Читать книгу Family of the Heart - Dorothy Clark - Страница 11

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.