Читать книгу His Precious Inheritance - Dorothy Clark - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Clarice closed the door, hurried across the lamp-lit entrance hall and held herself from running up the stairs. Mr. Paul retired early, and he was grouchy enough to complain to Mrs. Smithfield if he was disturbed. The excitement she’d been suppressing ever since her morning meeting with Dr. Austin bubbled and churned with undeniable force, driving her upward. Her skirt hems whispered an accompaniment to the soft tap of her feet against the carpet runner as she rushed to the end of the upstairs hallway, opened and closed her door then leaned back against it hugging her writing box and grinning.

“Mama, I’m a journalist— Well, I’m not really a journalist for a real newspaper. But I’m now a columnist for the monthly Chautauqua Assembly Herald newsletter!” She spread her arms and whirled into the room, the writing box dangling from one hand.

“Clarice, how wonderful! I know how much you—” The words choked off on a sob.

She stopped twirling, dropped her box on the bed and grasped her mother’s hands, gave a little tug to pull them away from her face. “What is it, Mama? What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Is it the pain in your back?”

“N-no. It’s only—I can’t remember the l-last time I saw you h-happy.”

“Oh, Mama, don’t cry. I finally have you here with me and that makes me happy. And now I have an exciting new job.”

“As a c-columnist?”

“Yes!”

Her mother tugged her hands free and wiped her cheeks and eyes. “You didn’t tell me you were going to apply for a new position when you left this morning.”

“I didn’t. That is what is so amazing. It all happened quite by accident.”

“Oh?”

She knew that tone. “It wasn’t God, Mama. It was just...circumstances.” She kissed her mother’s moist cheek, whirled to the mirror over the dressing table and removed her hat. “Still, I have had the most astonishing day. It all started when I went to see Dr. Austin about an interview and—” She peered into the mirror, dropped her hat on the table and turned. “What is that in your lap?”

“It’s a chemise.” Her mother’s chin lifted a tad. “I’m mending the torn lace on it for Mrs. Duncan.”

“Mama, no! You don’t have to work anymore.” She rushed to the bed and reached for the undergarment. Her mother grabbed hold of her hands.

“I know you want to take care of me, Clarice. But I also know Mrs. Smithfield has raised your room and board since I’ve come.”

“How did you— Mrs. Duncan!” She went as stiff as a board. “How did she find out? She had no right to snoop into my business, the old—old busybody! I didn’t want you to know. It’s my—” The squeeze of her mother’s hands stopped her.

“I asked Mrs. Duncan to find out for me, Clarice. I may not be very wise in city ways, but I know people won’t let you live for free. And I don’t want to be a—”

“Don’t you say that word, Mama!” Tears stung her eyes. “I want to take care of you. It gives me pleasure. It’s what I’ve been working toward ever since I left the farm and you had to do all of the cooking and cleaning and hoeing and raking and the scrubbing of those huge piles of oily work clothes for Father and Don and Jim and Carl by yourself, until—” Her voice broke. She drew a long shaky breath.

“You have to stop thinking about that, Clarice. It’s over.”

“You can’t walk, Mama. It will never be over.” The bitterness soured her voice.

“Yes, Clarice, one day it will. I don’t know if it will be here on earth or in Heaven, but one day I will walk again. Meantime, I need something to do with my days and I’ve always enjoyed sewing and mending—as long as it isn’t oil-stained work clothes. And I’m quite a hand at it, if I do say so as shouldn’t. And I’d like to think I’m earning my way a little.” Her mother slanted a look up at her and wrinkled her nose. “Surely, you can understand that, Miss Independent.”

The name pulled a smile from her, just as her mother knew it would. “I suppose so. But you don’t need to earn your way, Mama. I can take care of you. That’s what I was about to tell you.” The excitement crept back, colored her voice.

“And I want to hear.” Her mother released her hand and patted the bed.

She pushed her box out of the way and perched on the edge. “Dr. Austin—he’s one of the leaders of the Chautauqua Assembly—has asked me to write a monthly column for the Assembly Herald. And I will be paid the same as for the annual Chautauqua Experience article I write for the Sunday School Journal. I’m a professional columnist, Mama!” She jumped to her feet, too excited to remain sitting. “And it all happened because I had to— Because I decided to change the way I write my Sunday School Journal article.”

