She shook her head, shrugged out of her dressing gown and slipped beneath the covers, shivering as the cold penetrated her nightgown. “I’ll put my dressing gown back on if I get cold.”
Light flickered through the darkened room. Thunder grumbled louder.
“Looks as if the storm is headed our way. I hope Mr. Thornberg’s little brother isn’t afraid of the thunder and lightning—a lot of little ones are.”
Her mother’s voice, soft, comforting as a warm, safe shelter, whispered through the darkness and wrapped itself around her.
“I know, Mama. I’ve been thinking about him.” Tears stung her eyes. “He’s not had anyone to love and comfort him when he’s hurt or afraid...” Her throat tightened.
“He does now, Clarice. Mr. Thornberg is a caring man.”
For the money. She held her tongue, stared into the darkness and tried not to think about Jonathan being afraid. Her mother’s breathing came soft and even with sleep. The storm crept closer.
Rain splattered against the window, ran in rivulets down the small panes and dripped off the wood. Lightning flashed its watery gleam on the glass. Thunder cracked and rattled the panes.
She pushed herself to a sitting position and leaned back against the deep frame that housed the windows and the window seat. Cold penetrated the fabric of her cotton gown and chilled her shoulders where they pressed against the glass. She rubbed warmth into her arms and stared out into the darkness. Jonathan was a sound sleeper, but the thunder was getting louder. Would he sleep through the storm? Would he waken and be frightened? Would Charles hear him and comfort him?
She sighed, forced the questions from her mind. There was nothing she could do about it even if Jonathan were frightened.
Lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder crashed.
Don’t let him wake and be frightened. Please don’t let him be afraid.
The words echoed back into her mind, empty, hollow...useless. She frowned, pulled the covers closer around her. It was almost as if the prayer— Thought. An aimless thought.
She stiffened, sucked in a breath as Scriptures learned in childhood flooded her mind... Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name... Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss... I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.
Tears stung her eyes. She shivered and wrapped her arms about herself, shamed by a sudden awareness of her petulant behavior in refusing to speak the Lord’s name over the years. Had she really thought to punish Him by such childish action?
She closed her eyes and opened her heart, painfully aware of the emptiness that had been there for so long. “I’ve been so wrong. Please forgive me, Father God. Please forgive me, Lord Jesus. I will never deny You again.”
The patter of the rain slowed, quieted. Peace settled over her, a contentment filling her heart. She breathed out a soft sigh, opened her eyes and watched the storm drift away into the distance.
Chapter Ten
“Me see horsey!” Jonathan bounced up and down on Charles’s shoulders, his pudgy hands holding fistfuls of hair.
“Whoa! Easy on the hair, Skipper!” Charles laughed, took a firmer grip on Jonathan’s chunky little legs and held them away from his healing blister. “We’ll be aboard the Jamestown in a few minutes, and you can bounce all you want then.”
He aimed a grin at Clarice. “Whose idea was this, anyway?”
Her gray eyes, shadowed by long lashes, sparkled with amusement. “Are you speaking of showing Jonathan the steamers? Or of carrying him on your shoulders?” Her lips curved. “Which—you may recall—I warned you might not be the best idea.”
“He couldn’t see anything in this crowd.”
“Doggy! Me see doggy.”
“Ow!” He stretched his neck, trying to ease Jonathan’s pull on his hair.
“He can now.” She grinned and looked up. “We’re nearing the dock. I suggest you lift him down before he catches sight of the steamer and snatches you bald.”
“I think you might be right. Down you come, Skipper...” He slid his hands up to Jonathan’s waist, ducked, hoisted him over his head and settled him on his arm. He combed the fingers of his free hand through his hair to restore some semblance of neatness and looked down at her. “I can take that basket now. It must be getting heavy for you.”
She shook her head and shifted the basket handles on her forearm. “I’m doing fine. And you have your hands full.”
“I can handle this guy.” He tugged the flat top of Jonathan’s sailor hat straight and grinned. “You can’t see everything at once, Skipper, no matter how much you twist and turn.”
“Me see boat?”
“Yes. We’re almost there. You’ll see the boat we’re going to ride on as soon as we turn this corner.”
Jonathan stilled, looked up at him, his eyes wary. “Brover go on boat?”
He sucked in a breath, hugged Jonathan close and nodded reassurance. “I sure am, Skipper. And Clarice is coming on the boat, too.” He glanced her way. She was smiling, but the same anger heating his blood flickered in the depths of her eyes. It was obvious she shared his fury at the way Jonathan had been treated. The worry he carried eased a little. Maybe everything would be all right.
“C’rice come?”
“I am.” She reached out and straightened the wide collar with white trim that flowed over Jonathan’s little shoulders and hung against his back. “We’re going to have a picnic, remember?”
“Me have cookies!”
