His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) by Dorothy Clark

wardrobe then straightened the small sleeves.
    “These boots and this tie are all that are left in the valise.”
    He sounded angry. She stole a glance at him. He scowled, shoved the boots on a shelf in the almost-empty wardrobe, then scooped up the pile of clothes on the floor and jammed them back in the valise, muttering beneath his breath. “If they didn’t keep him clean, what else did they neglect to do for him?”
    They?
Only one man had brought Jonathan to the newspaper office. She closed the wardrobe and carried the hand lamp back to the table by the bed. The soft light fell on the sleeping toddler, made smudges of the dark lashes resting on cheeks pink with warmth, shadowed the sweet slightly open lips of the small mouth above the little round chin burrowed into the blankets covering him.
    “You said he woke earlier. Was he frightened?”
    The whisper brought the memory of Jonathan’s quiet sobs flowing into her head. “At first.”
    “What did you do to alleviate his fright?”
    She drew her gaze from the toddler, moved to the end of the bed where Charles Thornberg stood. “I stood in the light so he could see me and told him I was here to take care of him. I think he remembered that I brought him here and gave him bread and jam. I believe that reassured him.”
    He nodded, stuffed the clothes she had taken off Jonathan into the valise and motioned her toward the door. “I think you are right, Miss Gordon. I think your care will help Jonathan to feel safe here. And by the time Mrs. Hotchkiss returns—”
    She halted, turned. “Mrs. Hotchkiss?”
    “My housekeeper.”
    She stiffened, took a breath to control a rush of frustration. “Mr. Thornberg, I agreed to come and care for your brother tomorrow. But then I must return to my work at the newspaper. That is my livelihood. And, as you know, I must take care of my mother. I am sorry, but you will have to find someone else to care for Jonathan.” Something crackled. She glanced down, stared at the letter he pulled from his pocket.
    “I am not unsympathetic to your concern for your mother, Miss Gordon. But she assured me she will be fine with Mrs. Duncan caring for her. And Jonathan is so young and—” he frowned, stared down at the letter “—and he has suffered the care of strangers long enough.” He thrust the letter at her. “Read this, Miss Gordon, and then give me your answer. I’ll go tell the carriage driver you will be out shortly.”
    She watched him start down the stairs then stepped close to the wall sconce and unfolded the letter.
    Dear Charles,
    The boy that has been delivered to you is your half brother. His name is Jonathan David Thornberg. He was born in Paris, France, the 18th day of December, 1875.
    The child is the result of an illicit liaison, hence the name Thornberg. His father is a married man of social prominence and, of course, wants no part of the boy or any scandal. Nor do I. My elderly husband threatened upon our marriage that if he were ever to learn of any indiscretion on my part, he would immediately procure a writ of divorcement and throw me into the street with no provision. He has the power to do so, and should the boy’s existence be discovered, my life of luxury and ease will cease. I birthed the boy during an extended vacation in Paris I told my husband was for the purpose of buying new gowns, and I have been boarding him with various strangers until he reached sufficient age to survive the trip to you in America. That time has now come and when he is gone from Europe, I will be safe.
    I am enclosing a bank draft of an amount sufficient to pay for the boy’s living in a boarding school until he graduates. I realize you owe me no filial allegiance, but you are the only person in America with sufficient interest in this information not becoming known to keep it secret. And once you enroll the boy in a boarding school, he will be of no further bother to either of us.
    I do not wish to affix my name to this