Ruth Axtell Morren - A Man Most Worthy

She frowned, noticing how he was attempting to write with his left hand. If he hadn’t looked so pitiable, she would have found the sight amusing. Not waiting for permission, she entered the cramped office and planted herself in front of his cluttered desk. “It looks to me as if you are trying to work.”

He set down his pencil. “Your conclusion is correct.”

“You suffered a bad fall yesterday and broke a bone and bruised some ribs. You are supposed to be resting. Surely, Father doesn’t expect you to be writing!”

He ran his left hand through his short sable curls. “See here, Miss Shepard, I truly appreciate your concern.” The trace of impatience in his voice softened. “Thank you for sending Davy up to me yesterday and again this morning. However, as much as I like being waited on hand and foot, the reality of my situation is that your father is paying me to carry out certain functions within a given time and if I prove incapable of doing so, I cannot fault him for finding a replacement.”

He took a deep breath as if gearing up for what he was going to say next, and she couldn’t help catching the grimace the gesture caused him. “This is the best job I’ve had in my career. If I lose the opportunity given to me, I may not get another. I do not plan to end my life as a clerk.”

She walked around the desk until she was standing close to him, his words both touching and intriguing her. “How do you plan to end your life, Mr. Tennent?” she asked softly.

He lifted his chin a notch. “Owning a company of my own like your father, so I can make a difference in the world.”

Make a difference in the world. No one had ever spoken to her like this before. As if what one accomplished mattered in the world.

“What kind of difference would you make in the world, Mr. Tennent?” she asked softly.

Instead of waving away her question as if she were too young or too ignorant to understand, he seemed to ponder it. He rolled his pencil in his good hand. The lamplight gleamed against the rich color of his hair.

“I would use my wealth to help those in need. Build schools, provide good housing, clean water, hospitals…” He glanced up at her. “Do you know what it’s like to have a gnawing pain in your belly because you have nothing to eat?”

She shook her head, mute.

“Do you know what it’s like not to have a dwelling to come home to at night after a long day’s work? There are many people who do, Miss Shepard.” He drew in a breath, then stopped, the pain evident. “That is why I want to become a very wealthy man, so I can do my bit to help alleviate the want of others.”

The words thrilled her to the marrow. Suddenly, she felt as if she understood her own undefined yearnings and dissatisfaction. To have such a noble purpose in life!

“I hope you realize your dream, Mr. Tennent.”

A few seconds passed between them in silence. Then he gave a short laugh. “I may be farther away from it than ever if I don’t get this work done.”

The two of them surveyed the papers on his desk.

Before he had a chance to stop her, she took the pencil from his loosened hold and the paper he’d been writing on. “Very well, Mr. Tennent, you dictate and I shall be your fingers.”

She glanced around, spotted a chair, and dragged it over.

“I—you can’t very well—this involves mathematics—”

She stuck out her chin. “Mr. Tennent, I am not ignorant of mathematics. In a year, I shall finish my schooling and I’ll have you know I get outstanding marks in mathematics. Now, what were you calculating when I walked in?”

With a resigned sigh, he turned back to his papers. “Very well, but only because it seems I have very little choice at the moment. Just stop any time you are tired of amusing yourself.”

Did he think she was simply seeking to entertain herself? She would just have to show him.

An hour later, after making steady progress, she sat back with a satisfied sigh. “I say, what you’ve taught me about stocks and shares is a lot more useful than what they teach us at Miss Higgins’s Academy. I never knew Father was involved in so many enterprises.”

Mr. Tennent adjusted his weight on the wooden chair, carefully cradling his injured arm.

“Does it hurt you much today?”

He touched the area just under his collarbone. “Some. It’s still a bit swollen here.”

She looked down. “I tried to convince Father to send Victor away, but he refused.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” He sounded displeased.

“I explained how Victor tricked you into mounting Duke.” She moistened her lips together, recalling the most unpleasant part of the interview. “He also knows the responsibility I bear. He agrees I was foolish and impetuous as always…” Her voice trailed off. By now she ought to be accustomed to her father’s dry tone, which never failed to erode her confidence when pointing out her faults to her.

“You were in no way to blame.” His tone gentled. “It was gracious of you to invite me for an outing. You cautioned me about riding your friend’s horse. It was silly pride on my part, so I deserve what I got.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “He’s not my friend—not anymore. As a skilled horseman, Victor was the most responsible. He should have known better. You could have been killed.”

His glance went to her hand and she felt herself coloring. Quickly, she removed it and sat with her hands clasped in her lap.

“He is, isn’t he?”

She frowned. “He’s what?”

“A skilled horseman.”

She made a face. “Oh, that. Well, yes, naturally.”

“Naturally.” He mimicked the word. “I suppose he has been riding since he was five.”

She giggled. “Oh, probably since he was four.”

His dark eyes lit with humor. “His parents probably sat him atop a horse before he could walk.”

“Oh, no, before he began to crawl!”

They both ended up laughing.

“Alice, what are you doing here?” Her father stood in the doorway to the library.

She jumped up from her chair. “I am acting as—” she gave a little bow “—Mr. Tennent’s secretary.”

Her father pursed his lips, his eyes going from her to Mr. Tennent and back again, making her feel as if she’d done something wrong. “That is not amusing.”

“Of course it isn’t. Mr. Tennent is injured, and I feel partially responsible. As such, it is only right that I assist him while his injury heals.”

“Mr. Shepard—” Mr. Tennent stood rigid, and her heart went out to him, having to work for her father.

Her father advanced into the small room, cutting him off. “So, you are unable to write?”

“I—” He cleared his throat and began again. “In a few days, perhaps—”

Did Father inspire such fear in all his employees? “Dr. Baird gave clear instructions that Mr. Tennent is to do nothing to put undue pressure on his collarbone for a few weeks. He mustn’t bend his arm in a way that will aggravate the bone.”

Her father had turned his attention back to her halfway through her speech. “In that case, I shall have to summon Mr. Simpson.”

She gave a disbelieving laugh at the mention of Father’s old secretary. “Mr. Simpson is getting forgetful, you said so yourself. We are making splendid progress.” She took up the papers she’d completed and handed them to him.

He took them without a word and examined them.

Mr. Tennent cleared his throat. “Mr. Shepard, I assure you, in a few days, I’m sure I can manage on my own.”

Her father handed the papers back to his secretary. “Very well. In the meantime I have to return to London. I shall determine things upon my return.” He turned to her. “I don’t want you making a nuisance of yourself here.”