She pressed her hand to her chest to calm her skipping pulse. The sound of his footsteps, the sense of strength emanating from him made her chest tighter. He paused, waited for her to precede him through the doorway into the hall. She’d grown used to his good manners—the small courtesies he performed for her, like pouring her coffee. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked and hurried down the stairs. He trotted by her, positioned himself in her way at the bottom.
“Are you all right, Clarice?”
The kindness, the concern in his voice made everything worse. Why did she want to cry every time he was nice to her? She nodded, swallowed back the tears. “Yes. It’s only... I’ve had a happy but difficult morning.” She gave a little laugh. “Which I suppose makes no sense at all.” She managed a breath and a smile. “I’ve been waiting for an uninterrupted time to thank you again for sending Dr. Reese to see my mother.”
“It went well?”
The tears gushed. She couldn’t stop them, couldn’t even speak. She looked into his eyes, gulped and nodded.
“Ah, Clarice...”
His arms slid around her, pulled her close against him. His cheek pressed against her hair. His heart beat beneath her ear. The gentleness in his strong arms offered a safety she’d never known. Her tears fell faster. His arms tightened. His hand lifted, brushed over her hair, and she had the sudden wild wish that she had heeded her mother’s suggestion and softened her hair style, let its wavy fullness free. It sobered her. She fought the tears back, struggled to get her trembling under control and pushed lightly against his hard chest. His arms relaxed their hold.
She stepped back, swiped at her cheeks with her hands. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I don’t know wh-why I—” She stopped, stared at the linen handkerchief he held out to her and gulped back another rush of tears.
“You’ve been carrying a heavy burden.” He took one of her hands in his, placed the handkerchief on her palm and curled her fingers over it, let go. She wished he’d kept holding her hand...kept holding her.
Her chest filled. “But it’s o-over now.” She dabbed at her eyes and cheeks, chided herself for her behavior. It helped. “Dr. Reese s-said—” She squared her shoulders and tried again. “Dr. Reese said Mama would soon be w-walking again.”
“That’s wonderful news, Clarice. I’m glad for you both.”
The sincerity in his voice threatened to undo what little composure she had regained. She focused on the details. “He said that to start, she will need to do exercises every day to strengthen her legs. I’ll help her with those, of course. And then—”
“How are you going to help your mother with her exercises if you are here, caring for Jonathan?”
She lifted her head and stared at him. She had learned that Charles did not ask idle questions. “I haven’t had time to plan...” She pursed her lips, tugged at the damp handkerchief wadded in her hand. “It’s only a few more days. I believe the easiest solution would be if I take Jonathan with me to the boardinghouse—with your permission, of course.”
He shook his head. “That would put you at the mercy of the weather.” He gazed at her, and the memory of that stormy morning he’d walked her home flashed into her mind. That had been the first time she felt...drawn to him. “Also, it would take additional time away from your work for the Assembly Herald.”
She couldn’t deny that what he said was true. Her heart sank. “I cannot do anything about the weather. But you needn’t be concerned about my work. I will make up the time at night.”
His brows lowered. Clearly, he did not like her answer. She ignored her disappointment, her yearning to be back in his arms, and braced herself to do battle. Her mother’s welfare came first.
“Is your mother able to be moved?”
“With care, yes. But—”
“Then it seems the best solution would be for me to hire a carriage and bring your mother here with me each day when I come home for dinner. You can prepare the bed for her in the bedroom where you are working. That way, when you are through with her exercises, you can work while she rests and Jonathan naps. I will take her home after supper. From what I have learned of your mother, she will appreciate being outside for a short time each day. Do you agree?”
Once again he had rendered her speechless. She nodded.
“Good.”
The sitting room clock gonged.
He frowned and headed for the front door. “I may be late tonight. We have to get out tomorrow’s issue. Don’t wait supper.” He grabbed his hat, stepped outside and glanced back. “I will check with Dr. Reese to be certain moving your mother is possible. Good afternoon, Clarice.”
