’t you? Poor little mite, being left at the newspaper office for Mr. Thornberg like that. He was right shocked, I’ll tell you. I could see it in his eyes. I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking how a body doesn’t know they have a brother.”
“It’s because Jonathan was born in Paris, France, Mama.” She swirled her dressing gown on over her nightdress and braced herself against the screech when she closed the wardrobe.
“That little boy has come all the way across the ocean?”
“Yes. And he’s not yet three years old.” She crossed to her mother’s bed table and raised the wick on the lamp. She could afford a bit of extra oil now.
“What happened to his mother and father?”
His father is a married man of social prominence and, of course, wants no part of the boy or any scandal. Nor do I.
Anger drew her face taut.
“Clarice...”
“Jonathan is the ‘result’ of an illicit tryst between two married people, Mama. And neither of them want him. His mother has been hiding him from her wealthy husband. She sent him to Mr. Thornberg here in America to protect her marriage.”
Air hissed through her mother’s teeth. “Well, I never! I, who never wanted to let you go, had to send you away to protect you. And this woman throws her child away for her own comfort and ease! She has no heart. She should be—” Her mother gripped her arm, the strength of years of hard work in her hand. “Clarice, did you agree to take care of that little boy?”
“Yes, I did, Mama. Until Mr. Thornberg’s housekeeper returns.” She frowned and sat on the edge of the bed as the worries came flooding back. “But it’s not like working at the newspaper. I don’t know how long I will be gone each day. I may not be home in time to rub your back at night or—”
“That doesn’t matter, Clarice. That little boy needs love.”
“I know, Mama. I’ll manage.” And likely lose my heart to him in the process. She sighed, rose and reached for the pillows. “Lean forward, and I’ll rub your back now. It’s past time for us to be asleep.” Tears stung her eyes. Anger lent strength to her fingers kneading the spare flesh over her mother’s protruding hip bones.
“My, my...”
“What is it, Mama?” She massaged along the bony spine, then raised her hands to knead the muscles across her mother’s thin shoulders.
“I was just thinking about Mr. Thornberg hiring that carriage to bring you home.”
She stiffened, refused to recall that odd feeling she’d experienced when he’d looked at her. She’d been unable to shake her reaction during the ride.
“He’s a nice young man. Honorable, too, keeping his word like that.”
He had his own selfish reason, Mama. Men always do. She worked her way back down her mother’s spine then smoothed her nightgown. “There. Let me fluff your pillows and you can go to sleep.”
“He will make some woman a good husband.”
If there was such a thing. “Have a good night, Mama. I’ll see you in the morning.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and
lowered the wick on the lamp, turned then paused when her mother took hold of her hand.
“Clarice, please don’t let your father and brothers sour you on marriage. Please don’t rob yourself of the joy of children of your own because of the way your father treated us. There are good men who love their wives and children and treat them well.”
“I know. But I prefer to be a career woman and take care of myself and you, Mama.” She ignored her mother’s sigh, walked through the archway to the wide window seat in the turret and made up her bed. The rumbling of her stomach reminded her she had missed supper.
This is my home, not your father’s farm, Miss Gordon. I will hold the valise. Charles Thornberg’s words pressed through her resistance, as insistent as the man himself. She slipped beneath the blankets, turned onto her side and stared out into the darkness, refusing to remember the way he had looked at her...the unsettled feeling his presence caused her.
I placed the valise here so I would not forget to take Jonathan’s things to the laundry tomorrow. You, Miss Gordon, are to care for my brother, not act as a maid or washerwoman! Is that clear? Her stomach rumbled again. She pressed her hand against it, puzzled over his words. His attitude was so different from her father’s. But did he truly mean what he said? She had to feed Jonathan. And that meant she had to cook and clean the kitchen. Who was to do the shopping for supplies? Clearly, she had to discuss her duties with Mr. Thornberg tomorrow morning.
She closed her eyes to make a mental list of questions she needed answered, but Jonathan’s sweet face formed in her head. Would he sleep all night? What would Charles Thornberg do if the toddler woke? The soft, ragged sobs that had torn at her heart pierced her memory. It was unnatural for a child to be so quiet when he cried. Had he been punished for disturbing someone’s sleep? With how many strangers, in how many countries, had he been boarded? Small wonder he was afraid.
It’s all right, Jonathan, everything is all right. You have a home now. No one will ever discard you again. I give you my word on it.
The image of Charles Thornberg holding his brother, looking fierce and protective as he spoke those words, shaped itself against the dark window. Her concern that Jonathan would wake and be afraid eased. There was no reason for it to—nothing in her life suggested that a man would be careful or tender with a child—but against all she knew, she believed Charles Thornberg would keep that promise. It didn’t make sense—but neither did his providing the carriage for her. Or walking her home beneath his umbrella in the rainstorm. Or wrapping his suit coat around her. None of it made sense.
She yawned and pulled the blanket close around her. Her eyelashes fluttered down. He was bigger than her father or brothers, but his touch had been gentle.
The jacket is much too large for you. Hold it tight or the wind will whip it away.
She’d felt so...different wrapped in his coat... She’d felt...warm...outside and inside...and somehow...safe. It made...no sense...at all... How could a...coat...make you...safe...
* * *
The oil lamp on the table in the corner cast a golden glow into the entrance hall. Clarice closed the front door and paused, listened. Silence. Had she come too early? She eyed the stairs, gnawed at the corner of her lip. She couldn’t go up there. What if Charles Thornberg was still abed? Or came walking into Jonathan’s room in his nightclothes!
That thought drove her down the short hallway to the kitchen she’d explored briefly yesterday when she’d been trying to find something to feed Jonathan. She moved into the room and looked around. The set-back cupboard held dishes and flatware on its shelves. Most likely there were serving dishes hidden in the cupboards on the bottom.
The gray light of dawn filtered through the small panes of the window in the top of the back door. She peered out, looked beyond a deep porch to a sizable yard with a stable at the back. If the stable was empty, as she suspected it was, it could be an interesting and fun place for Jonathan to play. But that would come after he had settled in and learned to know them. No, after he learned to know Mr. Thornberg. She would be back working at the newspaper by then.
The floor overhead squeaked. She glanced up. That had to be Charles Thornberg moving around. Jonathan was too small to make a floorboard squeak. Was the toddler awake? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t go up there. Another squeak added to the tension across her shoulders. She turned her attention to the stove.
The fire was out. A quick search won her paper and kindling from one end of the wood box and matches from a shelf above it. She shook down the cold ashes, opened the dampers in the chimney and fire door and laid the fire. The match flared and the paper she’d crumpled caught afire on her second try. A minute later the kindling burst into tiny flames. She chose a few of the smallest pieces of wood, added them to the fire, careful not to smother the flames, then walked to the refrigerator that sat against the opposite wall. A large bowl sitting on top held apples. Sheep’s nose, by the look of them.
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
Charles 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.
His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) Page 9
