He was pouring her coffee again! She took a breath, swiped the towel around the bowl. Why didn’t he just tell her what he wanted her to do, instead of playing these games?
“You take your coffee with a bit of cream, right? Looks like you’ve already put it away. I’ll just—”
“I’ll get it.” Anything to make him stop. “Just let me put these bowls away first.” She threw down the towel, stacked the bowl on top of the other dried ones and turned, stopped. Charles was standing at the work table, two steaming cups of coffee in front of him. Wonderful. She had to pass him to get to the step-back cupboard where the bowls were kept. He’d be sure to notice her red, puffy eyes. “Or I can put them away later.”
She set the bowls back on the sink cupboard, hurried to the refrigerator and snatched up the small pitcher of cream. If she kept her head down... She poured cream in her coffee and returned the pitcher to the refrigerator. There was nothing else to do to keep her distance from him. She placed her fingertips against the cold pitcher, held them to her puffy eyes for a moment then closed the door and turned. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“I wanted to talk with you, yes. But upstairs. I promised Jonathan I would be there when he woke.”
Her throat tightened. She blinked her eyes and pressed her lips together to keep from shouting at him to stop pretending. That Jonathan’s little heart would be crushed when he tired of playing his game of protective big brother, for whatever his reason. The letter from Jonathan’s mother with the enclosed bank draft flashed into her mind again. Her stomach soured. It was the only reason she could think of that Charles might be keeping Jonathan. Brothers weren’t protective—they were mean and selfish. She should know. It had to be the money.
She nodded, ducked her head, reached around and yanked the ties of Mrs. Hotchkiss’s too-large apron, frowned and yanked again. Knotted. Perfect. Just what she needed. She probed with her fingers, tugged.
“Need some help?”
No! “I can manage, thank—”
“Turn around.”
His shoes appeared in her vision. She froze. Don’t— His hands grasped her shoulders. She went stiff as a board, bit down on her lip to hold back a demand that he not touch her. He gave a gentle nudge, and she turned on wooden legs. The apron drew taut around her waist. She held her breath at the touch of his fingers and knuckles against her dress, tried not to remember how her father had grabbed the ties on her aprons and yanked her to him when she tried to escape his punishing hand.
“That’s got it.”
The apron loosened, hung in deep folds. She listened to him move away.
“I’ll carry the coffee.”
Good. Because if she had it in her hands right now, she’d throw it at him. She slipped the neck loop over her head and removed the apron, hung it on a chair back and led the way into the entrance hall and up the stairs.
“We can talk in the bedroom where you are working. You can sit down in there.”
She shook her head, moved to stand close to Jonathan’s bedroom door. “I prefer to stay here in the hallway. Jonathan was very frightened this morning, and I want to be sure we’ll hear him if he stirs.”
He nodded, handed her the cup of milk-laced coffee. “I know you would prefer to be working at your job at the newspaper, Clarice. But I thank you for the excellent care you are giving Jonathan. The way you comforted him—” He broke off, took a swallow of his coffee.
His praise was meaningless...hollow. He wanted something more from her. She took a sip of her coffee and waited.
“It’s obvious that Jonathan trusts you.”
“He has no choice.” Her throat thickened. “I’m the one looking after him—at the moment.” Poor baby, being passed around like unwanted clothing.
“There’s more to it than that, Clarice.” Charles took another swallow of coffee, looked down and swirled the hot brew in his cup. “I want him to trust me that way—to know he’s safe with me. So I’ve decided to stay home from the newspaper tomorrow and spend the day with him.”
She jerked her gaze to his face. “Stay home from the newspaper?”
“Yes.” His brow furrowed. “It will take some doing, but I can manage it. The next issue isn’t for two days.” He glanced into the bedroom. “Do you think Jonathan would like that? That it would help him to know that he can depend on me...that I will take care of him?”
Her mind balked. She stared at him. Men didn’t take care of children. At least, not her father or the other men she’d known in her life. And Jonathan didn’t have to trust him in order for him to keep the money. Did he? She held back a frown. He was looking at her...waiting for an answer. “I’m sure he would like to spend more time with you. And that it would build his trust.” His smile added to her confusion.
“I thought he might like to go for a steamer ride on the lake.”
She nodded, picturing Jonathan’s excitement. “That’s a wonderful idea. I’m sure he will love the steamers.” She ignored the wrench the thought of being separated from the toddler, of not knowing if he was all right, brought and glanced toward the bedroom across the hall. The first stack of letters were answered. She would be able to go to the newspaper and bring back another pile to—
“And then have a picnic dinner at Chautauqua.” Charles drained his coffee cup and sat it on the small table along the wall. “I saw some tables and benches in the trees along the shore area when I was there.”
“A picnic?” A smile touched her lips. Jonathan would have a wonderful time exploring—
“I thought, perhaps, you could make us up a meal? There must be a suitable basket around the kitchen somewhere. If not, I will buy one.”
So that was what he wanted of her. She nodded and set her cup down beside his, mentally revising the supper she had planned to one that would provide cold food for a picnic. Perhaps chicken...