“Good afternoon.”
The door closed. His footsteps faded away across the porch. She sank onto a step, leaned her elbows on her knees and stared at his handkerchief in her hand.
* * *
Clarice brushed her still-damp hair to the crown of her head, loosened her grip until it puffed in loose waves around her face and neck, twisted the long strands into a loose, soft coil and held it in place while she studied her image in the mirror. She looked...softer, prettier. She turned her head and slanted a sidewise look into the mirror.
“I like it.”
Warmth flooded her cheeks. She glanced at her mother’s reflection in the mirror. “I remembered what you said about a looser hair style easing my headaches, and I thought I would experiment.” She opened her hand and let her hair fall free. “I thought you were asleep, Mama.”
“I’m too excited to sleep.” Her mother smiled and glanced toward the windows in the turret. “I can’t wait until I go for my carriage ride tomorrow.”
“It’s only a little more than three blocks, Mama.”
“I don’t care. It’s outside in the fresh air, with trees and fall flowers.” She gave her a cheeky grin. “And the return trip will make it seven blocks. It was so kind of Mr. Thornberg to offer to have me at his home. I’m so glad Dr. Reese agreed. He’s a very nice man.”
“He can come to Mr. Thornberg’s house and show us the exercises you’re to do as easy as to come here tomorrow, Mama. It works out better for everyone. Charles’s plans always seem to work out better for everyone.”
Her mother’s brows rose, and her lips curved into a small smile. “I agree.”
Did her mother suspect the emotions troubling her since Charles had held her in his arms? Warmth crawled into her cheeks. “What dress are you going to wear? Not that you have much choice. Father only allowed you two. As he allowed me.” Anger shook her voice.
Her mother gave a soft sigh. “I managed, Clarice.”
“Well, when I’m a journalist on a daily newspaper, you won’t have to manage anymore. I’ll buy you lots of pretty dresses, Mama. And fancy hats to wear with them.” She rose from the dressing-table bench and stepped to the wardrobe, braced herself for the screech and opened the doors.
“I thought the blue cotton—”
“All right. I’ll brush it to make it— What is this?” She pulled out the bodice of her brown dress, fingered the new cream-colored ruffle that edged the high collar and the three tabs that fell from its base, eyed the new bone buttons that marched from beneath the tabs to the waist. Her throat tightened. Everything lately seemed to make her want to cry, either from anger or from a full heart or both. “Mama, I gave you that money in case you had a need and I wasn’t here to go to the store for you.”
“Well, I needed something besides writing fillers to do. I enjoy sewing, so I asked Mrs. Duncan to buy me a few notions at the store and I took the liberty of adding a touch of decoration to your dress.” Her mother sighed, stretched out her hand and lifted her sewing box off the nightstand. “I know you don’t want to look pretty, Clarice. That you want men to take you as a serious career woman instead of wanting to court you—but that dress was so drab and bare it was just
plain ugly. And there’s so little I can do for you now...” Her mother heaved another sigh. “Give me the bodice. I can take the edging off. And I saved the old brown buttons. They’re here in my sewing box.”
She looked from her mother to the bodice, touched the new buttons. It was pretty. She turned to the mirror and held the bodice up to her, studied her reflection. “Never mind, Mama. I think I like it this way.” Would Charles? Not that it mattered.
“Truly?”
She gave another glance in the mirror and nodded. “Truly.”
“Then I can leave the brown-eyed Susans on your hat?”
“Mama!” She whirled about, looked from her mother’s guilty expression to her flower-bedecked hat in her hands and burst into laughter. “Leave the flowers, Mama—they look lovely. I shall wear the hat proudly.”
She hung her bodice back in the wardrobe and glanced at the desk in the turret area. “I’m going to work on my article for the Assembly Herald for a while before I turn in. I’ll keep the lamp turned low.”