She lifted the box that held her notes on the interviews she had conducted all day and carried it over to the desk in the turret area. “You see, I needed to interview Dr. Austin, and so I had to explain how I wanted to change the article. But he had a meeting to attend, and I waited outside to interview him...” She lifted the lid of the long box window seat, pulled out a sheet and blanket, spread them over the pad and tucked the edges beneath. “When he called me in, he introduced me to the new owner of the Jamestown Journal—that’s a biweekly newspaper here in town.” She tossed a pillow down at one end of her makeshift bed and walked out of the turret to the wardrobe. “Mr. Thornberg is going to edit and print the Assembly Herald from now on, and so I am to submit my articles to him.”

“Here in town? Or must you still take the steamer to Fair Point?”

“Here in town.” She gave a tug at the double doors, winced. “I hate opening this wardrobe. That squeak gives me shivers.” She took her nightclothes off a hook on the inside of the door and stepped back into the small alcove formed between the wardrobe and the wall. “And there were all of these letters from CLSC members piled on the desk. Hundreds of them, which Mr. Thornberg now has to answer.” A smile tugged at her. She stuck her head out beyond the wardrobe and grinned at her mother. “He looked so nonplussed I’m certain he didn’t know about them. Anyway, he asked me if I would accept a position at his newspaper answering the correspondence for two cents a letter...”

“Two cents! And there are hundreds of letters?”

Her mother’s eyes widened.

“Maybe a thousand or more.”

“Mercy me...”

She laughed at her mother’s awed whisper. “I said yes, of course.” How fortuitous it all was! Only this morning she had been so worried about how she was to pay the increased room and board. Now she would have money enough and to spare. She would be able to get a doctor to care for her mother.

Tears welled. So did the temptation to pray—to beg God to make her mother well. She blinked the tears away, looped her modest bustle and cotton petticoat over a hook along with her skirt and bodice, not allowing herself to even think that her mother might walk again. She had learned the futility of prayer as a child begging to be freed from her father’s tyranny. Eleven years—

“How will you have time to answer all of those letters when you begin teaching?”

She shoved away the bitter memories. “I’m going to resign my position. I will earn more answering those letters every month than I would earn as a teacher. And more yet by writing my monthly column. And doing so will further my career.”

Oh, how wonderful that sounded! She snatched up her wrapper, put it on and crossed to the dressing table to pull the pins from her hair. Soft, dull clinks accompanied their drop into a small pewter dish. “And he has a typewriter I will use!”

“A ‘typewriter’?” Her mother’s questioning gaze fastened on hers in the mirror. “What is a typewriter?”

“It’s a machine that prints letters on a piece of paper when you depress a round button. I saw a picture of one once in an advertisement. Mr. Thornberg says that when a person becomes proficient in its use, they can write—type—up to eighty words a minute.” She stared into the distance trying to imagine it, then ran her hands through her hair and set the long silky tresses rippling free. “And that is another bles—benefit. I am to be at the newspaper tomorrow morning at eight to begin my work.” She ran her brush through her hair, looked at her mother and smiled. “The Journal building is close by, and unless Mr. Thornberg objects, I will be able to come home and see you at dinnertime. And I will be here with you for supper and every evening.”

She slipped a length of ribbon between her neck and her hair, tied it and stepped over to the bed. “Lean forward and I will rub your back, Mama.” She pulled the pillows out of her way, handed them to her mother, then massaged the muscles along her spine, frowning at the bony protrusions. Her mother was much too thin from all that hard work. Her face tightened. She thrust aside the infuriating memories. Her mother would never have to do such heavy lifting again. If only she could walk. But at least she was no longer in constant pain.

“That feels good, Clarice. It takes away the ache. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Mama.” She lifted her hands and massaged her mother’s bony shoulders and thin neck, wished it were her father beneath her hands. She would pummel him until he ached and be glad for doing it. She took a breath, reached for the pillows and punched them instead. “I’m sorry I had to leave you alone so soon after bringing you here, Mama. How was your day with Mrs. Duncan? Did she help with your personal needs all right? Did she bring you your meals?”

“Everything worked out fine, Clarice. Mrs. Duncan and I chatted like old friends. I enjoyed her company. I—”

She glanced at her mother’s tightly pressed lips, tucked the pillows in place and finished the sentence for her. “You never had visitors on the farm. Father scared them all away, except for Miss Hartmore.”

“Yes. God bless Miss Hartmore for her courage in rescuing you.”

It was a prayer. She said it, too, every time she thought of her old teacher. The difference was her mother believed God heard and answered prayer—for her it was an expression of gratitude.