“Whatever you and Jonathan would like is fine—”
“Me?” The new menu flew from her mind.
“Why, yes.” He frowned, fastened his gaze on hers. “I thought you understood that you would be coming along. I’m afraid Jonathan would think I was taking him away if I went off with him alone. You must come so he is comfortable on our expedition.”
“I see.” Unfortunately, she did. What he said made sense—and eased her mind about Jonathan being on a steamer without her there to watch over him. She took a breath, nodded. “Very well.”
“Good. That’s settled, then.” The clock downstairs in the sitting room gonged. He glanced back into Jonathan’s bedroom. “How long does he sleep? I told Robert Tyner I’d stop into the bank today with that bank draft.”
It was the money. Her stomach sank, churned. “You’ve no need for concern. Jonathan will be awake long before the bank closes. Now, if you will excuse me, since you are staying with Jonathan, I have dishes to finish.” She snatched the coffee cups off the table and hurried down the stairs.
* * *
Charles frowned at the gathering clouds and stepped into the bank. He nodded to the tellers conducting business at their cubicles on his way to the offices and removed his hat.
“Good afternoon, Miss Paul. Is Mr. Tyner in?”
The blond-haired secretary smiled and nodded. “He said you were to go right in, Mr. Thornberg.”
“Thank you.” The door on the left bore a discreet sign that read Robert Tyner, President. He rapped and waited.
“Come in.”
The door whispered open and closed with a gentle push. His footsteps on the plush Oriental rug barely disturbed the hushed atmosphere of the elegant office.
“Good afternoon, Charles.” Robert Tyner rose and extended his hand in welcome. “I’ve been expecting you. How is the newspaper doing?”
“We’re keeping our head above water.” Charles met the bank president’s firm grip w
ith his own. “And circulation is improving every week. I expect to turn the Jamestown Journal into a daily paper by the end of the year.”
“Well, I’m all for that. This town needs a strong newspaper to help build our businesses and keep the politicians honest.”
“Well, I can’t promise to do that—” his lips slanted in a wry grin “—but I’ll do my level best.”
“That’s all the people of Jamestown can ask.” Robert Tyner waved a hand in the direction of the pair of leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
He pulled the bank draft out of his pocket and handed it to the banker. “First you can tell me if this is real.”
Robert Tyner adjusted his glasses, peered at the document in his hand. “Hmm, an international bank draft written on the Bank of England.” He glanced up at him over the top of his glasses. “It’s real, all right.” He looked back down. “And made out to you.” His eyebrow quirked. “This is a sizable amount.” He laid the draft on his desk and lowered his glasses. “Did you want to deposit this in your savings account?”
“No. I want to use it to open a trust account in the name of Jonathan Thornberg.”
“Jonathan Thornberg?”
“He’s my brother.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a brother.”
“Neither was I. He’s a toddler, not yet three years old and just arrived from England.” He sat back in the chair to finish his story with the ambiguous truth he’d decided on to protect Jonathan from the harsh fact of his mother’s abandonment of him. “My mother is, of course, an older woman now, and there were complications surrounding Jonathan’s birth. There is doubt she will ever recover from them, so she sent him to me.” He fought to keep the anger from showing on his face or coloring his voice. “The draft is for his care. But I am more than capable of caring for him. Thus, I want the money from the draft set up as a trust for him.”
“Most generous of you, Charles.” The banker opened a drawer, pulled out a form, perched his glasses back on his nose and picked up his pen. “Donor... Charles— Have you a middle name?”
“Jefferson.”
“Thank you. And the boy’s full name?”
“Jonathan David Thornberg.”
“Place and date of birth.”
“Paris, France, the eighteenth day of December, eighteen hundred seventy-five.”
He watched Robert Tyner fill out the information, listened to the clock on the wall ticking out the minutes and shifted in his chair. He had to get to the newspaper. He had a lot to—
“And when do you wish Jonathan to come into this trust?”
“Upon graduation from school or when he is twenty-one—whichever comes first.”
“Very good. Now, if you will just sign here...” The banker pointed to a line on the paper and handed him the pen.
He signed the document and handed the pen back. “There’s one more thing...”
Robert Tyner lifted his head, glanced across the desk at him. “Whatever you need, Charles. I’m here to serve.”
“I want all of my savings and other assets used for Jonathan’s care should something happen to me. I’ll get Thad Fox to draw up the legal papers, but that takes time and I wanted to know if there is anything I can do to assure that my wishes in the matter are met now. I want to know if I step outside and get struck by lightning or run down by a carriage, Jonathan will be all right. Can I give you a note to that effect? Or is there anything that you would recommend?”
“You can set that up as a nonspecific open-ended trust to include all of your savings, as you will have no idea as to the actual amount that will be in your savings account at the time the trust would go into effect. Then as assets are liquidated, the monies can be deposited in the savings trust. Would that suit?”
“That sounds fine.”
“And do you wish to sign the form and put that trust into effect today?”
“Yes. I want to know if something happens to me, Jonathan will be taken care of.”
