Family of the Heart
Dorothy Clark
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesIn her silk finery, Sarah Rolph knew she was no more a nanny than the haughty widower before her. She'd made a profound error in judgment. How long would it be before Clayton Bainbridge cast her out? She vowed to pack up her trunks return to Philadelphia at once. But that city held memories of her lost fiancé, sweet little Nora Bainbridge desperately needed some mothering. Sarah might not be an expert in child rearing, but she knew a few things about grief. The pain in Clayton's stormy blue eyes told her that her journey here must be part of God's larger plan for them all. . . .
“The child will be fully in your charge, Miss Randolph. While I shall provide all that is needed for its care, I will have no personal contact with it. Is that clear?”
Sarah lifted her chin and met Clayton Bainbridge’s gaze with her own. “Your words… yes. But—”
“There is no but, Miss Randolph. Those are the special conditions of your employment. I realize you will require some personal time. The maid Lucy will sit with the child while she naps in the afternoon. And your evenings will be free. Other than that, you will spend all of your time with the child. Do you wish to accept the position?”
Incredible! The man might as well be a marble statue. Had Clayton Bainbridge no feelings? An image of the sweet toddler sleeping upstairs flashed into her head. “Yes, Mr. Bainbridge, I accept the position. I must, sir. Because your daughter is a little girl, not an it.”
Sarah squared her shoulders, whirled away from the look of astonishment on Clayton Bainbridge’s face and swept from the room.
DOROTHY CLARK
Critically acclaimed, award-winning author Dorothy Clark is a creative person. She lives in a home she designed and helped her husband build (she swings a mean hammer!) with the able assistance of their three children. She also designs and helps her husband build furniture. When she is not thus engaged, she can be found cheering her grandchildren on at various sports events, or furiously taking notes about possible settings for future novels as she and her husband travel throughout the United States and Canada. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing her stories for Steeple Hill. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers, and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.
Dorothy Clark
Family of the Heart
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For thou wilt light my candle: the Lord my God
will enlighten my darkness.
—Psalms 18:28
This book is dedicated with boundless gratitude
to my extremely talented writer friend and critique
partner, Sam Pakan, who read every chapter
(though there is not a fistfight or dead body in any
of them), encouraged me and prayed for me when
“life” happened and interfered with my writing
time, and stuck with me through the last two weeks
of my writing marathon though he was racing to
meet his own book deadline. You sure know how to
go the “second mile,” cowboy. Thank you.
“Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts
shall be established.”
Your word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.
To You be the glory.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Cincinnati
April, 1838
The hired carriage climbed over the break of the hill and rolled to a stop. Sarah Randolph grabbed for the hold strap as the rig leaned to one side then quickly righted itself when the driver stepped off onto the ground. A moment later the door opened and the driver peered inside. “This is it, miss. This is Stony Point.”
Every nerve in her stomach fluttered to life. For one panicked moment Sarah wished she were back at the hotel with Ellen to tend her, but only for a moment. She needed something to do. Something to help her through the pain of Aaron’s death. Somewhere to get away from the tormenting memories of him that haunted the streets of Philadelphia. And this position as a nanny answered those needs.
Sarah lifted her chin in renewed determination and climbed from the carriage. A worm of worry wriggled through her as she watched the driver walk around to the back and unbuckle the straps holding her trunk in place. She’d brought only the plainest, most serviceable of her day dresses, but none of her gowns were really appropriate for a nanny. If only there had been time to obtain more suitable attire.
Sarah let out a sigh and closed her mind to the concern. It was of no matter now—her gowns would simply have to do. She glanced down, shook out her long bottle-green velvet skirt, smoothed down the tab-cut leaves at the waist edge of her matching spencer, then lifted her head and appraised the house in front of her. It was well named. The rectangular stone house, with its set-back kitchen ell, sat square in the middle of the point of land that forced the road to curve.
It was an attractive house. Not large, compared to the homes of the elite of Philadelphia, but two stories of generous and pleasing proportion. And, though there was nothing ornate or fancy about the place, it had charm. Shutters, painted the dark green of the pines on the hillside, embraced the home’s symmetrically placed multipaned windows and framed its solid wood-plank front door. Ivy spread clinging arms in profuse abandon on the front and climbed the gable end, stretching a few tentacles toward the wood shingles of the roof.
“Ready, miss.” The driver, holding her large trunk balanced on one beefy shoulder, appeared beside her.
Sarah stepped back, giving him room to open the gate sandwiched between the two lamp-topped stone pillars that anchored the low stone walls enclosing the home’s front yard. She ignored the maaaa of one of the sheep grazing on the lawn and followed him up the slate walk. Hope quickened her pulse. Her new life was starting. Surely tending a toddler would keep her too busy to dwell on the past, to remember the loss of her dream of being Aaron’s wife. Surely it would fill the emptiness and make the pain ease. Oh, if only the pain would ease.
The driver banged the brass knocker against the plate on the front door, and Sarah straightened her back and curved her lips into a smile. Everything would be better now. Soon, everything would be better.
The solid wood door opened. A stout woman stepped forward and stood centered in the frame. She looked at the driver, noted the trunk he carried and dipped her head toward the left. “Take that o’er t’ the side door. Quincy’ll let you in.” She shifted her gaze. Surprise, then doubt swept over her face. “You are the new nanny?”
Sarah felt her smile slip away at the woman’s tone. She pasted it firmly back in place and nodded. “Yes. I am—”
“Late! We expected you this morning.” The woman stepped aside and waved a pudgy arm toward the interior of the house. “Don’t stand there, come in, come in!”
Sarah hesitated a moment, debating the wisdom in pursuing her decision to accept the position. But the challenge was exactly what she needed. And she’d never had a problem getting along with her family’s servants. Perhaps the housekeeper was simply feeling the need to establish her authority. She squared her shoulders, climbed the three stone steps and crossed the small stoop. A child’s unhappy wails fell on her ears as she entered the small entry.
The woman closed the door and gave a brief nod toward the stairs. “’Tis that we’ve been sufferin’ all day! The little miss is cryin’ an’ in no mood to be quieted. And Mr. Bainbridge is—” Her words came to an abrupt halt as a door on their left flew open.
“Eldora! Can Lucy not stop the child from cry—”
Sarah stiffened as the man in the doorway snapped off his words and swiveled his head her direction. He swept an assessing gaze over her, and his dark-brown brows lowered in a frown. “I was not aware we had a visitor.” He made a small, polite bow in her direction. “Forgive me my outburst, Miss…er…”
“Randolph—Miss Sarah Randolph, of Philadelphia.”
The man’s brows shot skyward. “You are the new nanny?” He skimmed another gaze over her. Doubt flashed into his eyes. The frown deepened.
The man’s reaction rasped against her tense nerves. Was he going to judge her on appearance only? Did he deem that stylish clothes meant she could not care for a child? Sarah’s back stiffened. She gave him a cool nod. “I am. And it sounds as if I am sorely needed.” She lifted a meaningful glance toward the top of the stairs. The toddler’s cries were gaining in volume.
“Indeed.” The man gave her a piercing look. “You seem confident of your abilities.”
“And you seem highly dubious of them.” Sarah lifted her chin and looked right back. “I would not have written requesting to be considered for the position of nanny were I not competent to handle the child.”
The man’s eyes darkened. “It will take more than words to convince me of that, Miss Randolph. Competency is a thing that is proven, not—” he winced as a loud wail echoed down the stairs “—declared.” His face tightened. “And the first test of yours will begin now. I shall postpone your interview until later this evening. Please see to the child immediately. It’s impossible for me to work in this din.” Her prospective employer shifted his gaze back to the stout woman. “Mrs. Quincy, show Miss Randolph to the nursery. Immediately!” He stepped back into the room behind him and closed the door.
“This way, Miss Randolph.” The hem of the housekeeper’s long, gray skirt swished back and forth as she turned and headed toward the stairs.
Can Lucy not stop the child? The man’s words were still ringing a warning alarm in her head. Sarah shot a quick glance at the closed door beside her. What sort of man called his daughter the child? A tiny frisson of apprehension tingled through her. Perhaps this nanny position would not be as easy as she expected. But she could always go home. She hugged the comfort of that thought close, lifted her long skirts slightly and followed Mrs. Quincy up the stairs.
“Here we are.” Mrs. Quincy opened a door at the end of a short hallway.
Sarah stepped forward into a well-furnished, sunny nursery. At least, that was her initial impression. She hadn’t time for more with her attention centered on the squalling, squirming toddler trying to twist free of the grip of the young maid sitting in a rocking chair. The maid rocked furiously, jiggling the toddler up and down and making soothing noises.
Sarah froze. Mrs. Quincy stepped forward and looked at her in demand. The maid—Lucy was it?—looked at her in relief and stood to her feet. Oh, dear! They expected her to—What? Sarah’s stomach flopped. Her first thought was to turn about, run down the stairs and not stop until she reached the hotel where Ellen awaited her instructions. Perhaps they would both be making the journey back to Philadelphia. But the unhappiness apparent in the toddler’s cries held her frozen in place. Perhaps if she could get the child’s attention…She moved closer and leaned down to place her hand on the toddler’s back. “Hello, little one. I’m your new nanny.”
The child didn’t even look at her, only squalled louder and squirmed harder. What now? An idea popped into her head. An absolutely absurd idea—but she had nothing to lose. Sarah undid the satin ties of her bonnet and tossed it on the rocking chair, opened her mouth and let out a wail that made both Mrs. Quincy and Lucy jump. The toddler stopped squirming and crying and stared up at her out of big blue eyes. It worked!
“There now, that’s better.” Sarah spoke softly, but firmly. She lifted the startled toddler out of Lucy’s arms and started toward the window in the wall on the opposite side of the room. She had no idea what next to do, but movement seemed a good idea. She glanced at the child in her arms and burst out laughing. The little girl was staring at her as if she didn’t know what to think of her. That, too, seemed a good thing. “And do you have a name, little one?”
“Nora. Nora Blessing Bainbridge.” Mrs. Quincy’s answer was followed by the click of the door opening and closing.
Sarah glanced over her shoulder. The room was empty. She looked back at the toddler. “Well, Nora Blessing Bainbridge, it seems you and I are on our own.” The child’s lips quivered, pulled down at the corners. She placed her tiny hands against Sarah’s chest and pushed. “Except for that squirrel. Look!”
