His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance)

by Dorothy Clark

  * * *

  “Ball...go in water.” Jonathan yawned, leaned his head on Charles’s shoulder and rubbed his eyes with a pudgy fist.

  Clarice glanced back over her shoulder at the sun hanging between the shimmering reflection of its light on the water, the dark jagged line of treetops on the far shore and the red-streaked graying sky above. “It looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  She reached up and removed his sailor hat, which had gone askew, brushed a soft black curl off his forehead. “That ‘ball’ is the sun. He’s been working hard all day keeping it bright and warm so you could play. Now it’s time for little boys to rest.”

  He blew out a soft breath, nodded. “Me go bed.”

  “In a few minutes, Skipper. We’re home.”

  Charles’s footsteps mingled with the brush of her hems against the wood as they crossed the porch. The door latch clicked. She stepped into the entrance hall, warm with the light from the oil lamp that Charles always kept burning, looked at the stairs, the hall that led to the kitchen. Home. It was starting to feel like it. She had best guard her heart. She was becoming too...comfortable with...everything.

  She held her glance from Charles, set the picnic basket down and led the way up the stairs to put Jonathan to bed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clarice pulled the pan from the rinse water, placed it on the wood drainboard, threw a towel over the washed dishes and took off the apron. Now to begin work on the new pile of CLSC letters Charles had brought for her when he’d come home for dinner.

  She dipped a finger in Mrs. Hotchkiss’s honey-and-almond cream, rubbed it into her hands and hurried to the stairs. The ticking of the sitting room clock urged her forward. Jonathan should sleep for— She stopped, turned at the sound of the front door opening. “Charles! Did you forget something?”

  He stepped to the bottom of the stairs, looked up at her. “No. I came back to talk to you, Clarice. Come into the sitting room, please.”

  She took in his sober expression, gripped the banister and descended the stairs. Had she done something to displease him at dinner? “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m hoping not.” He gestured toward the sitting room.

  What did that mean? She moved forward, the hem of her long skirt whispering an accompaniment to her racing thoughts—there was nothing this morning. She sifted memories of yesterday’s picnic, came up with nothing but the incident on the stairs. Surely that wouldn’t explain his terse words and tense expression. She stopped by one of the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace where she could hear if Jonathan stirred.

  “Please, have a seat.” His lips curved in a polite smile. “This may take a little time.”

  Why draw things out? She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Perhaps I can save you some time. Have I done something to displease you?”

  “What? No. Quite the opposite. I apologize if I gave you that impression.” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “You have been wonderful with Jonathan.”

  Her work! She stiffened. “If it’s my work for the Assembly Herald, I assure you I will be finished—”

  “I’m not concerned with your work, Clarice. It’s something I have done.”

  “You?” His pronouncement knocked her thinking askew. “But what does what you—?”

  “It concerns you.”

  “Me?” She stared, snapped her mouth closed. “How does—?”

  “I think this will go faster if you simply let me explain.”

  Warmth climbed into her cheeks. “Yes, of course. Forgive me for interrupting.”

  “You’ve every right. Please feel free to do so if, at any point, I do not make myself clear.” He took a deep breath, exhaled. “To begin, let me apologize for my delay in speaking with you about this matter. I meant to tell you the other day, but my intent was lost in Jonathan’s fear of being moved to a different place.”

  She stared at him, intrigued by his discomfort. She’d never seen Charles Thornberg look anything but self-confident—except with Jonathan, and even that was waning. She glanced at the charming dimple at the side of Charles’s mouth. Jonathan had one also. It deepened when he smiled. And she was quite certain Charles’s dark hair would curl like Jonathan’s if it weren’t cut so short. It was quite wavy. And it did curl a bit when he got frustrated and ran his fingers through it...

  “And then again, yesterday, I— But I digress.”

  His gaze locked on hers, and the heat in her cheeks returned. He’d caught her staring. Did he realize she’d been admiring his good looks? Only in comparison to Jonathan, of course. He looked away, cleared his throat. She touched her hair, wiped her palms down the sides of her skirt.

  “Do you remember what I told you yesterday about my childhood? Of how, when my father died, my mother sent me off to boarding school, and I never saw her or my home again?”

  “Yes.” She remembered perfectly. The melancholy look on his face had almost broken her heart. Her throat tightened with the memory.

  “Perhaps you surmised, but it’s important for you to know that I have no other family.”

  Her attention sharpened. What did his family, or the lack thereof, have to do with her?

  “My life was spent in boarding schools. It’s a...lonely existence. And when I read in my mother’s letter of her intent to do the same thing to Jonathan—” anger swept like a cloud across his face, darkened his eyes “—I promised Jonathan that would not happen to him. That I would take care of him, that he would not ever be discarded like an unwanted possession.”

  She blinked, rubbed at a sudden fullness in her chest. “I remember.”

  The muscle along his jaw twitched. “And do you remember the bank draft my mother enclosed to pay for Jonathan’s life in boarding school?”

