His Precious Inheritance. Dorothy Clark
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.”