Sarah quickly turned Nora so she faced outward, holding her so Nora’s small back rested against her chest. “See?” She pointed at a large gray squirrel sitting on a branch of the tree outside the window, nibbling on some sort of bud. The distraction worked. The toddler’s tensed muscles relaxed. She stared at the squirrel, caught a broken breath, then another, stuck her thumb in her mouth and began sucking. Her little legs, dangling over Sarah’s supporting arm, stilled their kicking.
Thank goodness for the squirrel! Sarah swayed side to side, humming softly, ignoring the child except for an occasional downward glance. After a few minutes, Nora’s eyelids drooped, opened, drooped again. A moment later her little head dropped forward until her chin rested on her chest.
Sarah looked down and smiled. Nora had lost her battle against sleep. The toddler’s light-brown eyelashes rested on her round rosy cheeks and her little mouth was relaxed, no longer sucking at the tiny thumb. She looked adorable…asleep. Now, if only she could keep her that way until she could collect herself.
Sarah continued to sway and hum as she turned and scanned the room. A cherrywood crib with turned spindles and a white, crocheted canopy stood against the far wall. She carried Nora over, laid her on the blanket-covered down mattress and pulled the woven coverlet over her. She held her breath and stood poised, waiting…Little Nora blinked her eyes, sucked on her thumb and slept on.
Sarah let out a long sigh of relief and glanced around the room. Time to familiarize herself. She stripped off her gloves and tossed them on the rocker with her bonnet, tiptoed to a large, handsomely carved wardrobe and pulled open the double doors. Small dresses, aprons and coats with matching bonnets hung in colorful array on the right side. Little shoes and slippers marched beneath and, on the left, undergarments filled drawers. She noted the fine workmanship on Nora’s clothes, shut the wardrobe doors and looked around the room. Shelves, full of books, toys and stuffed animals, filled the alcove formed by the stone fireplace. An exquisitely detailed dollhouse sat beneath a window. A child-size table, set for a tea party, its matching chairs holding the attending dolls, sat in front of the shelves.
Sarah smiled at the evidence of the father’s love for his daughter. Obviously, that twinge of warning she had felt on meeting the man was wrong. She had simply misinterpreted his perturbation over Nora’s unhappy cries. Thankfully, she had been able to quiet the child. She skirted the chair on the hearth and opened a door onto a dressing room. Sight of the pipe traveling along the stone wall to the wash basin and tub brought a rush of relief. Running water! She had been prepared to give up that luxury. It was wonderful to know that sacrifice wouldn’t be required.
She glanced back to check on Nora, moved to another door and peeked inside. A cool draft flowed out of the dark room. Sarah shivered and stepped back, hesitant to enter the gloomy space. There was enough darkness in her life. She pulled the door closed—froze—opened it again. Yes. That was her trunk sitting on the rug of braided rags on the wide plank floor.
So this dismal place was to be her bedroom. Disappointment morphed into the barely controlled despair that was always with her. Why had she been so foolish as to think taking this position as nanny would help her over her grief? She should go home where she had every luxury, where she was cosseted and pampered, and…and wretched.
Unwanted memories impelled Sarah into the room. Her gaze skittered from the stone fireplace centered on the interior paneled wall, to a writing desk and chair, to the four-poster bed situated between two shuttered windows. She rushed forward, threw open the shutters and tugged up the bottom sashes. Light and warmth flooded into the room. The scent of lilacs floated in on a gentle breeze.
The horrid tightness in her throat and chest eased. Sarah lifted her face to the waning sunshine and took a deep breath. The tears that had been so close to flowing receded. Another battle won.
The victory gave her courage. Sarah marched to her trunk, unfastened the hasp and lifted the lid. She needed to change out of her travel outfit before Nora’s father summoned her. A sigh escaped. How she longed for Ellen. The woman had been her confidante as well as her personal maid since she outgrew her own nanny. She looked down at the trunk’s contents, and the victory she had won dissolved. She touched the cool silk fabric of the top dress and tears flooded her eyes. The gown had been designed for her to wear on her honeymoon. She should be aboard ship with Aaron and halfway around the world right now. A sob caught in her throat.
Sarah wrenched her thoughts from what should have been, wiped the tears from her face and lifted out the top dress. She shook out the blue and white silk gown, held it up and gave it a critical once-over, focusing all her attention on choosing an appropriate gown. Were the four flounces that decorated the bottom of the skirt too fancy? Would the gold, watered taffeta with the rolled silk ribbon trim be a better choice? What did one wear to an interview with an employer?
Clayton Bainbridge stared at Sarah Randolph. She was unlike any nanny he had ever seen. Her gown was the equal of those his wife had owned—and there was certainly nothing subservient in her manner. Indeed, her demeanor was more that of a guest than of a woman being interviewed for a position. It had him a little out of kilter. As did her latest revelation. He frowned down at her. “So you are telling me you have no actual experience as a nanny.”
“That is correct. However, as I wrote in my letter, I have abundant experience in caring for children.” She smiled up at him. “My aunt has an orphanage and I often helped with the babies and small children. She is my reference.” She handed him a sealed letter.
“I see.” Clayton scowled at the letter, tapped it against his palm. He would have to start the search for a nanny for the child all over again! He tossed the unopened letter on the table beside him. “I’m afraid you have made a long journey in vain, Miss Randolph. A reference from a family member is unacceptable.”
“Laina Allen may be my aunt, Mr. Bainbridge, but I assure you, she is a woman of great integrity. She is highly respected in Philadelphia—as are all members of my family. You can trust her word.”
Sarah Randolph’s stiff posture and the gold sparks in her brown eyes belied the coolness of her voice. Clayton hesitated, then yielded to an inner prompting, picked up the letter and broke the seal. Silence, invaded only by the crackle of the fire that had been started to ward off the chill of the evening air, settled around them as he read.
“Your aunt recommends you highly as one skilled in caring for toddlers and young children.” Clayton folded the letter, slipped it in his jacket pocket and fastened his gaze on Sarah. She looked regal, with her erect posture, lifted chin and light-brown hair swept high on the crown of her head. And wealthy. That gold gown she wore would cost more than his month’s wages. Why had she applied for the post of nanny?
Clayton frowned, continued his assessment. It was certain Sarah Randolph had never done a day’s work. Her hands were soft and white, the nails long and neatly shaped. And her face was the face of a pampered woman. He drifted his gaze over the small lifted chin, narrow nose and shapely high cheekbones to the brown eyes under delicately arched light-brown brows. He stiffened. There was a challenge in those eyes. And something else. Pain. He recognized it easily. He should. He saw it his own eyes every morning when he shaved.
Clayton averted his gaze. Sarah Randolph was hurting, vulnerable, despite the bravado of that lifted chin. But she had courage. That was apparent. She was not yielding to her pain. She seemed to be a fighter. Perhaps she was suitable for the post in spite of her delicate, pampered appearance. He cleared his throat. “I believe you aptly demonstrated the skill of which your aunt speaks by quickly silencing the child’s cries on your arrival. Because of that, Miss Randolph, the position is yours—should you still wish it after learning of your duties and responsibilities. They exceed the normal ones.” He turned and walked to the hearth, giving her time to absorb that information.
The silence settled around them again.
Sarah stared at Clayton Bainbridge’s back. He’d done it again. He’d referred to Nora as “the child.” And what did “They exceed the normal duties” mean? Her stomach quivered, tightened.
“Should you stay, Miss Randolph, the child will be fully in your charge. While I shall provide all that is needed for its care, I will have no personal contact with it. Is that clear?”
Shock held her mute.
He pivoted to face her. “Do you understand?”
Sarah found her voice hiding behind a huge lump of anger in her throat. She lifted her chin and met his gaze full with her own. “Your words…yes. But—”
“There is no but, Miss Randolph. Those are the special conditions of your employment. I realize you will require some personal time, and that need will be met by having Lucy sit with the child while she naps in the afternoon. And, of course, your evenings will be free. Other than that, you will spend all of your time with the child. Your wages will, of course, reflect the added responsibility. Do you wish to accept the position?”
Incredible! Sarah clasped her hands in her lap to keep from reaching out and pinching Clayton Bainbridge to find out if he was flesh and blood. The man might as well be a marble statue. His face was expressionless, his voice void of emotion. Had he no feelings? An image of the toddler sleeping upstairs flashed into her head. “Yes, Mr. Randolph, I accept the position.” She fought the anger that had brought her to her feet, lost the battle and gave voice to the words clamoring to be spoken. “I must, sir. Because your daughter is a little girl, not an it.”
Sarah squared her shoulders, whirled away from the look of astonishment on Clayton Bainbridge’s face and swept from the room.
Chapter Two
He would dismiss her first thing in the morning! Clayton stormed into his bedroom, removed his jacket and threw it onto the chair beside the window. His fingers worked at the buttons on his waistcoat as his long strides ate up the distance to the highboy on the other side of the room.
Your daughter is a little girl, not an it!
And he had felt sorry for her. Ha! His sympathy had certainly been misplaced. How dare that woman offer him such a rebuke! Clayton grabbed the silver fob dangling from his waistcoat pocket, jerked his watch free, dropped it into one of the small drawers, pivoted and paced back toward the window.
And for her to walk out of the room and leave him standing there like…like some servant! He shrugged out of the vest and yanked his cravat free. And what did he do? Nothing! Shock had kept him frozen in place. By the time he’d made his feet move, she had disappeared up the stairs. Well, he was not shocked now. And in the morning he would tell Miss Sarah Randolph she was completely unsuited for the nanny position, give her a stipend for her time and have Quincy arrange for her transportation back to Philadelphia.
Because she spoke the truth?
The voice in his head stayed his hand, cooled his anger. Clayton frowned. He refused to consider that question. What did Miss Sarah Randolph know of his truth? Nothing. And, truth or not, she had overstepped her place in speaking it.
Clayton tossed the vest and cravat on top of his jacket and sat in the chair to remove his shoes. Finding another nanny took so much time. And meanwhile chaos would again reign in the household. For some reason Lucy was unable to keep the child from crying all day. And the first nanny had not been that successful at it, either. But at least she had known her place.
Clayton scowled, tugged a shoe off, dropped it to the floor and wiggled his freed toes, weighing the situation in the light of that last thought. Perhaps he should give Sarah Randolph another chance. Perhaps that outburst was only because she didn’t yet fully realize what her position was. Her erect posture and lifted chin as she faced him down, proved she wasn’t accustomed to servitude. No, Sarah Randolph was a lady. Every inch of her. A beautiful lady. So why was she here?
