His Precious Inheritance

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Charming...”

“Did I say that?”

“You did.” Her mother’s gaze narrowed on her. “You said Mr. Thornberg has a charming smile.”

She snorted, waved the description away. “I suppose it is—given the right circumstances.” She turned her attention back to the work. “Now...you can write on the box—be mindful of this scratch—then put the finished work inside it. But don’t do too much. I don’t want you to tire yourself.”

“Clarice, have you forgotten I fed and cared for a flock of chickens, cleaned their coop, slopped and mucked out pens for over a dozen hogs and took care of the garden and the house and—” her mother shook her head, picked up a pencil and smiled “—and made lots of preserves. I’ll start with your favorite.”

Rhubarb Jam

Select fresh red rhubarb in pieces one inch long, take sugar pound for pound. Cook together and let stand all night. In the morning pour off the syrup and boil it until it begins to thicken. Put in the rhubarb and heat...

She left her mother to her work, walked to the desk and opened the directions manual for the typewriter she’d brought home with her. Her mouth firmed as she read the words across the top of the length of the last page. Diagram of Key-board of the No. 2 Remington Typewriter (Actual Size).

She laid the page down on the desk, tugged her chair close and placed the fingers of her left hand on the A-S-D-F keys on the paper, closed her eyes and repeated the names of the letters over and over, tapping the corresponding finger on the paper key. Her index finger she used for the G key, also. When she was satisfied she had them memorized, she moved to the right side of the key-board and did the same with her right hand. “J-K-L colon and semicolon. And also the H.”

“What are you doing, Clarice?”

“I’m learning to use the typewriter, Mama. See...” She rose and carried the manual to the bed, showed the key-board to her mother. “I put my fingers on the keys, thus...” She placed them as the manual advised. “And now to write—type—a word I just push down the right keys. Watch me do your name...h...” She pushed down her right index finger. “Oh, no, that’s wrong. I must push down this key that says Upper Case first.” She pushed the key on the left side of the bottom row above the space bar then pushed down with her right index finger again. “Capital H... Now I push the upper-case key down again to disengage it. And then I press the rest of the letters...” She peered down at the key-board and found them. “e...l...e...n. There! I have typed your name. If I were using the typewriter, your name would be printed on a piece of paper beneath the...the roller thing. See. Here it is.” She opened the manual to the picture of the typewriter with all of the parts named.

“You have to learn all of that just to write my name?” Her mother shook her head, laughed and lifted the pencil she held into the air. “I’ll use this, thank you.”

“Well, I am going to learn how to use this typewriter. And I am going to learn it without Mr. Thornberg’s help. And you can help me, Mama.” She carried the manual back to the desk. “When I have all of these keys memorized, and I have practiced enough that my fingers don’t trip all over each other trying to find them, I will sit over there by the bed and you can call out words for me to type. I will keep my eyes closed, and you can watch my fingers and tell me if I hit the right keys. I am going to type better and faster than anyone else at the Journal—including Mr. Thornberg. That will show him my value as an employee.”

She placed her fingers over the center row on the paper key-board and studied the top row on the left side. Q-W-E-R-T. Now, which fingers should she use...

* * *

The letters were blurring too much for her to practice any longer. Clarice blinked her eyes and glanced at her open locket watch she’d placed in the light cast by the oil lamp. One o’clock. She looked over at the bed and smiled. Her mother had set the writing box aside and succumbed to sleep close to two hours ago. And she was sleeping well. She hadn’t once moaned with pain.

Could the surcease of pain mean that her mother might walk again? Hope sprang to her heart. She would arrange for a doctor to come and see her mother as soon as she had the money. And that meant she had to stop practicing with the typewriter at work and concentrate on answering those letters. She wasn’t being paid to learn how to use the typewriter. And her mother’s care came first, even before her ambition to be a columnist for a real newspaper.

She closed the manual and slipped from her chair to take the writing box off the bed. Her mother’s Bible was open beside it, a verse marked with a small star in the margin. She averted her eyes. How could her mother still believe in God after all she had suffered? She picked up the writing box and placed it on the seat of the chair by the bed, where her mother could reach it, and glanced back at the Bible. The marked verse drew her eye. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.

Well, that was certainly true. She would never have let her mother be crippled!

Trust me.

The thought was so clear it might have been spoken. She spun about and hurried back to the turret area, turned down the wick to dim the lamp and shrugged out of her dressing gown. The night was warm, but shivers prickled her flesh. She slipped beneath the blanket on the window seat and pulled it up around her neck, seeking the comfort of its softness and warmth. All was dark outside the windows. There were no stars to look at—nothing.

The silence of the night settled around her. Her heart ached with a longing she didn’t understand and refused to acknowledge. She turned onto her other side and stared at the dim spot of light, the lowered wick glowing against the darkness.

