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Authors: Dorothy Clark

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BOOK: Family of the Heart
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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

W
hat 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.

BOOK: Family of the Heart
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