Clayton rested his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor. The anomaly was intriguing. It was obvious Miss Randolph was not impoverished. And it could not be a case of familial division—she had spoken well of her family, and they of her. At least in the letter. Of course there was the matter of her temper.
A vision of Sarah’s face, brown eyes flashing, burst into his head. She was spirited. And beautiful. Clayton’s face tightened. He grabbed the shoe he had removed, tugged it back on and lunged out of the chair. Bed could wait. Right now he would go to his study and work on his progress report of the needed repairs on the canal locks here in Cincinnati. And on the estimated repairs required on the rest of the southern section of the Miami Canal. He was due to report to the commissioners next week. And the plans had to be perfected, as well. An hour or two spent staring at blueprints would drive away that unwelcome image.
Sarah looked toward the foot of the bed. Her trunk sat there…waiting. She did not dare pack the few items she had taken out for fear of waking little Nora. It would have to wait until morning—or until an angry fist pounded on her door and Mr. Bainbridge told her she was dismissed. She sighed and looked around the bedroom. She had held her post as nanny for what…a few hours? Well, it was her own fault. She should have controlled her temper. But—
No buts! It was too late for buts. Too late to take back her outburst. And too late to leave this house tonight. Sarah removed her silk gown, hung it in the cupboard beside the fireplace and tugged the soft comfort of an embroidered cotton nightgown over her head. She pushed her feet into her warm, fur-trimmed slippers and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her quilted cotton dressing gown.
What had caused her to act in such an unaccustomed way? She had gained nothing by giving vent to her outrage over Clayton Bainbridge’s callus attitude toward his daughter. Except for the momentary satisfaction of that look of utter astonishment on his face. Her lips curved at the memory of his widened deep-blue eyes and raised, thick, dark-brown brows, the flare of the nostrils on his long, masculine nose. That had been a gratifying moment. Of course, an instant later anger had replaced the astonishment. His brows had lowered, his eyes had darkened and the full lower lip of his mouth had thinned to match the top one. And that square jaw of his! Gracious! It had firmed to the appearance of granite. No, her outburst had done nothing to help little Nora. Or herself.
Sarah caught her breath at a sudden onrush of memories, fastened the ties at the neck of her dressing gown and hurried into the nursery. The oil lamp she had left burning with its wick turned low warmed the moonlight pouring in the windows to a soft gold. Tears welled into her eyes as she straightened the coverlet that had become twisted when Nora turned over. She had thought by now she and Aaron might be expecting a child of their own. The tears overflowed. She brushed them away, smoothed a silky golden curl off the toddler’s cheek and, unable to stop herself, bent and kissed the soft smooth skin. Nora stirred, her little lips worked as she sucked on her thumb, went still again.
Sarah’s heart melted. She resisted the urge to lift the little girl into her arms and cradle her close to her painfully tight chest. The hem of her dressing gown whispered against the wide planks of the floor as she walked back to her own room. What was wrong with Clayton Bainbridge? How could he not want anything to do with his own child? How could he not love her?
Sarah glanced at her trunk, halted in the doorway. Would whoever took over this position of nanny love little Nora? Would she give her the affection every child deserved? Or would she simply take care of her physical needs and keep her quiet so Mr. Clayton Bainbridge was not disturbed? Oh, why had she ever challenged the man’s cold, detached attitude toward his child? She should have kept quiet—for Nora’s sake. The little girl needed her.
And she needed this post.
Sarah blinked back another rush of tears and walked to her bed. She removed her dressing gown, stepped out of her slippers and slid beneath the covers, fighting the impulse to bury her face in the pillow and sob away the hurt inside. Crying wouldn’t stop the aching. It never did. But everyone said time would bring healing.
If only it were possible to hurry time.
Sarah breathed out slowly, reached over and turned down the wick of the lamp on her bedside table. She couldn’t bring herself to snuff out the flame. She could do nothing about the darkness inside her, but she could keep the darkness of night at bay. She rested back against the pillow, pulled the covers up to her chin and stared up at the tester overhead, willing time to pass.
Birdsong coaxed her from her exhausted slumber. Sarah opened her eyes and came awake with a start. She shoved to a sitting position, blinked to clear her vision and gazed around the strange room. Where was she?
Her open trunk provided the answer. The moment she saw it, the events of yesterday came pouring back. She sighed and swung her legs over the side of the bed, searching for the floor with her bare feet. Her toes touched fur and she pushed her feet into the warm softness of her slippers and gave another sigh. She wasn’t accustomed to rising with the dawn, but she had better get ready to face the day. Mr. Bainbridge was most likely an early riser. Even when he wasn’t angry.
She tiptoed to the door of the nursery, glanced in to make sure Nora was still sleeping and yawned her way to the dressing room to perform her morning toilette. How was she to manage without Ellen?
Soft stirrings emanated from the nursery.
Sarah gathered her long hair into a pile at the crown of her head the way Ellen had shown her, wrapped the wide silk ribbon that matched her gown around the thick mass and tied it into a bow. When she removed her hands, a few of her soft curls cascaded down the back of her head to the nape of her neck. She frowned and reached to retie the ribbon.
The stirrings grew louder.
She had run out of time. Her hair would have to do. Sarah took another look in the mirror to make sure her efforts would hold and hurried from the dressing room into the nursery, smiling at sight of the toddler who was sitting in the middle of the crib, her cheeks rosy with warmth, her blue eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Good morning, Nora. I’m Nanny Sarah—” at least until I’m summoned downstairs for dismissal “—do you remember me?”
“’Quirrel.”
Sarah’s smile widened. “That’s right. We watched the squirrel together yesterday. Aren’t you clever to remember.” She moved closer to the crib and held out her arms. “Are you ready to get up and have some breakfast?” She held her breath, waiting.
Nora stared up at her. “Cookie.” She scrambled to her feet and held up her arms.
“Cookie?” Sarah laughed and scooped her up. “I’m afraid cookies are not acceptable breakfast fare for little girls. Would a biscuit with some lovely strawberry jam suit?”
Nora’s golden curls bounced as she bobbed her head. “Me like jam!”
“Yes, I thought you might.” Sarah looked around for a bellpull. There was none. She hurried to her bedroom, glanced around, frowned. Where was—The truth burst upon her, rooted her in place. Servants did not have bell-pulls. And in this house she was a servant. She tightened her grip on Nora and sank to the edge of the bed, absorbing the ramifications of that truth. Perhaps it was just as well she would be going home. She had no idea what to do. Someone had to prepare Nora’s breakfast. But without a bellpull how did she summon—
“Bisit.”
Sarah looked into her charge’s big blue eyes and sighed. “Biscuit?…Yes. You shall have your biscuit and jam, Nora.” She took a deep breath, made her decision. She would take Nora to the kitchen—wherever that was—and have cook prepare breakfast for both of them. “But first I must get you washed and brushed and ready for the day.”
Nora squirmed. “Go potty.”
“Oh. Of course. Wait a moment.” Sarah tightened her arms around the toddler, rose and hurried toward the dressing room.
“Good morning.” Sarah smiled as Mrs. Quincy spun around from the iron cooking stove and gaped at her. The woman’s flushed face registered surprise, then censure.
“You’re not to be using the main stairs.” The housekeeper tossed the piece of wood she was holding into the stove, replaced the iron plate and hung the tool she’d used to lift the lid on a hook on the wall. Her long skirts swished as she moved around a large center table and pulled open a door. “These back stairs are the ones you’re to use.”
Sarah glanced at the narrow stairway with the pie-wedge-shaped winding steps.
“Remember that in future.” Mrs. Quincy closed the door, went back to the stove, picked up a spoon and swirled it through the contents in a large iron pot. “Is there somethin’ you needed?”
“Yes.” Sarah’s stomach clenched at the smell of apples and cinnamon that wafted her way. She ignored the reminder that she had been too nervous to eat supper yesterday and carried Nora toward the table. “I am unfamiliar with the way you run the house, and I wondered if you would be so good as to tell me where and when Nora’s meals—and mine—are served.”
Mrs. Quincy put down the spoon, picked up a griddle covered with slices of bacon and placed it on the stove. “Miss Thompson came down, give me orders for what she wanted for herself and the child and went back upstairs. Lucy toted and fetched their trays.”
Sarah winced at the cold, offended note in the housekeeper’s voice. Miss Thompson must have been overbearing in flaunting her elevated position as nanny to the daughter of the house. No wonder Mrs. Quincy was less than welcoming. “I see. Well, I do not wish to be an intrusion in your kitchen, Mrs. Quincy. Miss Nora and I will partake of whatever fare is being offered.” She gave a delicate sniff. “Breakfast smells wonderful.” She paused, rushed ahead, braving the woman’s ire. “However, I do wonder if it might include a biscuit with jam for Miss Nora? I promised her one this morning.” She offered an apologetic smile. “I shan’t make rash promises about meals to her again.”
The starch went out of Mrs. Quincy’s spine. She nodded, broke an egg onto the griddle beside the sizzling bacon, tossed away the shell and reached for another. “I’ve biscuits made. And there’s strawberry jam in the pantry. I’ll put one on the child’s tray. And on yours as well.” She grated pepper onto the eggs, added salt. “Lucy will bring them up directly.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Quincy.” Sarah glanced toward the door that opened on the winder stairs. She didn’t feel safe climbing them with Nora in her arms. She waited until the housekeeper was busy turning the bacon and eggs and walked back the way she had come through the butler’s pantry and into the dining room.
“Bisit-jam.” Nora’s lower lip pushed out in a trembling pout. She twisted around and stretched her pudgy little arm back toward the kitchen.
“Yes, sweetie. You shall have your biscuit. But first we have to go back upstairs.”
“Bisit! Jam!”
“In a moment, Nora.”
The toddler stiffened and let out an irate howl.
Sarah took a firmer hold on the rigid little body and howled louder. Nora stopped yelling and gaped at her. Clearly, the child did not know what to think of an adult who yelled back. How long would that ploy work? Judging from the storm cloud gathering on the small face, Nora was not going to give up easily. The little mouth opened. Sarah shifted her grasp, lifted the toddler into the air and whirled across the dining room. By the time she reached the doorway they were both laughing.
“That is much better.” Sarah stepped through the dining-room doorway into the hall and came to an abrupt halt. It appeared her concern over breakfast was in vain. Clayton Bainbridge was striding down the hall toward her, and she had no doubt she would be dismissed as soon as he saw her. Lucy would be the one caring for Nora today. She squared her shoulders as best she could with Nora in her arms and curved her lips into a polite smile. “Good morning.”
