His Precious Inheritance

“I see. This way, Miss Gordon.”

Dr. Austin gestured toward an intersecting path, then lowered his head and stared at the ground as they walked. Her stomach tensed at the contemplative look on his face. She couldn’t write the article as she envisioned it unless he agreed. She could pick and choose among the teachers, but Dr. Austin had to be included. The readers would expect it. Would he agree to her idea for a new viewpoint?

The board-and-batten building with a painted sign that read Assembly Herald appeared ahead. She slowed her steps a bit to gain time. The tension in her stomach turned to knots. She had planned to write the article from the new perspective so she would be able to conduct interviews with the various teachers and entertainers over today and not have to return. She could not spend the next two weeks here at Chautauqua attending the classes and lectures to take notes for an article the way she had in the past. She had no money to pay Mrs. Duncan to care for her mother. With the increase in her weekly payment to Mrs. Smithfield for her mother, she barely had enough to pay for their room and board until the next school term began. And even then, her teacher’s wage would not cover—

“I believe we need to discuss this further, Miss Gordon.” Dr. Austin raised his head and glanced over at her. “Your articles have been very well received by our readers and I’m not certain changing them is a good idea. But I am willing to listen to your argument.” He glanced at the Assembly Herald building and frowned. “I’m uncertain how long this impromptu meeting will take, but if you could possibly wait until I’ve finished, we could continue our discussion.”

He hadn’t said no. She might still convince him. “I will wait, Dr. Austin.”

“Excellent. There is a bench over here.”

She followed him along the short stone path that ran parallel to the building, sat on a bench beside a door bearing a small sign that read Herald Office and rested her writing box on her lap. Her index finger searched out the small scratch in the smooth waxed surface and traced the indentation from end to end and back again in a tempo that matched the tapping of her foot. How would she care for her mother if he said no? She needed the money she would earn from the article to cover the increased room and board for September.

Her chest tightened, squeezed air from her lungs. She forced a breath and opened her box, pulled out paper and pencil and closed the lid. Worry would help nothing. And certainly prayer was of no avail. It was up to her to use her education and God-given talent— God-given? She thrust away that idea, narrowed her eyes and gazed around. Written words carried power. Much more than any argument she could present for the article would convey. She lowered her gaze to the blank piece of paper resting on the box and began to write the introduction she would use to convince Dr. Austin to agree.

The view from Dr. Austin’s office at the Assembly Herald building is, at once, spectacular and calming. Maple, elm and oak trees paint dappled shadows on the paths and grass, and between their bark-roughened trunks one can see the water of Chautauqua Lake rippling in the sunshine. A warm breeze rustles through the tree branches and the leaf shadows dance...

* * *

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Austin.” Charles rose and extended his hand to the courtly older gentleman. “I am an admirer of your writings.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Thornberg. And I’m quite certain you have not come to Chautauqua merely to compliment me. So why am I here? What is this meeting about?” Dr. Austin pinned him with a sharp look.

He smiled, stood by his chair and waited for the older man to take his seat. “I have submitted a business proposal to your partner, Dr. Austin. And Mr. Fuller graciously consented to summon you so that we might discuss it.”

“Mr. Thornberg has recently purchased the Jamestown Journal, John. He has come here with a business plan that he believes will be advantageous to us both. I think he is right.” William Fuller rose from the chair behind the cluttered desk and came to stand beside him. “So I will simply say, from a monetary perspective, that what he offers is, indeed, advantageous for us. And from that angle, I would recommend we accept the deal he brings. However, I know there are things about the Assembly Herald newsletter more important to you than profit. Therefore, I will leave you two to discuss those matters. A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Thornberg. I wish you well in your new endeavor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fuller.” Charles shook the man’s large work-scarred hand. “The pleasure was all mine, sir.”

“I’ll talk with you later to hear your decision, John.” William Fuller put on his top hat, tapped it into place and left the room.

“Well, it appears you have jumped one hurdle to your proposition, Mr. Thornberg. Let’s see if you can clear the next.” Dr. Austin stepped behind the desk, sat back in the chair William Fuller had vacated and folded his hands across his chest. “Have a seat and begin. And you can leave out the monetary details. That’s William’s decision. Mine is the content of the newsletter. What have you to say about that?”

“My proposition as to content is this, Dr. Austin.” He sat in the chair facing the desk and leaned forward. “I will accept and edit any articles or columns you wish included in the Assembly Herald. I will lay out the newsletter with the regular columns on their designated pages, provide all ‘filler’ material, write an editorial if you wish and handle any correspondence that is not meant for a specifically named contributor. I will pass forward all such letters.” He sat back, encouraged by the slow nodding of Dr. Austin’s head. “All this plus the printing of the newsletter will be done at a cost less than you now expend. But the true value to you, sir, will be the time you will save for your other duties and callings.”