“And you, Mama.”

“And me.” Her mother shivered and smoothed the wrinkles from the quilt covering her legs. “What sort of man is Mr. Thornberg?”

The question caught her off guard. “I don’t know, Mama. I only spoke with him for a few minutes.” She thought about his handsome, strong-featured face. There was nothing soft about Mr. Thornberg, but he seemed eminently fair...even generous. Of course, he hadn’t any choice. “He’s strong, with decisive ways.”

Her mother grabbed her arm. “Don’t anger him, Clarice. If he does not want you to come home for dinner, I will be fine with Mrs. Duncan.”

Her chest tightened. “You don’t have to be afraid for me, Mama. Mr. Thornberg is a bit autocratic—as men are. But he’s no despot. And I’m certainly in no physical danger.” An image of Mr. Thornberg towering over her as she stuffed letters into the bag he held flashed into her head. He was a big man—like her father. Odd that she hadn’t been frightened. Likely she’d been too focused on his job offer. She hid her shiver and smiled reassurance. “He’s a businessman with socially acceptable manners. He would never hit a woman. It would ruin his reputation.”

Her mother nodded and rested back against the fluffed pillows, but the remnant of past fear shadowed her blue eyes. “Just be careful, and do as Mr. Thornberg says, Clarice. I can’t protect you anymore.”

She turned her mind from all the times her mother had stepped in and taken a blow meant for her from her father’s hand, swallowed hard and pushed words out of her constricted throat. “There’s no need, Mama. You and I are here together, and I will take care of us both. No man will ever hurt either of us again. I promise you. Not ever.”

* * *

Charles tightened the screw in the wobbly table leg, tossed the screwdriver down and rose to shove the end of the table against the wall. “Ugh!” He ducked, rubbed the top of his head and shot a look upward. The three-lamp chandelier overhead was swinging. There were six of the traps for the tall and unwary hanging evenly spaced in two rows that ran the length of the room. One chandelier for each of the desks for the six reporters he hoped to need someday. So far he had one reporter—two counting himself—and a correspondence secretary acquired quite by accident. Well, accidental necessity. The deal he had made to edit and print the Assembly Herald newsletter was not quite as good as he had expected it to be, thanks to those letters. But he would still profit by it.

He tugged the chain to lift the weights and lower the light closer to the work surface, then glanced across the width of the room to the new black walnut typewriter desk sitting at a right angle to the outside wall. Miss Gordon would be out of the way there at the back of the editorial room. And the desk was handy to the shelves on the back wall that held reference books and supplies, and also to this table he had brought in to give her a place to sort those letters. She was going to need it.

He lifted the overstuffed burlap bag from where it leaned against the inside wall to the tabletop. Letters spilled out of the mouth of the bag onto the waxed wood when he let go. Curiosity reared. He picked up an envelope, broke the seal and scanned the contents.

Dear Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle teacher,

I have been doing my studying and reading and have come across these words I don’t understand or know how to properly say. There is no library near me where I can look them up in a dictionary. Would you help me, please? The words are phenomena and pantheists.

Also, please, how do you say these names correctly? Leucippus and Democritus.

Thank you for helping me.

Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle member Martha Hewitt, Burgessville, Iowa

He laid the letter on the table, lifted his hand and rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck. How would Miss Gordon ever manage to answer all of these letters in a column? It would take an entire page or more. He shook his head, strode to the door that opened into the composing room and continued on to the long, deep table that held the uncrated typewriters.

Miss Gordon had tried to hide her excitement at his mention that she would use a typewriter, but her eyes had betrayed her. Their gray color had warmed and those blue flecks had glowed with anticipation. And then she had challenged him.

He picked up one of the three typewriters and headed for her desk. How enthused and confident would Miss Gordon be when she saw the complex machine? Not to mention the thirteen-page brochure of directions on how to use and care for it. He would most likely have to help her in the beginning. Women weren’t meant to work with machines. It wasn’t their forte. They were best suited for caring for a home and a family. At least, most of them. His face went taut. He shoved away thoughts of his mother.

He settled the typewriter on the pullout shelf, tested it a couple of times to make certain it remained stable. Odd that Miss Gordon was yet unmarried. She wasn’t unattractive. It was her plain manner of dress and that cool, standoffish attitude she manifested that made one think so. Still, when she smiled...