“Clarice, before you begin your work... You received a letter today.”
“A letter?” She halted, stepped to the bed and reached for the envelope her mother held out to her. It was Miss Hartmore’s writing. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Mama?” She broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Another folded piece of paper fell to the floor. She stooped to retrieve it.
“You were late coming home. You’d had a long day and you had another headache. I decided to keep it until morning, when you would feel better. But if you’re going to work—”
She sucked in air, clenched her hands. The papers crunched, rattled with her shaking.
“What is it?” Her mother’s voice sharpened. “Clarice, tell me what’s wrong!”
“You’re a divorced woman, Mama.” The words hissed through her teeth, choked with bitterness. “Miss Hartmore has sent us a copy of a decree of divorce granted to Father on the grounds that you are an ‘unfit wife’ unable to carry out your ‘wifely duties.’ After he crippled you!” She handed her the paper she had dropped, fisted her hands to stop their trembling. “You’ve been discarded, Mama.”
Blessed.
The word slipped into her mind, turned her thinking about. If her mother had not been crippled, she would not be free. A bittersweet smile touched her lips. “Or blessed.” She stared down at the paper in her mother’s hands, her heart swelling with gratitude. “Only think, Mama—you will soon be walking again. And you are now free to do whatever you wish. Father cannot hurt you. He can never treat you as his personal servant again.”
* * *
Clarice bent over the paper on the desk, penning a vivid description of Chautauqua lecturer Miss Louise Moore and her subject of woman’s suffrage. She paused only to check her notes for accuracy. There was little doubt that Charles would be displeased with her championing the cause for equality for women in the workplace and voting booth, but Charles did not have the right of selection of material for the articles printed in the Assembly Herald.
She blinked her dry, burning eyes, rubbed her throbbing temples and the tired muscles at the back of her neck then picked up her pen again. The nib scratched across the paper, the sound loud in the silence. Every word was a repudiation of the superiority of men her father stood for.
Her head drooped. She snapped erect, frowned at the streak of ink left by the pen in her slipping hand, glanced at her mother asleep in her bed and forced herself to concentrate, to write on. She had to finish this article and the answers to the CLSC letters by her submission date, and time was running out.
A frown pulled her brows down, increased the pain pounding at her temples. She had allowed herself to become distracted by Charles’s pleas for help with Jonathan, but no more. She could not afford to go on steamer rides and picnics. She had her career to consider. And her heart. She would never put herself under some man’s grinding thumb only to be cast aside like a worn-out shoe!
Her head drooped again. She jerked awake, scowled at the new ink smear and pushed back from the desk. She walked the length of the room and back, swinging her arms and stepping on tiptoe to force herself to concentrate on her balance, then paced the room again. She would finish this tonight. And tomorrow she would tell Charles that in order to do her work for the newspaper and care for Jonathan and her mother, she would need the use of a typewriter at home. A typewriter would help her finish her work on time.
She rubbed her temples and sank back down onto the chair. She would not be some man’s personal servant. She was a journalist. How could she have thought, for even a second, that she might be wrong about Charles? Everything he had done for her had benefited him, as well.
She shoved the memory of those moments in his arms today from her thoughts and picked up her pen. It had been a moment of weakness she would not repeat. She knew what men were really like. It would take more than good manners and a few acts of kindness meant to get her to agree to his plans for Jonathan to fool her! And should she ever weaken again, she had only to look at that paper tucked in her mother’s sewing case to set her straight.
* * *
Jonathan left the toy horse he was playing with, came and tugged at her skirt. “Brover get Gamma? Me see Gamma?”
Clarice smiled and nodded. He had asked her the same question at least four times in the past ten minutes. “Yes. They will be here soon.” She set a plate, flatware and a napkin on the tray waiting on the work table, glanced over at the table set for three. How long would it be before her mother would be able to sit at the table with them? Or would Mrs. Hotchkiss have returned by then to be—
The front door opened, closed.