  She gazed at him and nodded, a wariness worming its way through the tightness in her chest.

  He pulled in a breath, exhaled. “The day I graduated, I was called to the headmaster’s office and given an envelope my mother had sent along with me when I arrived at the boarding school. It contained information about a trust fund my father had left for me that I was to receive on my graduation.” His face and voice softened. “It was as if my father had reached out after all those years since his death and touched me.”

  He looked down, cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, then fastened his gaze on hers again. “If anything happens to me, I want that for Jonathan. I want him to know that I cared about him, and that I kept my word to take care of him. So I turned that bank draft into a trust fund for him to receive on the day he graduates from school.”

  Her heart jolted at the unselfishness behind his act. Her father would never—

  “Now, here’s the part where you come in.”

  She’d forgotten about that. She looked at his wry smile, the hint of guilt in his eyes and squared her shoulders. What could it be?

  “Jonathan’s just a little guy. And it dawned on me, when I was in the bank setting up the trust fund, that an accident could take my life the same as happened to my father when I was five years old.”

  Her heart gave another jolt at that thought.

  “Anyway, the how isn’t important. It’s the fact that I could die at any time that matters.” His eyes darkened. He lifted his hand and combed his fingers through his hair. “The point is—I need to know that if something happens to me, Jonathan will be taken care of.”

  He came and stood in front of her, fastened his gaze on hers. “Another thing I inherited from my father was his business skills. I found that out when I took that small trust he left me and invested it. I did very well on those investments, and since I was making my living as a roving reporter, I invested my earnings, as well. And then—” He gave a little shrug. “Suffice to say, I am a wealthy man. And I expect to be wealthier yet when I turn the Jamest
own into a prosperous daily newspaper.”

  There was an energy, a vitality coming from him that made her tremble. She tried to step back, to put some space between them, but the chair was behind her. She took a breath, made herself stand still and not flinch away from the power of his gaze, grabbed for the safety of words. “What has any of that to do with me?”

  He studied her for a moment, a long moment, then turned away.

  She sagged with relief, mustered her scattered thoughts.

  “On Robert Tyner’s advice, I created a second trust containing any and all monies, savings and assets in my possession on my death. That trust will be available immediately for Jonathan’s care.”

  “How good of you.”

  He turned back. “There was one small problem—”

  The look in his eyes took her breath. Concentrate! “A problem?”

  “Yes. I needed to name an administrator. Someone I trust to do what is right for Jonathan.”

  She stared into his eyes, raised her hand to the base of her throat and pressed against her suddenly racing pulse. It couldn’t be...

  “I named you.”

  Her knees gave way. She plopped into the chair, shaking her head.

  “Before you refuse, let me tell you that the bank president and my lawyer would maintain control over my investments and those sorts of things. But as the administrator of the trust, you would have the say over the running of this house—which I hope you would choose to move into, and your mother, as well—and the monies that would be placed at your disposal every month to see to Jonathan’s needs...and yours. Plus, you would receive a monthly wage commensurate with your duties.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say...”

  “I hope you will say yes, Clarice.”

  “But I know nothing about handling large sums of money or running a grand house like this one.”

  “You can always ask Robert Tyner for advice about the money, as long as you realize you have the final say as to its disbursement. I trust you to know what is best for Jonathan. And I’m certain your mother would be helpful in guiding you in overseeing the house. You would have a housekeeper and a maid to do the work, of course.”

  He turned away, shoved his hands in his pockets. “I realize I would be asking you to give up the full pursuit of your career as a journalist, but I would be willing to stipulate that you could continue to write articles for publication from home, as long as Jonathan’s care came first.”

  Did he think that was why she was hesitating? That she was like his mother, who put her career ahead of her own children? She rose, stared around the lovely, well-furnished room and shook her head. “What you are proposing is too much for me.” She lifted her hand, smoothed back her hair. “I’m not qualified—”

  “The only qualification I require is that you care about Jonathan.” He turned back, locked his gaze on hers. “Do you?”

  She lifted her chin. “Of course I do! But—”

  “And do you care what would happen to him if I were no longer alive to take care of him?”

  “Stop saying that!”

  Something flickered deep in his eyes. That energy radiated off him again. Her breath caught and she turned away, put her arms about herself to stop the trembling spreading through her. She had to get away from him so she could think. “All right, you may leave my name in place as the administrator of the trust. You need a name, and I have no reason to worry that I will ever have to take on the task. You are a young, healthy man.”

  “Thank you, Clarice.”

  She nodded, started for the doorway into the entrance hall. “If you will excuse me—”

  “Actually, I have two papers for you to sign.”

  She looked at him.

  He pulled two folded papers from his pocket. “One is for the bank and one is for my lawyer.”

  What was she getting herself into? “Very well. I’ll sign them—for Jonathan’s sake.”

