His Precious Inheritance. Dorothy Clark
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