Clayton Bainbridge stopped in midstride and lifted his gaze from the paper he held. Surprise flickered across his face, was quickly replaced by displeasure. He gave a curt nod in acknowledgment of her greeting. His gaze locked on hers, didn’t even flicker toward the toddler she held. “Did I hear yelling, Miss Randolph?”
His tone made her go as rigid as Nora had only moments ago. “Yes, Mr. Bainbridge, you did. Nora and I were playing.” That was true. There was no need to tell him the yelling occurred first. Or that the play was to prevent it from happening again.
“I see. In the future, please confine your ‘play’ to the nursery.” His scowl deepened. “There are back stairs directly to the kitchen, Miss Randolph. It is unnecessary for you to bring the child into this part of the house.” He gestured behind her. “If you go through the dining room to the kitchen, Mrs. Quincy will show you the stairs’ location.”
He was completely ignoring his daughter! Sarah resisted the urge to lift little Nora up into Clayton Bainbridge’s line of sight where he could not dismiss her. “She has already done so.” She matched his cool tone. “But the steps are narrow and winding, and I feel they are unsafe to use when I am carrying your daughter.” And how can you object to that, Mr. Bainbridge? “Now, if you will excuse us, our breakfast trays are waiting.”
Sarah sailed by Clayton to the forbidden staircase and began to ascend, defiance in her every step. What had she to lose? He could not dismiss her twice.
Clayton stared after Sarah Randolph. The woman had an unpleasant and inappropriate autocratic manner. But he would not tolerate her presence much longer. He would dismiss her as soon as she had given the child her breakfast. He pivoted, strode to the dining room, took his seat, glanced at the paper in his hand. A moment later he threw the paper on the table and stormed into the kitchen. The heels of his boots clacked against the stones of the floor as he marched over and yanked open the door enclosing the back stairs. The narrow, wedge-shaped steps wound upward in a tight spiral. His anger burst like a puffball under a foot. Sarah Randolph was right. The winder stairs were unsafe for a woman burdened with a child.
“Was there something you needed, sir?”
Clayton turned to face Mrs. Quincy. She looked a bit undone by his unusual appearance in the kitchen. “Only my breakfast, Eldora.” He closed the door on the happy little giggle floating down the stairway. “And to tell you Miss Randolph will be using the main stairs.” He turned his back on her startled face and returned to the dining room, feeling irritated, yet, beneath it all, cheered by his sudden decision to keep Miss Randolph on as the child’s nanny. There was not a hint of crying from upstairs, and it had been a long time since he had been able to read his paper and enjoy his breakfast in silence.
Chapter Three
Lucy sat in the rocker and pulled the linen she had brought to mend onto her lap. Sarah gave the young maid a grateful smile and tiptoed from the bedroom. Her time was now her own until Nora awoke from her nap—and she had caught only the briefest glimpse of Cincinnati when she arrived.
She hurried down the stairs, crossed the entry hall to the front door and stepped out onto the stoop. The afternoon sun warmed the flower-scented air. She took an appreciative sniff. Lilacs. She loved their fragrance. And what a beautiful view. She descended the front steps, hurried down the slate walk toward the gate and swept her gaze down the flat, dusty ribbon of road toward town.
Clayton stared down at the paper spread out on his desk. The blueprint had turned into a drawing with no meaning. The sight of Sarah Randolph holding the child had seared itself into his brain and had his thoughts twisting and turning over the same useless ground.
He put down his calipers, shoved his chair back and rose to his feet. What sort of man was he to betray a deathbed promise to his mentor and friend, and endanger, through his weakness, the life of the very person he had promised to marry and care for and keep safe? Andrew had trusted him with his daughter’s life, and now, because of him, because of one night, Deborah was dead.
Clayton balled his hand and slammed the side of his fist against the window frame so hard the panes rattled. He would give anything if he could take back that night of weakness. He had even volunteered his life in Deborah’s stead, but God had not accepted his offer. Instead God had given him a living, breathing symbol of his human failings—his guilt.
A splash of yellow outside the window caught his eye. Clayton looked to his left. The new nanny moved into view, walking toward the front gate. There was a healthy vigor in the way she moved. If only Deborah could have enjoyed such health. If only she had not had a weak heart…
Clayton’s face drew taut. He stared out the window, fighting the tide of emotions sight of the child had brought to the fore. Sarah Randolph seemed an excellent nanny. He had not once been disturbed by the child’s crying since she arrived, and he was reluctant to let her go. But he would if she did not obey his dictates. He would not tolerate the child in his presence. He needed to make that abundantly clear. And he would. Right now.
He crossed to his desk, grabbed his suit coat from the back of the chair and shrugged into it as he headed out the door.
Sarah rested her hands on the top of the gate and studied the scene below. Cincinnati, fronted by the wide, sparkling blue water of the Ohio River, sat within the caress of forested hills that formed an amphitheater around its clustered buildings. For a moment she watched the busy parade of ships and boats plying the Ohio River waters, but the sight reminded her of Aaron and all she wanted to forget. She drew her gaze up the sloped bank away from the waterfront warehouses, factories and ships massed along the river’s shore. People the size of ants bustled around the business establishments, shops and inns that greeted disembarking passengers and crews. Farther inland, churches, scattered here and there among the other shops and homes that lined the connecting streets, announced their presence with gleaming spires. Throughout the town, an occasional tree arched its green branches over a street, or stood sentinel by a home dotted with brilliant splashes of color in window boxes or around doorways. Smoke rose from the chimneys of several larger buildings.
A sudden longing to go and explore the town came over her. Visiting the familiar shops in Philadelphia had become a bitter experience, but there was nothing in Cincinnati to make her remember. No one in the town knew her. Or of—
“What do you think of our city?”
Sarah started and glanced over her shoulder. Clayton Bainbridge was striding down the walk toward her. She braced herself for what was to come and turned back to the vista spread out before her. “I think it is beautiful. I like the way it nestles among these hills with the river streaming by. And it certainly looks industrious.”
“It is that.” Clayton stopped beside her, staring down at the town. “And it will become even more so when the northern section of the Miami Canal is finished.”
She glanced up at him. “Forgive my ignorance, but what is the Miami Canal? And how does it affect Cincinnati?”
A warmth and excitement swept over his face that completely transformed his countenance. Sarah fought to keep her own face from reflecting her surprise. Clayton Bainbridge was a very handsome man when he wasn’t scowling. She shifted her attention back to his words.
“—is a man-made waterway that, when finished, will connect Cincinnati to Lake Erie. It is already in use from here to Dayton.” He lifted his hands shoulder-width apart and slashed them down at a slant toward each other. “Cincinnati is like a huge funnel that takes in the farm produce of Ohio for shipment downriver. And that will only increase when the canal is finished.” A frown knit his dark brows together. “That is why it is vital that I make an inspection trip over the entire southern section soon to check on weak or damaged areas. But first I must oversee repairs to the locks here at Cincinnati.”
“Locks?”
Clayton shifted his gaze to her and she immediately became aware of the breeze riffling the curls resting against her temples and flowing down her back. She should have taken the time to fetch her bonnet. She would have to guard against her impulsiveness—it was such an unflattering trait. Sarah held back a frown of her own, reached up and tucked a loosened strand of her hair back where it belonged.
“Yes, locks. There are a series of them on the canal that lift or lower boats to the needed level. Unfortunately, the contractor who won the bid on the locks here at Cincinnati scanted on materials and construction practices to make it a profitable venture. Hence the locks were unequal to the demand placed on them and must now be either repaired or strengthened.”
“And that is your responsibility?”
He nodded. “I am the engineer in charge, yes.”
“Of the repairs over the entire southern section of the canal?
“Yes.”
“That must be daunting.”
“It could be, were I not educated and trained to handle the work.”
Sarah’s cheeks warmed. “Of course. I meant no—” His lifted hand stopped her apology. She looked down at the city.
“I understood your meaning, Miss Randolph. And I wish you to understand mine.” His gaze captured hers. “If you recall, during your interview, I told you I do not wish to have any personal contact with the child. Not any. I will overlook the incident in the hallway this morning, but I do not want it repeated. See that it is not.”
Sarah’s budding respect for Clayton Bainbridge plummeted. She drew breath to speak, glanced up and bit back the retort teetering on her tongue. His face had a cold, closed look, but there was something in his eyes she couldn’t identify. Something that held her silent.
“I also wanted to tell you I have given Quincy orders to drive you to town whenever you wish.”
He was not going to dimiss her? “That is most kind of you.”
“It is a necessity.” He glanced at the road that led into the city below. “The grade of the hill is mild, but it is, nonetheless, a hill. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back to my work.” He gave her a polite nod and started back toward the house.
Sarah watched him for a moment then pushed open the gate, stepped out into the road and, holding her long skirts above the dusty surface, walked to the carriage entrance and followed the graveled way out beyond the kitchen ell. A stone carriage house snuggled against the rising hill at the end of the way. A gravel walk led off to her left and she turned and followed the path, walking along fenced-in kitchen gardens to another gate set in pillars.
She stopped, gazing in delight at the small formal garden on the other side of the gate. Trimmed lawns cozied up to boxwood hedges lining a brick walk that led from a large back porch to form a circle around a birdbath, sundial and pergola surrounded by blooming flowers. Lilacs and other shrubs, their feet buried in lush green ivy, threw splashes of color against the high stone walls that defined the garden area. Daffodils and other spring flowers bloomed among the ivy. It was a perfect place for little Nora to play in and explore.
Sarah lifted the latch, stepped through the gate and let it swing shut behind her. Birds drinking and bathing or feeding on the ground fluttered up to rest on the spreading branches of the bushes. For a moment silence fell, then the birds started their twittering again. Sarah smiled and moved slowly toward the porch. What a lovely place to sit and read or have an afternoon tea. All of Stony Point was lovely. Though it was much smaller than her home.
Home.
Her pleasure in exploring Stony Point dissolved. Sarah blinked away a rush of tears, lifted her long skirts and climbed the porch steps. She glanced at the table and chairs on her left, walked to a wood bench with padded cushions and sat staring off into the distance. When would the pain of Aaron’s death go away? A year? Two? When would she be able to face going home again?
Sarah moved around the nursery straightening a doll’s dress here, adjusting the position of a stuffed animal on a chair there—anything to keep busy. The afternoon had been a challenging time with the toddler, who seemed to think she should have a cookie every few minutes. It had left her no time to think or feel. But Nora was now in bed for the night, the demands of caring for the toddler were over for today, and the night was hers. The dark, idle time that had become her enemy.