Dr. Austin’s gaze fastened on his. “You are a shrewd negotiator, Mr. Thornberg. You have pointed out all of the benefits to us here at the assembly. However, you have neglected to tell me what advantage this deal holds for you.”

“A monetary one, sir. The Jamestown Journal is failing. The income earned from editing and printing your monthly newsletter will help to keep my newspaper afloat while I work to implement the changes I have planned and turn it into a profitable concern.”

“I see. I like your honesty, Mr. Thornberg.” Dr. Austin leaned forward, a smile peeking out from his beard. “If I understand you correctly, all of my present editorial duties will fall to you...including handling the correspondence.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“And I still have the final say over the content of our newsletter—the columns, articles and such?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we have a deal, Mr. Thornberg. Unless you choose to back away.”

He puzzled over the odd statement, could find no reason for it. “And why would I do that, sir? I’m the one who came to you with the offer.”

“Look at the top of my desk, Mr. Thornberg, and tell me what you see.”

He eyed the piles of letters spilling into one another, then glanced at the sudden twinkle in the Chautauqua leader’s eyes. “I suppose it’s too much to hope you are a very poor correspondent, sir?”

The older man let out a hoot. “You suppose right, Mr. Thornberg. These are this month’s letters from the far-spread members of our nationwide Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle. And all of the questions they contain have to be answered in the monthly column in the newsletter. A few of the letters will be directed to specific teachers and those must be answered individually. So have we a deal, Mr. Thornberg?”

“We have, Dr. Austin.” Though I wish I had known about those letters and the time they will swallow preparing your monthly newsletter before I made my offer. He rose, met the Chautauqua leader’s hand over top of the letters littering the desk and shook it.

“There’s one other thing, Mr. Thornberg—as long as you are here, I shall introduce you to the author of a new column I intend to include in the monthly newsletter.”

“I shall be most pleased to meet him, Dr. Austin.”

“Her, Mr. Thornberg.”

Her? He jerked his gaze from the piles of letters and stared at Dr. Austin as he came around the desk, scowled after him as he walked toward the door. A woman?

“Would you please come in, Miss Gordon? I’ve someone here you need to meet.”

He wiped the frown from his face and took a step toward the door.

“Of course, Dr. Austin.”

A slender woman garbed in a plain brown dress and carrying a thin wood box appeared in the sunlit doorway. The wren! He jerked to a halt. She was the columnist? He wiped the astonishment from his face as she stepped into the room and glanced his way.

Dr. Austin closed the door and turned to face them. “Mr. Thornberg, may I present Miss Gordon. Miss Gordon, Mr. Thornberg.”

“Miss Gordon.” He dipped his head in polite acknowledgment.

“Mr. Thornberg.”

You. She didn’t speak the word, but it was clear from the cool look she gave him that she recognized him as the man she’d caught staring at her on the steamer. He clamped his jaw to keep from launching into an explanation.

“Well, this is a fortuitous meeting for all of us. Please be seated, Miss Gordon.”

He moved to hold a chair for her as Dr. Austin strode behind his desk. She gave him a curt nod to acknowledge the politeness and sat, holding the box on her lap. He moved to sit in the other chair, eyed the polished wood and wondered at the contents.

“This morning has been full of pleasant surprises for me.” Dr. Austin smiled at them and took his chair. “I hope it proves the same for both of you.”

Charles swept his gaze from Dr. Austin to the piles of letters to Miss Gordon. He would not term these surprises pleasant. Startling would be a more apt description.

“Miss Gordon, I have given some thought to your idea for your next article for the Chautauqua edition of the Sunday School Journal.”

He lifted his gaze to her plain felt hat, forced down the irritation percolating inside him then focused his attention back on Dr. Austin.

“I like the idea for your piece and will include it in the Chautauqua submission for the Sunday School Journal.”

“Thank you, Dr. Austin.”

Her voice sounded soft, a tiny bit husky and...relieved? He glanced her way.

“I also think the idea wonderfully suited for a monthly column in the Assembly Herald.”

What? He jerked his gaze back to Dr. Austin but bit back the protest that sprang to his lips. The man had final say over the contents of the Chautauqua newsletter.

“You could feature one or two of the teachers or lecturers or entertainers here at Chautauqua each month, which will spur interest and excitement for next August. Should you agree, the stipend for the column will be the same as that you receive for your Journal articles. Would you care to take on the responsibility of the monthly column? I know you are a teacher and will have a large draw on your time come September.”

The wren was a teacher? He cast a sideways glance at her and glanced again. The woman’s face had transformed astonishingly, with an undeniable sweetness to her smile—a snare for the unwary.

“That will not be a problem, sir. I will be happy to write a monthly column for the Assembly Herald. To what address shall I submit it?”

