Family of the Heart (17 page)

S
arah tuned out the murmur of the men’s voices and cast a longing glance at the door to the hallway. How she would love to go outside for a walk. Of course that was impossible. But it had been so long since she had been alone. Since she had had time to think. That was her problem. She was quite certain of that. She loved Aaron. She did. So why could she not recall his face?

Sarah wrapped her arms around her waist and stared out the window. The sun was sinking behind the hill, throwing its golden light upward to outline the layers of clouds in a last defiant gesture to ward off the coming night. The lengthening shadows below the hill’s crest announced it was a losing battle. It would soon be dark. She did not even shiver. She was too busy to have time to worry over the dark of night.

And that must be the reason she could not remember Aaron. She was simply too busy. The activity had chased all thought of him from her mind. Sarah sighed and closed her eyes. He had hazel eyes, with deep wrinkles at the corners from squinting out over the ocean in the sunshine. And thick, dark brows. And a neatly trimmed beard and mustache streaked with gray. His nose was long and—She frowned, pursed her lips. If she could remember his features one by one, why could she not see his face?

“Miss Randolph.”

Sarah lowered her arms and turned. John Wexford stood a few feet from her with his hat in his hand and Clayton’s leather pouch slung over his shoulder.

“Forgive me for interrupting your thoughts, Miss Randolph, but I am taking my leave and wanted to wish you a good evening.”

“You have arrived at a solution for your emergency, Mr. Wexford?” She looked down and straightened a fold in her skirt to avoid his intent gaze.

“Yes. Mr. Bainbridge has been most helpful.”

“How fortunate you have him to call upon.” She looked up and gave him a polite smile of dismissal. “I wish you well as you endeavor to carry out Mr. Bainbridge’s instructions.”

The young man’s warm smile faded. He gave her a puzzled look, dipped his head and left the room.

Silence fell. The light outside waned; the shadows in the room deepened. Sarah walked to the table and adjusted the wick on the lamp to give more light.

“An excellent man, John Wexford. Would you not agree, Miss Randolph?”

Sarah darted a glance at the bed. “I am sure he is very capable.” She pushed a stray lock of hair into place and moved back to the window, unwilling to risk looking into Clayton Bainbridge’s blue eyes again. She wanted to think about hazel eyes that looked at her with adoration, that made her feel comfortable and safe, not…discomposed.

“I was not speaking about work, I meant in a personal way. Would you not agree he is a very eligible bachelor who will make some fortunate lady an excellent husband?”

“Perhaps.” Why did he not leave her alone? Could he not tell she was in no mood to converse? She did not want to think about John Wexford or any other man. She wanted to remember
Aaron.

“You sound doubtful, Miss Randolph.” Clayton’s voice was quiet, insistent. “Have you an objection to Mr. Wexford?”

Sarah blew out a breath and pivoted. “I have neither objection nor opinion of Mr. Wexford, Mr. Bainbridge. You are a leader of men, and as such are experienced at judging character. I shall leave any decision as to Mr. Wexford’s suitability as a husband to you and whatever lady you are considering as a possible bride for him.”

“I was considering
you,
Miss Randolph.”

Sarah gasped, went rigid. “You overstep your bounds, Mr. Bainbridge! You are my
employer,
not my father.”

“That is true.” Clayton stared into her eyes. “But I cannot help but notice Mr. Wexford’s interest in you. And, as you are alone without family here in Cincinnati—and under my care as it were—I thought it prudent to offer a bit of guidance as to his recommendation as a possible suitor.”

The gall of the man.
Sarah clenched her hands. “Well, you may forget prudence, sir. I am
not
a child, nor am I your responsibility.” She took a step forward, jutted her chin into the air. “And I am perfectly capable of choosing any possible suitor for myself. Indeed, I did so while residing in my father’s house.”
Oh, Aaron, why did you have to die? I had my life all arranged.

Her ire fled. The starch left her spine and shoulders. Sarah blinked her eyes, turned back toward the window and stared at her blurry reflection against the darkness. “As for Mr. Wexford, he may take his interest elsewhere. I do not wish his attentions—or those of any other man.”

Clayton stared at Sarah. That sadness he had noticed in the drawing room the night he had told her of his grandparents was on her again. So it had to do with a man. Who had hurt her? He scowled, fisted his hands, then slowly relaxed them. Sarah Randolph’s life was not his concern. It was his feeling for her that created a problem.

He lifted his hands and rubbed at his throbbing temples. If only he were not confined to this bed. If only she were not the one caring for him. It was torture to have her so near him every day. And the
nights
—waking and seeing her sleeping in the rocker beside his bed…

Clayton gritted his teeth so hard his jaw cramped. Reminding himself Sarah was a test of his resolve did not help. And his plan to avoid her—An idiot racing a scraper had taken care of that. He threw a dark look toward the ceiling.
You must be amused at how well You destroyed that strategy, God. Were You laughing while I thought up the scheme, and the one to interest her in Wexford as well? That has come to naught, also.

Clayton closed his eyes, hearing the fabric of Sarah’s dress whispering as she moved. Those
gowns.
Their very simplicity enhanced Sarah’s beauty, revealed in greater measure the grace of her movements. He tried not to, but the temptation to look at her was too great. He opened his eyes and watched her walk over to the corner, kneel down and straighten the blanket over the child. She would be a wonderful mother. If only—

Clayton veered his gaze to his open door. In the bedroom across the hall, on the far outside wall between the two windows, was where the bed had been. Deborah’s bed. The one where she had given birth to the child he was responsible for—the bed she had died in. It was not there now. The bed was gone. As Deborah was gone. As his old bed was gone. He had taken an ax, chopped the beds to pieces and burned them. But the fire could not purge his guilt. The living proof of that was sleeping on a mattress in the corner.

