Читать книгу Family of the Heart - Dorothy Clark - Страница 9

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.