He shook his head to rid himself of the image, strode back to the composing room, picked up another of the new typewriters and carried it to Boyd Willard’s desk in the front corner facing the stairwell. The reporter pounded up and down those stairs chasing after stories all day long and his comings and goings were less of a distraction with his desk in the front corner.

Boyd wasn’t too keen on learning to use a typewriter, but he’d given him no choice. He wanted a modern, efficient newspaper and employees who would fit in with his plans. If Boyd continued to balk, he’d fire him and hire someone willing to learn modern ways.

One more. He carried the last typewriter to his desk, looked around and smiled. The new machines gave the editorial room a modern, businesslike look. He distributed the manuals that had come with the machines to the other desks, plopped down in his desk chair and opened his. He might as well get a head start so he’d have the answers when Miss Gordon came to him looking for help.

He scanned the information about setting the machines in place and skipped down the page. Machines are packed and shipped, properly adjusted and ready for use. Good to know. Placing the Paper. Ah, this was the information he needed.

He grabbed a piece of paper off the pile sitting on his desk and read the instructions. Lay the paper upon the paper shelf (F) with the edge close down between the cylinder and the feed roll...

* * *

Clarice turned onto the stone walkway and glanced again at the impressive building. The morning sun shone on the brick, warmed the gray stone that framed the doors and windows and formed the legend Jamestown Journal above the second-story windows. She worked here! Her dream come true. Almost. The word calmed her rush of nerves. It was true Mr. Thornberg had hired her, but her work was for the Assembly Herald, not for the Journal. Still, she would be working here at the newspaper building every day. The chance for her to prove herself as a journalist would come.

She took a deep breath, lifted the hem of her skirt and climbed the two steps to the large stoop. A long window in the wide paneled door reflected her image, the small white dots on the bodice of her midnight-blue day dress twinkling like stars in a night sky as she moved forward. She stole a quick glance to be sure every strand of hair was swept into the thick coil on the back of her head, then opened the door and stepped into a large entrance hall. There was a strange scent in the air—faintly metallic, rather...stale, though not like food. She sniffed, then sniffed again but couldn’t identify it. She turned toward the open door on her left marked Office and stepped inside. The odd scent grew stronger.

A portly man with a bald spot and bushy gray eyebrows above eyes with squint lines at their corners turned from the counter he was leaning on and peered at her. She glanced at his ink-stained fingers and the black blotches smearing his leather apron. Printer’s ink. That’s what that smell was.

“May I help you, miss?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m looking for Mr. Thorn—”

“Here’s the copy for that advertisement, Clicker.” Charles Thornberg came striding out of what she took to be an inner office, glanced her way and stopped short. He handed the paper in his hand to the portly man. “Mr. Gustafson wants twenty posters. He’ll send someone to pick them up this afternoon.”

The printer nodded and hurried out the door beside her.

Her nose twitched as he passed by. It was the ink.

“You are prompt, Miss Gordon.”

There was an underlying note in Charles Thornberg’s voice that suggested he was surprised by the fact. Because she was a woman? What other reason would he have? She gave him a cool look. “It is my belief that tardiness shows a flagrant disregard for another’s time. It has no place in the business world, Mr. Thornberg.”

His left brow rose. “An admirable point of view, Miss Gordon.” He came around the desk, gestured toward the door. “If you will come with me, I will show you to your desk so you are not delayed in your work.”

Was he gibing her for having an opinion? She swallowed the desire to ask him if he would have addressed a man thus, lifted her chin and preceded him out of the door then waited for his direction.

“This way, please.”

She followed him down the entrance room, through a door with a No Admittance sign and into a wide hallway. The odor of printer ink, much stronger in the smaller space, mingled with another somewhat rancid chemical smell.

“That is the...er...‘necessary.’” Mr. Thornberg waved a hand toward a door opposite the one through which they had entered, then turned to the right and motioned to a door in the end wall. “Those chemicals you smell are from the photography room. It’s located inside the printing room—Clicker’s domain, which one enters at his peril.”

His lips slanted in a wry grin that was utterly charming and impossible to withstand. She tried, but her traitorous lips curved in response.

He pivoted and strode toward the room then stopped at the base of a wide stairwell on his right. “We’ll go upstairs.” He moved to the far edge and waited.