“That’s right.” Clarice laughed and patted the basket dangling from her arm. “I have them right here. And there—” she gestured toward the water as they turned the corner onto the less populated street leading to the dock “—is the boat.”
Jonathan twisted around. “Boat!”
“It’s a steamer, Skipper. See the smoke coming out of the tall stack?” He took a firmer grip on his brother, placed his free hand at the small of Clarice’s back and guided her onto the long dock. Water lapped at the pilings.
“Tickets! Get your tickets for the Jamestown here.”
He pulled the tickets he had bought yesterday afternoon from his pocket, showed them to the man in the booth and was waved forward.
“Water.” Jonathan leaned sideways, pointed down at the lake water between the dock and the steamer.
“Lots of water. You sit still, Skipper.” He kept a tight grip on Jonathan and again placed his hand at Clarice’s back to help her, though she showed no hesitation at walking up the slightly sloping gangplank to the steamer deck.
“Good morning, Miss Gordon.” The ticket taker doffed his hat. “You’re off to Chautauqua to write another article, are you?”
“Good morning, Mr. Dewy.”
She knew his name? Charles stared at the man concentrating his attention on Clarice. His back stiffened. The man’s smile was too friendly for his liking. Didn’t a captain have rules about maintaining correct decorum between the crew and the passengers? He cleared his throat and held out the boarding passes.
The man glanced at him.
“I have Miss Gordon’s ticket. She’s with me.”
The man locked gazes with him, glanced back at Clarice.
She patted the basket. “No writing for me today. We’re going on a picnic, aren’t we, Jonathan?”
The ties on Jonathan’s sailor hat bounced with his nod. “Me have cookies.”
“Cookies, is it? Well, then...” The man took his offered tickets with a concession in the gesture. “Have a pleasant journey, sir.”
He nodded, placed a proprietary hand at Clarice’s back and urged her forward to the open staircase. She had been sitting on the upper deck the day he first saw her. “The upper deck has a better view.” He held out his free hand. “Give me the basket.”
She s
hook her head and gripped the banister. “You have Jonathan to carry.”
“Clarice—” He shot out his hand, held her from climbing the stairs and leaned close to her ear. “You are the most obstinate, independent woman I have ever met. Please allow me to be a gentleman and help you.” He took hold of the basket handles ground out quiet words. “I know you are a very capable young woman, and that you would likely make it safely to the top of the stairs. But you have long skirts you can trip on, and I am not willing to take that chance. Jonathan can hold on around my neck. Now give me the basket so we do not continue to hold up this line of people.”
“Your blister—”
“Hang the blister! Give me the basket.” He took a breath, reining in the explosion of frustrated male pride. “If I must make it an order as your employer, consider it so. But you will not carry that basket up those open stairs. Not while you are with me.”
An odd expression he could not identify flashed in her eyes. She glanced at the people massing behind them, handed him the basket, lifted her hems and started up the stairs. He stared after her, let out a low growl, hoisted Jonathan into position on his arm and gripped the basket. “Put your arms around my neck and hold on tight, Skipper.” He took hold of the railing with his free hand and followed her up the stairs, puzzling over her expression and whether he’d won or lost the basket battle. Either way, he’d likely made it highly improbable that she’d accept the position of Jonathan’s guardian should anything happen to him. He should have held his temper.
“Do you wish to go forward or aft?”
Her voice pulled him from his sour musings. He looked at her in her dark blue dress with the little white dots on the bodice that put him in the mind of stars and wished, for a foolish instant, that things were different—that she truly were with him. “Forward. I want Jonathan to see what’s ahead, not what’s behind.”
She nodded and reached for the basket. “I’ll take this. I’m in no danger of falling now.” Her voice was soft, controlled, her expression an enigma he couldn’t solve. Was she angry with him? No doubt. He deserved it.
He released his grip on the basket and moved forward to stand by the railing. The sun sparkled on the water. White clouds drifted in lazy splendor against the blue sky. There was no trace of last night’s storm—unless it was in Clarice’s gray eyes.
“Ocean.” Jonathan pointed, looked up at him.
He shook his head, thought of what the little guy had seen on his way to him in America. Who had been taking care of him? “No. That’s Chautauqua Lake.”
“Chau’qua Lake.”
“Close enough.” He grinned, spread his legs for a more sure stance when the whistle blew. The engine throbbed through the deck beneath his feet. The steamer lurched. He glanced at Clarice standing beside him holding on to the railing, the picnic basket at her feet, and ached to put his arm around her, to share the moment with her. There was a hunger, an emptiness inside him he hadn’t been aware of before Jonathan came into his life. Or had he?
An image of Clarice looking up at him when he had walked her home in the rainstorm slipped into his mind, and the truth hit him with the power of the steam engine’s thrust. The hunger, the emptiness, had been there since that moment.
He stiffened, his thoughts churning like the foaming water sluicing off the paddle wheel. He held back a scowl, watched the Jamestown crawl away from the dock. 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.”