“They’re here, Jonathan.”
She leaned down, scooped him into her arms and rushed into the entrance hall, halted at the sight of Charles holding her mother, both of them smiling. Her mother’s cheeks were pink, her blue eyes shining.
“Me see Brover! Me see Gamma!” Jonathan leaned forward, his little arms outstretched.
“Hold on, Skipper.” Charles’s deep voice settled the boy in her arms. “Let Clarice and me get this lady settled before you start visiting with her.” His gaze shifted to her, his lips slanted in a smile that set her stomach aquiver.
She tightened her grip on Jonathan. “The bed is ready.”
Charles nodded and started for the stairs. “Here we go, Mrs. Gordon. You tell me if I do anything that hurts you.”
Clarice gripped the banister with her free hand and followed, his shoulders so broad she couldn’t see her mother, only her arm around his neck and her black shoes peeking out from under the hem of her long blue skirt. Her mother was wearing shoes!
She hurried by them in the hallway and rushed to the bed. “You stay here beside me while I help brother settle Gramma, and then I will lift you up to visit with her.” She gave Jonathan a hug, set him on the floor and held the propped pillows in place then searched her mother’s face for any sign of pain as Charles lowered her to the bed.
“There you are, Mrs. Gordon. Are you comfortable?”
Her mother nodded and smiled. “Very much so. Thank you, Mr. Thornberg, for all you have done for me. I so enjoyed the carriage ride.” Her eyes twinkled up at him. “And you make a very acceptable pack mule.”
He chuckled, gave a rueful shake of his head. “I have come down in the world. Jonathan thinks I make a great horse.” He sobered, looked across the bed at her. “If you’ve no further need for me, I have to be going. But I’d like a word with you, please.” He shifted his gaze back to her mother. “Best wishes for your exercises, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Brover give me horsey ride.”
She stepped back as Charles came around the bed. He scooped Jonathan up and tossed him into the air, laughed at his squeal and caught him on the way down. “I have to go back to work right now, Skipper, but if I get home before
dark tonight, I’ll give you two horsey rides around the backyard. How’s that?”
Jonathan’s black curls bounced with his nod. “Me see Gamma now?”
Charles glanced at her mother. “Mrs. Gordon?”
“I should love to visit with Jonathan.”
“All right, Skipper. But you must sit still and not climb around on Mrs. Gordon or try to get off the bed.”
The curls bobbed again.
Charles set Jonathan on the bed, lifted his gaze to her.
She nodded, glanced toward the bed. “I’ll be right back, Mama.”
“There’s no hurry, Clarice. It’s been too long since I’ve known the joy of being with a little one. And we have to get acquainted. Don’t we, Jonathan?”
She pulled her gaze from the sight of her mother and Jonathan smiling at one another and led the way to the hall. She turned too quickly and her shoulder brushed against Charles. Her heart lurched, quickened at thoughts of yesterday. She set her mind against them. “I thought I’d close the door. If Jonathan does climb off the bed, I don’t want him to come out here and fall down the stairs.”
“I’ll get it.” He turned and pulled the door closed.
She edged closer to the wall to put space between them.
“I’m sorry I have to leave you, Clarice.” His gaze sought hers, held it. And in spite of her best effort to keep calm, her pulse skipped out an accelerated beat. “That wasn’t my intent when I suggested bringing your mother here. But there is a big political meeting this afternoon that I need to cover, I have no editorial written, and I’m far behind in the composing of the pages for tomorrow’s printing.” He frowned, combed his fingers through his hair. “I may not be home for supper, either, but I give you my word, I will come home long enough to take your mother home. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t be concerned about her.”
“Thank you for telling me.” She started to smooth back her hair, remembered it was arranged in the looser style she’d experimented with last night and lowered her hand. “There are ham sandwiches prepared for dinner. I can wrap some up for you to take along.” She pushed away from the wall and started for the stairs.
His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) Page 17