A muted clicking came from the printing room. She shot a sidelong look toward the door, wishing he would take her in there to see how the printing was done. Perhaps if she were a man, he would have. Was that why he had warned her away? Because she was a woman? Her father had no such problem in assigning her man’s work on the farm. Her face tightened. She took hold of the railing, lifted her hems with her left hand and started to climb, the whisper of the short train of her long skirt against the polished wood accompanied by the taunting clicking sound. Mr. Thornberg fell into step beside her. Her stomach tensed at his closeness. She forced herself to maintain a dignified pace instead of bolting ahead to put space between them.

“The stairway divides at the landing. The steps on the right go to the composing room. We’ll take the left side that goes to the editorial room.”

She nodded, crossed the landing to the left side and began to climb the second flight of stairs. Sunlight poured in a window on their right, making the polished oak treads glow. She stepped off the stairs onto the oak floor, turned toward the room and stared. “It’s—it’s huge.”

“I built for the future. This town will grow and I expect to need the space for more reporters when the paper increases in circulation.”

More reporters. Her heart skipped. Oh, God, please, let me be— She squelched the spontaneous prayer. Even after years of knowing it was simply a waste of time, the urge to pray rose from her heart during unguarded moments. She glanced at the morning sunlight pouring in the four large windows in the long side wall. “It’s wonderfully bright in here.”

“Yes. I wanted to capture all the natural light I could. There’s little enough on stormy, rainy days or in the winter when it turns dark early. But I had chandeliers hung over each desk to take care of that problem—or for when there’s an emergency of some sort and we have to work nights to get the story written and printed.”

“That sounds challenging.” She glanced up at the chandeliers hanging by loops of chain from the ceiling and took a step to the side. Not all men were cruel like her father and brothers, but being alone with one still unnerved her. It was a situation she tried to avoid. “It seems you’ve thought of everything.”

“I’ve tried. But I’m sure there will come some point in the future when I’ll discover something else was needed.”

She stole a surprised glance at him through her lowered lashes. Where was the supercilious male attitude that had been so apparent?

He moved forward, gestured to the right, then to the left. “That is Boyd Willard’s desk—he’s my reporter. This is mine.”

His? Didn’t he have an office?

“This area is empty at the moment.” His lips slanted in another of those charming grins. “It will hold the desks for those reporters of the future.”

“I’m sure it will, Mr. Thornberg.” She wasn’t sure why she uttered the reassuring words, or even if she meant them for him or for herself. It just seemed that somehow her dream of one day being a journalist blended with his dream of one day having a thriving newspaper. His patronizing attitude toward women in the workplace was a little daunting as far as her dream went, but biting her tongue when a retort sprang to her lips and working hard should change that. Her writing ability would speak for itself.

“Yes. Well... Through this doorway is the composing room.” He motioned her ahead of him.

She stepped into the adjoining room, swept her gaze over three of the largest tables she had ever seen. On the opposite wall, between the windows, three hangers with serrated-edged cutters held wide, thick rolls of white paper. Supplies too numerous to take in and give name to filled floor-to-ceiling shelves that framed two windows on the back wall. She longed to go and peek in the boxes and small wood crates, to open the stoppered bottles and jars and find out what treasures they held. “This is where you design and lay out the pages the way you wish them to appear in the newspaper?” She moved forward to the center table and ran her hand over the smooth surface, imagining the process.

“Yes.”

A small box filled with pieces of paper with writing on them sat at the end of the table. “What are these?”

“Fillers.”

She looked up at him.

“They hold snippets of information, usually historical in nature—recipes, gardening hints, that sort of thing.” He stepped to her side, reached into the basket and pulled out a few of the pieces. “As you can see, they are different widths and lengths.” He glanced at her, then looked down at the papers he’d spread on the table. “Stories or articles or advertisements don’t always fill a column or allotted block, and you don’t want empty space on a newspaper page, so you choose one of these of the right length that will match the width of the column and use it to ‘fill’ that area.”

“I see.” She stared down at the filler pieces, touched the one touting “Indian Pudding.” Her pulse quickened. “Who writes these?”

“There was an ample supply of them when I bought the paper, but they’re running low. I’ve only enough for a few weeks left. I’ll see about making more soon.” He swept the pieces together and tossed them back in the box. “I’ll show you to your desk.”

Her desk. Her stomach flopped. She pressed her hand against it and followed him back into the editorial room.

“I put this table here for your use. I presumed you will need a place to sort through all of those letters.”

She followed the sweep of Mr. Thornberg’s hand and eyed the burlap bag with letters spilling out of it lying on its side on the table. “That was very thoughtful. Thank you.”

