His Precious Inheritance. Dorothy Clark
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boarding school had given him the news that his bankrupt mother had remarried and gone to live with her new husband in Europe, along with the assurance that his schooling had been paid for, as if that made his mother’s abandonment of him all right. He’d been unwanted, discarded to live in school dormitory rooms with pendulum clocks that ticked away the lonely years and then in rooms in boardinghouses wherever his work as a roving reporter took him. But he’d survived. Even prospered.
He swept a satisfied glance around his richly furnished bedroom then lifted a doubled strip of dark blue silk off a peg, wrapped it around his neck and secured it with a simple knot in the front. A smile touched his lips. That wandering life was over now.
In the end, he had inherited more than the cuff links. He’d had one more bit of communication from his mother—a letter she’d left with the dean to be given to him the day he finished school. It contained information about a trust fund his father had established for him that was to be his upon graduation. By making wise investments, he had turned the money from the trust into a small fortune. And in doing so, he’d discovered his father’s talent for making advantageous business decisions ran in his blood. That was the best inheritance of all.
He buttoned on his vest, took the watch from the drawer and tucked it into his vest pocket letting the fob dangle, then shrugged into his suit coat and glanced in the mirror. Uneven. He frowned at the short ends of the blue silk tie resting against his white shirt, adjusted the knot until the ends hung even, then folded the stiff collar down over the blue silk encircling his neck.
The pendulum clock hanging between the two windows on the far bedroom wall gave a soft gong to announce the half hour. He tucked his steamer ticket and money into the inside pocket of his suit coat, grabbed his top hat and gloves, closed the wardrobe’s double doors and hurried from the bedroom. He could hear Mrs. Hotchkiss working in the kitchen as he trotted down the stairs to the entrance hall and out the front door.
The balmy morning promised a lovely summer’s day. He settled his hat on his head, tugged on his gloves and left the porch, rehearsing the finer points of the business offer he hoped to make to the leaders of the Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly held at Fair Point every August as his long strides ate up the distance to the dock. The deal was a good one, beneficial to both parties. He should have no difficulty getting an agreement from the Chautauqua leaders if he could meet with them today.
He frowned and joined the line to board the steamer. He hated doing things on the spur of the moment, but he’d been too busy until now with ordering equipment and moving the newspaper to the new building to act on his plan.
Today was his last chance of obtaining a meeting with the Chautauqua leaders before the assembly began tomorrow. They would be too busy to see him for the two weeks after that, overseeing the Bible studies, teacher training classes, musical entertainments, recreational activities and lectures the assembly offered. His frown deepened. And then it would be too late for him to do the work needed for this month—
“Ticket, sir?”
“I have mine.” He pulled the ticket from his pocket, showed it to the collector and moved past those in line buying their tickets. Lake water flowed under the gangplank and lapped against the pilings of the dock. He boarded the Griffith and made his way forward through the crush of passengers milling about and talking, his reporter’s senses on alert to pick up any tidbits of conversation that might lead to a story. Excitement was running high. Clearly, people were eager to attend the Chautauqua Assembly.
The steamer’s whistle blew. The deck quivering beneath his feet lurched. He glanced down at the water and watched the gap between the ship and the dock widen. The hum of conversation swelled. He edged into an empty spot near one of the posts that supported the upper deck and looked over at the passengers occupying the benches on the open deck. A young woman, whose stylish gown matched the color of her blue eyes, smiled at him. He gave a polite nod in return and shifted his gaze to the crowded bench across from him.
Another young woman smiled, her bold glance clearly showing she was available for a little flirtation to while away the time aboard the steamer. His barely polite nod declined her invitation. He turned his head and stared down at the water, watched it foaming by and willed the steamer to put on more speed. He needed to have this meeting at Fair Point, then get back to Jamestown as soon as possible. He had a newspaper to get out.
He turned back to look at the passengers, the reporter in him seeking inspiration for a story. His gaze fell on a young woman perched on the end of the bench opposite him and a smile tugged at his mouth. She looked like a wren sitting among canaries and bluebirds and cardinals. His smile widened, the editor in him pleased by the apt description. The young woman was definitely plain as a wren, though her profile was more attractive than one as she stared out at the water. Her lack of color or adornment captured his attention. That and her posture. There was something alert about her, though she sat perfectly still—except for the tapping.
He lowered his gaze to the thin wood box resting on the young woman’s lap, focused on her tapering fingers, which extended from a pair of half gloves. Their soft tapping on the box belied her quiet posture. And if the slight ripple occurring rhythmically at the hem of her long skirt was any indication, she was tapping her toe, as well. What had her so impatient? Or was it worry that— The ripples stopped. He lifted his gaze.
The young woman was looking at him, a small frown line between her arched brown brows. Obviously, she had sensed his interest and was not pleased by it. She turned her head back to look out over the water before he could catch more than a quick glimpse of her face. But even in that short moment, her eyes arrested his attention. They were light colored...perhaps blue or gray, and decidedly cool in their expression. Quite off-putting. And insulting. Had she thought him some lothario?
He glanced down and frowned. His dark blue suit, starched white shirt and simple matching tie should tell her he was a man of business. What made her so standoffish? The other young women surrounding her were all of a “holiday” frame of mind, as was displayed by their comportment. Hmm... He studied the passengers, forming an article about the excitement that was in the air in his mind.
The steamer lurched and then slowed. They were approaching Fair Point. He moved away from the post and edged his way to the rail to catch a first look at the campgrounds that housed the Chautauqua Assembly, nodded in response to the cheerful waves of people in dozens of rowboats and canoes that dotted the water closer to shore.
The Griffith blew its whistle. A bell ashore rang out an answering welcome, the sound mingling with the pounding of hammers. The construction going on would account for the pile of sawed lumber on the lower deck. He’d have to look into that, perhaps work it into another article for his paper.
The boat lurched again, steamed slowly toward the end of a wide dock.
He shifted his gaze to the grassy shore teeming with people then lifted it to the wooded hillside. Paths, lined with shingled rooftops interspersed among the trees, crisscrossed the hill in every direction. Here and there immense roofs showed in open glades. People swarmed on the paths, appearing and disappearing at breaks in the overarching cover of the branches of the trees. It put him in mind of a beehive. He’d heard several thousands of people attended the annual Chautauqua Assembly each August, but he hadn’t really believed it until now.
Deckhands leaped to the weathered boards of the dock and snubbed the ends of the mooring ropes around the protruding ends of thick pilings, while others dropped the gangplank in place.
He turned from the rail, caught a glimpse of a plain brown dress with a small nondescript bustle near the gangway and glanced back toward the benches. The wren had left her perch. He moved forward with the other passengers lining up to disembark.
At the head of the line, the young lady with the thin wood box stepped onto the gangplank. He watched her cross the narrow span then walk the length of the dock, the short train of her gown trailing along behind her. She waved a hand to whoever was in the window at the gatehouse at the end and then kept right on going through the open gate.
So she was known to the gatekeeper. That she was familiar with the Chautauqua grounds was evident