Sarah looked around, stepped to the shelves and rearranged the few picture books, fixing her thoughts firmly on the present. Why hadn’t Clayton Bainbridge dismissed her? He had certainly been angry with her. The scowl that sprang so readily to his face testified to that. Aaron had never—
No! She would not think about Aaron. Sarah spun away from the shelf and searched the room for something else to do. There was nothing. Everything was tidied and in its proper place. She had unpacked and her own bedroom was in order. And she wasn’t ready to write her mother and father and tell them she had been accepted in this position as a nanny in Cincinnati. They thought she was still visiting Judith in Pittsburgh. And when they learned what she’d done…Oh, they would be so worried. And she didn’t want to cause them more distress. They were already concerned for her.
Sarah blinked away a rush of tears, walked to the windows and closed the shutters on the deepening shadow of the coming night. How she hated the dark! She shivered and started toward her bedroom, listening to the light pad of her footsteps, the soft rustle of her long skirts. The quietness, the solitude pressed in on her. She stopped, fought for the breath being squeezed from her lungs by a familiar cold hand. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face the long night with nothing to do, with no weapon with which to hold off the memories. She cast a glance at the sleeping toddler, hurried to the door and slipped out into the hall. There must be a library, or study, or someplace in this house where she could find a book to read.
Sarah hurried to the stairs, lifted the front of her skirts and started down. Light shone out of an open door on the left side of the small entrance hall below. She paused. The room was only a few feet from the bottom of the stairs, and she had a strong intuition it was Clayton Bainbridge’s study. Would he hear her? She had no doubt it would anger him to find her snooping about his house in search of reading material. Of course, if she asked his permission there was no need for such clandestine measures.
Sarah descended the last few steps and marched over to rap on the frame of the open door. “Excuse me for interrupting, but—” She stopped, scanned the empty room. It was Clayton Bainbridge’s study all right. Blueprints littered a table. Papers with mathematical equations on them covered his desk with some sort of reference book open beside them. More books were stacked helter-skelter on the thick beam that formed the mantel on the stone fireplace. Her hands itched to straighten them. Instead, she turned back to the hall. The drawing room, where she had been interviewed, was on the opposite side, door open, lamps aglow, inviting one in to its comfort—unless one was a servant, of course.
Sarah shook her head, turned and walked down the hall toward the rear of the house, retracing the way she had taken that morning. What a strange position she had placed herself in. Whoever had heard of a wealthy, socially elite servant? Perhaps if she wrote of it in an amusing vein to her parents, they would be less concerned with her decision to accept this post. Surely they would understand she had to get away from all the reminders of her loss.
She halted, glanced at the dining room, now dark and uninviting. But candlelight poured through an open door on her left, tempted her into the yet unexplored room. She paused just inside the door, ready to apologize for intruding and make a hasty retreat. But this room, too, was empty.
She relaxed and looked around, admiring the room’s slate-green plastered walls, the deep mustard color of the woodwork and window shutters. An old, one-drawer table holding a flaming candle in a large pewter candlestick and a family Bible snuggled into the recess created by the fireplace. A framed needlepoint sampler hung on the wall above the table. Two tapestry-covered chairs sided a settee with a candlestand at one end. She moved to her right, stepped around a tea table and entered a large alcove lined with shelves of books. In its center stood a pedestal game table with a game of Draughts displayed on its surface.
Sarah smiled, slid one of the pieces forward on the board, moved it back to its starting place. How Mary and James loved to challenge and bait each other while playing Draughts—while doing anything. Her younger sister and brother were fiercely competitive. Who was mediating their clashes of wills now that she was gone from home?
A sound of footsteps startled her from her reverie. The door in the outside wall swung inward, exposing the night. The candlelight flickered wildly in a gust of wind that carried a strong scent of rain. The breath froze in her lungs. Sarah stared at the dark gap of the open door, pressed her hand to the base of her throat and took a step back toward the safety of the hall.
Clayton Bainbridge stepped out of the darkness, halting her flight. Surprise flitted across his face. He gave her a small nod. “Good evening.”
Sarah stood in place, acutely aware of her pulse pounding beneath her hand, the tightness spreading through her chest. She inclined her head.
“Sorry if I gave you a start, I did not realize you were in here.” Clayton pulled the door closed, faced her. “It seems we are in for a bit of weather. The wind is coming up fast.”
The sighing moan of wind seeking entrance at the windowpanes accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder testified to the truth of his prediction. Sarah darted her gaze toward the window, fought back a shudder. She would have to hurry. Get back to her room before the storm broke upon them.
“Were you looking for me? Is there a problem?”
She jerked her attention back to Clayton Bainbridge. “No. No problem. I…I was searching for something to read.” She lowered her hand, squared her shoulders. “I hope you do not mind?”
“Not at all.” Clayton’s gaze shifted to the books. “Were you looking for anything in particular?”
“No.” Lightning lit the sky in the distance. Sarah winced and turned her back to the windows, focusing on the books in front of her. “I only wanted something to read until I can fall asleep.” Little chance of that now. She edged in the direction of the door.
Clayton strode up beside her, reached out and pulled a book off the shelf. “The music of Robert Burns’s poetry always works for me.” His thumb slid back and forth over the black leather cover then stilled.
She was trapped. Sarah watched him, held fear at bay by trying to identify the myriad emotions that shadowed his eyes. Sadness…anger…loneliness…and something—He lifted his head, looked at her. She flicked her gaze back to the books. Warmth crawled into her cheeks. Had she been fast enough? Or had he caught her staring at him?
“Do you like poetry, Miss Randolph?”
She nodded. “Yes, I do.” The wind moaned louder, raindrops spattered against the windows at the far end of the room. The warmth drained from her cheeks. The tightness in her chest increased. If only he would move out of her way!
“Do you enjoy Burns? Or perhaps you prefer Blake or Wordsworth?”
“I have no preference. I like them all.” Lightning flashed, throwing light against the walls. There was a loud, sharp crack. Sarah flinched and bit down on her lower lip to stop the scream that rose in her throat.
“But not thunderstorms?”
She glanced up at Clayton. He was studying her. And she knew exactly how she looked—face pale, mouth taut, eyes wide and fearful. No point in trying to deny it. “No. Not thunderstorms. Not anymore.” There was a brilliant flash, a sizzle and crack, the burst of thunder. “Excuse me.”
Sarah pushed her way between Clayton and the game table, rushed into the hallway and sagged against the wall, struggling to catch a breath. She could still hear the thunder, but its rumble was muffled by the walls, and there were no windows to show the lightning. If only she could get to her room! But her legs were trembling so hard she was afraid to move away from the support of the wall. If she could breathe—
“Are you all right, Miss Randolph?”
He had followed her! Sarah nodded, gathered her meager strength and pushed away from the wall. Her knees gave way. Clayton Bainbridge’s quick grip on her elbow kept her from falling. She turned her face away from his perusal. “Thank you.” She struggled for breath to speak. Panted out words. “If you will…excuse me, I need to…go upstairs. Nora may wake and be…frightened by the storm.”
“In a moment. You are in no condition to climb stairs.” He half carried her the few steps to a Windsor chair. “You are very pale.” His eyes darkened. His face drew taut. “Rest here while I get you some brandy. A swallow always helped my wife when she had one of her spells.” He turned toward the drawing room.
“No, please. That isn’t necessary.” Sarah pushed to her feet, forced her trembling legs to support her. “Thank you for your kindness, but I need to go upstairs to Nora.” And to hide from the storm.
Thunder boomed. Sarah winced and rushed to the stairs. She heard him come to stand at the bottom, felt his gaze on her as she climbed. He must think her insane to react so fearfully to a simple thunderstorm. Would he judge her unsafe to care for his child because of it?
The sound of rain pelting the roof and throwing itself in a suicidal frenzy against the shuttered windows of the nursery drove the worry from her mind. “Sufficient unto the day are the troubles thereof…” Tomorrow would take care of itself. She had the night to get through.
Sarah tucked the covers more snugly around the peacefully slumbering Nora and ran tiptoe to the dressing room to prepare for bed. Prayers formed in her mind in automatic response to every howl of the wind, every flash of lightning and clap of thunder, but she left them unspoken. She had learned not to waste her time uttering cries for mercy to a God who did not hear or did not care. It would profit her more to hide beneath her covers and wait for the tempest to pass.
She shivered her way to bed, slid beneath the coverlet and pulled the pillow over her head to block out the sights and sounds of the foul weather, but it was too late. The storm had brought back all the memories, and she was powerless to stop the terrifying images that flashed one after the other across the window of her mind.
Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked, rumbled away. Clayton pushed away from his desk and crossed to the window. Rain coursed down the small panes of glass in torrents, making the barely visible trunks of the trees in the yard look liquid and flowing. He had not seen a storm this bad in years. He frowned and rubbed at the tense muscles at the back of his neck. Hopefully it would pass over soon. If not, the weak wall they were working to reinforce at the lock might not hold. And if it collapsed it would put them weeks behind the time he had scheduled for the repairs.
Clayton shook his head and turned from the window. There was no sense in worrying—or praying. He knew that from all those wasted prayers he uttered when he found out Deborah was expecting his child. What would be, would be. And he could do nothing until morning. He might better spend his time sleeping because, one way or another, tomorrow was going to be a hard day. He snuffed out the lamps, left his study and headed for the stairs. The sight of his hand on the banister evoked the memory of Sarah Randolph’s white-knuckled grip as she had climbed. She had trembled so beneath his hand, he had expected her strength to give out after a few steps, had worried she might fall. But she had made it to the top. And to the nursery. He had listened to make sure.
Clayton cast a quick glance down the hallway to the nursery door. All was quiet. He entered his bedroom and crossed to the dressing room to prepare for bed. What could have happened to make Sarah Randolph so terrified of a storm? Something had. When he noticed her pale face and asked if she liked thunderstorms she had answered, Not anymore. Yes, something frightening had definitely happened to Miss Sarah Randolph during a thunderstorm. But what?
Clayton puzzled over the question, created possible scenarios to answer it while he listened to the sounds of the storm’s fury. It was better than dwelling on the possible damage the weak locks were sustaining.
Chapter Four
“Tompkins, start those men digging a runoff ditch five feet back from the top of the bank, then follow me.” Clayton slipped and slid his way down the muddy slope and turned left to inspect the lock under repair. One quick look was enough. He squinted up through the driving rain at his foreman and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Tompkins, get some men and timbers down here! We need to shore up this wall.”