He nodded and moved on, stopped.

Sunlight pouring in the last of four windows in the outside wall shone on the polished wood of a low hooped-back chair with a red pad and a beautiful desk with six drawers. But it was the box on top that made her pulse race. Did it contain a typewriter?

“I placed your desk here close to the shelves of our research materials on the back wall, where it would be handy for you.”

Another thoughtful gesture. She tugged her gaze from the box and looked at the shelves, stared in amazement at the treasure trove of rich leather-backed books.

“There is a dictionary and thesaurus, of course, along with other research books. Volumes of literature and poetry...books on history and the sciences...legal books...a Bible and concordance, of course...maps... There are also office and writing supplies. And now typewriter supplies, as well. You’ll not need them to start, however.”

Her heart sank. She promptly took herself to task for her attitude. So she wouldn’t have a typewriter of her own. She had a job as a columnist, and she would work here in the editorial room of a newspaper, and she was free to use one of the other typewriters when—

“The machines come adjusted and ready for use.”

Her heart all but stopped when he reached down and grasped the front of the box. He opened the hinged front sections out to the side like double doors and a typewriter sat there, sunlight gleaming on the metal, shining on the round white keys and warming the narrow wood bar at the bottom front. Her breath caught. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Her fingers tingled to touch it.

“The shelf the machine sits on pulls out and locks in place when you wish to type—like this.” He slid the shelf forward. “When you are finished with your work, you unlock the shelf and push it back, thus...” He demonstrated, then straightened and stepped back. “I believe that is all I need show you, Miss Gordon.” His gaze fastened on hers. “I think it best if you learn how to use and care for the machine on your own. I will, of course, be ready to answer any questions you may have or give you any help you require. You may feel free to interrupt my work at any time—while you are learning about the typewriter. I trust it will not take more than a few days.”

His tone said he expected there would be quite a few interruptions. She stiffened and lowered her gaze back to the typewriter. If a man could learn to use it, so could she!

“I placed the direction manual on the machine’s use and care in the top right-hand drawer of your desk, along with paper for its use.”

There were directions! She gave an inward sigh of relief.

“Any other writing supplies you might need are on the shelves. I felt it best if you arrange your desk as you wish.”

“That is very considerate of you, Mr. Thornberg.” And not at all autocratic. She shoved aside her surprise. He must have a reason. No doubt all of those letters! “Thank you...for everything.”

“Not at all, Miss Gordon. I trust you will find all of the research material you need on the shelves. However, if you come upon a CLSC member’s question you cannot find the answer to, you are to come to me. If necessary, I will purchase the needed resource material.”

If necessary. The stiffness shot back into her spine. He might as well say straight out that he was certain he would be able to supply the answer to any question she found it necessary to bring to him. Well, she would wear her legs down to stubs walking to the public library to find any answer she might need before she would walk the few feet to Mr. high-and-mighty-superior-male Thornberg’s desk!

“I shall leave you to your work now, Miss Gordon. I will be at my desk or in the composing room whe—should you need me.”

She watched him walk away, then sat in the chair and slid the typewriter shelf toward her. The metal was cold to her touch, but, oh, how the feel of those round white keys warmed her. She pulled out the direction manual, cast a surreptitious look at the surprisingly thoughtful Mr. Thornberg and began to read.

* * *

Charles glanced toward Miss Gordon’s desk, frowned and directed his gaze back down to the article he was editing. He scanned the words, looking for the spot where he’d been reading... those who use science...spiritual existence...one truth can never contradict another... Ah. There it was. ...accustom people to... Now, what was she doing?

He scowled and put down his pen. The carriage on Miss Gordon’s typewriter was lifted and she leaned forward peering down into the works, the manual in her hand. Why didn’t she come to him with her questions? She had to have questions.

Her head lifted and their gazes met. His gut tightened. She gave him a tentative smile and went back to whatever she was doing with the typewriter, but the look in her eyes had said more clearly than words that she was uncomfortable with his attention. It was the same look she’d given him when she’d caught him looking at her aboard the Griffith. The woman made him feel like some lecher, and that would end right now! He sucked in air, shoved his chair back and rose. “Miss Gordon...” Her head lifted again and her unusual, expressive gray eyes fastened on him, uneasiness shadowing their depths.

“Yes, Mr. Thornberg?”