The banker pulled out another form and started filling in the information.
He watched him writing and the worry he’d been carrying since Jonathan arrived lifted. His brother would be—
“And who will be the administrator of the savings trust?”
“Administrator?” He stared, taken aback by the question.
“Yes.” Robert Tyner peered at him over the top of his glasses. “If the boy is young when the savings trust goes into effect, you must have someone who will make certain it is used wisely for the boy’s benefit. It’s usually another family member, the person whom you appoint as guardian in your stead.”
“I don’t have any other family here. That’s what all this is about.” He jerked to his feet, shoved his fingers through his hair and started pacing. Who, Lord? You, who knows all things—
“Someone you trust, then...”
Clarice. The name froze him in his tracks. No. Images swarmed. He blinked, shook his head, but the picture of Clarice comforting Jonathan would not be dislodged. No. It was a crazy idea. He started pacing again. The image clung. No! Of all the people—no! She is a career woman! He mentally listed his employees, thought of old teachers, his lawyer. The image stayed firmly in place.
I sure hope this is You leading me, Lord. He took a breath, plowed his fingers through his hair, walked back and sank down onto the chair, telling himself he had lost his mind.
“You’ve decided on someone?”
“Yes. Miss Clarice Gordon.”
* * *
It was insane. He was insane. Charles frowned, flopped down on his bed and laced his hands behind his neck. Images had been swarming him ever since he’d left the bank and he couldn’t make them stop. Clarice seated at the table in the editorial room reading and stacking CLSC letters. Clarice holding the instruction manual and peering into the workings of her typewriter. Clarice running her hand over the composing table and asking questions about the procedure. She was a career woman through and through. And he was a madman to entrust Jonathan to her care. Insane.
He jerked to his feet, yanked open the door beside his bed and stepped out onto the balcony. A raindrop splatted against his forehead. Dark blotches formed on the floor. He ducked back to the doorway, scowled and leaned against the frame. Would the rain pass, or would it ruin his plans for the outing with Jonathan tomorrow? And with Clarice.
He jammed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders, watched the tree branches beginning to stir before a rising wind. He should have told her. As soon as he returned home, he should have told her. In spite of the late hour. In spite of her declaration that she had to hurry home to her mother, he should have told her. Instead, he’d grabbed onto the excuse to put off telling her and let her go. Coward.
White light flickered against the distant sky. Thunder grumbled. The wind blew the rain in his direction. It looked as if the storm was coming their way. Lightning flashed again. Thunder clapped.
He glanced over his shoulder. Would the storm disturb Jonathan’s sleep? Some kids in the boarding schools he’d lived in had been frightened of rainstorms. He could remember some of them ducking under their blankets and crying.
He stepped back, closed the door and headed down the hallway. He’d sit in Jonathan’s room until the storm passed—just in case.
* * *
The answer to your question is William Shakespeare. Clarice tapped the words out on the paper keyboard as fast as she thought them. A smile touched her lips. She had not hesitated at all—not even once. She could type! She would be able to type out the CLSC answer column in a few hours once she returned to work at the newspaper. Of course, that meant she would no longer be caring for Jonathan.
She thrust the disturbing thought away, lifted her hands from the paper keyboard, yawned and rubbed her t
ired eyes. She had lost a few hours sleep each night practicing, but it was worth it. She would be able to type her Chautauqua Experience article as she thought it, instead of writing it down and then typing it. Only imagine the time that would save her over and over again, day after day. What a wonderful invention the typewriter was.
Light flickered against the darkness outside the window. A low rumble sounded. She turned down the wick on the lamp, pushed back from the desk and walked to the window. It was storming in the distance. Probably at the other end of the lake. But it could be headed their way. There was a chill to the air.
She ran her fingers through her long, unrestrained hair to massage her scalp where the heavy roll of her hair was pinned every day, then brushed the silky, wavy mass off of her shoulders to hang down her back and crossed to her mother’s bed.
The bouquet of straw flowers glowed rusty red and golden yellow in the dim light of the trimmed oil lamp on the night table. A frown drew her brows down. Why had Charles brought her mother flowers? What had he hoped to gain? She touched the papery petals of one of the red flowers, glanced at her closed writing case. Why hadn’t he mentioned taking the fillers for use at the newspaper?
“I’m sorry I let Mr. Thornberg discover your secret, Clarice. It was careless of me.”
She jerked, pressed her hand to her throat. “Gracious, Mama, you startled me. I thought you were asleep long ago.”
“The thunder woke me.” Her mother gave her a tired smile. “I sleep light. From all those years of taking care of babies, I expect.”
“No doubt.” She reached for the blanket folded at the foot of the bed. “I just wanted to pull this up where you can reach it should the night turn cold.”
“You’re a good daughter, Clarice. I’m blessed to have you.”
“It’s the other way around, Mama. Sleep well.” She bent down and kissed her mother’s cheek, headed for her bed.
“Why don’t you take this blanket, Clarice? I’m plenty warm under this quilt, and you have to sleep against those cold windows.”
His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) Page 13