His foreman waved a hand to indicate he had heard him above the howling wind and ran off to do as ordered.
Clayton swiped the back of his arm across his eyes to clear away the raindrops, tugged his hat lower and sloshed his way across the bottom of the lock to check the other side. The pouring rain sluiced down the fifteen-foot-high wall to add depth to the water swirling around his ankles. He turned and slogged along the length of the wall, checking for cracks or weak spots, but the gravel and clay loam they’d used to reinforce it was holding up well beneath the deluge.
Lightning rent the dark, roiling sky and sizzled to earth with a snap that hurt his ears. Thunder crashed and rolled. Sarah Randolph’s pale, frightened face flashed into his head. He frowned, irritated by the break in his concentration, but could not stop himself from wondering how she was handling the storm. Perhaps it was only at night—
“Look out below!”
Clayton pivoted, squinted through the rain to see a heavy timber come tumbling down the wall on the other side. Men at the edge were poised to drop another. He cupped his mouth. “Stop! Hold that beam!”
His voice was lost in another loud clap of thunder. The two men holding the beam upright at the top of the lock wall gave a mighty shove and leaped aside. The beam tumbled down end-over-end, hit one of the horizontal beams of the form for the new stone wall and knocked it askew. Clayton broke into a run, shouting and waving his arms, trying to catch the attention of someone on the opposite bank before the carelessness of the unskilled laborers caused the unfinished wall to collapse.
Water splashed over the top of his boots, soaked his pant legs and socks as he ran. Rain pelted his upturned face, coursed down his neck and wet his shirt. Lightning flashed. Another beam came tumbling down the wall. No one was paying him any attention.
He ran faster, angling toward the bank where he could climb in safety. His hands and feet slipped and slid as he scaled the slope, adding the offense of mud to his sodden clothes. He heard a loud crash and rumble, stopped climbing and looked to his left. There was a gaping hole where a section of the newly placed, but unsecured, stones of the wall under repair had collapsed.
Clayton glanced up, saw the men who had pushed the last beam over the wall waving other men forward and pointing down at the damage it had caused. He sucked a long breath of cold, damp air into his laboring lungs and resumed his climb, wishing, not for the first time, he had personal fortune enough to hire ten men knowledgeable about engineering work and skilled in the performance of it.
“What a good girl you are, Nora.” Sarah smiled approval. “You ate all of your lunch.”
“Soup.”
“Yes, you liked the soup, didn’t you?”
Nora’s answering nod set her golden curls bouncing. “Cookie?”
Sarah shook her head, wet a cloth and washed the toddler’s face and hands. “No cookie today. You had pudding for dessert.”
“Cookie!”
Sarah looked at the toddler’s determined expression. It seemed a battle of wills was about to ensue. At least the sound of the storm would cover Nora’s squalls. She lifted her charge into her arms. “No cookie. It is time for your nap.”
Nora let out an irate wail. Sarah lifted the yelling, kicking toddler into her arms and walked to the rocker on the hearth.
“Cookie!” Nora howled the word, pushed and twisted, trying to free herself.
“No cookie. Not today.” Sarah tightened her grip enough so the child would not hurt herself and began to rock. She hummed softly, ignoring the fighting, crying toddler. Nora’s storm was as furious as the one outside, but she lacked the strength to sustain her effort to get her own way. After a few minutes of futile exertion, she gave up the fight, stuck her thumb in her mouth and began to suck.
Sarah watched the tiny eyelids drift closed as the toddler succumbed to the rhythmic motion, the steady whisper of the wood rockers against the floor. She wiped away Nora’s tears, studied the dainty brown brows, the tiny nose and soft contours of her baby face. She was a beautiful child. Spoiled but beautiful. Why did Clayton Bainbridge refuse to allow her in his presence? Refuse to even acknowledge her by name? Was she not his?
Sarah’s pulse quickened. She stared down at Nora, thinking, remembering, drawing a parallel between her childhood and Nora’s. Even if Nora was Clayton’s natural child, it could be that he didn’t know how to be a father. Perhaps he only needed to be encouraged in his relationship with his daughter—the way Elizabeth had encouraged her father to love her and Mary.
Her father.
Sarah leaned her head against the chair back and closed her eyes. She had never told anyone, including Mary, that she knew Justin Randolph was not their real father. Justin, his servants, everyone thought she had been too young to remember, but the day that man had come to Randolph Court and taken her mother away was indelibly etched in her memory. And she remembered how the servants had gossiped about how Justin Randolph had gone after them and found the man dead and her mother severely injured from a carriage accident.
She had been only three years old, but she vividly recalled Justin bringing her mother back home, and the horrible whispering when she died. She remembered it well because her nanny had taunted her by telling her the man who died was her real father, and that he and her mother were both evil and that’s why they had died, that she would die, too, if she wasn’t good. She had been so terrified she had decided not to talk for fear she would say something wrong that would make her die. But when Justin Randolph had married Elizabeth, everything had changed.
Sarah opened her eyes and looked down at Nora asleep in her lap. She had never thought it through before, but Elizabeth had changed everything because she had brought love into their house. Elizabeth had taken her and Mary—two orphans forced upon Justin’s care by the death of their mother and real father—into her heart. She had loved them and treated them as daughters. And Justin Randolph had followed her example.
Her example. Excitement tingled along Sarah’s nerves. The situations were entirely different, of course. Elizabeth had married Justin Randolph. And she had no intention of ever marrying. Aaron had been her dream, her love; she would not betray his memory. But still…If she could only bring Nora into Clayton Bainbridge’s presence…Resolve replaced the excitement. There had to be a way. And she would find it. Or she would make a way.
Sarah hugged Nora close, kissed her soft baby cheek, put her in the crib and hummed her way to her bedroom. The brilliance of a lightning flash flickered through the small cracks between the window shutters. Thunder boomed. She flinched, started to back out of her room, then squared her shoulders, marched to the writing desk and pulled it into the center of the room, turning it so her back was to the windows. She was ready to write her parents now, and no storm was going to stop her. Determination brought her inspiration. She opened the clothing cupboard, pulled her green-velvet coal-scuttle bonnet off its hook and put it on, letting the wide silk ties dangle free. There was a loud thunderclap.
Sarah flinched, then smiled. It worked. The deep brim shielding her face prevented her from seeing the lightning flashes from the corners of her eyes. Feeling both cowardly and clever, not to mention a little like a horse with blinders on, she seated herself and took up paper and pen.
The afternoon had passed quickly. Too quickly. Sarah picked up the children’s picture books she had used to entertain Nora and put them back on the shelf. She would have to make up more simple baby games. Little Nora caught on to them quickly. She was a very bright little girl—with quite a temper.
Sarah glanced at the toddler now asleep in her crib and shook her head. Supper had been a real challenge. Who would think that such a small body could house such a mass of determination. It had taken all of her ingenuity to get Nora to eat her meat and vegetables before her dessert.
Sarah’s smile slipped into a frown. She had a suspicion, based on Nora’s frequent requests for sweets and her unpleasant behavior when they were not forthcoming, that the former nanny may have used sweets to quiet her. But Nora’s bout of bad temper at supper had soon dissipated, her sunny disposition had returned and they had played quietly until her evening bedtime. She really was an adorable child.
Sarah tucked the blankets more closely around the little girl and roamed into her bedroom seeking distraction. She glanced at the desk that was again in its proper place beneath the window on the far wall. Her letter to her parents rested on the cleared surface, folded and addressed, sealed and ready to be posted. Perhaps she would do that tomorrow afternoon if the weather cleared. She had considered giving it to Ellen to carry home with her, but the post would be faster. And she had been thinking of going to town to visit the shops. Of course Nora’s hour or two of nap time did not allow for much exploring. Still, she should have time enough to accomplish all she needed to do, including visiting Ellen to send her on her way.
A clap of thunder invaded her thoughts, reminded her the storm was still raging, though awareness of it was never far away. It hovered like a dark cloud in the background, ready to carry forward painful memories at every flash of lightning or howl of the wind. Sarah shivered, adjusted the wick on the oil lamp and smoothed a wrinkle from the lindsey-woolsey coverlet on the bed. This was not working out as she had planned. She had counted on the demands of a toddler keeping her too busy to remember—or to feel the pain of her loss. But with Nora’s afternoon nap and early bedtime that hope had proven false. She had too much free time, especially with the storm adding to her unrest. If only…
Sarah lifted her gaze to the door at the right of the fireplace and absently tapped her thumbnail against her lips. Why not? What had she to lose? She opened the door wide, in order to hear Nora if she woke, and started down the winder stairs, longing for a hot cup of tea and some adult company. The storm had lessened in ferocity, but it still had her shaken and overwrought. She opened the door at the bottom, stepped into the kitchen and turned toward the table. Mrs. Quincy looked across the room, staring at her, most likely resenting this uninvited invasion of her domain. “Good evening.” She smiled and moved forward into the room.
The older woman nodded, leaned her direction and squinted her eyes. “Are you feeling all right, Miss Randolph? You look a bit under the weather.”
Sarah forced a laugh. “An apt description, Mrs. Quincy. I do not care for thunderstorms.” She glanced toward the stove, noted the pots steaming there and looked back. “I wondered if I might have some tea? And if you would care to share it with me? I would be glad of the company.”
The housekeeper studied her for a long moment, then walked to a cupboard standing against the wall, took out a tin of tea and headed for the stove. “This storm’s been a bad one. Guess you’re thankful it’s about wore itself out.” She measured tea into a red and white china teapot and added hot water from the kettle on the stove.
“Yes, I am.” Sarah moved closer to the long worktable and changed the subject. “I apologize for making extra work for you. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Mrs. Quincy gave a snort of laughter. “Lands, this ain’t work! My feet and I are grateful for the chance to sit down.” She placed the teapot on its tray, added some biscuits from a tin box sitting on the cupboard beside the stove and inclined her head toward the shelves hanging on the wall. “You can get two of them cups if you’re of a mind to help.”
Sarah hastened to do as she was bid. She had been accepted. At least for the moment. No doubt because of Mrs. Quincy’s tired feet.
Clayton dismounted in front of the carriage house, opened one of the wide double doors and led Pacer inside, the argument he had been waging with himself on the long, miserable ride home still engaging his mind. It was the storm. The ceaseless tempest coupled with his inherent protective instinct toward women was what had brought the image of Sarah Randolph’s pale, frightened face returning to him throughout the day. It had nothing to do with the woman herself. It was only that he had never known anyone so terrified of a thunderstorm. He had been pondering the possible causes of that fear since last night. Most likely it was some long-remembered childhood fright.
