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