“Me see 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, 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.”
A proprietary tone, a touch of motherly pride, sounded 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.
* * *
Clarice crumbled the biscuit, tossed it out onto the strip of grassy shore and smiled as birds flew down from the surrounding trees to dine on the offered morsels.
“Me get bird.”
Jonathan ran onto the grass dodging this way and that trying to catch hold of a bird. She laughed and returned to the blanket, glad that they’d traded the comfort of a table and benches for this secluded part of the shore. She glanced over at Charles to see if he was enjoying his brother’s futile efforts. “The birds don’t seem a bit intimidated by Jonathan’s attempts at capture.”
“Not in the least. How long do you suppose he can keep on running like that?”
His gaze fastened on her. She looked down and brushed her hands free of crumbs, quelled a sudden urge to check her hair and straighten her gown. “Probably until we board the Jamestown for our return trip. He never seems to run out of energy.” She waved her hand toward the remnants of their picnic. “The chicken is gone. But there is another biscuit with sliced beef.” His gaze didn’t waver. She held still, refused to fidget, though she had the strongest urge to turn and run. The man made her nervous.
“I’ve had enough, thank you. Though I might find room for one of those ginger cookies Jonathan has been devouring.” He took a cookie from the towel-covered plate.
She took a breath and sank to her knees on the blanket to clear away the picnic things.
“Umm, no wonder he keeps coming back for more. This is delicious.” He glanced toward the shore and chuckled. “If you threw one of these cookies out there, those birds wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d stay right there and eat and let themselves be captured by Jonathan’s grasping little hands.”
“I didn’t know cookies could be used as bird lures.” His chuckle made her stomach go all quivery. She pressed her hand against it and took a breath.
“It turned out to be a beautiful day. The weather couldn’t be better for our outing.” He grabbed another cookie then handed her the plate. “I was afraid when that rainstorm rolled in last night it might ruin our plans for today.”
“I thought the same.” She stacked the dirty plates, looked askance at the one holding the remaining biscuit with sliced beef.
“I’ll get rid of that. I’m sure some beast will appreciate a good meal.” Charles grabbed the biscuit and threw it into the woods.
She put the empty plate atop the others, folded a towel around the pile and placed it in the basket. “I wondered if Jonathan would be fearful of the storm—some children are.”
“I know.” He nodded, brushed cookie crumbs off of his shirt. “I remembered how some of the kids in boarding school would hide beneath their blankets and cry during rainstorms, so I went and sat in his room until the storm passed. He slept straight through it.”
I remembered... She closed the top on the basket and secured the latch, told herself it was none of her business but couldn’t resist asking. “You attended a boarding school?”
He glanced over at her, gave a curt nod. “From the time I was five years old. That’s when my father died, and my mother decided she preferred a career over motherhood.” He shoved to his feet and stood watching Jonathan, who had stopped chasing birds to examine a stone. “A stranger came and took me off to boarding school the day after we buried my father. I never saw my mother or my home again—though she kindly paid for my schooling.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, shook his head. “Those first few years I would lie in bed at night and wonder where she was and what had happened to her—why
she didn’t come for me. At least Jonathan has been spared that.”
There was such bitterness in his voice. She stared up at him remembering how lost and alone and fearful she had felt when her mother had sent her away to protect her from her father. But she had been old enough to understand. And she’d had her mother’s love to sustain her. Charles had been abandoned. And he’d been only a little older than— She stiffened, glanced at Jonathan, then back at Charles. His words when he’d read the letter left with Jonathan slipped into her head. So, Mother, you’ve done it again.
He turned, his lips slanted in an acrid smile. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” The smile faded; his eyes darkened. “She thought she’d throw Jonathan into boarding school and be rid of him the same way she’d gotten rid of me. Not that I would expect anything different of her.” The muscle along his jaw twitched. “What galls me is that she thinks I am like her. That I, too, would toss Jonathan into a school somewhere so he won’t interfere with my life.”
He shook his head, looked back toward the shore. “That will never happen. That little guy is my brother.” He strode out onto the grass, squatted down in front of Jonathan, picked up something and held it between them on his upturned palm, poked at it with his finger. Jonathan laughed, stuck out his pudgy finger and poked whatever it was, too.
Her heart ached at the sight of them together. Both of them—discarded. Charles’s word. His voice, angry and fiercely protective, rang in her mind. 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. She caught her breath, stared at Charles. Perhaps the money wasn’t the reason he was keeping Jonathan. Perhaps she had misjudged him.
She bent and picked up the blanket, gave it a sharp shake to rid it of dirt and grass.
The blast of a steamer whistle rent the air.
She glanced down the shore toward the dock. The Jamestown was slowing, preparing to dock. Their picnic was over. She glanced at Jonathan looking up at Charles and pointing toward the steamer, folded the blanket and packed it away.
His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) Page 14