Clayton sucked in a breath, forced himself to remember every detail of that night with Deborah. How he wished he could take back that night. But he could not. And he could not bring Deborah back. He had tried to keep her alive. Had prayed for God’s mercy. Had offered himself in Deborah’s place. But all his prayers, all his begging had changed nothing. Deborah had died.

Clayton’s face tightened. He had to face that guilt every day. Had to endure the burden that grew every time he saw the child. But he did not have to add to the burden. And he would not. He would not allow himself to love Sarah Randolph.

“Deborah…
no
…”

Sarah jolted awake.

“…baby…mustn’t…”

“Wake up, Mr. Bainbridge.” Sarah caught hold of Clayton’s flailing hand, held it in both of hers.

“…dead…no, take me…” He sat bolt upright in bed.

“Oh!” Sarah dropped his hand and grabbed hold of his shoulders. “Wake up!”

“My fault…”

Should she push him down onto the pillows, or would it hurt his back? She tightened her grip. “Mr. Bainbridge! Please wake up! You will hurt yourself.”

He opened his eyes.

Sarah stared into Clayton’s eyes, saw awareness returning and drew her hands back. “You were having a nightmare.” She reached behind him, fluffed his pillows. Why was she blushing? She had done nothing wrong. “There. Can you lower yourself to the pillows, or do you need my help?”

“I will manage.”

His voice was gruff, raspy. She nodded and stepped close, ready to do what she could if her help was needed.

Clayton placed his palms on the bed on either side of him, took the weight of his body on his arms and leaned backward. Pain knifed him on the lower left side of his back. He stopped the slow torture and let himself fall into the nest of pillows. “Ummph.” He closed his eyes against the pain.

“Are you all right? Can I get you anything?”

“A new head and back would be nice.” The words came out a little breathless, not jovial as he had intended.

“I wish I could grant your request. Or at least do something to ease your pain.”

There was genuine concern in Sarah’s voice. He knew it was unwise, but he opened his eyes and looked at her. “You have done more than I had any right to ask or expect, Miss Randolph. I am not your responsibility. The child is. But I thank you for your kind care. I do not believe I could have stood the pain without your cold cloths easing it somewhat.”
Or your presence, which makes everything better. And worse.
Her answering smile stole the breath he had managed to regain.

“But you did not ask me, Mr. Bainbridge. I was ordered by Mrs. Quincy to care for you. And I confess to a great reluctance.” She reached out and straightened his coverlet. “You see, since a little child, I have been sickened by the sight of blood.” She glanced up at him. “I am quite over that now.”

Her laughter was soft as the soughing of wind through the branches of trees. He would never forget it. Nor would he forget the way the dim lamplight made the golden flecks in her brown eyes shine and emphasized the shadows cast by her long, sooty lashes when she looked down at him.

Clayton drew himself up short. He moved his head to a more comfortable position and tracked her progress around the foot of his bed. “You said I was having a nightmare. Did I…say anything?”

Sarah paused, nodded. “You mumbled something about Deborah.” She moved along the other side of his bed, straightening the covers as she went. “And you mentioned a baby.” She looked down at him, her eyes warm with sympathy. “Nightmares are horrible things. I hope you do not suffer them often.”

It would be so easy draw her close. To taste the sweet softness of her lips…
Clayton clenched his hands and shoved them beneath the coverlet on his lap. “No, not often.” He looked closer, noted the clouds in her eyes. “You sound as if you have experience with nightmares.”

“Some.” She looked away.

“From a childhood mishap?”

“No.”

Her tone did not invite further questions. Intuition dawned. “From a thunderstorm?”

A shudder shook her. “I do not wish to discuss it.”

Clayton gave a careful nod. “As you wish. But should you ever care to do so, I will be ready to listen. Sometimes, talking about a nightmare breaks its power over us and it goes away.”

“Yours has not.” Sarah offered a challenge in her stare. “Is that because what you say is false? Or because you do not discuss your nightmares, either?”

He should have let the nightmare topic die. His curiosity had him backed into a corner. But he could not lie to her. “I do not discuss it. My nightmare is true.” Clayton sucked in air, spoke the words he had never before said aloud. “I made a terrible mistake. There were severe, irreversible consequences. Talking about it cannot make my guilt go away.”

Sarah took hold of the bedpost beside her, blinked her eyes. “Forgive me, Mr. Bainbridge. I did not mean to bring the memory of a painful time back to you.” She blinked her eyes again. “I know how devastating that can be. My nightmare is also real.”

Sleep would not come. She was afraid to let it. Afraid the nightmare would come. Every time her eyelids grew heavy she got up and walked around the room. She remembered Aaron’s face now. The way he had looked at his last moment on this earth—the moment before the lightning struck him. It was her last memory of him.

Sarah shuddered, rose from the rocker and pulled the blanket that covered her lap around her shoulders. It was a futile effort. The cold was inside. Nonetheless, she hugged the blanket close and wandered about Clayton’s bedroom, wondering again why there were no paintings of his wife, no mementoes of her anywhere.

She strolled to the window and stood looking out into the moonlit night, mentally going through every room in the house searching for something that proclaimed Deborah Bainbridge had lived here. There was nothing. She was familiar with all of the rooms, except Clayton’s study. Perhaps that was where Deborah’s picture hung. Perhaps Clayton wanted it near him all day. Or perhaps he did not want to be reminded of Deborah.

Clayton had called out his wife’s name while he was thrashing about in his bed. Was Deborah Bainbridge Clayton’s nightmare? As Aaron was hers?

Sarah lifted the hem of the blanket off the floor and walked over to the corner. Clayton had also said “baby.” Was little Nora involved in the nightmare? Was that why Clayton would have nothing to do with his daughter? And if he would not speak about it, how would she ever be able to bring father and daughter together?