His remonstrance died unspoken. It was the woman’s first day and he was her boss. No doubt his presence made her uncomfortable. He should have thought of that. “I will be in the composing room, should you need my assistance.” He stepped toward the connecting door, paused at the pound of shoes against the stair treads.

Boyd Willard burst into the room headed for his desk, glanced his way and changed directions. “Hey, boss. I—” The reporter’s gaze shot to the back of the room and a roguish grin tilted his lips. “Who is this?”

Charles stepped forward, annoyed by the predatory look in Boyd’s eyes. He’d heard the reporter’s claims of his many conquests. “Miss Gordon is the Journal’s correspondence secretary.” He led the way to her desk. “Miss Gordon, this is Mr. Willard, the Journal’s reporter.”

Boyd Willard whipped off his hat, stepped close to her desk and smiled. “Correspondence secretary? I wouldn’t mind getting a letter from you, Miss Gordon.”

“That’s enough, Willard.”

The reporter stiffened, jerked his gaze to him.

“This is a workplace, and Miss Gordon is an employee. You will treat her with respect.” From the corner of his eye he saw Miss Gordon turn her head and look up at him. Those gray eyes held what...incredulity? Irritation surged. He gestured Boyd Willard to his desk with a flick of his hand, then strode back to his own. So much for leaving the room to make Miss Gordon more comfortable. He would stay at his desk until Willard left to rove about town in the search for stories...or whatever he did with his time.

He pulled the article he’d been editing toward him then glanced toward the back of the room. His gaze crashed against Miss Gordon’s and she quickly looked back down at the pages in her hand, but not before he’d seen the relief in her eyes and felt the power of her tenuous smile.

* * *

“It’s the most marvelous thing you’ve ever seen, Mama!” Clarice lifted her supper tray from her lap and rose from her chair. “It really does print out words on paper. You push down the key with the letter you want printed on it, and this skinny metal rod they call a ‘type bar’ comes up and strikes the underneath of the cylinder, and there’s the letter on the paper!”

She put her tray on the table by the bed, glanced at her mother’s tray and frowned. “You need to eat more, Mama. You’re too thin. Would you like me to spread preserves on your biscuit for you?”

“I’ve had enough, Clarice. I don’t get very hungry being in bed all day long.”

“Half a biscuit, then. Mama, you told me last night that you need something to do with your days...” She slathered preserves on the top half of the biscuit.

“You’re not going to scold me again for mending Mrs. Duncan’s chemise, are you?”

“I wasn’t scolding, Mama. I just don’t want you to—” She glanced at her mother, spotted her smile, grinned and handed her the biscuit top. “Stop teasing. Or I’ll make you eat the other half of this biscuit.”

“That’s better. You fret about me too much, Clarice. I know it’s hard for you to see me this way, but—”

“I wasn’t fretting, Mama. I was about to ask if you would help me with some work.”

“Help you?” Her mother cast a suspicious glance up at her. “How?”

“By writing down some of your recipes for me.” She slipped her mother’s tray away so she had no place to put the biscuit. “And perhaps some of the ways you’ve found to save time or do a better job of cleaning or gardening.”

“Oh, Clarice...” Tears glistened in her mother’s eyes. “I am a burden to you. You’ve spent all day thinking about how to help me stay busy.”

“I did not. And don’t ever say that again, Mama!” She piled the supper trays and started for the door.

“Then tell me how my recipes and household tips can possibly help you.”

“I’m going to make them into fillers.”

“Fillers?”

“Yes.” She balanced the trays and opened the door. “They’re short items of general interest that Mr. Thornberg uses to take up blank space when he composes the pages for the newspaper. He’s running out of them, and I intend to keep him supplied. I’ll explain after I take these supper trays downstairs.” She stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed.

“Clarice, come back! You forgot this biscuit!”

No, Mama. You did. She grinned and hurried down the hall to the stairs.

* * *

Charles laid his book aside and stepped out onto the small balcony that overlooked the street. Captain Nemo and his adventures held no interest for him this evening. He rubbed the back of his neck, blew out a breath and stared into the distance. Miss Gordon had gotten into his head. There was no denying it. It was her smile. It was so soft and warm, the exact opposite of her prickly disposition. And rare. He found himself waiting for her to smile, like some schoolboy hoping to catch a favorable glance from his secret crush. He scowled, raked his fingers through his hair and rocked back on his heels. It was the surprise of her smiles, of course. And the way her eyes changed...

