Читать книгу His Precious Inheritance - Dorothy Clark - Страница 11

Chapter Three

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.”

“Yes. Well...” He coughed, cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to your work. Don’t hesitate to ask for my help—though you seem to have things well in hand.” He dipped his head and walked back into the composing room.

She tamped down her pleasure at his compliment of her work and returned to her task.

* * *

“I appreciate your zealous approach to your work, Miss Gordon, but it’s time for your afternoon meal break.”

Clarice jumped, looked from the letter in her hand to Mr. Thornberg standing on the other side of the table and blinked to adjust her vision. “Thank you, sir. I didn’t realize—” The splatter of rain against the windows burst upon her consciousness. “It’s raining!”

“Yes, for over an hour now.”

“Oh, dear.” She breathed the words, placed the letter on the science pile and stared at the water coursing down the windows.

“Is there a problem, Miss Gordon?”

“What? Oh. No. Well...” She moved to her desk, opened the bottom drawer, pulled out her hat and gave a rueful little laugh. “I suppose under the circumstances this qualifies as a problem.” She lifted the small felt hat to her head, snatched the pin from where she’d tossed it on her desk and jammed it into place. Her imagination was already making her shiver as she started for the stairs.

“You’re going out in this rain with no waterproof or umbrella?”

His tone was one of utter disbelief. He obviously thought her either insane or foolish in the extreme. She stopped and turned to face him. “There are times when we are left with no choice in matters, Mr. Thornberg. For me, this is one of those times. My mother is bedridden and depends upon me for her needs. When I came to work this morning, I did not know it would rain today and thus did not wear my waterproof. Nor did I make other arrangements for my mother’s care.” She gave an eloquent little shrug of her shoulders. “Thus...no choice.” She started again for the stairs.

“Wait!”

The command in his voice raised her hackles. She’d had enough of that from her father and brothers. But this was her boss. She made her feet stop walking, tensed when he strode up beside her.

“Come with me, Miss Gordon. I’ve an umbrella in the office.”

* * *

The rain beat on the umbrella, hit the walkway with such force it splashed almost as high as her knees. The hem of her long skirt was sodden, the short train so heavy it felt as if she were dragging one of the large baskets of wet laundry from her childhood behind her. The wind gusted, blew the rain straight at them. She shivered, thankful Mr. Thornberg held the umbrella. She was having difficulty enough making progress against the wind.