“You will submit it to Mr. Thornberg. He will now be performing the editing and publication duties of the Assembly Herald.”

The smile faded. She opened the box, took out a piece of paper and a pencil and turned her head and looked at him. Gray eyes. Cool gray eyes. Miss Gordon was no more pleased with the situation than he. Good.

“The address where you wish me to submit the column, Mr. Thornberg?”

He refrained from giving a mock shiver at the cold tone of her voice. “That would be my newspaper office. The Jamestown Journal on West Second Street in Jamestown, New York.”

She put the paper and pencil back in the box, met his questioning gaze with another cool look. “I’ve no need to write the direction. I’m familiar with the area and with your new Journal building. I live at Mrs. Smithfield’s boardinghouse on East Second Street.”

“How very convenient.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

“Well, I must leave. There is an opening lecture I must give.” Dr. Austin tucked his watch back in his vest pocket, leaned down, then straightened and placed a large burlap bag on the piles of letters. “Take the letters with you, Mr. Thornberg. You’ll need time to read and answer them. And you’ll have to make arrangements to get the others that will continue to come in. I’ll see that they are placed in a sack for you.” He rose and made a courtly bow. “Good day, Miss Gordon. I shall look forward to reading your new monthly Chautauqua Experience column in the newsletter.”

Her new column...submitted to him. And all those letters with more to come! Charles cast a jaundiced eye at the piles, rose and picked up the bag. Miss Gordon clasped her box and stood. Well, that was one good thing. His curiosity had been answered. The box held writing supplies.

Sunlight slanted across the floor when Dr. Austin opened the door, disappeared when he closed it.

“Don’t forget these.” Miss Gordon put her box on the chair, stooped and picked up some letters that had slipped to the floor at the opposite end of the desk. “Why, these are all marked CLSC. That’s the reading program...” Her voice trailed off. She rose and looked at the piles of letters, her eyes widened. “Oh, my.” Her gaze lifted, met his. “Do you have to— I mean, are you going to—”

“Answer them in the Herald?” He opened the bag, grabbed a handful of the letters and shoved them into it. “Every one of them.”

“Oh, my.”

He slanted a look down at her. “You said that already.”

Her chin lifted. “It bears repeating.” She dropped the letters she held in the open bag, turned to the desk and snatched up those that had slid to the brink and were about to fall.

He studied her neat, no-nonsense appearance. She was a teacher. And a writer. Perhaps... He blew out a breath, examined the idea, decided he had no real choice. “Miss Gordon, could I interest you in a position answering correspondence at the Journal?”

Her left brow lifted. “Do you mean these Assembly Herald letters?”

“Yes.”

She tossed the ones she held into the bag and reached for more.

Obviously, she was waiting to hear his offer before she expressed any interest. It galled him to yield to the tactic, but he had no choice. “I’d be willing to pay you—” he glanced at the high tottering piles “—two cents for each letter answered.” That was too much. He should have said a penny. No. He couldn’t risk her turning him down. He couldn’t handle this amount of correspondence and run the paper, too. It was worth the money to free his time. He sweetened the deal. “And you would be permitted to use the typewriter for writing your own articles in your off time.”

She drew in an audible breath, straightened and looked at him. “A typewriter?”

Ah. He had her now. “Yes, the new Remington Standard model two.” He smiled, appealed further to the writer in her. “They say once you grow proficient at using the machine, you can type eighty or more words a minute.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I take it you have not reached such a proficiency—hence the offer?”

She was laughing at him! Brazen woman! He drew breath to rescind his offer. “Miss Gordon, I—” She dropped two overflowing handfuls of letters into the bag he held, gathered up more, dropped them on top of the others and gathered more. He watched her efficient movements, frowned and swallowed his words. “The typewriters and their desks have only just arrived. The machines are not yet uncrated.”

“I see.” More envelopes fluttered into the bag—more and more. Her plain brown hat bobbed with her curt nod. “I accept the position offered, Mr. Thornberg.” She pushed the envelopes down to make room, gathered up the remaining letters, stuffed them on top of the others, leaned across the cleared desk and checked the floor on the other side. “Two more.” She stepped around the desk, retrieved the letters from the floor and stuck them in the bag then looked up at him. “When do you wish me to start?”

Her gray eyes had blue flecks in them...

“Mr. Thornberg...”

“What? Oh!” He scowled down at the bag, drew the edges together, tossed it over his shoulder and moved toward the door. “Tomorrow morning at eight will be fine.”

She nodded, picked up her writing box and sailed out the door he opened for her.

He watched her hurrying up the path toward the hill, then turned and headed for the dock to wait for the Griffith, wondering if he’d just made a mistake. Miss Gordon seemed a little too independent of spirit for his comfort.

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—