A breeze rose and cooled his face, the skin exposed by the unbuttoned neck of his shirt and his bare forearms protruding from his rolled-up sleeves. The flow of air carried the scent of rain. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to close the door. He liked sleeping with it open. It helped to cool the accumulated heat of the day.

He leaned back against the stone wall of the house and gazed up at the night sky. No stars. Rain clouds must be closing in. Her hair was as black as that sky. So were her eyelashes. And they were long. They looked like shadows against her fair skin as she sat reading the directions for operating the typewriter.

He pushed away from the wall, stepped to the railing and shoved his hands in his pockets. Why hadn’t she come to him with her questions? She had to have had some. That section on changing the rubber bands and the one on adjusting the spacing dogs were quite technical. Not to mention the one on cleaning and oiling the machine.

Perhaps she hadn’t read that far yet. His lips skewed into a lopsided grin. He was quite certain the prickly Miss Gordon didn’t know the tiniest bit of the tip of her tongue showed at the corner of her lips when she was concentrating. It was most distracting. Every time he’d seen it, he’d wanted to go and help her.

And he wasn’t the only one who had noticed Miss Gordon’s winsome way. Willard had stolen glances at her all day long. One more reason it wasn’t good to have a woman in the workplace. Men lost their focus. He had. But that lapse of self-discipline on his part was understandable. Miss Gordon was a new employee. It was his responsibility to give her the help she needed—when she asked.

And that was the crux of the matter. The woman had plagued his thoughts all day because she hadn’t asked for his help when he knew full well she needed it. Any woman would. Well, he’d not give her a thought tomorrow. He had a newspaper to run.

He banished Miss Gordon from his thoughts, pulled his hands from his pockets, went inside and picked up the book.

* * *

“It’s apparent from Mr. Thornberg’s thinly veiled contempt that he shares the prevailing viewpoint that men are superior and women have no business being in the workplace.” But he is still thoughtful... Clarice frowned at the dichotomy, swirled her dressing gown on over her nightdress and slammed the wardrobe doors so hard they didn’t squeak.

“But he hired you, Clarice.”

“Yes, because Dr. Austin asked me to write the monthly column right there in front of him. And because he needed someone to free him from having to respond to all of those letters.” She yanked the ties at the neck of her dressing gown so tight she almost choked herself. She coughed, slid her fingers beneath the twisted ribbon and loosened the bow. “But he does not think I can learn how to use the typing machine on my own. He thinks I will have to run to him with questions. He even gave me a few days!” She shot her mother a look. “And he said if I found one of the CLSC members’ questions too difficult to answer, I am to go to him. As if he—being a man—will, of course, know the answer my poor, inferior woman’s brain cannot supply.”

“Clarice...”

“Well, it’s true, Mama!” She marched to the desk in the turret, the sides of her dressing gown flying out behind her. “And I intend to prove Mr. Thornberg wrong. I am going to become indispensable to him. And I’m going to start by writing those fillers he needs—without being asked to do so.” She glanced over at the bed. “Will you help me write them, Mama?”

“Of course I will, Clarice. I think it’s an excellent idea. And it will give me something useful to do. But you can hardly blame an older man like Mr. Thornberg for being uncomfortable with having a woman in his employ. It simply wasn’t done until recent years.”

“He’s not that old, Mama.” She removed the ink, lest it leak onto Mrs. Smithfield’s quilt, then snatched her writing box off the desk and carried it to the bed. “Everything you need is in here. Pencils...paper...”

“How old is Mr. Thornberg?”

“I don’t know, Mama.” She thought about it, pictured him looking down at her. “Perhaps five or six years older than me.”

“That young?”

She nodded and placed the box on the covers over her mother’s extended legs.

“What does he look like?”

“A prosperous businessman.”

“Clarice...”

“What does it matter, Mama?”

Her mother shook her head, sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I’d just like to be able to picture you at work while I’m sitting here. I get restless with nothing to do.”

She looked at her mother’s legs stretched out beneath the quilt and guilt smote her for her lack of understanding and compassion. “I’m sorry, Mama. Mr. Thornberg is tall and very neat in appearance. He has wavy brown hair, cut short, and—”

“Wavy?”

Now, why did that make her mother smile? “Yes, wavy...as if it would curl if it were longer. And dark, rather heavy eyebrows...and blue eyes. A strong chin and a—” his image flashed before her “—a charming smile. No. It’s more of a grin...sort of crooked and self-deprecating, you know, like a boy that has been caught at some mischief.”

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.