Читать книгу Family of the Heart - Dorothy Clark - Страница 12

“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.