A gust of wind drove the rain into his face, splattered the deluge against the building and tried to rip the door from his grasp. He battled the wind for possession, managed to pull the door closed and headed toward Pacer’s stall. Sassy nickered softly, welcoming her barn mate home. Pacer tossed his head and snorted, nudged his back.
“Easy, boy, you will have some oats soon enough. But first we have to get you dry.”
The door opened. The wind howled through the breach, lifted hay and dust from the plank floor, swirling it through the air to stick to his wet face and clothes. Clayton blinked, blew a bit of straw off his upper lip.
Alfred Quincy wrestled the door closed. “Saw you ride in.” He walked over and held out his hand for the reins. “There’s hot venison stew waiting for you.”
Clayton nodded. Droplets of water clinging to his hat brim broke free and slithered down his cheeks and neck. He swiped them away. “A plate of hot stew is exactly what I need after the cold soaking I have had today.” He gave his mount a solid pat on the shoulder. “And Pacer deserves a long rubdown and a double scoop of oats. He earned them today.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Clayton nodded, stepped outside, lowered his head against the wind and pelting rain and ran toward the house. That stew was going to taste good tonight. There had been no time to eat today and his stomach was growling so fiercely he could not tell its rumblings from the distant thunder.
The kitchen door opened. Cold, damp air gusted across the room. The lamps flickered. Sarah turned, saw the rain-soaked figure standing against the blackness of the stormy night and gasped. The cup she held slipped from her grasp and smashed against the slate floor. The sound of the breaking china brought her back to her senses. “Oh, I…I am sorry.” Her voice quavered. She clamped her teeth down on her lower lip and crouched to pick up the pieces of broken cup, grateful for the table that hid her as she struggled to compose herself.
The door closed. The light steadied. Boot heels clacked on the floor. A shadow fell across her. Sarah closed her eyes, wished she were up in her room. She did not want Clayton Bainbridge to see her like this again. She tried to will herself to stop trembling.
“You look…unwell…Miss Randolph. Leave the cup.”
Sarah shook her head, opened her eyes. “That would not be fair to Mrs. Quincy. I broke it and I shall clear it away.” She cleared the sound of tears from her voice. “And I am not ‘unwell.’ I am fine.” She reached for a jagged piece of cup and stabbed her finger. Blood welled up to form a bright droplet against her flesh. She gathered another piece, started to rise to throw them away, wobbled and resumed her crouch, reaching for another piece of the cup to disguise the unsuccessful effort. “It was only that you startled me.”
The shadow covered her. Clayton Bainbridge’s hands closed around her upper arms. He lifted her to her feet. She looked up and met his gaze. Her knees quivered. She dropped her gaze to the pieces of china in her hand.
“You have hurt yourself.”
His voice was as warm as his hands.
“A mere prick.” She firmed her knees, stepped back. He released his grip. She ignored the sudden cold where his hands had been and brushed with her fingertip at the tiny rivulet of blood before it dropped onto her gown. “I apologize for breaking the cup.” She glanced up. “I will replace it, of course.”
A frown drew his brows down to shadow his eyes. “That is not necessary. It was an accident. And as you pointed out, the fault was mine for startling you.” He swiped his hand across the nape of his neck and turned away.
“Nonetheless—”
“Miss Randolph—” he turned back, frustration glinting in his eyes “—must you be so fractious? My clothes and boots are sodden and mud-caked. I am weary, chilled to the bone and hungry as a bear emerging from hibernation. I have no desire to stand here arguing with you over a broken cup.”
The heat of embarrassment chased the chill from her body. Sarah straightened her shoulders. “I was not being fractious, Mr. Bainbridge, only…steadfast. However, you are right, it would be inconsiderate to continue this discussion while you are in discomfort. We can resolve the issue of my replacing the cup tomorrow.”
A scowl darkened his face. “No, Miss Randolph, we will not. This discussion is over.” He looked down the long table. “Eldora, I shall be down for my supper directly after a hot bath.” He crossed to the winder stairs and began to climb.
Sarah’s cheeks burned. How dare he speak to her in such a fashion! Let alone dismiss her as if she were a servant! Truth struck. Of course, she was a servant.
She fought down the desire to march to the stairs and demand an apology and watched until her employer disappeared from view. Even in his rain-soaked, muddy clothes Clayton Bainbridge had a presence, an air of authority about him. He was a strong, determined man and getting him to accept and love his daughter suddenly seemed a daunting task. But she had more than a little determination herself and a strong, worthwhile purpose. The little girl upstairs deserved her father’s love and attention.
“Are you still wanting tea, Miss Randolph?”
Sarah jerked out of her thoughts and glanced at the housekeeper. “I am indeed, Mrs. Quincy. And please, call me Sarah.” She threw the broken cup in a basket holding bits of trash, walked to the shelves and took down another. Tea with the housekeeper had taken on a new importance. It might help her bring father and daughter together if she knew why Clayton Bainbridge held himself indifferent toward Nora, and servants always knew every household secret.
The storm had finally ceased. Sarah opened the window sash and stood listening to the quiet sounds of the night. Moisture dripped from the leaves of the trees, the drops from the higher branches hitting the leaves on those below before sliding off in a sibilant whisper to fall to the ground. There were muted rustlings of grasses and flowers disturbed by the passage of small, nocturnal animals. Somewhere an owl hooted, another answered. But concentrate as she would on the sounds, she could not blot out her tumbling thoughts, could not stop the images that were flashing, one after the other, into her head.
She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, more for comfort than for warmth. The cold was inside. If only she had not gone downstairs for tea. The sight of Clayton Bainbridge’s rain-drenched figure against the darkness had whisked her back to the night Aaron had died.
Sarah gave a quick shake of her head to dislodge the memories—to no avail. She closed the shutters, adjusted the slats to let the cool night air flow into the bedroom and hurried to the nightstand. The gold embossed letters on the black leather cover of the book resting there glowed softly in the candlelight. Robert Burns. She slid into bed, took the poetry volume into her hands and let it fall open where it would. All she wanted was words to read to chase the pictures from her head. She pulled the lamp closer and looked down at the page.
“Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care,
A burden more than I can bear,”
Sarah slapped the book shut, tossed it aside and slipped from bed. She didn’t need to read about grief, she was living grief! She rushed, barefoot, into the nursery, ran to the crib and scooped Nora into her arms. The toddler blinked her eyes and yawned. “Nanny?”
“Yes, Nora, it’s Nanny Sarah. Close your eyes and go back to sleep.”
Sarah walked to the rocker, sat and wiped away the tears blurring her vision. She covered Nora’s small bare feet with part of the skirt of her long nightgown, took hold of one little hand and began to hum a lullaby. Quietness settled over her as she rocked, her tense nerves calmed. She kissed Nora’s warm, baby-smooth forehead, touched a strand of silky golden curl, then leaned back and closed her eyes. She had been unsuccessful in her attempt to get Mrs. Quincy to talk about Clayton Bainbridge or his wife over tea. Maybe tomorrow.
The thought of him brought the memory of Clayton Bainbridge helping her to her feet. The feel of his hands, so warm, so strong yet gentle on her arms. The way his eyes had looked as he gazed down at her.
Sarah opened her eyes and stared down at the child in her arms, disquieted and troubled. Clayton Bainbridge had made her feel…what? She searched for the right word for the unfamiliar emotion that had made her want to turn and run from him, then frowned and gave up. What did it matter? It was of no importance. It had been only a momentary aberration caused by her fear of the storm that had quickly disappeared when Clayton Bainbridge had returned to his customary, unpleasant anger.
Chapter Five
What a beautiful day! The only reminders of the thunderstorm were the areas of damp, dark earth beneath the bushes where the sun’s rays hadn’t yet reached, and the colorful memory of flowers that littered the ground. Sarah sighed and crossed the back porch to the stairs. The storm had stripped the beauty from every branch and stalk in the enclosed garden. Not one flower was left intact. Still, the storm was over and the horrible constriction in her chest had eased. She took a deep breath of the clean fresh air and helped Nora down the steps to the brick pathway.
“Well, Nora, what shall we do first?” She reached down and straightened the pinafore that protected the toddler’s yellow dress. “Do you want to go sit in the pergola and watch the birds take their baths?”
“Birds!” Nora’s lace-trimmed sunbonnet slipped awry at her emphatic nod. Sarah laughed, adjusted the bonnet and took hold of her charge’s tiny hand. Hoofs crunched against gravel. She looked toward the carriage house, saw Clayton Bainbridge mount his horse and start down the path toward them. She smiled as he neared. “Good morning, Mr. Bainbridge.”
“Miss Randolph.” Clayton gave her a brief nod, touched his fingers to the brim of his hat and rode on.
Not so much as a glance at his daughter. Sarah stared after him, anger flashing. But as she watched him ride toward the road, her anger dissipated, vanquished by an odd sort of sadness. It was almost as if she could feel his unhappiness, his loneliness.
“’Quirrel!”
Nora’s tiny hand pulled from her grasp. Sarah brushed the strange sensation aside and watched Nora run, as fast as her little legs would carry her, toward the squirrel that was scampering along the railing of the pergola. Her anger sparked anew. If Mr. Clayton Bainbridge was lonely, he had no one but himself to blame. She would not waste sympathy on a man who wouldn’t even look at his own daughter. But despite her adamant avowal, a remnant of that odd, sad feeling lingered. And irritation at his abrupt departure. She stepped to the gate and looked down the empty gravel path. “You could have stopped a moment to bid us good morning, Mr. Bainbridge.”
“What’s that, miss?”
Sarah started, turned to see Mr. Quincy emerge from the shadow at the far end of the carriage house. He was pushing a wheelbarrow. Her stomach flopped. Thank goodness he had not heard her clearly. She shook her head. “Nothing, Mr. Quincy.” Her nose identified the rotted stable leavings in the wheelbarrow when he drew near. “Is that for here in the garden?”
“Yep.” He glanced over the shoulder-high wall and a smile deepened the lines radiating from the corners of his piercing blue eyes, poked dimples in the leathery skin covering the hollows of his cheeks. “’Pears like the little miss is enjoyin’ this fine day.” He dropped the back legs of the wheelbarrow to the ground and straightened. “I’ll come back later and spread this mongst the flowers an’ such. I don’t want to ruin Miss Nora’s playtime. Young’uns need to be outside where they can learn about God’s creations, not be—” He clamped his lips shut, gave her a brief nod and turned away.