Chapter Three (#ulink_64a1dfab-c1de-50b3-9c52-f9dabd67cc0a)

Muted voices came from the office. Clarice paused, uncertain as to whether she should seek out Mr. Thornberg or go upstairs on her own. The door ahead beckoned. No Admittance. A smile curved her lips. That sign no longer applied to her. She had gone to the school and turned in her resignation. She stepped through the door and hurried to the stairs.

The editorial room was empty, but the chandelier over Mr. Thornberg’s desk glowed against the overcast morning. So did hers. And the one over the table with the burlap bag of letters on it. Consideration? Or a subtle message for her to start working on the letters? She fought back a spurt of irritation and strode to her desk. The man was her boss. He had every right to tell her what to do and when to do it. But it took away her chance to show him that she had initiative and was responsible and reliable. And he obviously thought her lacking in those virtues. He hadn’t lit Mr. Willard’s chandelier.

She unpinned her hat and tossed it into the bottom drawer, turned her back on the enticing sight of the wood box covering her typewriter and crossed to the table. The burlap bag was too heavy for her to easily lift. She dragged a pile of letters out of it, then rolled it to the side of the table and eased it to the floor.

An open letter rested on the table. She read it, catalogued the questions as a request for the definition and pronunciation of words, placed the letter at the top right corner of the table and opened another. A science-experiment question. That letter started a stack for science-related questions at the top center of the table. The next was added to the first pile, and the next started a stack for grammar queries. Questions having to do with mathematics, she placed at the extreme-left top corner.

She sailed through the pile, defining the topics and placing the opened letters in the corresponding stack, then grabbed more letters from the bag, tossed them into a big heap in the middle of the table and began again. The second letter from that heap was directed to Dr. Austin. She set it aside in a personal-correspondence pile and snatched up another.

“Well, what have we here?”

She jumped, jerked her gaze to the man standing at the top of the stairs. Her stomach knotted. “Good morning, Mr. Willard.”

“It is now.” The reporter grinned, tossed his hat on his desk and strode down the room toward her. He swept his gaze over the stacks of letters covering the table. “What’s all this?”

She held her uneasiness in check and answered in a calm, polite tone. “The CLSC letters I’m going to answer.”

“All of those?”

She noted his shocked expression and nodded. “And many more. This whole bag, in fact.” She indicated the bag leaning against the wall.

He let out a long, low whistle. “It looks like you’re going to need a lot of help to get all of those letters answered.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “I’d be happy to volunteer.”

She gave him a cool look to discourage his flirting and cast another look toward the stairs. They were all alone. A shiver slipped down her spine. “Thank you for your considerate offer, Mr. Willard. But I am managing fine by myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a great deal of work to do.” She scanned a letter, added it to the grammar stack and picked up another.

“Ah, don’t be like that, cu—”

“Is there something you needed from the reference shelf, Willard?”

Mr. Thornberg. The tension left her spine and shoulders.

“Just saying good morning to Miss Gordon, boss.”

“We still need a lead story for tomorrow’s edition, Willard. Have you one?”

“Not yet.”

“The annual Chautauqua Assembly is important to the economy of this city, and I’ve heard rumors of a substantial amount of construction going on. Why don’t you go to Fair Point and see what you can find out?”

It was clearly an order, given in a tone that left no doubt of Mr. Thornberg’s opinion over the reporter’s waste of time. She looked up, stared at her boss’s taut face. The reporter wasn’t the only one Mr. Thornberg was displeased with. Surely, he didn’t think she had invited Mr. Willard’s attention? The knots in her stomach twisted tighter. She plunked the letter in her hand on top of the definition-of-words stack and grabbed another from the heap.

Boyd Willard walked away, the strike of his shoe heels against the wood floor loud in the silence. Mr. Thornberg took the reporter’s place across the table from her. She pressed her lips together to hold back the urge to explain. She’d done nothing wrong. She slapped the letter she held onto the mathematics pile and snatched up another.

“What are you doing, Miss Gordon? What are these different piles?”

She glanced up. There was a slight frown line between Mr. Thornberg’s straight dark brows and a glint of curiosity in his brown eyes. The discomfort in her stomach eased a bit. “I am sorting the letters into different classifications. These—” she indicated the first stack on her right “—have questions about words...their pronunciation or definition. And these—” she moved her hand to the next pile “—have queries about science. And then there are grammar and mathematics stacks. And those—” she gestured toward the smallest stack at the edge of the table “—are the ones directed to Dr. Austin or specific teachers at the Chautauqua Assembly.

“When I’m finished sorting, I will answer one stack of letters at a time. As they will all deal with the same subject, I won’t have to keep switching reference material if I don’t know the answers.” She couldn’t stop herself from putting a slight emphasis on the word if. He didn’t seem to notice. He picked up and scanned letters from each stack, his head nodding slowly.

“This is an excellent idea, Miss Gordon.” He put the letter he held back on its stack and smiled. “Your work is most efficient.”

The smile took her aback. Her lips curved in response. “Thank you, Mr. Thornberg.”