  “There is pen and ink here in the secretary.” He crossed to the bookshelf desk, pulled down the slanted front to form the writing surface, took the pen and ink out of their cubbyhole and smoothed out the papers.

  She let out a sigh, walked over and sat on the chair he held for her, willed her hand to stop shaking.

  “There’s no reason to be nervous—truly.”

  I wouldn’t be if you would move away. She signed the first paper then signed the second while he blotted the first dry.

  “There.” She rose and started for the doorway again.

  “Clarice, there is one other thing I wanted to ask you...”

  No. She couldn’t take any more. All she wanted was to escape his presence and—

  “How long has your mother been bedridden?”

  “My mother?” She turned and looked at him. “Why do you ask?”

  “I thought perhaps it hasn’t been very long.” He tucked the folded papers into his pocket and closed the desk. “When I went to see her the other day, I noticed that her hands are still calloused.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “I don’t know if they will ever soften. I cream them every morning and night. But Mother did almost all of the work on the farm by herself since she sent me away nine years ago and her hands have suffered for it.” Along with the rest of her body.

  “Then your father is dead. I thought as much.”

  Anger stopped the tears, stiffened her spine. “My father is in perfect health. He works in the oil fields, as do my three brothers. But he refuses to give up the farm, so my mother and I, when I was home, were made to tend the crops and the animals, along with doing the housework and everything else. If the work was not done to his satisfaction, a hard, quick slap let you know.” Bitterness soured her voice. “My mother was carrying a basketful of their heavy work clothes she’d just washed and scrubbed to hang out on the line to dry when she became crippled.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” She took a breath to calm her anger. “All I know is that when Miss Hartmore—she’s the teacher that rescued me from Father’s cruelty—went to read my latest letter to my mother, she found her on the ground beside the laundry basket unable to rise. I guess her body just gave out. With the help of another neighbor, she took my mother to her house to care for her.” The anger surged. She lifted her chin and clenched her hands. “When Miss Hartmore went to the farm that night and told my father what had happened, he declared he had no use for a cripple and no time or money to care for one. He told her to keep Mother at her house.”

  Charles sucked in air so sharply she heard it hiss through his teeth. “Unconscionable!”

  “Yes.”

  Two of his long strides brought him to stand in front of her. “How did your mother come to live with you?”

  She took another breath but couldn’t stop the shaking. “Miss Hartmore wrote me of what had happened, and I went and, with Miss Hartmore’s help, brought Mother here to live with me.” Tears welled. He reached for her. She glanced down, and he dropped his hands. The tears pushed upward, overflowed. For the first time in her life, she wanted a man to hold her. She wanted him to hold her. His arms looked so strong, his shoulder so comforting. She blinked, wiped away the tears and straightened her shoulders.

  “We took pillows so Mother could lie down on the train, but moving her caused her great pain. I thought she was going to faint when we carried her up the stairs to my room. But, as you’ve seen, she’s much better now. The pain in her back has subsided.”

  He flexed his fingers, nodded. “And what does the doctor say? Would it harm her to move her? Does he hold hope that she may yet recover?”

  Guilt rose. She stared at him. How simple life was for the wealthy. “I’m saving money to pay for a doctor. I hope to be able to get one for her soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do to
earn that money.” She whirled and started for the doorway.

  “Wait!” He caught her arm, turned her around, then quickly let go of her. “I wasn’t merely being curious, Clarice. I had a purpose for asking those questions.”

  She stared at her arm, warm and tingling where he had touched her. Where was the anger that should have gushed when he grabbed her arm? What was happening to her? She lifted her gaze to meet his. “And that is?”

  “I want to send Dr. Reese to see your mother. He has a reputation for restoring strength, and even mobility, to the infirm.”

  “I’m aware of Dr. Reese, but I haven’t yet saved enough money to pay his—”

  “I will pay the doctor.”

  Her back stiffened. “No. I do not accept charity, Mr. Thornberg. I refuse to be indebted to you or any other man.” She swallowed back the tears that again threatened and lifted her chin. “However, I cannot refuse your offer when the doctor may help my mother walk again. Therefore, I will accept your kindness with the understanding that I will repay you.”

  “The name is Charles.” His gaze captured hers, held it prisoner. “And I’m not offering you charity, Clarice. Nor would you accrue any debt. I’m simply trying to discharge my debt to your mother.”

  “Your debt to Mother?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice.

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes. I need the fillers she wrote for the newspaper, but she refuses payment. So, as I don’t accept charity, either, I thought I would use the money I would have paid her to pay for the doctor. However, if that is not acceptable, I will have to think of something else.” He shrugged and moved beyond her into the entrance hall.

  She spun about. Her skirt billowed out around her; the hems whispered across the rug. “Charles...”

  He paused in the open front door, glanced over his shoulder.

  “I accept your offer on Mother’s behalf.” Her voice broke. She swallowed hard, lifted her hand to press against the pressure in her chest. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, yanked his gaze from hers and stepped outside.