Not be—what? Sarah took a breath. “A moment, Mr. Quincy.”
“Yes, miss?”
The set look on his face told her he had said more than he intended—and did not mean to compound the error. The question hovering on her lips died. She would get no information from him. “Do you know when Mr. Bainbridge will return?”
“Not till supper, miss. Leastwise, he had Mrs. Quincy fix him a box lunch, so he must be figurin’ on a long day.”
“I see. Then—” Sarah spun at a sudden squeal from Nora.
“’Quirrel, all gone.” Nora’s lower lip pouted out, trembled.
“’Pears like you’ve got a problem.” Mr. Quincy chuckled and walked away.
“It will be all right, Nora.” Sarah hurried down the path and scooped the little girl into her arms for a hug. “You frightened the squirrel when you yelled.” She walked to the pergola, sat on the wooden bench and settled Nora on her lap. “Shh.” She laid her finger across her lips and softened her voice to a whisper. “If we sit still and are very quiet, the squirrel will come back.”
The admonition worked until the disturbed birds returned to their bathing and feeding.
“Bird.” Nora pointed and squirmed to get down. Sarah helped her off her lap, then sat watching as Nora ran from one bird to another, squealing with delight when they fluttered into the air only to land a few feet away and resume their feeding.
The toddler’s laughter brought a smile to her own lips. One that disappeared in a small gasp when Nora stumbled and tumbled facedown onto the grass. She rushed to the railing, waited. Nora pushed to her hands and knees, got her feet under her and ran after another bird, her sunbonnet now flopping against her back, her blond curls bobbing free.
Sarah relaxed. It seemed the only damage done by the fall was the smear of green on the pristine white pinafore and that bit of torn lace dangling from the bottom of Nora’s pantalettes. The laundress would not be happy. But what did any of that matter in the face of the child’s happiness?
Sarah frowned and returned to her seat. Young’uns need to be outside where they can learn about God’s creations, not be—Kept quiet in the nursery all day? Is that what the former nanny had done to Nora? Of course, the woman was probably following orders. But still, how could she treat Nora like that? It was unnatural to keep a child hidden away like…like some unwanted possession. Did the child’s happiness count for nothing?
Sarah’s thoughts leaped backward, focused on the cruel woman her mother had hired to care for her when she was Nora’s age. Nanny Brown had cared nothing for her happiness. The woman had made her life a misery. And her mother and father had not cared about her happiness, either. They had left her behind with Justin Randolph when they ran off. How could parents disregard the needs of their children?
Sarah took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around her waist. She had struggled for so long after her mother abandoned her to overcome the horrid, empty feeling of being forsaken and unloved. She could not let Nora feel that way. And the little girl would if something did not happen to change Clayton Bainbridge’s cold, callus treatment of her. Because, though he provided for Nora’s every physical need, he had abandoned her in his heart. Why? He seemed considerate of others. What caused him to treat his child this way? There had to be a reason.
Sarah pushed the question aside to concentrate her attention on Nora. The toddler was no longer chasing the birds but had squatted on the brick path and was poking at something on the ground. She rose and hurried down the steps to discover what had captured the little girl’s attention. “Oh. You found a worm.”
“Worm.” Nora’s tiny finger poked at the pink, squiggling worm trying to escape.
Sarah bit back an admonition to not touch the thing, and squatted down. “Be careful, Nora. You will hurt the worm. Do it like this.” She squelched her repugnance, took hold of Nora’s hand and gently touched the tip of the child’s tiny finger to the worm. It wiggled. Nora giggled and touched it again.
“Here are the biscuits you asked for, Miss Randolph.”
“Bisit!” Nora pushed to her feet and ran toward the house.
Mrs. Quincy stepped onto the porch, holding a tray. The door banged closed behind her.
Sarah caught up to Nora, lifted into her arms and carried her up the steps. “Bless you for the interruption, Mrs. Quincy.” She settled Nora on a chair and gave the stout woman a grateful smile. “She found a worm.”
The housekeeper nodded. “At least ’tis better than a bumblebee. Worms don’t sting.” She set the tray on the table.
“Gracious! I forgot about bees.” Sarah wiped Nora’s small hands with the bottom of the grass-stained pinafore then folded them together. “Close your eyes, Nora.”
The toddler’s lips pulled down. “Bisit.”
“You shall have your biscuit after we ask the blessing.” Nora let out a screech. Sarah folded her own hands and waited. The child’s acts of rebellion were getting shorter. The toddler stopped yelling, stared up at her, then closed her eyes. Sarah bowed her head. “Dear gracious, heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this food. Amen.” She handed Nora a biscuit and glanced up. There was a distinct look of approval in Mrs. Quincy’s eyes. What had brought about her change of attitude?
“I brought lemonade for you, Miss Randolph. Mrs. Bainbridge liked to sip lemonade while she rested here on the porch. But if it’s not to your liking I could bring you some tea.”
“Lemonade is fine, Mrs. Quincy. Have you time to join me?”
The housekeeper shot a yearning glance at the padded bench and shook her head. “There’s cleaning to oversee, and the baking to be done. Another time, mayhap.” She turned toward the door.
“Of course.” Sarah took a breath and seized her opportunity. “You said Mrs. Bainbridge rested here on the porch. And Mr. Bainbridge mentioned she had ‘spells.’ Was she unwell?”
The stout woman stopped, nodded. “’Twas some sort of weakness in her heart stole her breath from her if she moved about. Oft times till she swooned.” She looked down at Nora and her voice took on a reflective tone. “She was too frail for childbearin’. She died shortly after this one was born. Nora has the look of her.”
Sarah studied Nora’s delicate features. “Mrs. Bainbridge must have been a beautiful woman. It’s a pity Nora will never know her.”
“She was beautiful…an’ spoiled. An’ the little one was followin’ along after her, till now.” Mrs. Quincy looked up, blinked and gave a little shake of her head. “But ’tis not my place to speak of such things. Don’t know why I’m standin’ here wastin’ time when there’s work to be done.” She hurried across the porch. “I’ll send Lucy to fetch the tray.” The door banged shut behind her.
“Bisit?”
“No, Nora. No more biscuits.” Sarah gave her a sip of lemonade and lifted her off the chair. “Come with me. I am going to teach you to do a somersault.” She helped her down the steps onto the grass, knelt down and placed one hand on the toddler’s tummy, the other on her upper back. “All right, we are ready. Now bend waaaay over…”
“Here we are, miss.”
Sarah glanced at the building on her right, noted the Post Office sign above the large multipaned window and climbed from the buggy. “Thank you for bringing me along to town, Mr. Quincy. I shan’t delay your return home. I will meet you here in one hour.” She watched him drive off down the street, shook out the three braid-trimmed tiers of the long skirt of her rose-colored silk dress, checked the time on the locket watch pinned to her bodice and crossed the sidewalk to the door. A gentleman passing by hastened to open it for her.
Sarah smiled her thanks, entered, then paused inside the door waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light after the brightness of the afternoon sunshine.
“—mark my words, Edith dear, this sickness going around will increase because of the foul weather during that storm—” The two women approaching the door broke off their conversation to give her a polite nod as they passed.
Sarah returned the politeness.
“May I help you, miss?”
She looked toward the sound of the voice. “I should like to post a letter.” She pulled the folded and sealed missive from her reticule and walked to the table where a man stood sorting a large bag of letters into small piles.
He took the letter into his ink-stained hand and squinted down at the address. “Randolph Court, Philadelphia.” He moved to a high desk standing at right angles to the table, glanced at her. “That will be twenty-five cents. You going to pay?”
Sarah shook her head. “No, Father will pay.” She watched him write the charge, date and Cincinnati on the top corner of the folded letter. Her stomach tightened in protest. Her parents thought she was still in Pittsburgh. Well, there was no help for it. And any fears the city name engendered would be allayed when they read the letter. “I expect a reply. Will you please direct it to Stony Point? My name is Sarah Randolph.”
“Of course, Miss Randolph.” The man pulled a ledger from a shelf below the desk surface and jotted down the information. “How long will you be visiting at Stony Point?”
“Oh, no. You misunderstood. I am not visiting. I am the new nanny.” The man’s mouth gaped open. Sarah gave him another smile and turned; her silk dress rustled softly as she headed for the exit. A man, who had just entered, doffed his hat, made her a small bow and held the door open. She inclined her head in acknowledgment of the politeness and stepped through the portal into the afternoon sunshine.
One chore completed. And she had a little less than an hour to accomplish the others. Sarah moved into the shadow cast by a large brick building, walked to the corner, turned left and made her way up Main Street, scanning the storefronts. She had spotted what seemed a suitable establishment along the way to the post office. Where…? Ah, there it was. Mrs. Westerfield, Milliner & Mantuamaker and dealer in Millinery and Lace Goods and Embroidery. She moved closer and read the smaller print of the sign.
Keeps constant on hand a splendid stock of Leghorn, Tuscan & Straw Bonnets and Florence Braid, artificial flowers, Paris ribbons, plain & figured silks, satins & etc. suitable for bonnets and dresses which she is prepared to manufacture in the most fashionable style.
Sarah checked her reflection in the window. The flowers adorning her silk hat trembled slightly in the warm breeze. She adjusted the tilt of the hat, smoothed the lace at her throat and entered. A cluster of women examining trimmings displayed in a glass case, and two women seated on a settee studying a book of patterns, glanced up at the discreet tinkle of the small bell on the door. The women looked at her with varying degrees of curiosity, gave small, polite nods and returned to their business.
“If you will excuse me a moment, ladies.” The woman behind the glass case smiled and came forward. “Welcome to Mrs. Westerfield’s salon. May I help you?”
“I would like to speak with Mrs. Westerfield please.”
“Certainly. I will be a moment. If you would care to have a seat?” The woman gestured toward a grouping of chairs, walked to a door at the back, gave a light tap and disappeared into another room.
Sarah strolled over to look at a display of paintings on the wall. Bits of conversation from the women at the counter drifted her way as she studied the drawings of the latest fashions.
“—heard that Rose Southernby has taken to her bed?”
“Oh, I do like this red silk braid!”
“Did you say Rose is ill?”
“Yes. Dr. Lambert has been making daily calls. She is not at all well, and—The red silk braid is a little…bright, Charlotte. Perhaps the gold…”
“You were saying, Gladys?”
“I beg your pardon? Oh. Yes. I heard the Southernby children are stricken also.”
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